Split (1)

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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Upon meeting Jaskier, people are quick to make one of two assumptions about him. One is that he is a womanizer, which isn’t exactly wrong . He enjoys the company of women, yes. Quite a lot going by the scandals he’s provoked and the marriages he’s put to the test. It so happens that he is just as likely to enjoy the company of men than that of women. Womanizer very distinctly ignores this, so Jaskier becomes quite defensive when the word is flung at him. People think it is because he’s offended, which is true, but not for the reason they expect. The other is that he cares not for personal boundaries, which isn’t exactly right. Jaskier is an affectionate man, liberal with his touch, with where he chooses to sit, eat and drink. That is, on countertops and tables, gesticulating vividly about whatever news or gossip has passed by his ears. In the form of song . But he does feel uncomfortable when people take his natural disposition for intimacy as an invitation, as if he were a prostitute shaking her exposed legs for coin. He is not that kind of musician. The bard would rather earn his keep with honest work and spend it at a brothel, like any decent civilian. The wandering hands of pushy patrons will find disappointment if that is what they seek. This last one is really what concerns Geralt most. In part because Jaskier is just so handsy with him that the witcher has found himself yelling for some damned breathing space on more than one occasion. Like right now. “Damn it, bard, I need to focus.” “Oh, am I distracting you from murdering that shrub with your glare?” They are camped out by the road, headed for Temeria. The nearest town is a few days away so there’s no choice but to sleep below the stars, again, for the fifth night in a row. Jaskier was loudly fed up with the dirt, the cold river baths and the flavorless rabbit stew. His criticisms grated on the witcher’s nerves. Once reminded that Jaskier was the one who decided to travel along for the privilege of recording the great White Wolf’s contracts into song, however, there was no more complaining. Geralt had killed and fixed the usual rabbit for dinner, and Jaskier decided to eat his half—roasted this time—while sitting next to Geralt. Slouched against his shoulder. Interrupting the witcher’s meditation. “Ah, at least you roasted this one, that’s a good change of pace. Better than a watered down, unsalted cup of bones.” “Jaskier,” Geralt said, for the umpteenth time to get him to shut up. With a bite of rabbit leg in his mouth, Jaskier mumbles, “What? You miss the stew?” Why he wasn’t throwing the bard off of him, Geralt doesn’t know. It’s annoying. The chatter. The easygoing smiles and fearless camaraderie Jaskier bothers him with. It is especially annoying having another man’s scent all over his clothes, right in his face. Anyone else dared do the same to him, they would meet the sharp end of his blade, no questions or exceptions made. And yet, Geralt’s sword remains sheathed. Of all things still, Jaskier finds nothing untoward about sitting with one knee bent over a witcher’s extended leg. The rest of his body drapes across Geralt as if the hunter were but a rich leisure couch. A couch. Part of Geralt thinks it’s a human thing. He may have been a child of their ilk once, but humanity had been carved out of him far too long ago. It has been an age since he’s lived among humans to know what they consider normal—or in this case, strange behavior. It is only obvious that he, as a witcher, does not fit the mold. And he will never fit the mold. Jaskier seems to be much more of an outlier like himself, though, which is perhaps why, illogically, he finds friendship and comfort with a witcher instead of other humans. He must be mad in some capacity, to keep clinging to Geralt’s side. It’s the only explanation. It is also easier to blame Jaskier for his eccentricity than to address that, above all, he is still the one allowing the bard to touch him so freely. Geralt gives up the pretense of meditation once the fire dies out and prepares a bedroll for them. Another thing there. Jaskier carries all of three things with himself: his lute, his song book, and his waterskin. The first night, when Geralt discovered the bard had nothing to sleep on besides the ground, he’d slapped a hand over his face and groaned, because of course the bard valued his music over practicality. “I hadn’t thought of it, honestly!” “Yeah,” Geralt grunted, aware of the impulsive nature of Jaskier’s decisions. So every night, they share a makeshift tent and a travel bed. That night, at some point in his sleep, Geralt is woken by Jaskier’s snoring. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s happening right against his ear. His back is also sweating, heat trapped between the layers of clothing he wears and the one bard cuddled against his frame. An arm curls light over his waist as Jaskier’s fringe tickles the back of his neck. The blanket is mostly over Jaskier, pilfered like a prize. Again and again, Geralt debates with himself if he should wake up the man and push him off to feel the bite of cold against his skin. And for a second, he tries to. A hand covers Jaskier’s arm, but there is no force in the grip. It is a careful touch, almost instinctual to the possibility of hurting Jaskier. Because humans are very fragile and witcher’s hands are not made for gentleness. That usually doesn’t concern him, but it seems that when it comes to Jaskier, it is very important to him that he doesn’t hurt the one person who’s actually happier around him. The bard wakes up anyway, a soft snuffle caught in his nose. He looks so sleepy, rubbing his eyes with a closed fist. Doesn’t notice for a moment that he had to pull that hand out of Geralt’s until after. “Sorry, did I wake you?” For some dumbfounded reason Geralt whispers, “It’s fine.” It is clearly not fine, he is a private man and he wants his own bed and Jaskier continues to violate every established rule Geralt has about people touching him, which is only forgiven during sex, or in the middle of a battle when someone is either trying to save him or kill him. Oblivious, Jaskier nods. He settles back against him without a second thought. His breathing slows swiftly afterwards and there’s such an unfamiliar sensation spreading inside Geralt’s gut at the knowledge that, just like that, he falls asleep. No fear in his pulse, no further questions held against the witcher. His trust is so strong, Geralt wonders what he did to earn it. It takes much longer for Geralt to fall asleep. Another thing that puzzles him to no end is how Roach can stand the minstrel. She is just as picky as her rider with allowing people to coo and pet her, which is to say, absolutely no one, followed by a swift kick to the shins to whoever tries. But as it often is the case with Jaskier, he is the exception. During the day’s journey, Jaskier walks as Geralt alternates between riding his mare and guiding her by the reins beside him. If he rides her for too long she gets nippy, and two grumpy companions is one too many for a partnership to succeed. This time around, Geralt is atop her saddle as Jaskier prattles on—not to him, but to Roach —about some of the ladies he’s had to flee from because of unforeseen partners. “—I mean, how was I supposed to know she was betrothed? We met in a bar and she was alone! Never mentioned the fiancé either, and that’s on her, not me —” The story goes on until they reach a glade full of flowers. Jaskier is amazed at the beautiful sight, so many colors and floral arrangements. His face lights up with an innocent sort of joy that Geralt has rarely seen outside of children. The witcher is mindful of slowing Roach on the path before Jaskier gets lost in the distraction. “Hey, bard. Come on.” It feels wrong to interrupt, but they’d planned on reaching town before nightfall and Jaskier has lingered too long on a golden patch of grass, picking at a few sweet-smelling weeds. “We have to go.” Jaskier raises his head at that and obliges with a half-smile. “I wasn’t just picking for me, you know.” “...What?” For a second Geralt thinks the bard means he picked flowers for him and his mind stutters to a halt, struggling with what to make of that. He’s quickly corrected when Jaskier hobbles over to his horse instead and presents her with a small bouquet of the dandelions he was just inspecting. “Here you are, girl. A little something for the road.” She tolerates the scratches he gives her as he talks, accepting the roadside treat. The coy act makes Jaskier grin. For that, Roach smacks his collarbone with the side of her head and it starts an argument. Geralt just stares at them both, wondering when he became second fiddle to his own horse. No, I am not jealous , he beats into his own head, but Jaskier continues to scratch his mare’s hide and it’s making him feel something fierce and angry . It’s ridiculous. Stupid. It makes no sense. Roach snorts like she knows it’s annoying him. As they start the walk again, Geralt, who’s been paying attention to the bard the whole time, notices him lag behind. He’s smiling, but the expression is stiff. Tired. They started the day earlier than normal, packing hastily with the anticipation of a hot bath at day’s end. The push must be catching up to him. Geralt sighs for what he’s about to do. “Alright, stop.” Roach stops right away. Jaskier takes a second. “What. Something wrong?” “Yeah, you’re slowing us down.” “Oh,” the way the bard says it sounds so small and crestfallen and fuck he’s terrible at this—this friend thing. Geralt grinds his teeth together, managing to utter, “Come here,” with some ill-placed stress. Jaskier steps up with obvious confusion and there, Geralt extends his hand. “Get up.” Jaskier stares at the hand like he doesn’t know what it’s for, then it dawns on him. “You mean, get up, as in, on the horse?” “Yes, genius.” His face goes through a series of wild emotions—shock, uncertainty, a grateful rise of his eyebrows. It finally settles for an impish smile. “Why, thank you, Geralt. How kind of you to offer this long into our voyage, when my feet have already formed sores. I’ll start by apologizing to poor Roach for suffering our weight like a workhorse.” Surprisingly, there’s nothing beyond an initial snort of discomfort from Roach when Geralt raises Jaskier to ride behind him. She’s steady as if to prove the bard wrong, that she can handle their weight just fine. Geralt knows she can because of all the crap he’s made her carry for him, but the insistent perk in her step is amusing. Jaskier wraps his hands over Geralt’s stomach and presses closer with a yelp when her trot has him bouncing from side to side. “Ow—Roach, please, that is unnecessary , ” the bard starts to complain, holding Geralt with more strength else he fall off. Geralt takes the reins and urges Roach to go faster which really only makes Jaskier turn his grip into a hug with how sudden the movement jars him and like wildfire, Geralt’s blood thrums with something hot. He has no name for the feeling. “And what are you laughing at,” Jaskier shouts over the wind and Geralt says nothing, nothing because he hadn’t realized he was smiling at all. His face falls in an instant. They reach the town well before night, Jaskier holding onto him the whole way through. They stay a couple of days in town, in their own rooms for once. The privacy allows Geralt to sleep bare after a long bath. This is what he calls the true luxury of kings, none of those fancy pompous clothes or coffers full of gold. No, just baths and good insulation, that’s the real privilege of the rich. And Jaskier, for all his attachments to the finer things in life, agrees wholeheartedly. “I never thought I’d cry tears of joy dipping into a warm pool, and yet two weeks in the harshness of nature have changed me.” “Hmm,” Geralt adds, taking a swig of beer. Jaskier, as is his due, sits on top of their table, his feet dangling out the side and occasionally tapping the witcher on the thigh. “This place looks rather drab, wouldn’t you say?” Geralt wouldn’t. He’d call it crowded and smelly instead, but the bard’s not really looking for an answer. “Look at them, they’re sitting on their coin purses and picking food from their teeth! I think it’s time for a song to cheer these folks up, get some of that cheer for our own purses along the way, eh Geralt?” Geralt blinks at him, knowing where this is going. It’s not a minute later that Jaskier, after plucking a few strings on his elegant lute, takes off with a spring ballad, because as Jaskier puts it, everyone loves spring after winter. He goes around the tavern singing about the warmth of sunlight and new lovers’ light, something to get everyone’s attention. Geralt doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand how a song manages to work a few people to clap along and for more to join in when Jaskier sings a more popular tune about a fisherman. There’s nothing inherently captivating about the whole thing. The way that he sees it, it is not unlike a spell, an enchantment of the spirit that urges the compliance of its victims. For some reason, humans are compelled to sing along when they know the lyrics of a ballad, to hum to themselves hours later as if taken over by a prosodic spirit. And Jaskier seems to feed off of their enjoyment, coin a mere afterthought to the matter. He flits from table to table, and it goes on for long enough that Geralt gives up tracking him with his eyes and focuses on the bread and cheese he’d gotten for breakfast. A couple of songs later, the lute falls silent, which lets Geralt assume Jaskier has gathered plenty coin for himself and has bowed to the people. But the bard doesn’t return to their table. The continuing absence strikes Geralt as odd, odd enough that he looks up from his cheese and doesn’t immediately spot him. Which forms a knot of unease in the witcher’s stomach. Geralt has made his enemies, but among humans, Jaskier could boast over having dozens more. His nose picks up Jaskier's scent in the room still, so he rises from his seat to spy around the throngs of happy people, a glare ready in his mutated eyes should he spot trouble. A couple stop him as if recognizing him as the witcher in the bard’s songs, a bit of excitement even coloring their voices, but his menacing stance keeps them from approaching him beyond a tentative step. The delight they shared with Jaskier is gone, like a broken spell. There is no love lost there. Geralt knows the truth of his monstrocity. It is by Jaskier’s virtue that the monster’s facade is hidden behind layers of preposterous valor and honor. A fairy tale to believe in, for those who are easily frightened. Geralt doesn’t care for it anyway. He’s busy following the trail of Jaskier’s movements, a swirl of dance that brings him behind a pillar where Geralt finally finds the bard, surrounded by—by women. He’s flirting with them, whispering dirty things in one’s ear, something that Geralt is capable of hearing with a witcher’s clarity. And the girls throw their dainty hands over the bard’s arms and chest, like coquettish little mistresses of the house. “Tell us about the elves again, how many were they? Did they have teeth as thin and sharp as needles?” One of them fervently asks, “How did you survive? The witcher must be truly beastly if he can cut through devils and elves like you say!” Jaskier returns their affections with laughter, featherlight hands curled over their waists. “Quite the contrary, my dear. I would say he’s a most handsome—oh, Geralt!” There’s a slight difference in his voice when his eyes land on the witcher, laughter dying out. “Is...um, is everything alright?” “It’s fine,” Geralt grinds out, turning from the scene to leave the tavern altogether. His ears pick up Jaskier apologizing to the women gathered around him, knocking against some patrons as he tries to catch up to the witcher. But Geralt’s steps are longer and it takes him farther, out the door and through the small town until he’s standing by the gates of a sheep pen in a light drizzle of rain. He’s alone save for the inquisitive bleating of two sheep. “Shut up,” Geralt feels compelled to tell them. They shake their ears and sniff at his heels, and whatever they pick up on him scares them away. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s the stench of old alghoul blood on his boots, or just his own smell. It’s all the same to him. He wants to be alone. He wants to be alone, and yet. Geralt finds himself hating the sound of crickets and fireflies buzzing in the fields, a sound that was once welcomed respite. There is no peace here, only forced isolation. Crowds of people strain his senses. Too many sounds and smells and squirming bodies with bitterness in their eyes. But there is something that has changed in him, in meeting Jaskier. In the hours and days that they’ve endured each other on the many roads of the Northern Realms. Where he wants for silence, Jaskier fills an odd-shaped void. An undefined space that his mind calls for relief. He is a familiar scent in a piss-stained alehouse, a welcome embrace where others have cut jagged marks into his skin. Fuck, even his singing is a lull that tempers Geralt’s moods, he just complaints out of principle. But of course he is not unique in this impression. Of course there are others who flock to the light that spills from Jaskier’s hands, like beggars hungry for succor. It is a pathetically human need, to seek another’s comfort. He is pathetic. He’s a monster hunter, he doesn’t need a bard . Geralt stays there in the light rain, a stone sentinel of the field, when an old, weathered man interrupts his brooding. “That silver sword...yer’a witcher, yes?” The dip of his head is the only indication the witcher gives that he is listening. “Yes...yes, good then.” Carefully, the old man retrieves a purse from his coat. It jingles softly in his palm. Coins. Geralt turns to face the man. “What service?” The old man has no name for the monsters of the contract, but he describes their nesting grounds well enough for Geralt know it is drowners. Swamp feeders causing trouble on the far side of the woods. The payment is meager for a nest, but for poor country folk, it is better than nothing. He accepts the offer, telling the old man he’ll meet him at the inn when the job is done. It is in that moment that Jaskier spots him, just as he’s walking back to the stables to fetch his bag for the hunt. “Geralt! What’s going on, I tried looking for you—” “I’ve a contract,” he doesn’t bother letting Jaskier finish as something hot beats in his chest seeing the drawn expression Jaskier wears. It creeps upon him how he loathes it, the worried cry in the bard’s voice, how his jerkin sticks to his body, wet and drained of its vibrance. Suddenly Geralt wants to run out and kill something, which is great for his upcoming drowner quota. He’s on his way to do just that when the telltale sound of Jaskier’s muddy shoes following behind stop him cold. “No. You’re not coming.” The bard, confused, blinks multiple times. “Well how am I supposed to write a ballad of your quests if no one is there to see—” Geralt is already walking away when he shouts over his shoulder, “I don’t care. I’ll tell you after.” There’s a lot to be said about witchers, Jaskier thinks. At the forefront of his mind is how absolutely atrocious they are at relying on others. It is not as if he is completely useless as a companion. On more than one occasion, the bard has helped Geralt carry his witcher potions. Sluiced his sword with the necessary oils for whatever beast he needs to kill. It is a thankless task, which is fine with him, really. Jaskier understands when Geralt doesn’t want to endanger him for no reason. But Jaskier also believes he has been rewarded ten times over, though perhaps not in the way Geralt intended. There are the times Geralt leans against him, at the end of a difficult day. How he doesn’t flinch or draw back when Jaskier reaches to comb loose strands away from his face. There is a strange quality in Geralt’s eyes then, when he looks at him sometimes. Yes, the man has unnatural pupils that reflect the moon’s light. But it is in the way his gaze lingers on the clasp of Jaskier’s hands over his arm. An absent-minded stare that makes Jaskier’s pulse quicken. And now, Geralt leaves the bard alone to go hunt his monsters after what can only be described as barging out in a tantrum . If only Geralt was any good at telling him why he’s angry, Jaskier would have corrected his wrongs already. Instead, he’s sitting at a table, nursing a pint he doesn’t even want to drink. It’s been raining all day and night. Morning brought a short reprieve before it poured harder than ever. Jaskier is sick of waiting. And part of him doesn’t want to entertain reasons why Geralt has taken all night with a nest of monsters. “You said a ‘nest’ , yes? By the marshes beyond the forest?” The old man Jaskier found himself for company nods. “Tha’s right. Sir witcher didn’t say how long he’d take, jus’ to wait here ‘til it’s over.” Jaskier echoes his nod, an unconscious reassurance. Geralt quite honestly doesn’t need to rely on anyone to do what he was built to do. But it would ease his nerves to know he was alright, which is something Geralt doesn’t seem to grasp very well. That other people would worry about him regardless of his abilities. “Right well, you go ahead and do as the good witcher says. And please, have my pint.” He pats the kind gentleman as he heads out in the horrid rain to ruin a new outfit in as many days. All for a dense old beast of a man who talks to horses. Outside, he’s immediately drenched to the bone. Jaskier is grateful he’s left his instrument and his papers in the safety of his room because nothing would have escaped this rain’s eagerness to soak through every piece of clothing he owns. Roach will never forgive him if he drags her out of the stables on his whim, so he lets her be and sticks to the muddy road that leads to the woods. From there, it’s a tough trek through sunken ground and rotten trees. On more than one occasion, he trips into a puddle that is deeper than anticipated. He curses every god the Nordlings worship under the sun. The marsh is even worse. Jaskier accepts that he has to waddle through knee-high water until a drowner finally ends his misery. Certainly the bard doesn’t expect to encounter one outside of his imagination, so it is of no surprise that he jumps with a fearful shout when his foot connects with something hard and suspiciously limb-shaped under the water. The body that floats to the surface has a spotty, milky gray hide. Bone and fins protrude out of its back, festered with rot. It is clearly dead going by the blackened blood that seeps out of its gutted stomach. If he wants to, Jaskier is sure he could find more of them scattered in the waters, their state much the same. But the bard didn’t come for the monsters. He came for their butcher. The rain lets up just enough that he can see with a bit more clarity into the surrounding woods. There is an ominous darkness in their drooping branches. His teeth chatter from the cold that assaults his senses. Jaskier thinks he can recognize a man through the brush, and his heart leaps at the sight of white hair. “Geralt!” Geralt is holding himself upright by the trunk of a broad pale tree, but only just. As Jaskier wades closer, he notices how the witcher is pressing an arm to his sides. He rushes over so fast he practically swims. “Geralt, what’s,” Jaskier catches how Geralt tenses up and lays gentle fingers over torn leather. “Hey, it’s just me. What is it? Are you injured?” He’s answered with a curt grunt between clenched teeth. Geralt doesn’t move an inch. The blood trickling through the witcher’s glove doesn’t ease Jaskier’s racing thoughts. “Alright, well. Nothing on you that could help with that?” He tries not to panic as he props himself on Geralt’s good side, the side currently attempting to bore itself into a tree. “Bag.” Geralt’s voice startles the bard. He sounds strained. “Lost in—the swamp.” “Ah, excellent. See, if you’d brought me along then it would have been with me , and nothing would have gotten lost. But let’s not go into that now. Come on, hold on to me.” Jaskier catches the hesitant look Geralt shoots his hand before it turns into something the bard can’t quite identify. He waits, fearing that Geralt will tell him no, and that it will mean he will have to drag Geralt back by force through an entire forest, but his worrying was for naught. Geralt straightens up and steps closer to Jaskier, and it takes a second for him to realize the witcher isn’t taking his hand, but pushing his whole being against the bard for support. They stumble together while that happens, Jaskier trading his hand for a secure arm tucked under Geralt’s good side. It’s a wobbly first few steps, but they make it work. Jaskier worries his lip, afraid to ask what he must. With each step, he gains a little courage. “How long have you been standing there?” Geralt remains silent, and the bard is willing to allow it. He has no idea what went down with the drowners, only that it cost Geralt another scar. Once they’re dry and warmed by a hearth, he’ll ask again. Insist on it, if he must. For now, Jaskier focuses on getting Geralt out of the woods and under a roof. It takes some time, the two of them treading on flooded, swamped earth. Jaskier is much more mindful of the holes and deceitful puddles that bested him the first time. He makes sure for Geralt. And once they reach the town, Jaskier is glad for the people that aid him in his plight. A scared, elderly woman holds the inn’s front door open for them, doubtless terrified for what else they might bring back to the village. To the rooms, the innkeeper's son lights the hearth with enough firewood to cook a whole boar. No one tries to take Geralt out of his hands, which Jaskier is thankful for. Maybe it is because they know the man is a witcher, but regardless, the bard would not have taken it well. He would not know if Geralt would take kindly to it. No one helps him pry Geralt’s clothes off either. It is a burden he takes onto himself. Layers of mud and waterlogged fabric get tossed in front of the fire, his included. This way, Jaskier sees how badly Geralt’s been wounded. There’s a gash that runs across the witcher’s hip to his stomach, and it bleeds a sluggish stream down his side. Geralt had lost his potions and his salves at the swamp, so the best Jaskier can do is clean the wound with wet towels and a bucket of lukewarm water, and wrap it with clean dressing. On account of the open wound, Jaskier forgoes a hot bath. It is slow work, the room quiet save for the crackling fire and the few curses Geralt mutters to himself. His swords rest by the bed, lain there by the bard during those first moments struggling to undress. It is a comfort to see them close, Jaskier bets, which is why he put them there. Thunder booms overhead. “So,” Jaskier starts, smoothing down the blankets over Geralt’s prone form. “Are you going to tell me how long you stood out there for?” He’s given a grunt, Geralt turning his back to the fire and in the process, to Jaskier. The intention is dismissive, but to the bard, it comes off as childish. “Right, of course. ‘Hmm’ . Such a complex, eloquent response.” Jaskier still cards his fingers through Geralt’s tangled hair. Both of them are in their smalls, their skin wrinkled and cold despite the hearth’s hard work. Jaskier leaves his seat by the bed to search for more furs. There’s a couple of bear skins in the closet, and he wraps one around himself to go out and check his own lodgings for more. Comes back with a good set of cotton sheets. Jaskier remembers that witcher hearts beat slower, so it is his assumption that Geralt will take longer to warm to the fire. This is why he ignores Geralt’s outburst as he crawls into the bedsheets to cover them both in fresh linen and animal hides. “Geralt, please, you’re freezing to the touch. I’m helping you.” “I don’t need your help.” And yet the witcher feels worryingly like ice made into flesh. He’s dry because Jaskier pet him dry with a bath towel. It was obviously not enough, so he strokes his hands up the witcher’s back and arms, their knees meeting awkwardly under the layers of cloth and fur. He faces Geralt, but the flames casting a long shadow over his shoulder obscure much of the details. He cannot read the man’s expression. “Geralt.” Jaskier brushes fingers through raised skin, a collection of scars wherever he travels. “What did I do wrong?” “Nothing.” Something about the quickness of that response etches a smile into the bard's face. “You’re a bad liar, I can feel how you’re tensing up.” He drives his point forward by kneading his calloused thumbs into Geralt’s shoulder blades. For all his jest, Jaskier earns an unexpected reaction. And he’s not quite sure if he’s seeing it right. “I’m—it’s foolish. You didn’t do anything. Shut up.” Geralt’s brow is pinched. The light doesn’t work in his favor, but Jaskier could swear there’s a darker color to his friend’s face. Like a sudden burst of hot blood, gathering beneath the surface. He hasn’t said anything and yet Geralt repeats, “Shut up,” under his breath. This time, Jaskier hums. He very much likes how Geralt seems to squirm both away and into his ministrations, wrestling with some sort of indecision. “You know,” attentive hands move upward, back over the witcher’s wispy hair in even strokes, “I think everyone’s hard on witchers—you get so much bad reputation for doing the people a service! But you’re being hard on yourself too.” It is then that Jaskier kisses him, a forgettable peck on the corner of Geralt’s lips that he could pass for impulse should it be unwelcomed. He is wholly unprepared for Geralt to crush him in his arms, and the kiss turns into something deprived, something carnal. His eyes shut close against the weight of his witcher, and the darkness that envelops him is warm. The two of them are like sweet prairie dogs, burrowed in a snug hole of their making. A private place where no one will judge them. It makes Jaskier bold and, he thinks, it makes Geralt honest . Not with his words, but with his body. With the way that he angles his head closer to the bard after their mouths part, his scarred chest expanding with deep breaths. Jaskier wonders briefly if this close, Geralt can hear how hard his heart beats. “I’m still—” Geralt interrupts him by growling into his mouth with another kiss, and this one Jaskier regretfully ends too soon. “Alright yes, I understand —listen!” Geralt sighs and gives up for the moment. His intense stare is a distracting piece of work. Jaskier clears his throat and puts on his best pout. “I’m...I think I should be sorry for yesterday. You keep saying it’s ‘nothing’, but—it’s not nothing to me. If I apologize, will you forgive me?” As he talks, Jaskier scratches lightly at the edges of Geralt’s unshaven jaw. It’s an unconscious movement of his restless fingers. He doesn’t stop when he feels how Geralt begins to hum against him, eyes falling heavy as if starting to drift into easy sleep. Geralt’s voice leans into that territory when he rumbles a quick, “Yeah. Whatever.” They stay wrapped in each other for hours, until the heat almost smothers them. After that, they just toss the bedding aside. The rain lets up the next morning. They depart soon after, their bellies full of baked apples and their purses heavier with coin. Roach sniffs at Jaskier with suspicion. The most he gives her is a shrug, as if to ask why she has any business sniffing him. Then Geralt raises the bard to ride with him—to save him the trouble of walking the whole muddy road, he says—and the mare snorts, not believing anything. “Are you sure she’s not about to kick me in the back?” They’ve stopped by a creek for Roach to drink her fill, and Jaskier is spouting nonsense. “Why would she?” Jaskier’s face goes through several stages of disbelief. “She’s been sniffing me.” Geralt hums from his perch on a flat rock, in the middle of whetting his steel sword. “Didn’t you hear me? She’s been sniffing me .” “She’s a horse, she sniffs a lot of things.” Jaskier grumbles low to himself, “Oh, ‘she’s a horse’ , yes. How absurd of me. Not like she hasn’t kicked you for smelling like a slaughterhouse after a couple of ghouls. I’m gonna get her more flowers... ” The evening is calm. Jaskier is on a preposterous mission to have Roach on his side again, and Geralt for all he doesn’t care quirks a private smile when the mare refuses to eat the white myrtles Jaskier gifts her. He takes his eyes off the pair to work on his blade until it sings with each stroke of his stone. Apparently he’s distracted long enough for Jaskier to sit beside him without his knowing. Geralt only realizes, a bit too late, when the bard slips a hand over his ear to mutter, “Would it offend you if I said you look downright kissable like this?” He does not rise to the bait, offering a customary hum as he sheathes the sword once more. It is his mistake. The hand that combs suddenly and repeatedly through his untied hair tears down his carefully-maintained indifference. There is something in the bard’s touch that captivates, something that urges him to close the distance even as Jaskier himself climbs brazen over the witcher’s thighs and there is no more room to breach between them. Geralt is overwhelmed by his weight and his scent and his touch, so absolutely scatterbrained that he can’t contain the soft noise that escapes past his lips. And still the witcher craves more . More than he ever thought he would from a human—from anyone . “Ah, I take it back,” Jaskier hums to him confidentially, while Geralt falls into a special sort of madness. “ This is a much better look on you.” Unlike in the tavern, the need that fills his gut doesn’t burn like drowner’s claws tearing into him. Not with how Jaskier looks into his face like he is a holy creature worthy of devotion. Yes, this is better. And Jaskier smiles like he knows too much. Like he can correctly guess at what lurks inside Geralt’s mind. “I quite like this side of you, my friend. It is so much more agreeable .” Geralt is about to retort a scathing, "I’ll laugh when Roach finally kicks you," when Jaskier chooses in that moment to kiss him. It’s easy to forgive the bard’s teasing after that. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text June, 1966 - There was something missing when Cas woke up, the warmth beside him gone, the bed cool beneath his touch. Music was pouring down the hallway into the open door of the bedroom, and Cas sleepily rubbed at his eyes, sitting up in bed and slipping his fingers through his hair with a yawn. Dean wasn't in bed with him, but he was still in the apartment. For a moment Cas thought it was Saturday and Dean had gone out to the track for the practice runs, but it was Sunday. Faintly, he could hear Dean singing, a little louder than the music, and way off-key. Cas laughed to himself and hauled his stiff body out of bed, stretching his arms above his head and twisting his back, working out the stiffness of his joints and muscles. He opened the closet door and dug through the clothes hanging, coming back with a sweater and pulling it over his head; it nearly swallowed him whole, and he realized that it was one of Dean's. He hadn't even known that Dean owned a sweater. Hehe thought the only thing he owned that was any protection from the cold was his leather jacket. He wandered out of the room and into the kitchen where Dean was, hovering over the stove, moving something around in a pan with a spatula. And then the smell hit Cas, and he moved over to where Dean was, arms snaking around his waist as he rested his head onto his shoulder. Dean jumped slightly, and he stopped singing, the music more clear without Dean's voice rising above it. "Did I wake you up?" Dean said as he pulled the bacon out of the pan and set it onto the waiting plate beside the stove, turning the burner off and turning around in Cas' arms. Cas hummed softly and shook his head, pressing his face into the crook of Dean's neck. Dean laughed softly and brought his arms up, holding Cas against his chest. "You've got a big day today," Cas mumbled against Dean's neck, lips brushing against his skin. "You're gonna go, right?" "Of course," Cas laughed softly, pulling back to look up at Dean. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Now, what's for breakfast?" They ate at the table, Dean sitting across from Cas, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, and Cas looked on with a fond smile on his face. It had been about two weeks since he had moved in with Dean, and they had fallen into a routine with each other so easily. When Cas had classes, he woke up before Dean, showered and got ready, and kissed him before he headed out. On his days off, Dean woke up before Cas, letting him sleep in, and Dean normally cooked breakfast for the two of them. And when Dean worked, Cas would stay up to wait for him to get home, busying himself with his homework or studying, and when Dean would get home, they'd have dinner together with a record playing in the background. It was a good routine. It worked. Cas stretched his leg forward, the top of his foot grazing over Dean's leg, and Dean looked up at him, grinning. "You're gonna do great today," Cas smiled as he picked up a piece of bacon to chew on. "Thanks, babe," Dean laughed softly, finishing off his scrambled eggs. "But I always do great, don't I?" "Don't be so smug." He finished off his bacon and pushed his plate towards Dean, not too fond of eggs himself. . Dean gave him a questioning look, but Cas shrugged. "You're gonna need it so you can blow all those other guys away." "Don't like my cooking?" Dean pulled the plate toward himself and began to eat the eggs, and Cas rolled his eyes, pushing away from the table and moving to the other side. He leaned over Dean and wrapped his arms around his neck, sleeves hanging over his hands past his fingers, and he pressed a kiss to Dean's cheek. "Don't be ridiculous, I love your cooking." Dean made an approving sound when Cas kissed his cheek again, and then he pulled away, heading toward the living room. He rifled through his records, which were now stacked against the wall beside the turntable, and pulled one out, replacing the one currently playing. Dean wandered into the living not long after, his sweats hanging low on his hips, and Cas took a moment to let his eyes rake over him. "Enjoying the view?" "Mm, I sure am," Cas hummed when Dean slipped his arms around his waist, pulling him against his chest as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of the sweater, dancing over his stomach. He grinned when Dean kissed along the side of his neck, hands trailing higher, warm against his skin. "Gonna win this race for you, baby." Cas squirmed in Dean's hold, turning around and planting his palms flat against his chest, looking up at him. Dean frowned, but Cas quickly kissed it into a smile. "You need to get ready." Dean leaned in to kiss him again, and slid his hand up, fingers curling around the nape of his neck, slipping through the fine hairs at the base. "I'm serious," Cas said when he pulled away. "Go shower and get ready." Dean groaned, untangling himself from Cas. "You're just gonna nag me all day, aren't you?" "I will if you don't get ready." Cas folded his arms and Dean threw his hands up in surrender, walking toward their bedroom. He didn't relax until he heard the shower come on, and he moved across the room to gather up one of his books; he flopped onto the couch, pulling his sleeves back and opening to where he had marked it. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, closing his eyes every so often to rethink what he was reading, trying to get the words to stick. He was so lost in thinking about cell respiration he didn’t hear Dean open the bedroom door, hot, humid, air coming out with him. Cas scratched absently at his hair, reciting something under his breath, the bureau drawers rattling in the other room and the closet door squeaking open as Dean rifled for his gear. “You seen my gloves?” he called and Cas didn’t look up from the page. There was more rummaging and Cas inclined his head to the side, his reaction delayed, opening his mouth to say something that he couldn’t figure to say, eyes still tracing words, mind still slipping it away for later. “Babe,” Dean said appearing out of nowhere, his t-shirt clinging to his chest, his jeans still undone. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Cas before shaking his head and going to put his arm over the back of the couch, placing his hand over the text. “What?” Cas said, breaking out of his daze, looking up. “Have you seen my gloves?” Dean asked, eyebrows lifted. Cas wracked his brain, tapping at the book’s binding. “Did you check on the table? No, wait, check the nightstand drawer. Sometimes I throw them in there.” Dean pinched his cheek, laughing, and ambled back into the bedroom, humming to himself as he rifled through the drawer. “Found ‘em!” “Ok!” Cas replied, going back to his book, but he couldn’t focus like before, too busy listening to the sound of Dean taking his speed suit out, laying it on the bed. He smiled, playing with the corner of the page he was looking at. What the hell.He threw the book down and climbed off the couch, coming into the bedroom just as Dean had worked the zipper of the suit over his belly button, the sleeves hanging and dangling around his hips. “You’re supposed to be studying,” he commented, shimmying an arm into it, the stitching accentuating the soft curve of his bicep and the broad sweep of his shoulders. Cas shrugged, wandering further into the room, coming to wiggle the zipper up Dean’s torso for him, leaving the snap at the collar undone. That wouldn’t get closed up till he was on the track. He ran his hands over Dean’s chest, loving the feel of the leather. His gloves were still on the bed and Cas picked them up, helping Dean work them over his fingers. “This is more important,” Cas said after a while, rubbing Dean’s sides, kissing his chin and then finding his mouth, Dean’s hands settling on his waist. “You’re going to do amazing today.” “Bring it home, right?” Dean laughed, and Cas touched the spot he’d just kissed with his thumb. Dean smiled, the pre-race gleam already gathering in his eyes. “I’m going to win the money and we’ll take a vacation. For like three days or something.” “Three days?” Cas marveled, , “You spoil me.” “Yes, and we’re going to actually leave the house. I have something planned.” Dean shrugged, playing it off. Cas fell in love with his shy smile and the way he fidgeted with the hem on Cas’ sweater, staring at it, “Is this mine?” he asked and Cas touched his gloved hands. “I’m so proud of you,” Cas mumbled, smiling, still staring at their hands, “I really am. Whether you win or not.” “Winning is nice, though,” Dean responded, ducking his head, nosing at Cas’ cheek. Cas had to laugh. “Winning is very nice.” “Does it impress you?” “Hmm, not so much as how hard you work for it.” “But the race is fun to watch, isn’t it? When I smoke ‘em?” Dean teased and Cas conceded it was. It was wonderful watching Dean on the track. He was so sure of himself there. Nobody could touch him, and he was good at it – it was undisputable. Cas remembered the first time he had seen all the trophies in the shelf of Dean’s bedroom. He hadn’t ever really understood how good Dean was ‘til he saw them. They were all first or second place. The medals were no different. “Please be careful, though,” Cas insisted and Dean rolled his eyes at that. “How many have I told you – I know what I’m doing. There is literally no chance of anything bad happening.” He put his hands on Cas’ shoulders and Cas rolled them off, giving him a stare. “I’m serious. You and I both know you let it go on the track and you can be aggressive and sometimes you take risks,” Cas trailed off, Dean shaking his head, having heard it all before. “You know what would really help? If you came down and kissed me right before – everyone would be so stunned I’d get a ten second head start. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about anybody sneaking up on me.” “You don’t need any kind of head start,” Cas replied, jabbing his sides. “That’s not the point, and you know it. Just be careful. Winning isn’t everything – and I’d prefer you in one piece, even if it meant they turned the gas off.” “That’s not going to happen,” Dean offered, rubbing Cas’ arms with the flats of his hand. “I’m serious, ok? It’s not going to happen because I’m going to bag it and you can quit worrying so much.” “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Dean Winchester,” Cas grumped, and Dean laughed, draping his arms over Cas, staring down at him. “It’d be nice you know. I see all of them with their girlfriends before,” he purred into Cas’ ear. “Don’t talk like that,” Cas whispered, suddenly sad. Dean kissed him, and he tasted like tobacco and mint toothpaste, and Cas melted into him, arms winding around his back. “I should talk like that more often,” Dean hushed into his mouth and Cas growled, playfully nipping at his lip. “For luck,” he laughed, slapping Dean’s ass, and Dean stared at him for a long moment before taking his face in his hands and kissing him till he couldn’t breathe. “God I’m crazy about you,” he muttered, almost to himself, kissing him in a way that smushed their noses together. “I’m so crazy for you.” “Go on,” Cas ordered, clearing his throat, shoving him off. He picked up his bag off the bed and shoved it at him. “You’re going to miss registration, and then what am I going to do?” Dean grinned, letting Cas push him to the door. Cas was halfway to closing it when he turned and stuck his hand in, making Cas pull up with a yelp. “Dean I almost broke your fingers!” he cried, and Dean opened the door with his shoulder, sticking his head in. “I love you,” he smiled. “We should go out after!” “I love you too – and win first. We’ll talk about celebrating later,” Cas sighed, giving up one more kiss that turned into two before Dean finally let himself be shoved out the door. He was going to give him a heart attack one of these days. Sam picked him up an hour later in Jess’s Ford, Cas sliding into the backseat, stretching his legs out. They chose a good spot, parking the car on slight rise along one of the curves, spreading a blanket on the hood. Sam lifted Jess onto it and she tucked her feet up, smiling in excitement while she adjusted the scarf around her head, fiddling with the little rose pin keeping it in place. Cas came and climbed up beside her, bringing the bag of oranges she had thrown in the backseat with him. Sam leaned against the side of the car, bending to whisper into Jess’s ear, and she covered her mouth at his words, stifling some kind of shocked giggle. “Sammy, don’t talk like that!” she laughed, elbowing him, Sam kissing her cheek and then straightened to bounce on the balls of his feet. Cas was so glad Sam was there; he was terribly smart and was attending Stanford on a scholarship with the hopes that he could get into the law program within the year. Whether he knew about the money Dean had saved or not, Cas didn’t know, but he did know that it meant the world to Dean to have his baby brother rooting him on. “Sam says Dean’s going to work them today – give them a real good run for the first half, let them get confident, and then pull it in big at the end,” Jess said conversationally, peeling an orange with one pretty fingernail. Cas nodded. “He likes to give us a show,” Sam injected, and Jess rolled her eyes and winked at Cas. Cas blushed – Jessica was too pretty to be throwing winks around, it seemed. She melted his heart with just a bat of her eyelashes. “You’d want a show too if you were as good as he is. He must get bored just getting straight wins. You have to do something to keep yourself entertained!” “He’s reckless,” Cas said bitterly, crossing his arms nervously. “He plays too close to the quick and he’s going to do something stupid one day.” Jessica cleaned off a slice of orange and nibbled on it, nodding. “You know, I said the same thing to Sam the other day, but you talk sense into him, don’t you? He always listens to you!” Cas shrugged, pulling his glasses off to clean them and then replace them on his face, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “I might as well be teaching poetry to fish,” he laughed, and Jessica giggled, putting the rest of the orange into her mouth, turning to Sam to look at the program. Another race was taking place on the track and Cas listened to the crowd cheering, as someone won. Cas shook his hands out with anxious energy. It was almost time for Dean’s race. “You want the binoculars?” Jess said with a smile, holding them out. Cas took them with thanks and peered across to the starting line, scanning for Dean. He smiled. “54!” he said happily, and Jessica clapped her hands, tilting her head to look for the number. Dean walked his bike to the starting line and then slung his leg over it, crouched low in the seat. His body was nearly horizontal, the flat plane of his spine parallel with the sleek line of the bike. With his helmet on, Cas couldn’t see his face, but he could see the flex of his fingers, the subtle shift of his shoulders as he readied himself. There was a pause – Cas smiled. “Win it for your boy,” Cas whispered, and the next thing he knew, the engines roared and the cluster drifted forward. Dean did work them – he played around for the first half, but 72 was aggressive and Dean was not to be trifled with. Cas hissed as they sped around the corner, swearing that Dean’s leg nearly grazed the pavement the turn was so close. He passed the binoculars to Sam who followed him around the track. “Sure lead!” Sam said brightly, and Cas leaned forward, watching as they came up around the bend closest to their parked car. The three of them held their breath and yelled as Dean went past, baiting the rider beside him, neck and neck. “Give ‘em hell!” Sam yelled, and Jess fanned herself. “Too much excitement!” she laughed, and Cas grinned. It felt like it had just started, but the race was over quickly. Cas threw up his hands, Jessica whooping while Sam pumped a fist, Dean sliding over the finish line like he owned the track, leading so easily it was almost criminal. He really did bully them in the first half before stealing it in the final leg. Cas looked away as Jess and Sam shared a kiss, Sam brimming with pride. He took up the neglected binoculars again, easily finding Dean’s number. Bobby was down in the pit, and he took his hat off, waved it and then replaced it, hustling to Dean. Cas’ eyes followed Dean’s every movement as he parked his bike, shaking his head out as he pulled his helmet off and tucked it in the crook of his arm. Heaccepted the flask that Bobby offered him, leaning back to take a good pull of it. Bobby ruffled his hair as he passed it back and then pulled him in, head locking his neck to hug him, and Cas knew Dean was forcing himself to be humble, pushing the older man off with a silent laugh. Cas flushed and Sam shoved him. “Well, we should probably go congratulate him!” Sam exclaimed, lifting Jessica off the hood. She squealed, waving the program, talking about other races, but Cas knew they’d pale in comparison to watching Dean race. Sam set her back on the ground like she weighednothing, Cas jumping off as well, folding up the blanket, Jess scattering the orange peels into the grass. They piled back into the car and followed the others around to the front of the track, parking in the grass nearer to the pit. Dean had wheeled his motorcycle off to the side and was talking to Bobby as they all approached, his hair slicked from the helmet and his eyes bright and shining. They hung back while a reporter snapped his picture with the trophy and did a quick interview, Dean turning over his shoulder to wink at them when Bobby answered more specific questions. “He’ll make the front page of the AFM newsletter, no doubt,” Cas joked, and Sam snorted, eager to go towards Dean, his arm slung around Jess’s waist. “You’re terrible,” Jess laughed, and Cas smiled, watching Dean gesture at something on his bike, talking about the make. He looked so lean in his leathers and Cas licked his lips unconsciously. Dean was always in a good mood after a big win. As soon as the reporter was gone, Sam strode forward, taking Dean by the arms and shaking him lightly, a grin on his face. “You were mint!” He smiled. “absolutely mint!” Dean shrugged, pulling him into his arms again. “I’m glad you could make it,” he muttered into Sam’s ear, and Sam held him back, Dean clapping his shoulder and then releasing him, Sam launching into the list of questions he had saved up. Jess stayed back, leaning against Cas in Sam’s absence, the backs of their hands brushing, watching Dean show off his bike and his gear, grinning toothily at Sam as his younger brother bent forward, inspecting everything. Cas smiled down at Jess as she smiled up at him. She was beautiful, the sun making her hair a bright gold color. She was perfect for Sam. Jess cleared her throat when Sam and Dean began bickering over something, and they both stopped, straightening up. “Jess!” Dean said sweetly and she came forward and threw her arms around his neck. “You were the finest one out there,” she teased and Dean laughed nervously as she stepped back, adjusting her purse in her hand with a sigh, addressing the group. "Well, Sam promised me dinner, and I'm going to hold him to his word. So, Cas, if you want, we can drop you off at home before?" "Oh," Cas looked between Jess and Dean, and Dean shrugged a shoulder before wiggling away from Sam when Sam began to jab at his side, laughing. "Or Dean can take Cas. I mean, they're both going to the same place," Sam interjected, moving to stand beside Jess, curling his arm around her waist. "Plus, it'll be one less place to stop off before dinner – that way we can get back to campus earlier." "Great idea, Sammy! You two go have dinner, have fun! And be safe. Call when you get back, alright?" Dean grinned again, and Cas could tell that it was from nerves. Dean really didn't know how to act with Cas around his brother and his girlfriend, and to tell the truth, Cas didn't know either. He was sure that Sam and Jess knew about the two of them, but neither of them had said a word about it. Sometimes Dean would tell Cas that he wanted to tell Sam - tell about how much he loved Cas - but he just didn't know how, and Cas didn't know how to help him. Sam knew that Dean wasn’t straight, but he’d never outright asked about it. Cas could only try to reassure Dean that his brother seemed to love him no matter what. Sam didn’t seem like he was going to quit talking to either of them anytime soon, which relieved Dean temporarily, but he was antsy around them nonetheless. "Well, we’d better get going if we're going to get into the restaurant," Jess smiled, pulling away from Sam to wrap her arms around Cas suddenly. After a moment Cas hugged her back, his face brushing against her curly hair. He squeezed her tight, and when she pulled away, he felt a sort of longing; it reminded him of his sister, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her again and just hold her. "It was nice seeing you, Cas," she whispered in his ear, leaning back to take his hand in both of hers. "You should definitely hang out with us one day. We should all get together and go somewhere. Go see a movie or something!” "Maybe one day, Jess," Sam jumped in, slugging Dean in the shoulder before Dean pulled him into another hug, purposefully squeezing the life out of him. Sam squirmed in his hold, but eventually brought his arms up, patting Dean’s back. "Congratulations on the win, Dean. We'll see you guys around!" He waved as Jess pulled herself away from Cas, taking Sam's hand and walking back to their car. Men were filing out of the track one at a time with their bikes, and Cas could see Bobby heading their way. He moved to stand beside Dean, filling the gap, automatically leaning toward him until their arms were barely touching. If Bobby noticed when he approached them, he didn't say anything. Instead, he handed over the money that Dean had made, and then Dean handed it over to Cas. "Put that in your pocket." Cas nodded and took the cash from Dean and slipped it away. "That was a great race, boy," Bobby was smiling, and he turned to Cas. "You should be proud of him, Cas." "Oh, I am." Cas’ cheeks flushed and he toed at the ground, smiling. "Well, I oughta head home. I'll see you at the garage tomorrow, kid." Bobby nodded towards Cas, “Cas.” and Cas said his brief goodbye watching him walk away. He let his eyes wander to Dean’s face, trying his best to keep his tone neutral. “Good run,” he started and Dean nodded, looking past Cas’ shoulder at the other competitors. He nodded again, glancing at Cas through his lashes. “Yeah – too easy though. Coulda used a challenge. That’ll be next week during trials. Boyd is in town and he owes me a rematch,” Dean said, pulling his gloves off, flexing his fingers. Cas longed to reach out and run his hands through Dean’s helmet hair, but he had to refrain for the moment. Dean kept staring at him and Cas swallowed. “What?” he said in a low voice, and Dean edged closer. "I wish I could kiss you right now." He bent his head right against Cas’ ear, and Cas’ cheeks went red. "Don't say that." "Why not?" Cas sighed and pulled away from Dean, shoving his hands into his pockets. "What if someone hears?" "Then let them hear." Cas rolled his eyes, but all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Dean's middle and bury his face into the crook of his neck and just tell him how much he loved him. Not everyone had left the track yet, so instead he just reached out to him, fingers trailing over the leather covering his arm. "I'm proud of you." Dean smiled and caught Cas' fingers as they passed his hand, turning his body to block the view so that no one could see. And they stood there for a few minutes, just barely holding hands, but it was enough for them. “Come on,” Dean continued, tugging on Cas a little, and Cas followed, only a step behind till he caught up and walked beside him. Dean led him all the way back to the storage building on the side of the track, and once he knew no one was back there, pulled Cas around, pushing him up against the grey cement. There was a roar of motorcycles as the next race started, the crowd cheering, unaware of them. Cas sank into the kiss, hands rubbing Dean’s arms up to his shoulders and then to his chest, fingers slipping to the zipper of Dean’s speed suit, pulling it down to reveal the plain t-shirt under it Dean shrugged out of the sleeves, still kissing him, his pelvis keeping Cas pinned to the wall. “You like watching your boy?” Dean rasped, dragging his hands down Cas’ torso, nipping at Cas’ neck. Cas’ nails bit at the small of Dean’s back as he pushed his hips up to meet Dean’s, sighing against Dean’s hair, leaning back to give him more access to his skin. “Watching me win – so I can bring it home and take care of you…” Dean drawled, his thumbs pressing into Cas’ hips, rocking with him. “Take such good care of you. Take such good care of my baby,” he continued, sliding their mouths together, swallowing up the moan Cas emitted, hands dropping to his ass, pulling him in as close as he could get. Dean leaned his cheek against Cas’, both of them panting as they rutted against each other, Cas kissing along his jaw and biting at his shoulder. “Dean, we shouldn’t – wait…wait…not o-on my clothes, and someone could see,” Cas groaned, and Dean considered this for a moment, but his hands were already fumbling with Cas’ belt, getting his dick out. “Just get off, baby, you worry too much.” He smiled into the corner of Cas’ mouth, jerking him fast and hard, but kissing him gently, the other hand reaching in his pocket to pull out the rag he always kept there. “I’ve got you.” Cas’ breath hitched at the words and he dug his hands into Dean’s shoulders, looking into Dean’s eyes with a glazed expression. Dean stared back at him for a while, and then looked down to see Cas’ stomach heave as he finally came, Dean catching it with the rag, Cas gasping as the cloth brushed against the sensitive head of his cock. “Oh,” Cas breathed, reeling as he came down. “Jesus, Dean,” he whispered, his legs shaking while Dean tucked him back up and kissed him. Cas palmed Dean’s hard-on through his suit and Dean moaned, leaning into him, rocking his hips into Cas’ palm. “You’re hopeless,” Cas murmured, Dean gasping again as he applied more pressure. “So impatient when you win…” he said hotly against the shell of Dean’s ear. “…I should probably reward you.” Cas slid down the wall, dropping to his knees, not even caring if his slacks got dirty. Dean made him reckless and stupid and wild. He looked up at Dean as he licked a stripe up to the tip of his dick, now free and so close to coming. He wasn’t going to last, but Cas didn’t mind. Dean had taken care of him, and now it was his turn. Dean’s fingers fisted into his hair and smoothed it away from his forehead as he worked him with long, graceful, sucks, pausing every so often to toy with the head, tonguing at his slit. “- shit,” Dean choked, bracing himself on the wall as Cas swallowed a few moment later, wiping his mouth and then putting Dean away, zipping the zipper up to his navel as he stood. Dean smiled at him, dopey and sated. “Good?” Cas asked, and Dean leaned in and kissed him He hummed against Cas’ lips as Cas zipped him up the rest of the way, adjusting his collar. “Is there a sequel?” “When we get home,” Cas admonished, pecking him. “After you’ve gotten that wonderful money and we’ve paid our utilities and eaten and done all that.” “Awww, we have to eat first?” “Then wait thirty minutes. Don’t want you cramping,” Cas squeezed Dean’s ass, laughing while Dean pushed him against the wall again, getting lost in his mouth. He pulled away and kissed Cas’ cheek. “Thirty minutes,” he sighed, straightening Cas’ shirt. Cas lifted his hand and kissed Dean’s palm. “I think we could get away with fifteen,” he muttered, watching Dean chuckle. The sun framed him, and he glowed from the inside, arm on either side of Cas’ body, like a house around him. He dipped his head and kissed him, and Cas brushed their noses together. He didn’t need to tell Dean that when he looked up at him again he filed the image somewhere in his mind. It would have a lovely label, like all the rest, tucked up for a rainy day. The one where Dean stands with the sun behind him, looking at me like we’ve known each other for sixty years. Cas found them in a box in the back of Dean’s closet while looking for light bulbs. Two garters, a nightie and a pair of virginal white lace panties. Cas dug briefly through the box and frowned at the underwear. “Dean?” “Hmm,” Dean said around his cigarette, cleaning motorcycle parts, newspapers spread over the kitchen table to protect it,, his booted feet propped up on the window sill, fingers covered in motor grease. Cas brought the box in and set it down in his lap. “What are these?” Dean glanced in the box and smiled, pulling the knickers out. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Ah, my souvenir box.” “Souvenir box?” “Well, sometimes chicks forget their things on the way out the door,” Dean amended, smirking, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. Cas scowled and snatched the box away, Dean laughing as he resumed his his task. “Jealous is a good color on you!” Dean commented as Cas shoved the box back up on the top shelf. “So you just kept their underwear?” Cas snapped and Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, I kept their underwear! It doesn’t mean anything! I haven’t even looked at it since I put it up there, which was probably, what? A year ago? Longer?” He held up some kind of rod and inspected it, and then went back to rubbing at the metal. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna wear it anyway! I’m not one of those pervs that just gets off on the lace. Gotta be a hot body in it, babe.” Cas shook his head and kept looking for light bulbs. “You not gonna talk to me?” “I think you’re ridiculous,” Cas concluded, his face feeling hot for some reason. “Nobody I know keeps other people’s underwear around after they’ve left. It’s creepy.” Dean rolled his eyes and stubbed his cigarette out into his empty coffee mug. “You’ll forget it soon enough. Why don’t you just drop them off at the Salvation Army? They’d be pleased to have them” he said, scratching at his stomach through his grubby white shirt. The problem was that Cas couldn’t stop thinking about them. It was hot, and Cas laid next to Dean with the sound of traffic bleeding through the open window screen, and all he could think about was the box. Dean said something in his sleep and Cas tried to close his eyes, but all he could think about was the stupid box filled with frilly underwear. His face heated up and his whole skin itched a little as he thought about it and what Dean had said. Hot bodies, huh. That’s how Cas ended up staring at the underwear again, only this time Dean was gone. Cas sat on the floor with the box and stared at it. He didn’t know why it offended him so much. It was like Dean said, it was just a box of underwear. It didn’t mean anything – only it did. Girls before him had worn them and then left them behind and Dean had kept them like some kind of weird trophies. “Or he just kept them because he may have thought they’d come back,” Cas said out loud, holding up the nightgown. It was a short, pale blue, thing with an embellished neckline and lace hem at the bottom, but otherwise sheer. He’d seen nightgowns like that before in catalogues his sister used to thumb through, and he knew it was a rather expensive one. He stared at the garters and the panties too. They were clean, and Cas ran his thumb over the high-waist lace frills, the texture foreign, his eyes combing over the intricate design. There was a delicate little bow centered right over the crotch There were three stockings in the box as well that he hadn’t seen at first – two matched and one didn’t. Cas stared at it all and bit his lip. He turned back to the nightgown. He ran his hand over the silky material and put his hand inside of it, looking at his fingers beneath the light blue mesh – just see through enough to be visible, but just chaste enough to leave the details to the imagination. Dean had probably expected, at some point, for the girls to come back and claim their garments. He was, at heart, sweet. Even if they were one-night-stands, as Cas suspected they were, Dean was good enough to have them laundered. Cas could see Dean at the Laundromat four blocks over, with his shirts and oil stained jeans and a silk nightie, probably smirking at the old men who ogled it. It wasn’t so much the girls that bothered him. It was just that Dean had enjoyed himself because someone was wearing them. Someone else. It could have been the president in frilly knickers and Cas still would have been jealous because Dean had probably been sufficiently turned on. Cas swallowed and stared at his hand in the nightgown before stretching it out in front of him. It looked… Cas felt crazy. It looked like it would fit . All of it looked like it would probably fit. He lacked the swelling curves of most girls, so there was probably more give in the garments than their fragile forms insinuated. Cas glanced at his watch. Five thirty. Dean’s shift didn’t end until seven. Cas looked at the box and smirked. “A hot body, huh,” he whispered to no one, feeling a sudden something tingle down his spine, “We’ll see about that.” Three hours later, Dean was home and after some coaxing had disappeared behind the bathroom door. Cas heard the scream of the pipes as he started the shower and immediately began stripping his clothes, hastily putting his plan into motion. First the garter, sitting on his waist, and then the stockings, slowly unrolling them the way he had watched his mother do them when he was little before clipping them into the hold ups dangling against his thighs. Then the panties, tucking everything into them and kicking his pants under the bed, finally taking a moment to stop and just stare down at his silk-clad legs. Now that he was finished, he put his hands self-consciously over his bare chest and then teased at the edges of the garter belt and the panties, making certain that the lines were as straight as he could. Then he slipped the night gown over his head, the material slithering down over his skin, making goose bumps erupt over his arms. He heard the tap squeak off and the sound of the curtain being pulled aside as Dean stepped out, coughing lightly, and Cas froze. He felt suddenly nervous, but he knew that he trusted Dean. He just didn’t know if he trusted him not to laugh. He slowly backed out of the bedroom into the kitchen, where he ran and closed all the drapes and flicked off the light. He heard the bathroom door open and Dean came out, singing something under his breath. “Cas, you wanna listen to something?” Dean called, and Cas felt like his voice was lost for a moment as he wracked his brain, trying to sound normal. He heard Dean pull out the box and flip through the vinyls. “Elvis?” He heard the smile in Dean’s voice as he said that and Cas blushed crimson, standing just inside the dark of the kitchen. “Put on that new American Breed,” Cas said, finally, and Dean started flipping faster. “Oh, I liked this one. Heard it today on the radio,” Dean said, ignorant to Cas’ strange behavior completely. Cas felt his heart thrumming as he took a step forward. “What are you doing in there?” Dean added after a few seconds, busy with setting up the record. “Oh, getting some water,” Cas replied, the words coming out in a rush as he crossed the small living space and stepped into the dim bedroom, Dean’s back to him. Dean set up the record and then fiddled with the window, putting it up. Cas stood behind him, watching the flex of the his shoulders as he struck a match and lit up a cigarette, leaning over the sill to watch the traffic below. It was a hot night and Cas chewed his lip again as he took off his glasses and then set them down on the dresser to his right. “Dean,” he said breathily and Dean perked up and turned around. “We should-” Dean’s sentence dropped off, his eyes slowly widening as he stared at him. Cas watched his cigarette dangle off of his bottom lip until Dean hastily pulled it out of his mouth and ground it carelessly into the ashtray beside the record player, his eyes snapping back to Cas, the disbelief in them easily read. Cas walked carefully forward, the lace hem brushing just above the tops of his stockings. He slowly picked up Dean’s hands and pressed them to his sides, the material of the nightie bunching as Dean’s fingers clamped down on his waist, fingers bumping along the edges of the garter beneath them. Dean just gazed blankly at him, his eyes running up and down before becoming glued to the slivers of skin shifting just below the surface of the nightgown. Cas leaned in and slithered his hands up Dean’s naked chest and over his neck, pulling his head gently back to stretch the skin. “You said something,” he whispered on the hot, velvety warmth, still damp from the shower, “about it not meaning anything unless someone’s wearing them.” He watched Dean’s throat hitch with a breath and Cas kissed him there, the music picking up and flooding into the room. Everybody tells me I’m wrong, to want you so badly… “Oh, Jesus,” Dean exhaled as he pulled Cas’ hips flush with his own. “Jesus…Jesus…” Cas kissed up his jaw and then finally slid their mouths together, Dean moaning low and long, his fingers tightening and relaxing, starting to rub up and down Cas’ sides. “Fuuuck...” was the next thing that Dean said, but that was because Cas was dropping to his knees and yanking Dean’s boxers aside. He didn’t waste time getting Dean’s half-hard dick in his mouth, looking up, as he slid it slowly in and out, his hand coming up to work the base. Dean met his eyes and Cas arched his back, sticking his ass out. He shifted his hips so that the night gown slid down into the dip of his spine, exposing the panties and the belt and the stockings properly. Dean’s elbow, which was now supporting him, shifted and knocked the record player and the track skipped and then resumed as Cas worked his cock in earnest, still watching Dean’s face. “Oh, baby, so good,” Dean sighed after a minute. “Christ, Cas, you…” He stopped talking and made a choked sound as Cas closed his eyes and took as much as he could, holding for a second and then pulling back, panting and swallowing to regain control of his throat. Still couldn’t do it as well as he wanted, but Dean wasn’t complaining. Dean watched his head bob up and down a few times, and Cas felt almost drunk on the smell of dick and soap and the music playing in the background. He moaned, spreading his knees on the carpet, his own cock starting to strain at the panties, rocking a little in a slow fuck of the air. “J-Jesus,” Dean whimpered. “Jesus what’s gotten into you – oh fuckkkk baby, right there, oh baby, right there.” Cas toyed with the end of Dean’s dick, licking at the sensitive underside with the flat of his tongue, letting it sit there, hot and heavy, and then slid down again. Dean brought his hand to the back of Cas’ head and Cas gasped in surprise, clawing at Dean’s bare foot with blunt nails while Dean’s fingers raked through his hair. Deans hips canted upwards and Cas kissed and nipped at the sharp V of his bones for a moment before looking back up at him. “Oh, Jesus,” Dean hissed, cracking his eyes to look down. “Oh, Jesus, look at you,” his hand still on Cas’ head. Cas imagined he was a sight – his lips tingled and his tongue felt huge as he licked around his mouth and breathed, pulling Dean’s boxers all the way down, Dean stepping out of them. He felt boneless as Dean reached down and hauled him up, Cas rolling his head back in a dizzy motion when he felt the front of the panties, now damp, grind against Dean’s torso. “What do you want?” Dean said, suddenly aggressive. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.” He met Cas’ neck with his teeth and pulled the hem of the night gown up, scratching at his sides and back. Cas didn’t respond and Dean growled as he ran his hands over Cas’ back. He shoved him backwards and Cas felt the familiar bite of the mattress into the back of his knees, but Dean swiveled so he was the one sitting, Cas in front of him. Dean’s hands slid all over Cas’ lower body, cupping his ass through the material of the underwear, fingers teasing and tugging at the edges, skating just underneath the nightgown, eating up all the skin with their touch, and then back to his ass, squeezing and running over the fabric over and over. He couldn’t seem to stop as he pressed his cheek to Cas’ covered chest. “So sexy…so sexy,” Dean babbled, and Cas kept his hands braced on Dean’s shoulders until Dean palmed his dick and Cas leaned down to kiss him. There was nothing gentle about it at first, but soon they slowed and Cas was mindlessly rocking into the tight curl of Dean’s fist. He lost track of it all until Dean started pulling the nightgown up more and more with his unoccupied fingers, hooking them into the front of the garter to tug Cas onto the bed. On his back, Cas moaned at the loss of contact, his cock slapping at the garter belt, the panties pulled halfway down his shaft, elastic straining. He felt so hot all over, the feeling of the silk stockings dragging on the rumpled covers driving him nearly mad. “Touch me,” he breathed, dragging Dean’s hands toward his body, somewhere, anywhere. He really didn’t care where they landed at this point. Cas got an eyeful as Dean descended on him, using his teeth to snap the edge of the panties, lips brushing his heated skin, but not enough. Dean’s hands on his thighs were the only thing keeping him from jackknifing off the bed completely as Cas gasped. Dean rolled the panties down and Cas shimmied his hips, helping him, until they were flung gracelessly somewhere behind them, discarded. Finally free, Cas groaned as Dean slid his hands up and down his legs – each time he ascended up his thigh he would travel past his cock to the garter, to his hips, and then trail back down, over and over, the pads of his fingers tracing over the seams against his legs. He finally thumbed over the deep V of his inner thighs, and Cas nearly yelled at the feeling of Dean dropping his own hips to rut against the top of one stocking. Dean rocked himself up towards Cas’ face, crushing their lips together, hands abandoning his lower half in favor of his nipples, scrunching the fabric of the nightgown up to rake over them. Cas made some ragged noise and Dean hooked his hands back under his knees and pushed them open. Cas’ head swam. “I’m gonna make you say fuck till you’re blue in the face,” Dean said, searing another kiss over Cas’ mouth. “Gonna make you say fuck till you don’t know what else to say…” Cas nodded stupidly, moaning. Dean stood up, the mattress whining with the loss of his weight, and dug down in the nightstand for the slick. Cas’ body bounced slightly when Dean crashed back to the bed, digging into the container, swiping the grease out before reaching down between Cas’ legs. “Wider…” Dean grunted and Cas pulled his legs even farther apart, showing himself off. Dean looked down at him and finally, finally - “Oh, fuck!” Cas cried out, arching. “Right there.” “I know, baby,” Dean growled, smiling, bending to kiss his stomach as he worked his fingers – oh, God, there was another, but Cas was fine. He could take it. “I know.” “Gonna take me…so good,” Dean said, and Cas heard the tell-tale sound of him greasing his cock with one hand, a wet, hot, hot noise. Cas let his legs go and pinned Dean’s body to his, smoothing the stockings over his back and hips, Dean shuddering at the feel. Bend me, shape me, anyway you want me, long as you love me, it’s alright - “Get to it,” he bit and Dean slid his fingers away, and the blunt head of his cock replaced them. However long it actually took was lost to Cas, but it felt agonizingly slow as Dean sank into him, everything sensitive in the sticky heat of the evening. The sun was decending further behind the skyline, painting the sky a deep wine purple that trailed into the apartment’s bedroom, dragging its fingers over their bodies in stripes of shadow. Cas felt every nudge as Dean shifted, fucking into him with a shallow movement. “Like you mean it ,” he gasped, and Dean complied, and Cas heard the delicious sound of the headboard as it cracked against the wall. Dean laid into him, Cas’ ankles jostling apart, his legs falling open, but then, without warning, Dean suddenly stalled. The noise it wrenched out of Cas clashed with the record still playing, and as he clenched around Dean’s cock, trying to cope with the feeling of that deep, aching, fullness, Dean took a moment to pin Cas’ arms on either side of his head. “No,” he said to Cas, rocking in another one of those short strokes that made Cas writhe. “ Dean .” Dean bent his head low, still barely moving, tracing his hand over the back of Cas’ silk-clad leg. He snapped the top and Cas panted against his mouth as Dean kissed him chastely. “What if I married you like this? Fuck the rings…all laid out for me…” Cas moaned and shifted again, fucking himself down onto Dean’s cock. “…like some June bride…” “Fucking move, ” Cas moaned again, surging forward to kiss him. Every tiny movement reminded him of that igniting fullness, Dean’s dick throbbing against the inside of him. “Gonna lose my mind…if you – !” He yelped as Dean slid out of him and hovered at his rim, testing him, his grip on his wrists so tight his hands were beginning to tingle. “Who would marry you with a mouth like that? Nobody,” Dean said and he kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth, slamming his hips back into him. Cas’ fingers opened and closed over the empty air. “Fuckin’ nobody, Cas.” “You’ve ruined me,” Cas gasped. “They all know it – you’ve ruined me…” “I love you,” Dean cut him off, his voice coarse with arousal; hushed it right against his ear, and Cas could feel their heartbeats, and every edge of his cock where it was again, and he was so painfully still, and he felt his knees jumping off the bed, toes flexing in the tight sheath of the stockings, trying to handle it. “I’d marry you…I would….” His hips ground down, circling. “Then marry me,” Cas said, not even sure of what he was saying. “Marry me right now.” Whatever control it was taking Dean to not move dissolved. Cas’ voice unhitched from the back of his throat and he groaned as he took Dean over and over in smooth thrusts that brought their hips together in perfect collisions. “Say it, Cas,” Dean panted, kissing his neck. “Cas, please,” he nearly whimpered and Cas felt his mouth ghosting over his and his hands were suddenly free. They gravitated to Dean’s face, holding him there as he brushed against that one place that made every movement after become tinted with the white glow of Christmas lights. “Fuck, or I love you?” he asked, kissing him fiercely, tugging on Dean’s lip, watching it go pink when he released it before licking into his mouth again. He tangled his tongue over Dean’s, at the inside of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth and the hot heat of his tongue as it met his again. “Either,” Dean groaned, pulling away. “Shit, baby.” “I love you,” Cas repeated, and Dean let out another rough, low sound. “Dean, ah, touch me-” Cas hissed, his toes curling. His hands slid around to his back, scratching at Dean’s shoulders as Dean dragged his own fingers down his chest to his neglected dick. He seized it and in five quick slides, Cas was digging his nails in, coming against the bunched fabric of the night gown. “Fuck!” He clamped down hard, everything seizing up, and then he was boneless, Dean thrusting once into him and then sucking in a sharp breath, and two – three – shallow kicks of his hips. Cas felt the warmth spread into him and his chest heaved as he leaned his head back against the blanket and breathed. Dean waited a moment and then slipped out with a wet sound and Cas shivered at the feeling of emptiness. He didn’t like it and immediately grabbed Dean and pulled his weight down, one hand tangled into his hair the other rubbing over his back and the dip of his spine, the soft swell at the beginning of his ass, and then back again. “Shh,” Dean whispered, sitting up. He kissed him gently. “Honey, shh.” Cas didn’t realize he was talking until Dean kissed him again. “I know…I know, I love you too.” He kissed Cas’ chin, his neck again, the skin so hot against his mouth, as he slowly undid the top buttons of the night gown and tugged upwards. Cas lifted his arms and let him slide it off as Dean worked his way down, undoing the garter clasps. He kissed Cas’ thigh as he unhooked the stockings, rolling them down each leg and throwing them on the floor. Once Cas was bare he laid back down, pulling him into his arms, their skin cooling as night started to really set in. A car honked down on the street and Dean pressed his cheek against Cas’ hair. “If I left, would you keep my things?” Cas asked after a moment, moving so he could look at Dean properly. Dean stroked his fingers over Cas’ shoulder, looking out the window instead of him. “Dean?” he probed, touching his hip. “Yeah.” Dean breathed, closing his eyes. “But you wouldn’t go,” he added, “so I wouldn’t have to.” “Married people don’t leave each other,” Cas whispered, his own eyes drifting shut and then opening again. He didn’t want to fall asleep just yet. “That’s true,” Dean said, his voice heavy. “They aren’t supposed to.” “I won’t go.” Dean kissed his hairline and then let Cas wiggle free to pull the quilt over them, tucking it first around Dean’s back and then burrowing under himself, pressing their chests together once they were underneath. “We’ll just be married,” Dean said softly, and then, suddenly, he realized the record had stopped. “That’ll be just it. We’ll just be married and we can stay like this.” Cas turned his head and kissed him. “You’re supposed to kiss at weddings,” he muttered, and Dean kissed him back after a moment of thought it seemed, kissed him harder than Cas had expected him too. He buried himself in the crook of Cas’ neck after that, silent. He closed his eyes, holding him, the ache of emptiness between his legs lessened. “Oh, Dean,” he hushed, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Just the name as Dean kissed his collarbone and then resettled his head, the skin of his forehead still damp where it met Cas’ shoulder. Another car honked, and a pigeon flew by with a flutter of wings. “I won’t go.” Cas repeated, but he didn’t think that Dean was awake to hear him. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The next morning, Leonard took a transport to Lilah's place. He arrived early, and maybe that was a good thing, because it gave him time to take a walk around the block to settle his nerves. Lilah had said he was welcome. The twins said Marco and Josh were looking forward to meeting him. It was going to be fine. At exactly ten o'clock, he checked his bag one last time and knocked on the door. Lilah was the one who answered, because it would have been cowardly to have her husband do it, and she was the one who had invited Leonard over. She opened the door and smiled tiredly, Josh on her hip. "Hi," she said, hovering in the doorway. Josh (clearly just woken from a nap) had his thumb in his mouth and was watching Leonard sleepily, curiously. Leonard smiled hopefully at them both. "Hey Lilah," he said gently. "Hi Josh. I'm your Uncle Len - your mama's big brother." Josh just stared back at him, and Lilah rubbed at the boy's back. "He woke up about a minute ago," she said softly, and stepped back to let him in. "Eleanor's on the mat in the living room, and Marco's in there, too. And the place is a mess, so watch where you step." Leonard followed her in, watching his feet. "Abby sent food, by the way," he said, shrugging the shoulder that held his bag. "And I've got something for you as well." "Abby's been convinced she's got to feed us," Lilah said, exasperated but fond, and ushered Leonard into the kitchen, though she peeked in on the living room first. "Food can go right in the fridge. And you didn't have to bring me anything." "She likes helping," Leonard commented, unpacking his bag onto the counter. "And she knows you get antsy if she meddles too much." He dutifully transferred the tupperware to the fridge, leaving a latched box on the counter. "That's from me," he said, nodding to it. "Restocking your infant medications. It should be fiddly enough to open that Josh at least can't get into it." "Oh," Lilah said, a little surprised. She'd been expecting something like a book, or a onesie. Or diapers, maybe. She moved closer, inspecting the latch and nodding. "That'll make it easier—we can keep it right on a shelf of the changing table." She bounced Josh absently, and blinked a few times as her eyes felt wet. "Thanks. I'll—here, Josh, you want to go to your Uncle Len?" she asked him, and then handed him to Leonard. "I'll get the box put away so it doesn't pique anyone's interest being left out like this." Leonard accepted Josh, letting Lilah take the out, and propped him on his hip. "Hey there, bud," he said gently, sniffing Josh's hair. "Do I smell like your cousins?" It had been a while since he'd been in Lilah's house, but he could hear Marco playing, and he followed the sound to the living room. Josh sniffed at him, and then rested his head on Leonard's shoulder, still not fully awake. Marco was half watching a show for kids and half playing with Eleanor, who was lying on her back under an arching frame with some bright toys hanging from it. He turned when he heard someone coming in, and gave Leonard a skeptical look. "Are you Uncle Len?" he asked. "That's me," Leonard confirmed, lowering himself onto the floor and resettling Josh on his lap. "I'm guessing you're Marco, and that one's Eleanor? Let me know if I've mixed it up." Marco nodded, smiling reluctantly at how silly that was. He shook one of the dangling rattles to catch Eleanor’s attention. "You can pick her up but you have to be careful of her head," he told him. "That's very important," Leonard agreed, smiling down at her. "I'll be careful." He reached around Josh to trace his finger over Eleanor's tiny fist. Marco watched closely, scooting a little closer to Eleanor protectively. "Are you Joanna's dad?" Leonard's face fell, even as Eleanor grabbed hold of his finger. "I am," he said quietly. "Did your mama tell you that, or did you guess?" "Mama told me," Marco said, and twisted to look at the screen again when one of the animated kids on screen made a noise. After a few minutes to gather herself, Lilah returned, and watched the tableau of her three kids with Leonard for a moment. "If you want to supervise some tummy time, you're welcome to turn her over," she said, taking a moment with her three kids occupied and content to sit on the couch and rest her feet. "Sure," Leonard agreed, moving Josh out of his lap so he could maneuver better. "Here we go, darlin'," he murmured, gently rolling Eleanor over. "Aren't you precious?" Eleanor fussed a little at first, but she settled quickly enough, her head turned to one side, watching Leonard. Josh crawled over to one of his toys on the floor, pulling his thumb out of his mouth. He could have walked, but Lilah had noticed he liked to be closer to the ground when he was sleepy. "Do you want anything to drink? I might put on some coffee for myself," Lilah asked through a yawn. It was weird having Leonard there, but she was tired enough that just about anything would be weird right now. "I wouldn't say no to a cup if you're making one," Leonard commented, picking up a nearby toy and moving it back and forth in front of Eleanor. "But no need to get up on my behalf." "I'm getting up anyway," Lilah said, and started the slow process of pushing herself up. "I have to prep a bottle for her, anyway." Marco twisted to watch Leonard again. "Are you older than Mama?" "That's right," Leonard said, smiling at him. "I'm five years older, just like you're five years older than Eleanor." "You're older than Aunt Abby?" Marco said, eyes going wide. "You're old ." Leonard laughed a little. "Yep, I'm the oldest," he agreed. "And someday when Eleanor's as old as your mama, you'll be as old as me." Marco looked skeptical. He couldn't imagine ever being that old. "Maybe," he said, and reached for the toy Leonard was using to play with Eleanor. "She likes it better like this," he said, and shook it a little in front of her. Leonard settled down and let Marco teach him. When it got closer to lunchtime, Thiago came in to collect Marco and Josh. His parents were staying in town at a nearby hotel, and had offered to take the boys for a little bit, so he gathered the two of them up, kissed Lilah and Eleanor goodbye, and headed out with them. The silence left behind made Lilah almost miss the chaos, and she looked back at Leonard, sitting on the couch with Eleanor. “Do you want to feed her?” she asked. It had been a few hours since her last meal, and it looked like she was getting hungry again. "I'd love to," Leonard said quietly. He hadn't stopped smiling since he'd picked Eleanor up, treasuring the familiar burden. Lilah ducked out to the kitchen to get a bottle ready, then came back and passed it to Leonard before sitting down on the other end of the couch. "The kids seemed to accept you pretty quickly," she said, watching them both. "Eleanor and Josh, especially." "At Eleanor's age, I'm just a low voice and gentle hands," Leonard said, tilting her up a little and nudging the nipple of the bottle against her mouth. "Are you hungry, sweetheart? Let's have a try." "I've seen her fuss more with some people," Lilah said, and shrugged. He was so good he was with her, so careful. It was still strange he was here, on her couch. Feeding her daughter. She looked away. "Abby mentioned your ‘ roommate’ didn't come with you to Georgia?" Eleanor latched on and drank greedily, and Leonard smiled at her. "There you go," he crooned. "That's it, darlin'." As he looked up at Lilah, his smile turned wry. "Jim's not visiting with me," he confirmed. "He's actually off-planet at the minute." "But things are good between you?" Lilah asked, adjusting a pillow behind her on the couch. "We're good," Leonard reassured her, relaxing back into the cushions. "This sort of short work placement is a great opportunity for him, he's learning a lot." "That's good for him," Lilah said, watching Eleanor again with a soft expression. "He seemed nice. I barely said hello when I saw him, but the twins seem to like him." "He likes them," Leonard commented, tilting the bottle back to let Eleanor catch her breath. "And he's happy to let Hannah run him ragged, which makes him popular." "Good with kids, and hot as heck to boot," Lilah said wryly, used to reigning in her swearing for the kids' sake. "He's a good man," Leonard said quietly, giving Eleanor her bottle again. "I'm lucky he adopted me." "Is that how it happened?" Lilah asked, watching him carefully. "I only know what Abby's told me about you two." "And she's been vague, huh?" Leonard guessed. He looked down at Eleanor as he tried to work out how to explain it. "We met on the shuttle to the Academy," he started. "I was...struggling, and he sat down next to me with a black eye from a bar fight the night before, and kept me company the whole flight. The two of us fuck-ups, among all the bright and shiny kids." Lilah's eyebrows went up. "That's sweet, in a depressing way," she said, lips pulling up a little. "And you're really not sleeping together, or is that also something Abby's being vague about?" Leonard smiled wryly. "We're really not fucking," he confirmed. "We do share a bed, most of the time." Lilah leaned over and sniffed him, curious if she could smell Jim on him, and then sat back. "Do you want to fuck him?" Leonarrd opened his mouth to say no...then shrugged, helplessly. "I don't really know?" Lilah hummed. "Fair enough," she said, not wanting to push too much. She wasn't sure she was allowed to, with how things have been between them. "It seems like things are going well for you." "I've been lucky," Leonard agreed. Eleanor made a grumpy noise, and he turned his attention back to her for a while, trying to memorise her face. Once she finished the bottle, he glanced up at Lilah. "Got a burping cloth?" he asked. "I didn't bring a spare shirt." Lilah nodded and reached to grab one from a basket under the coffee table, and gave it a sniff to make sure it was clean before handing it over. "It'll almost be time for her next nap after," she said, checking her watch. "She's not too bad about transferring to the crib once asleep, though, if you want to keep holding her." "Do you mind?" Leonard asked, draping the cloth over his shoulder and adjusting Eleanor so she was upright. "Just until she's asleep." After this week, it would be a couple of months before he could hold her again. "It's alright," Lilah said, shaking her head. "She's clearly comfortable in your arms." Leonard chuckled, rubbing Eleanor's back to help her spit up. "She's just being charming to win me over, aren't you, sweetheart?" he crooned. "So when she starts wailing, I'll remember how cute she is." "That's the whole youngest sibling playbook," Lilah joked. Once he was done burping Eleanor and had her settled again in his arms, Leonard glanced over at Lilah. "How have you been?" he asked. "With...everything." "Good," Lilah said, and rested her head against the couch again with a sigh. "Exhausted. Labor was easier than with Josh and Marco, but the recovery seems to be taking longer." Leonard hummed. "Every pregnancy's different," he said sympathetically. "And it could just be having an extra kid to juggle. But..." Iron levels, certain vitamins and minerals, maybe a hormonal imbalance... "There's some things a doctor could check for, just in case." "I've had one checkup since, right after she was born," Lilah said, frowning. She thought of their father who would have insisted on checking her out himself. "I could go back, just in case." Carefully, Leonard offered, "I have my kit back at Abby's. I could bring it by next time, do a few scans?" Lilah hesitated. "...I don't want to put you out," she said finally. "But thanks." "It would reassure me," Leonard said, smiling at her. "You know how I fuss." "It's okay, Len. Really," Lilah said, a bit more firm this time. "Good," Leonard said, relaxing a little. Lilah, pushed a hand through her hair. "Ma's being weird lately. Abby and I have been talking—we think she's depressed. Did she mention it?" "Abby and I haven't really talked about Ma," Leonard admitted. It was a sore subject. "She's struggling?" "She's been a little off lately," Lilah admitted. "Abby called her doctor, and he's not concerned about early signs of dementia or anything like that. And she's perfectly healthy, otherwise. Just... moody? A little quieter than normal." Leonard frowned at nothing in particular as he thought through possibilities. "I know you've probably thought of this," he said carefully, "but you know she might just be lonely? It's...hard, being on your own, when you've had someone beside you for a long time." "That's what Abby thinks. She brings the kids over a lot. Thiago brings the boys sometimes, too, but sometimes it's just easier when everyone's here and we can keep their schedules consistent," Lilah said, frowning. "I don't know if she told Abby this, but she's thought about calling you." "Really?" Leonard said warily. "I don't think she's going to," Lilah said. She didn't really think it was a good idea, either way. Their mother was still having a hard time with... everything. "I don't think you should reach out to her." "Trust me, I'm not doing that without an armed squadron as backup," Leonard muttered. The last time they'd spoken had...not gone well. "She's just... she seems lost." Lilah shrugged. "I considered getting her on a dating app but Abby vetoed it." Leonard snorted. "Yeah, I don't think that would work," he agreed. "Look, people who've been through something shit, we look to see if they’ve got sources of connection, if they’ve got something showing them they’ve got agency, that they’re making a difference, how they’re rebuilding their sense of identity after trauma, and where they’re getting their sense of meaning in life.” It was an old model of recovery and wellbeing, and a good one. "I know all that," Lilah said, and rolled her eyes at him. "You know I've been through something shitty too, right? The problem is that we can't make meaning in her life for her." "It's a specific recovery framework," Leonard objected - quietly, for Eleanor's sake. "My point is, is she needed? Does she get to see she's made an impact that matters?" "I don't know," Lilah admitted, and fiddled with her hair. "I don't exactly have time right now to make her feel needed." Leonard's face softened. "No, you don't," he agreed. "Lilah, darlin', let Abby come up with ideas to help Ma. Your focus is right where it should be - on taking care of you, and Marco and Josh, and this little bean." Lilah's voice softened, too. "Abby’s got enough going on now, too. The twins keep her so busy," she said, looking down at Eleanor resting against him. She wondered how much of Leonard's scent she'd carry after this. "The twins are old enough to be a bit more independent," Leonard reassured her. "They're growing up." "God, that just makes me feel old," Lilah said, and moved a little closer so she could rub Eleanor's belly when she started to fuss a little in her sleep. "Here, you do this—it helps calm her." Leonard shifted sideways and copied the motion. "There you go, darlin'," he murmured. "Everything's just fine, you go ahead and rest." "Once she settles, she's a good sleeper," Lilah murmured, staying where she was for a moment to watch before backing off. "She's a pretty happy little thing, generally." "How are the boys doing with her around?" Leonard asked, glancing at the toys strewn across the floor. "Marco adjusted quicker than Josh," Lilah said wryly. "Josh has been a bit confused by it all. I think we didn't do as much to prep him for it as we did with Marco when he came along." "Anything I can do to help?" Leonard offered. "While I'm here." "It's alright," Lilah said, shaking her head. "The boys both appreciated the attention you gave them earlier, even though I know you were dying to get your hands on Eleanor." Leonard glanced at her with a frown. "They're my family too," he said. "I'm here to see all of you." "I know . But you've always had a thing for babies. Not that you're not good with kids of all ages." Lilah shrugged. "Oh, do you want to see Marco's yearbooks? Jo's school picture is in them." Leonard hesitated, torn, but... "A picture's just a picture," he said. "I can see that any time." He didn't usually have the opportunity to be with Lilah and Eleanor. "I can always make copies for you," Lilah said, and reached over to stroke Eleanor's downy hair, even if it moved her a little closer to Leonard again. Weird or not, it was nice. She didn't want to examine too closely if that was from the pregnancy hormones. "Is everything going okay for you? Not just with Jim, I mean." Leonard smiled at her. "I'd like that," he murmured. "The Academy's going fine. Even made it through the compulsory piloting quals, which was a hell of a thing." "Abby told me about that," Lilah said. She and Abby had only just started gossiping about him more recently, which felt oddly normal. "She said Jim helped coach you through it? Or maybe that was just how she was imagining it." "No, he helped," Leonard confirmed. He was a big part of how Leonard had eventually made it through. "He'd sit copilot in the practice sims, or let me sit next to him in his. And he was there with me after all the classes while I calmed down." Lilah gently stroked her fingers over Eleanor's forehead. "Does he know?" she asked quietly. "About Dad." "He does," Leonard said softly, watching Eleanor so he didn't have to look at her. "I told him last Christmas." "And he doesn't care?" Lilah asked, her voice lower. "It doesn't matter to him?" Leonard gave her a tired look. "Lil, Dad first asked me about assisted dying two weeks after Josh was born." Lilah grimaced, dropping her hand from Eleanor so the baby didn't sense her tension. "I know it was his idea," she said slowly, trying to keep her voice even. "You think I should have talked him out of it," Leonard guessed. "Or is it that I was the one to do it?" "You should have talked to us about it," Lilah said tightly. "How do you know he was in his right mind? There were— other options. Pain management. Therapies." "We were doing those," Leonard said, silently begging her to understand. "He was on an incredible amount of medication. He let me try every alternative I could find." "Then you should have at least killed him while we were all there! Or was that part of his wishes too, that it just be you and him?" Lilah snapped, her eyes filling. "Lilah..." Leonard said quietly. They'd known, they'd all been told, that his father had asked for euthanasia whenever his next flare happened. The flares were unpredictable, and sudden, and the treatment was only slightly better than enduring them. He'd asked, and they'd agreed. But Lilah didn't need to hear that right now. "Do you want to hold Eleanor? I'd offer a hug, but I don't know if you want one from me." Lilah wiped at her eyes, and reached for Eleanor. "Yes," she said, voice watery, and swallowed. "...Let's hope she stays asleep." "We can settle her again," Leonard murmured, shifting closer and gently placing Eleanor in Lilah's arms. "I'm sorry you're having it so rough, darlin'." Lilah settled Eleanor against her chest and breathed in the baby smell of Eleanor's head. She only fussed a little, and a little rubbing her back settled her. Lilah couldn't stop her tears, though, thinking of her dad and how good he had been with the kids. "It's just like last time. With Josh, not having him there to help." Leonard drew in a breath through his teeth, then threw caution to the wind and wrapped an arm around Lilah's shoulders. "Oh Lilly-girl, I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "I should've guessed." Lilah leaned into him, not even attempting to stop a sob at the familiar nickname, the comfort from Len she hadn't gotten in so long. "She smells like you," she got out through her tears. "Eleanor. I didn't— expect that." Leonard huffed a laugh, rubbing her arm. "It's cause I smell like everyone," he said gently. "Remember? Always best at hide and seek, I just mix in with all the other McCoys." "Genetic advantage," Lilah mumbled, an old argument she'd made as a kid. She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the collar of her shirt. She already had spit-up and god knows what else on her; snot wasn't too much worse. "Maybe Eleanor will turn out best at hide and seek in her generation," Leonard suggested, leaning into her. "Or maybe her scent'll differentiate as she grows." Lilah patted the baby's back gently as she fussed a little in her sleep. "I hope her scent differentiates. I want to be able to recognize her scent easily. Yours was always so hard to pick out," she said, voice a little calmer as she sniffed again. "Jocelyn said your scent was generic once. I think that's when I started hating her." Leonard blinked. "You... when was that?" he asked. "You were married already," Lilah said vaguely, and wiped at her wet cheek. "I don't know." "How long didn't you like her?" Leonard asked, bewildered. She'd never said anything about it. "After you got back from your honeymoon she started getting on my nerves," Lliah admitted. "You were so happy. And I was the only one who disliked her, apparently." That long, and he'd never known? "I'm sorry," Leonard said, leaning into her. "I... I like to think I'd've listened, if you'd said something. Did she treat you badly?" "I wasn't going to say anything," Lilah said with a little huff. She turned her head, brushing her cheek to his arm around her shoulder, more a gesture than a real attempt at scenting. "She was nice with me. We got along. There were only a few specific things but it was enough." "That's something," Leonard muttered. "I don't like the idea she was making any of you uncomfortable." "I think it was just me," Lilah said, and gently sniffed the top of Eleanor's head again. "And I wasn't uncomfortable. I was annoyed. It was fine." Leonard hummed, wondering if Abby would say something similar. "Well, I guess I appreciate you not making a fuss about it at the time," he admitted. Lilah stroked Eleanor's soft hair, surprised she'd slept through all the tears somehow. Part of her imagined it was Leonard's presence, or his scent. "I don't like causing drama, usually," she said with another sniff. "I know you and Abby would disagree, but it's true." "No, I get it," Leonard reassured her quietly. "How about we go get Eleanor settled? And then I can hug you properly." Lilah nodded and slowly stood. She sidestepped the assortment of toys the boys left out with practiced steps, leading the way to the nursery. "We had this addition built on a year ago," she explained on the way. "We didn't want to make the boys share." "It's a good idea," Leonard commented, taking in the changes since he'd last spent time here. "Do you think you'll stick with three, or is Thiago still enthusiastic about having a whole pack of them?" "I'm done birthing them," Lilah said, huffing. "If he wants one more, I'm not necessarily opposed to adopting, but we're not having that discussion for a while. A year, at least." Leonard snorted. "That's more than fair," he agreed. "Pregnancy is a lot, and labour is worse." Lilah set Eleanor in the crib, and turned on some white noise to help soothe her, which both of her other kids had liked too. "I think I'm okay with three," she said softly, waiting a beat to see if Eleanor woke from the transition. Leonard smiled, putting a hand on her back. "Three's a good number," he murmured. "They're lovely kids." "I lucked out," Lilah said, reaching down to stroke Eleanor's cheek. A wave of emotion came over her, thinking of getting her kids, the twins, and Jo all together sometime, even if Jocelyn would make it difficult. She turned, stepping right into the promised hug. Leonard held her tight, rubbing her back in a silent promise that he wasn't going to disappear again. That even if he was on the other side of the galaxy, she could rely on him. "...This doesn't make everything magically okay," Lilah said softly, her arms wrapping around him. "Course it doesn't," Leonard murmured. "I don't mind you being mad at me, darlin'. Just as long as I still get to be your brother." Lilah closed her eyes and held him a little tighter. "You stopped calling me that. You hadn't since before Dad died." Leonard shrugged a little, brushing his cheek against hers. "Figured it wasn't welcome, I guess," he admitted. "I'm not sure it would've been at first." Lilah accepted the scenting, happy to really breathe him in for the moment. She'd never been great at distinguishing scents, but he wasn't entirely familiar to her anymore. "Your scent's changed a bit. More layers." "Yeah?" Leonard said. He'd've thought it would be losing Jocelyn and Joanna that would change his scent, but if it had more layers... "Might be Jim's fault." "Might be," Lilah agreed, and pulled back a little. "It's not a bad change. Better than the last time I really got your scent." Leonard let her go. "I'm a lot less messed up than back then," he agreed. "Now, what can I do to help? Can I sort out the dishes or the laundry for you, while you have a shower or something? Or would you like me to just get out of your hair?" "I might try to get a nap in," Lilah admitted, looking back at Eleanor. "This is usually her longest nap of the day. If you don't mind running all the dirty bottles through the sanitizer, that'd be a big help. I can get a quick load of laundry on a wash and dry cycle before I fall asleep..." She trailed off, thinking about all there was to do. She’s been so much more productive during naps when Marco and Josh were both infants. "Go lie down," Leonard said firmly. "Point me at the hamper, and I'll work out the rest." "You don't have to," Lilah said, but was tired enough to not argue more. "The boys' laundry is all in the green hamper in the hall between their rooms. It's overflowing, so it's hard to miss." "I've got it," Leonard reassured her, smiling. "Go on, darlin'. Take a break." When he got back to Abby's, Leonard found that Sam had taken the kids out for the afternoon, and he had to wonder how deliberate everyone had been about giving him private time with his siblings. Had Sam and Thiago talked to each other, or had they just thought the same way about it? He wouldn't be so rude as to point it out, but he did wonder. Abby was in the kitchen, prepping one of the only dinners she reliably could make well when she heard the door. "I'm in the kitchen!" she called. "How'd it go?" Leonard headed through, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Well," he said, "I'd say it was okay overall. But..." "But?" Abby prompted, frowning a little and looking him over as if his outfit would give anything away about it. "But I'm worried about Lilah," Leonard said with a sigh, pulling out a chair. "She's been worn out," Abby agreed, shaking her head. "I offered to take Eleanor for a night to let them get more sleep, but she said no." Leonard hummed. "I'm going to bring my kit next time I go over," he said. "Just to check. She hasn't seen a doctor since she got home from hospital." "...I don't know why I'm surprised you brought your kit with you," Abby said with a soft huff of a laugh. "Just ask before scanning her, alright?" Leonard rolled his eyes. "You really think I'd do that?" he said. "Seriously?" "I think if you were that worried about her you'd consider it," Abby said, raising her eyebrows challengingly. She tossed him a piece of the carrot she'd been cutting. "Was there some specific symptom you were worried about?" "Just the fatigue," Leonard reassured her. "And there's a bit of depression that comes with that. Not uncommon post-natally, but not something she should have to just put up with." "Do you think it's post-partum depression?" Abby asked. "It's not something that runs in the family, but isn't that more common with betas?" It was a common misconception, but no. "It can happen to anyone," Leonard told her. "But I want to rule out some other things first - hormonal and dietary imbalances, mostly." "Think she's not eating enough? Or eating right?" Abby said, her frown only deepening. She'd been the one sending food over a lot, and some protective instincts flared at the thought she might be making it worse. "I'm sure she's eating fine, Abby," Leonard said, getting up so he could put a hand on her shoulder. "She just might need a little more of something than usual, and not have realised it." Abby nodded. "You're probably right," she said, and then nudged him. "It went okay, though? Eleanor's absolutely precious, isn't she?" A beaming smile spread across Leonard's face. "She's gorgeous," he agreed, leaning against Abby for a second. "Lilah let me feed her and hold her while she fell asleep. And the boys had a lot of advice for me about entertaining her, before Thiago took them out for the morning." "They're so good with her, " Abby agreed warmly. "I'm so glad you got to meet her. Such an easy baby. Less fussy than Josh, who I already thought was the calmest infant." "She was lovely," Leonard murmured. An easy baby comparatively, but he knew Lilah wasn't having an easy time of it. Abby leaned into him more. "I can hear you thinking," she said. "More worry about Li? Having baby fever?" Leonard snorted. "A baby is a terrible idea right now," he said dryly. "No, I just... I think she's having a hard time. Missing Dad a lot." "Ah." Abby offered him another bite of carrot before dumping everything in a pot. "...Did she bring him up?" she asked carefully. Leonard glanced away. "She asked if Jim knew about him," he explained. Abby knew Jim did, because he'd told Sam, who'd told her. But she didn't know if Len knew that. "Was she thinking he wouldn't be with you if he did?" "He's not technically 'with' me," Leonard pointed out, just to be contrary. Abby gave him a look . "So you two argued," she said, rather than dignifying Len's comment with a response. Leonard's lips twitched. "Only a little," he promised. "I think she's just... With Eleanor, it reminds her, you know?" "She mentioned that during the pregnancy," Abby said, voice more sober, "that the last time she'd had a baby everything with Dad had happened." Leonard went over to the sink to get himself some water. He needed a glass of something right now, and that was the sensible option. "You remember how Dad was, around babies." Abby looked over at him. "You know you're like that, too, right? You've always been good with them." Leonard smiled a little, but shook his head. "Dad was like that for me with Jo, and you with Hannah and Eli, and Lilah with Marco," he said, trying to lead her to the point. "And he's not here now, and part of her still blames you," Abby said with a sigh. "I know." "That's not what I meant," Leonard said, putting his glass down on the counter. "Abby, Lilah didn't have Dad when Josh was little, and she doesn't have him now. That's not just about the feelings. Remember how much Dad did for you when the twins were born? For me, when Jo was?" Abby leaned her hip against the counter. "Of course I do. But she still has us. And Ma." Leonard raised his eyebrows. "And how's Ma doing these days?" Abby sighed heavily. "I get your point. She doesn't have the help that all of us used to have." "Can we call in the extended family?" Leonard suggested. "For her and Ma - she told me you were worried." Abby couldn’t cover all the gaps herself, and it’s not like he could do it. Abby considered. "We could call Uncle Ed and see if he's free to come help? He's been complaining about being an empty nester lately. I'm not sure who else has the time to come help. Maybe Marnie? If she's back from that trip." "Uncle Ed is a good idea," Leonard said, relaxing. "And if he decides he needs back-up, Aunt Barbara will get everyone moving." "She's another good pick." Abby added some spices to the pot. "I can reach out to them? Unless you'd like to." Leonard shook his head, picking up his glass again. "Better if I don't get too obviously involved," he said. "Lilah will probably guess I had something to do with it, but this should be about what she needs, not about me." "I can do it," Abby agreed, putting on a jokingly haughty tone. "It is my job, as alpha of this family." Leonard snorted. "Is that what you're teaching Eli and Hannah?" he teased. "You know Eli might end up the senior alpha of his generation." "Not anymore, now that we have them interacting with better media," Abby said, shaking her head a little. "You think he'll be an alpha?" Leonard sat back, thinking over the question seriously. "...I think it's more likely than beta," he said. "Alpha or omega? Could go either way right now." "Yeah, but you think alpha more than omega?" Abby asked, glancing over at him. Leonard shrugged. "I think it's at least as likely," he said. "And giving some of the assumptions people have made...that's telling, a little." "The assumptions that Hannah's made, you mean—that he's an omega?" She asked, getting the pot to cooking on the stove. It was a simple stew, but there'd be enough for all of them and some leftovers for Lilah's family. "That Hannah's repeated," Leonard agreed. He was pretty sure they weren't just reaching conclusions from what they'd heard about omegas generally. They’d heard it from someone. Abby sighed. "Signs are definitely pointing to a non-beta dynamic,” she agreed. “Hannah mentioned the puberty blockers today, said you talked to them? They seem a bit more on board." Leonard shrugged. "I didn't say that much," he said. "Just...pointed out the alternative to going on them, really. They can do medication, or they can do female puberty. It's up to them what they pick." "Well, they apparently needed to hear it from someone other than their parents. I'll make an appointment with their pediatrician." Abby grabbed some water for herself. "It'll be the best thing for them." "It'll give them a few years to watch their peers go through it and decide what they want," Leonard agreed. Even if it did mean any presentation was delayed. "They're going to feel a bit left behind," Abby said, grimacing as she took a sip of water. "We should get them talking to someone to process all of it." "One step at a time," Leonard said, sitting back in his chair. "We'll get through it." Abby marveled at that for a moment. Less than a year ago, she wouldn't have been confident the twins could pick him out of a crowd. Now they knew his scent and he was helping them with big decisions and life changes—and helping her and Sam, too. "We will," she agreed, and pulled out her comm. "You want to help me draft all those messages to the family now?" Leonard huffed a laugh. "If you insist," he agreed. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Sitting at the library table, softly lit by the floating artifact above their heads, Rook is barely keeping her eyes open as the others chatter softly about the nature of magic. ‘ This has possibly been the longest day of my l ife’, Rook thinks. * She had woken early that morning, still woozy, on a cot next to a badly injured Varric. She could only remember flashes of the past day or two in Minrathous, and that was likely due to the same head wound making her skull pound and her eye throb. The same head wound that made her dream about meeting Solas in the fade. She couldn’t fully see him at the ritual site, but the face of the man who confronted her as she lay comatose was as clear as day. Trapped on the other side of a wide crevasse in a world of muted grays, Solas claimed that as they stopped him from completing his ritual, they allowed something of a far greater evil out into the waking realm. Now instead of ‘a few mere malicious spirits’ let out as he ‘Restored the world to how it should be, before the wound of the veil was made’, they had allowed two gods out of their prison. The last two Evanuris, gods of the elven pantheon, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. Two evil, ancient blighted mages , tyrants who will stop at nothing to crush Thedas beneath their heels to rule again. He claimed he was going to move them to a newer, more secure location during the ritual. Said that when Rook interrupted they were allowed out of their prison, and he was thrown in instead. He who was apparently the only person left alive who could stop them; the fallen elven god of lies, trickery, and deceit. Fen’Harel. The Dreadwolf: defanged. Supposedly his only tether to the material world was Rook, thanks to the blood she shed from her head wound during the fight. He told her that this mess they were both in was her responsibility from then on, as the edge of the divide she stood on tipped her forward into wakefulness. Deeply confused and reeling from her nightmare, she and Varric spoke shortly about what happened. She didn’t speak with him about the dream she had, no need to distress him further, on top of him being so badly wounded he couldn’t leave the bed yet. She had tried to comb her fingers through the length of her matted, bloody hair, when Harding walked into the infirmary looking for elfroot. Harding was also injured during the confrontation, and guilt soured in Rook’s stomach at the sight of the stitched up gash on Harding’s forehead. Despite her own clear weariness, and despite how much shorter she was than Rook, she sat down on the cot behind Rook and carded through the long strands of her hair gently, as she explained where they were. Harding and Neve had managed to drag Rook and Varric back through the eluvian that lead to the ritual site. As the ritual failed, the magical mirror they retreated through had malfunctioned, and instead of returning to Minrathous they were now somewhere in the fade. Neve and Harding had explored some while Rook was unconscious. They had drummed up some clues, and it seems they were not only in the fade, they were in Solas’ former hideout. A floating island in a safe bubble of magic, a sanctuary, a lighthouse. Harding finished her work detangling Rooks hair and pronounced it ‘good enough for now’, and sent her to find Neve. Now that Rook was awake and well enough, they needed to have an urgent meeting. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat as she tied her hair back and stood, but she was safe to leave the infirmary, so long as she watched her step out by the edges of the island. Falling forever couldn’t be good for ones health, and likely very boring after a while. Cautious of tripping, Rook found Neve outside the Lighthouse, on the wide stone platform that made up the ‘ground’ around them. The main island was surrounded by several smaller islands, each with their own building. Interesting, but not important at the moment. Together they returned to the Lighthouse, and gathered around a table on the main floor of the building, the library. They went over the details of the past few days together, hectic mess that they were. Mentioning Solas and how his ritual went wrong brought to mind the dream she had. When Rook meekly told her two companions about it, silly as it felt to share, Harding reminded her that Solas supposedly had the power to manipulate people through their dreams in the fade. The idea that she was potentially actually meeting with Solas, and what he told her was true, was... beyond ominous. Either way, they would need to return to the ritual site to investigate. Luckily, despite its malfunction during the ritual, the eluvian was still working. It would only return them to Arlathan Forest, but that was better than nothing. They could figure out how to get back to Minrathous later. They geared up, kits still covered in dust and litter and blood from the last fight, and walked through the mirror into the forest. What happened next had felt like both an eternity and a whirlwind, in that strange way time has of stretching and bending on itself. They immediately ran into a group of Veil Jumpers, who were struggling to subdue a malfunctioning artifact. Harding already knew two of them, Strife and Irelin. They directed the group to find a Jumper named Bellara, who had been gone too long on an excursion, to help with both the broken eluvian and the matter of the escaped gods.. Rook insisted Harding return with the Jumpers to their camp as she and Neve searched for their missing artifact hunter. The two mages delved into the woods and found Bellara, or more accurately she found them. A quick fight with a few forest sentinels introduced them, and after explanations she agreed to join their cause if they helped her find the ancient elven artifact she was searching for. Together they fought through hordes of darkspawn and demons as they climbed through the ruins they were trapped in. Rook was a streak of white and green across the field with her twin mageblades, Neve burst the enemy with her ice from a safer distance, and Bellara was a quick-shot like no other with her magically infinite arrows. They cleared their way to the center of the ruins and found Bellara’s treasure, the Nadas Dirthalen: an archive of ancient elven knowledge and history. When they returned to the Veil Jumper camp with artifact and artifact hunter in tow, Strife and Irelin bade them to check in on more lost Jumpers, at a small fishing village called D’metas Crossing. Harding had rejoined them, refusing to stay behind, and all four took a small dinghy down the river to the village. Well. They had found D’metas Crossing. They had found the missing Veil Jumpers. They had found the devastation of the blight, the village and it’s people completely obliterated. They had found the greedy mayor who sold out his people for petty gold, the sole survivor, and they left him to his fate. He would have done the same for any of them. Devastated and demoralized, they returned to the Jumper camp once more to relay the news, where they were ambushed by none other than Morrigan, Witch of The Wilds. She flew in in the shape of a great raven, transformed mid-air, and dropped herself into the discussion on what the team’s next steps should be. She instructed them to go look for Solas’ dagger at the ritual site. It was powerful, and would potentially be the key to defeating the gods they released. In the wake of everything, Bellara had officially decided to join the team. Determined to help to the best of her abilities, she left to go to the Lighthouse and to hopefully fix the eluvian, while Rook, Harding, and Neve finally returned to the ritual site. When they reached the place where the dagger Solas wielded had fallen, it wasn’t there. They followed the trail of the darkspawn that snatched it, fighting other darkspawn all the way. They confronted the ghoul, which had transformed from exposure to the lyrium dagger. When it was downed temporarily, poor Harding had snatched the knife up and made contact with the bare blade. She was changed, struck with a sudden magical connection to the stones around them. They continued the battle, fighting waves of darkspawn after darkspawn as all the while Harding’s new powers went haywire. When the lyrium ghoul and all the darkspawn were defeated, Rook, Neve, and Harding finally returned to the Veil Jumper camp well past the sunset. And to the Lighthouse, ritual dagger in hand, exhausted. The trio each took a private moment to collect themselves, before meeting again to discuss the day. Neve and Harding both went to their respective rooms, while Rook went to the infirmary to speak with Varric. She went over what they had discovered with him, and he confirmed that the dagger was formerly a solid corrupted red lyrium idol, and that Solas had somehow cleansed, carved, and enchanted it. At the end of their discussion, Varric passed the mantle of leadership onto Rook, telling her he couldn’t lead from a bed, and that he believed in her. With the weight of their future a yoke on her shoulders, Varric advised her to recruit more allies, that they were in over their heads. Rook nodded along solemnly, hollowly, and returned to the library where the others were waiting. * “Your new powers sound very similar to my own magic, Harding.” Rook blinks herself back to wakefulness and chimes in on the conversation. “Isatunoll, this song in the stone, seems to be a lot like how I feel my osteomancy. The bones almost sing to me, I feel the threads of life and un-life weaving in and out in the edges of my senses.” Harding rubs at the back of her neck with one hand, ducking her head nervously. “So... you don’t think it’s a bad thing?” “I think it must be scary to suddenly be connected with magic when no dwarf has before. Who knows what could happen?” Neve chimes in. Rook continues the thought, in sync with the other mage. “But the only way forward is through, and I think if you grew accustomed to the magic and learned how to use it, it could be a powerful tool in your arsenal. Just make sure to aim!” That earns a bashful chuckle from Harding, before Rook stands and stretches. With a yawn and a loud chorus of popping joints, Rook leaves the other two with a mumbled ‘g’night’ to finally check out her room and end the day. A room at the top of the stairs next to the infirmary had been cloaked in immovable vines until then, and her forgotten pack had mysteriously appeared in the mouth of the hallway when they had cleared. ‘ Hopefully the Lighthouse assigned me a good room’ she grimaces as she bends to scoop up her bag, before trudging the rest of the way down the hall to her door. She’s looking down after tripping over her own feet at the end of the corridor, when the door swings open before her. She looks up and sees only a wall of blue water. Suddenly she falls through, the cold cold water grows darker and darker as she is pulled further from the broken ice sheet above. The massive claws of the demon wrap tight around her waist and hold her in a burning death-grip, and the remnants of its white-hot rage boil the water around them as they sink. She kicks and punches and struggles against the monster, weaker and weaker as she looses her wits and her breath and her face hurts she can’t thinkshecan’tusehermagic MAX where’s Max, Max is- “Rook! Breathe! You’re safe, you’re alright.” Rook comes to, hyperventilating, pulled out of the doorway to her room and anchored securely by Harding’s strong arms. Neve holds a chilled hand to her sweaty forehead, pulling her back into the present. The door to the room is blessedly closed behind them, shuttering off the view of the aquarium wall. Rook does her best to take great shuddering gulps of air, as the sound of Bellara’s gauntlet and earrings jingling rapidly towards them signals her arrival. “I couldn’t find a drinking glass so I just grabbed my canteen! Oh! Rook, are you- here, can you drink some water? Are you- are you ok?” Bellara uncorks the canteen and presses it forwards, and Rook takes it in a shaking hand. “I’ve been better.” She croaks, before taking a few careful sips. “So, I take it water is... not your strong suit...” Neve murmurs as she pulls back her hand and Rook shakes her head in an emphatic ‘No’. “Ironic that the Lighthouse opened up that room for you, when the other rooms were perfect for each of us.” “Well, clearly you’re not staying in there.” Harding loosens her grip on Rook’s arms and starts to rub gently between her shoulder blades instead. “Good thing your bedroll is still attached to your pack.” A moment of slightly awkward silence passes as Rook considers her options and sips more water. Her hair is still stained pink in places from her head wound, her ears droop in clear exhaustion, and even the grave gold in her many piercings looks dull. Despite the abundant cots there, she doesn’t want to stay in the infirmary with Varric, he needs as much rest as possible. Besides, being in that room makes her bad eye ache oddly. The only other rooms the Lighthouse has opened up are already taken by the three women there beside her. “I’ll sleep in the library. I don’t mind any comings and goings.” “You could just sleep with me.” Harding pauses for a moment, before an adorable blush creeps up her neck. “I mean, you could sleep in my room. We’ve already been camping in close quarters for a year now, I don’t mind.” “Are you sure? I’d feel a little bad, since you’ve just gotten your own private space for the first time in a year.” Neve clambers back to standing from where she had knelt. “You say you don’t mind comings and goings Rook, but realistically we need to expand the team if we’re going to be hunting ‘ gods’ . You’re going to be a lot less happy sleeping in the library when there’s people walking through your room at every hour.” She brushes dust off of the knee of her pants, and checks the fit of her prosthetic leg casually as she continues. “Back in Minrathous, unless you’re very, very wealthy, you get used to living with all sorts of roommates. I wouldn’t mind sharing, so long as you wouldn’t mind the odd hours I tend to keep.” She finishes with a smirk. “I don’t mind either!” Bellara chimes in excitedly. “In fact, what if you took turns sleeping in everyone’s rooms, like a constant rotation of sleepover parties! You’d always have somewhere to land, and we’d all still have our own private spaces and times!” “That’s actually... That’s a really good solution, if everyone is alright with that.” Rook looks at the faces of the women around her as they nod their affirmations. “I’ve always slept better around others anyways. Alright, sleepover parties it is then, at least until we figure out something more permanent.” Myrna; Apologies for the delay in my writing you back. Things have changed, and I will not be returning home soon. Events have occurred in ways I could not have predicted, for the worse. Greatly for the worse. I will send you another more detailed letter when we have a clearer vision of how our mission will proceed from here on. As it is now I simply don’t have the words. Soon, Rook Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The Longsword drifted aimlessly through Halo’s debris field, engines powered off. Keyes sat in one of the flight chairs next to Chief, watching the Spartan shift uncomfortably. The seat was small and not made for his armored frame, but he made no complaint. “Is Six asleep?” Keyes asked, breaking the silence. Chief nodded slightly. “I told him to take a nap while we figure out a plan.” Chief gestured deeper inside the Longsword, where the younger Spartan was curled up against the wall, deeply unconscious. “He needed the rest.” Keyes nodded. The events on Halo had been exhausting enough, but the poor Spartan had hardly had a break since Reach. No wonder he was passed out on the floor. Even the Spartans needed rest sometimes, human as they were. As hard as that might be to remember sometimes… He took in the sight of the sleeping Spartan for a few more seconds, then turned his focus back to the task at hand: getting out of here. “Cortana, scan the debris field again.” Her holographic form flickered into existence, hands on her hips. “I already told you, there’s nothing out here except us. No transponder signals, no distress calls… only an echo from that moon.” “In case you haven’t noticed,” Chief began, his hands clenching in frustration, “this ship doesn’t have slipspace or cryo. If we can’t find something—” “That’s enough, Chief,” Keyes cut in, holding his pipe in one hand. He winced as the movement made his injured arm throb with pain– thanks to Six, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but it would need time to heal. He almost sighed. Time was something they didn’t exactly have. The Spartan huffed but settled back in his seat anyway, staring out the window at the debris field and clenching and unclenching his hands. He clearly wanted to be doing something other than sit here, and Keyes didn’t blame him. The fight on Halo, and the Flood… no wonder he was uneasy. “What do you suggest, Captain?” Chief asked, finally. Keyes sighed, holding his pipe to try to calm his nerves. “…I don’t know. Our first priority should be finding a way back to the UNSC. If we don’t do that, we’re as good as dead. Without cryo or slipspace…” “Hold on a moment,” Cortana said, holding up a hand. “What is it?” Chief tilted his head, turning to look at her again. “That signal echo’s getting stronger.” “So it isn’t an echo,” Keyes concluded, his grip on his pipe tightening. With that, the distinctive shape of a Covenant ship came into view, its sleek form emerging from the far side of the moon. Keyes swore, reaching for the control panel with his free hand. “Cortana, kill the power,” he said, his voice dropping to a strained whisper as he reached for the control panel. “Cut everything we don’t need.” Cortana’s hologram flickered as the lights and engines shut down, leaving their Longsword drifting aimlessly in space. But as Keyes stared out into the void at the Covenant ship, a plan began to take shape in his head. He sighed. He hadn’t planned on topping the Keyes Loop in terms of incredibly risky maneuvers, but… well, something about desperate times… “Chief. Cortana. I have a plan.” The Spartan lifted his head, pausing… and then he gave Keyes a brief nod. Good. Looks like they’re both on the same page. -X- Zuka ‘Zamamee’s Phantom descended into the atmosphere of Threshold, accompanied by the Monitor. Guilty Spark’s blue light cast an eerie glow on the spirals of ochre gas that made up most of the planet. It was not long before their target was in sight: a Forerunner gas mine, suspended in the swirling, constant storms that made up the planet. Once, ‘Zamamee would have hummed a battle hymn and felt his hearts well with the anticipation of exuberant glory at the mere sight of such a place, but now, only a bitter hatred settled in his belly. Once, he would have praised the divinity of the Forerunners. Now he knew better. The Monitor floated besides them, leading the Phantom towards the gas mine. Guilty Spark moved ahead of them, seeming to beckon them towards something– an opening at the side of the “There. Take us to that docking bay,” he said, leaning over the pilot’s shoulders. The Phantom steered downwards, buffeted by the spiraling gyre as it descended. The pilot, ‘Kalamee, wrenched the Phantom to the side, trying to maintain control in the howling vortex. Finally, the Phantom landed safely inside the docking bay, squeezing between the other vehicles in the small space to fit. A Sangheili approached, a respirator of some kind held between his mandibles. His eyes widened behind his amber goggles at the sight of the Monitor. “Glorious day!” He exclaimed, watching Guilty Spark hover in place. “The Prophets will be pleased that an Oracle survived the destruction of the Sacred Ring!” “You must not inform them,” ‘Zamamee said at once, stepping out of the Phantom. The new Sangheili paused, confused at the words. “Why would we keep this from them? The discovery of an Oracle is–” “You really must stop calling me an Oracle,” Guilty Spark hummed, his blue ‘eye’ pulsing with light. “And I’m afraid you are quite mistaken about the purpose of my Installation.” “...I do not understand.” His mandibles twitched around the respirator in his mouth. “What are you saying?” “Oh, my. Your species has grown quite compliant since the firing of the Array. Do you really all believe that the Forerunners are gods?” “...Oracle, are you saying… they are not gods?” ‘Zamamee stepped up, his eyes narrowed in impatience. “Yes, that is exactly what the Monitor is trying to tell you. The Prophets have deceived us all.” The new Sangheili’s mandibles twitched, stunned into silence for a moment, and then– “Communications, shut down all lines to the fleet. We will not notify the prophets of our discovery until I hear everything these newcomers have to say.” ‘Zamamee nodded in approval. “We will show you the depths of the Hierarchs’ treachery. I am called Zuka ‘Zamamee, and you?” The Sangheili paused for a moment before he spoke. “I am Sesa ‘Refumee. It is good to meet you, ‘Zamamee, though I wish it had under been more… favorable circumstances. We must talk, and quickly.” Guilty Spark hummed. “Of course, I will gladly share everything I am permitted! Now, we must hurry. There is much to discuss, and so little time.” ‘Refumee nodded. “I wish to hear everything.” -X- Six woke with a start, scrambling to grab a weapon as his whole body was jolted with the force of the impact. He grabbed Emile’s knife, on his feet in seconds as he scanned his surroundings– Chief and Keyes and three others standing, the Longsword crumbled at the bow where it had slammed into something purple and metallic. Chief set a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm down the startled soldier. “We’re boarding a Covenant flagship,” Chief said, “And we found a few survivors.” Six’s gaze flickered to the pilot, the ODST, the Sarge— Chief caught him before he could lunge at Johnson. “The Flood—” “He’s clear,” Chief said, carefully pressing Six back against the side of the Longsword. “I don’t know how, but he isn’t infected.” Six took a second, considering, before he slumped against the wall again. The events of Halo and the fall of Reach had left behind an exhaustion that seemed to seep into his bones, weighing him down and making his movements tired and sluggish. He grabbed his assault rifle and climbed to his feet, following after Chief as they exited the ruined Longsword. The launch bay was in ruin, and deserted except for three Covenant Engineers– Six had seen them before a few times on Reach. He reached out to pet one carefully on the head, but a voice from behind him stopped him. “Finally awake, B312?” Six whirled around to see who it was– he recognized the man immediately. “Haverson.” The Spartan tilted his head slightly. Lieutenant Elias Haverson was with ONI too. A little relief settled in his chest at the sight of a familiar face. “What are you doing here?” “I’m afraid that’s classified, Spartan.” Six huffed. Of course. “You know each other?” the ODST– Locklear– asked, giving them both suspicious glances. “...we’ve met,” Six said, and then refused to elaborate, checking the ammo left in his sidearm. Not enough. “Of course. Friggin’ ONI spooks… and one of ‘em’s even a Spartan… figures…” Sergeant Johnson moved to say something, but the Captain beat him to it. “Is there a problem, Corporal?” Keyes asked, taking a step forward as he gingerly crossed his arms. Locklear paused for a second, glancing between the Captain and Noble Six, before he deflated slightly. “No, sir.” “Good. I won’t tolerate infighting, and especially not while we’re onboard a Covenant ship. Now let’s move.” Locklear’s shoulders slumped slightly, but he mumbled out a “yes, sir” and stopped arguing. The air in the docking bay smelled like smoke and burnt metal and plasma, and Six grimaced at the taste of it in his mouth. His helmet obviously wasn’t sealed all the way, the cracks in his visor held together by tape and prayers insufficient to keep the armor’s atmosphere self-contained like it should be. “What’s the plan?” he asked Haverson as they began to move out, taking out any Covenant forces they encountered with lethal, silent efficiency. Haverson sighed. “We’re going to take the ship, if we can.” “No one’s ever–” he was interrupted by the sound of a door opening and the surprised voices of several Elites. He snapped his attention back to the fight at hand. Chief downed two Elites before either had a chance to draw their weapons. Six activated his stolen Active Camo and snuck behind one of the distracted Covenant warriors, plunging Emile’s knife into its neck before it knew he was there. It wasn’t long before the hallway was clear. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Johnson said with a grin. Six gave him a slight nod in agreement. “We should keep going,” Keyes said, taking another step forward. …it was not long before more Elites arrived. And by “not long”... it was about three seconds. Chief yanked the pilot– Polaski, Six thought her name was– out of the way as Six moved in front of Keyes, shielding the Captain from a plasma bolt. His HUD flashed with warning signs, but he ignored them, drawing his gun and taking out two of the lead Elites before his sidearm clicked– empty. Johnson shot the door controls to pieces just as a well-timed grenade landed in the midst of the Elites. The blast made a thump sound against the metal door, and then it fell silent. Polaski reloaded her pistol with shaking hands. “Maybe we shouldn’t go that way,” Keyes muttered, glancing at the door. Six would have to agree. Chief motioned them all towards a small hatch at the side of the hallway– a service corridor. Six recognized the design– he’d used a similar corridor as a makeshift base to keep himself hidden while he was aboard the Truth and Reconciliation. It was a tight fit– perfect for keeping the Elites out and his sanctuary undisturbed. This one was clearly used more frequently, though. He wondered why that would be– perhaps it was because there were Engineers aboard this ship. “Captain. Chief,” he said, trying to get Keyes or Chief’s attention, “sometimes there are data ports in corridors like these. If we plug Cortana into the ship’s computer, we might have an easier time.” Master Chief nodded, and for a second he was silent– likely communicating with Cortana. Then the AI’s voice came over his armor’s speakers: “Good thinking, Six. If we see a terminal– there.” Chief tilted his head slightly to indicate what she was talking about. There was a tiny opening on the side of the corridor wall, where he would be able to insert Cortana’s datachip. For a moment, Chief was silent– probably talking to Cortana– and then he slowly inserted her into the opening. Locklear looked like he was about to make a comment, but a stern look from Keyes stopped him before he could even open his mouth. “The bridge is this way,” Chief said. “Let’s keep moving.” -X- “...so Halo is… a weapon?” Sesa ‘Refumee asked, his mandibles agape in shock. It could not be… “Why, of course,” the Oracle responded. “My makers needed a weapon to combat the Flood, and my Installation was only one of many designed for that purpose. It is quite odd that anyone would believe otherwise.” Loka ‘Bandolee, Sesa’s second-in-command and trusted ally, clicked his mandibles together in distress. “This is… I cannot believe it. The Hierarchs lied to us…” Sesa was silent for a moment, thinking. His mandibles twitched silently. He, too, could not believe the depths of their betrayal. All they had fought for, all their ancestors had fought for… a lie? “We cannot keep this secret forever,” he said finally. “Our brothers who still believe the lies of the Hierarchs must be shown the truth.” ‘Zamamee’s gaze snapped to the other Sangheili. “You cannot be serious. The Hierarchs would have us all killed!” “We will all be killed regardless if the Prophets find another Sacred Ring.” The small group fell silent at that. It was true– if the Oracle was correct about the nature of Halo (and there was no reason to doubt such a creation of the Forerunners), then the Prophets’ lies could doom them all. “...what we say is heresy,” ‘Bandolee said finally, breaking the silence. “What does it matter? It is true.” Sesa ‘Refumme stood, the respirator in his mouth hissing softly as he breathed through it. “Oracle, tell me of the Flood. Tell me why the Forerunners thought it necessary to create such weapons.” ‘Zamamee and Yayap both shuddered. “Certainly!” the Oracle hummed cheerily, “the Flood is quite dangerous. It spreads virulently, assimilating organic matter into biomass so it can continue to grow. Nearly anything can be assimilated. Your kind in particular seems to make good hosts. Unchecked, the Flood can destroy entire species, which is why if any have escaped my Installation–” “The Flood and what we call the Parasite are one and the same,” ‘Zamamee interjected. “I… have seen it firsthand on Halo. It is… not to be trifled with.” Loka ‘Bandolee opened his mouth to protest, saw the look on ‘Zamamee’s face, and closed it again. ‘Refumee glanced at ‘Bandolee. “He is right. From what I have heard of the Parasite, it is a nearly unstoppable force. But that is not our concern now.” He turned towards the door separating their small, secret meeting from the rest of his forces. “They must be told the truth.” ‘Zamamee was silent for a second, listening to the ever-present storm outside. “...then we must prepare to defend this place. The Hierarchs will not stand to have their power challenged.” He shuddered to remember the fate of his superior, Soha ‘Rolamee, at the hands of ‘Refumee’s mandibles twitched in agreement as he glanced between ‘Zamamee and Guilty Spark. “Yes. You and your Sentinels will be of great help to us.” ‘Zamamee nodded. He would make the Hierarchs and their servants pay for their treachery. “As you wish. Come, Yayap! We will make preparations for an attack.” ‘Refumee watched the Sangheili and the Unggoy leave, before he turned to ‘Bandolee and the Oracle. “Loka, you must help them. I am not sure they know where they are going.” Loka flared his mandibles in something akin to a smile. “I am sure they don’t. Very well.” ‘Refumee moved his mandibles again in a gesture of agreement. “Oracle, with me. We will tell the others of the true nature of Halo.” “Gladly. I am relieved your species seems to finally be listening to me.” “On that, we are in agreement.” -X- Six sat still as the Engineer worked on his shields. He didn’t like the feeling of it behind him, where he couldn’t see– but the relief when his shields finally charged back to full was almost worth it. He petted the strange creature’s head with one hand when it finished, with something almost like a smile on his face behind his visor. Outside the ship, it was finally quiet– they had narrowly escaped their Covenant pursuers. Six didn’t know a slipspace jump in atmosphere was even possible, until now. That and the Engineers aboard the ship just made it that much more valuable to the UNSC. Just then, he heard footsteps coming down the hallway– Chief. Six looked up, scanning the other Spartan. He looked… not great, honestly, but did any of them at this point? His armor was damaged, probably breached, and his shields sputtered erratically and then died again. They’d been damaged during the fighting earlier, though exactly when, Six didn’t know. He wanted to take another nap. The Engineer tried to move behind the other Spartan. Chief stiffened and turned away. “What is it doing?” “It’s alright, son. It’s only going to repair your shields,” Keyes said, looking up from the control panel he was standing next to. Chief paused, but reluctantly allowed the Covenant alien to work on the generator at his back. Six drew Emile’s knife from its sheath and stared at it for a moment, taking in the reflection of his cracked visor on the blade. “What did I miss?” Chief asked finally. “We made a plan,” Haverson said, narrowing his eyes slightly at Cortana, “one that is compliant with all sections of the Cole Protocol.” The Spartan frowned inside his helmet. There was no need for whatever argument went on here while he was gone. “Tell me.” “We’re going back to Reach,” Six said quietly, not looking up. Chief stilled. Reach. His team might still be there, and if not– at least he would know for sure. Then he paused again. “But our mission–” “Was created when Reach was still an intact military presence, Chief,” Cortana said. “We aren’t giving up, but… we have to get back to friendly territory first. Look at your team. We’re running on empty.” Chief sighed. She was right, he knew. He wasn’t sure anyone, including himself, would survive another battle like Halo without rest. Still… “What's our ETA?” “Thirteen hours,” the AI responded. “Covenant slipspace drives are significantly faster than ours.” Thirteen hours until they returned to Reach. Chief nodded, shivering slightly as the Engineer finished its work and static washed over his body. His shields flickered back to life– a relief after not having them for a while. His gaze swept over the other soldiers as he prepared to settle in for the long wait. But then– Sergeant Johnson’s voice came over the radio in a burst of static. “Captain, Chief, you’ve got to get down to the Longsword ASAP.” “Are you under fire?” Chief asked, already reaching for a weapon. “Negative. It’s one of the cryotubes you recovered from the Autumn– there’s a Spartan in it.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Sarutobi Asuma had lived a life that many envied. The son of the Third Hokage. Genin at nine. Chūnin at twelve. Jōnin at sixteen. One hundred and fifty A-rank missions completed. Eighteen S-rank missions successful. It was a glittering résumé, enough to command awe and respect from anyone. Yet, none of it mattered when your father was the Professor, Hiruzen Sarutobi —the legend of Konoha. And so, despite his accolades, despite his achievements, Asuma left the village five years after the Kyūbi attack. The reason? A petty argument. His father had chosen his older brother to be the head of the Sarutobi clan. That decision, that one slight , had been the final straw in a string of frustrations. Without so much as a backward glance, Asuma stormed out of Konoha to join the Twelve Guardian Ninja, the elite bodyguards of the Fire Daimyō. Life outside the village had brought him fame and hardship in equal measure. It was thrilling. Grueling. Dangerous. He was recognized, feared, respected. His bounty on the black market soared to thirty-five million ryō—a price tag he considered a badge of honor. But the glory came at a cost. When ten of the Twelve Guardians were killed in a single assassination attempt, Asuma was left standing amidst the aftermath, wondering what the hell he was doing. When the time came to select the new leader of the Guardians, he was the obvious choice. But he turned it down. What good was all the fame, all the danger, all the riches, if he couldn't enjoy any of it? And so, after years away, he returned to Konoha. Coming back wasn't what Asuma had imagined. He expected warmth, camaraderie, maybe a drink or two with old friends. Instead, he got the cold shoulder. Shinobi whispered behind his back. Others avoided him altogether. Why wouldn't they? He had left without a word, abandoning his responsibilities, his family, his friends. The world hadn't stopped turning just because Asuma needed to find himself. The first meeting with his father had been the worst. Hiruzen greeted him stiffly in the Hokage's office, his expression unreadable beneath the lines of age. Asuma shifted awkwardly on his feet, suddenly feeling like a boy again. "I see you've bought your own apartment," his father said finally, his tone neutral. Asuma scratched the back of his head. "Yeah… I didn't want to, uh, burden the clan's staff." "Whatever you say, Asuma." The words stung. Years ago, Hiruzen had been so overprotective after Asuma's mother died during the Kyūbi attack that he wouldn't even let his sons move out of the compound. That suffocating care had been one of the many reasons for their falling out. Yet now, the Third Hokage was suddenly indifferent. The conversation ended with Hiruzen extending an invitation. "Are you free this evening? Your nephew would love to meet you." A family dinner? Asuma forced a grin. "Sorry, I can't. I've got plans tonight." It was a lie. There was no party, no friends waiting for him, no drinks to share. He spent that night alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling as the hard truth settled over him. Konoha had moved on. The months that followed were no easier. Asuma tried to adapt to his new reality, taking on solo jōnin missions, but it all felt meaningless . He was good— damn good —but what was the point of being one of Konoha's strongest if there was no one to share it with? Desperate for connection, he reached out to his old teammates, Raido and Kurenai. Raido was polite but distant. They had never been close, and that hadn't changed. Kurenai, though… Kurenai was different. She had always been different. Asuma had nursed a quiet crush on her for years, one that had lingered even during his time away. She was sharp, confident, and beautiful—everything he admired in a kunoichi. He had hoped, prayed , that she might not have moved on. That she might still see him as he once was. But when he saw her again, it wasn't the reunion he had envisioned. It happened a month later in the Hokage Tower, where Hiruzen was announcing her promotion to jōnin. She stood at the center of the room, radiant and surrounded by friends. They laughed, congratulated her, celebrated her achievement. Asuma watched from the sidelines, his mouth dry, unable to find the words to approach her. He left without saying a word. The next day, Asuma decided enough was enough. He wasn't a ladies' man by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, his rugged looks and solid build had earned him attention during his years with the Guardians, but that was different. Those were fleeting, meaningless encounters. What he wanted now was substance —a real connection. And he was determined to find it with Kurenai. Asuma prepped himself like a shinobi preparing for a mission. First, he ditched the cigarette and bought the strongest breath mints he could find. He was not about to approach Kurenai reeking of smoke. Second, he spruced himself up. He trimmed his beard, slicked back his hair, and even splashed on some cologne—not too much, just enough to leave a subtle, confident impression. Lastly, he rehearsed what he was going to say. He didn't want to come off as desperate, but he also didn't want to be too casual. He needed the perfect balance. With everything set, he marched into the jōnin lounge, his chest puffed out, his shoulders broad, his gait steady. He looked like a man on a mission. And in many ways, he was. The lounge was mostly empty now, quiet except for the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glass. Asuma approached Kurenai, his steps steady—though his heart wasn't. "Hey, Red Eyes," he said casually. "Did you unlock your Sharingan yet?" The same joke. The same line he'd used when they were fresh-faced genin so many years ago. Kurenai looked up, startled, her crimson eyes widening slightly. "Asuma … you're back?" The surprise in her voice stung more than Asuma cared to admit. He forced a smile, ignoring the twinge of bitterness that crept in. Guess no one told her, he thought grimly. Of course, they didn't. I'm the outcast now, right? The guy who abandoned the village to go 'find himself.' Why would anyone bother telling her I came back? But he pushed those thoughts aside. " Of course, I'm back," he said. "And this time, I'm here to stay." "Why?" Asuma paused, the bluntness of the question catching him off guard. Don't tell me… he thought, his stomach sinking. She's giving me the cold shoulder too. He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Well, this is my home, right?" Kurenai looked away, her expression unreadable. Asuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, then forced himself to push forward. "Look," he began, "let me make it up to you. A drink? Maybe some food? Let's catch up. I've been dying to know why you became a genjutsu specialist, of all things." Kurenai hesitated, her polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. "I don't know, Asuma. I'm really busy right now, preparing for this year's genin graduation…" Her words were polite, but the tone behind them was distant. Asuma felt the rejection like a punch to the gut. He masked it well, though—years of dealing with nobles in the Daimyō's court had taught him how to keep his face calm, even when he felt like crumbling inside. "Well," he said after a beat, "why don't we discuss it together? I was actually thinking about becoming a jōnin instructor myself." That was a lie. Asuma couldn't picture himself teaching a team of green, hyperactive genin. He was a man who loved his lazy afternoons, a simple life with the occasional mission to keep things interesting. The thought of wrangling three brats day in and day out was enough to make him want to light another cigarette right then and there. But he couldn't say that. Not now. Kurenai tilted her head slightly, her gaze unreadable as she studied him. "What were you saying about a drink?" Asuma's heart jumped, but he kept his cool, only allowing the corners of his mouth to lift into a small smile. "Let's go," he said. The Fire Bop Club was alive with noise and energy. It was one of the most popular bars in Konoha, known for its wide selection of drinks from across the Elemental Nations. Shinobi and civilians mingled, their laughter and conversations mixing with the soft hum of music in the background. Asuma led Kurenai to a quieter corner, ordering a couple of light drinks as they began to talk. They caught up on what they had been doing over the past seven years, trading stories about missions and experiences. For a while, Asuma let himself believe that things might finally be normal again. But halfway through the evening, some of Kurenai's friends called her over to join them at another table. She gave him an apologetic smile before leaving, disappearing into a crowd that seemed to welcome her like family. Asuma stayed behind, nursing his drink. He glanced over at her occasionally, watching as her laughter lit up the room, her smile easy and genuine as she spoke with her friends. And in that moment, it hit him. He didn't belong here. He had left Konoha to find himself, and now that he was back, there was no place for him. Not with his father, not with his colleagues, not even with Kurenai. He paid the tab quietly and slipped out of the bar without saying goodbye. Asuma wandered through the streets of Konoha aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The quiet hum of the village at night was both comforting and isolating—a sharp reminder of how much he'd missed and how much had changed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when he heard a familiar voice. "Asuma?" He looked up and froze. Standing before him was a woman holding a bag of groceries. "Long time no see, huh?" It was his sister-in-law, Sarutobi Akari. Akari was striking in a quiet way, her features sharp but elegant. She wore a simple navy yukata, her jōnin vest folded over her arm, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to reveal the faint scars of an experienced shinobi. Her sharp brown eyes softened slightly as she looked at him. "Maybe it would've been sooner if you bothered to come," she said, her tone teasing but not unkind. "I didn't know how to approach my brother after what I said," Asuma admitted. There was no point in lying—Akari was an elite jōnin, an ANBU member no less. She'd see through him in a heartbeat. Akari's gaze didn't waver. "Take the first step, Asuma," she said simply. "You might be surprised what happens next." Before Asuma could respond, a loud, excited voice interrupted them. "Mom, look what I found!" Asuma turned to see a young boy running toward them, cradling a small, squirming cat in his arms. "Konohamaru," Akari said with a sigh, "what did I tell you about picking up random animals?" The boy pouted. "That I can't because they belong in the wild." "Exactly," Akari said, taking the cat from his arms and setting it down gently. "Now, let's go home. Dinner's waiting." Konohamaru's face lit up. "Can I help you make the food, Mom?" Asuma watched the scene unfold, a small smile tugging at his lips. It didn't take him long to piece it together—the boy, with his messy hair and bright, eager eyes, could only be his nephew. "Hello there, little guy," Asuma said, crouching slightly to meet Konohamaru's gaze. "Who are you, suspiciously bearded man?" Asuma sweatdropped at those adjectives, taking a deep breath before exhaling. A small flame serpent formed in the air between them, curling and twisting like a living thing. It was a trick he had picked up in the Fire Daimyō's court, and it worked like a charm. "Whoa! That's so cool!" Akari chuckled. "Would you like to join us for dinner, Asuma?" He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "If you don't mind me intruding." "Of course not," Akari said, turning to Konohamaru. "What do you think, Konohamaru?" "This dinner is gonna be awesome!" the boy exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "We've got everyone in the family coming!" Dinner was nothing short of amazing. Asuma couldn't remember the last time he'd sat at a family table like this, with the comforting clatter of dishes, the smell of home-cooked food, and the warmth of shared company. His sister-in-law, Akari, was an exceptional cook, and her efforts hadn't gone unnoticed. To his left, Akari was trying—unsuccessfully—to make Konohamaru eat his vegetables. The six-year-old had puffed up his cheeks in defiance, claiming he was "too full" after his third serving of rice. Across from him, Hiruzen sat at the head of the table, unusually relaxed, a faint smile on his lips as he sipped his tea. But it was the man seated at the other end of the table that caught Asuma's attention. Sarutobi Hikaru. His older brother was a man who carried himself with quiet authority. His features were sharp but refined, with the same intelligent eyes their father had, though his gaze often held an edge of sternness. His dark brown hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, and his beard was trimmed with precision. Unlike Asuma's rugged, laid-back appearance, Hikaru had the polished look of a man who commanded respect wherever he went. Hikaru's demeanor had always been calm, measured—a man of logic and control. But as their gazes met across the table, there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You really are something else, Asuma," Hikaru said, setting down his chopsticks. "Thanks," Asuma replied, though his voice was tinged with surprise. For years, he had assumed Hikaru hated him—resented him, even—for the way he had stormed out of Konoha, for the angry words they had exchanged before he left. Back then, Asuma had shouted, accused Hikaru of stealing the title of clan head that he had deserved. He expected hostility now, not… this. "Did hanging out with nobles make you dense or something? You've been running from everything your whole life." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Oh, don't give me that look," Hikaru said, firm. "You ran from home. You ran from your responsibilities here. Then you ran from the Fire Guardians when things got tough. What's next?" Asuma's hand curled into a fist under the table, his anger simmering just below the surface. "I came back, didn't I? Shouldn't you be glad that I'm alive?" The tension in the room rose sharply, the air heavy with unspoken words. Asuma's chakra flared slightly, a subtle warning of the frustration building within him. Hikaru's chakra spiked in response, his own irritation evident. Before things could escalate further, Hiruzen's presence filled the room, his chakra washing over both of them like an iron grip. The sheer weight of it forced both brothers to still, their tempers immediately quelled. "Enough," Hiruzen said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Akari, take Konohamaru to bed." "Yes, Father," Akari replied without hesitation. Asuma turned to see that she had already placed Konohamaru in a light genjutsu, the boy fast asleep in her arms. She gave both brothers a sharp look before leaving the room, her presence lingering like a reprimand. The silence that followed was deafening. Hiruzen coughed lightly, breaking the tension. "Now then, you two. Stop acting like children and talk it out properly." Both Asuma and Hikaru opened their mouths to protest, but Hiruzen's glare silenced them instantly. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a small shōgi board, setting it on the table between them. "You will play one round," Hiruzen said. "One round, and as you play, you will talk. No interruptions, no yelling. Understood?" "You want us to settle this with shōgi?" "Correct. Asuma will play black, so he moves first." Asuma sighed but leaned forward, picking up his first piece. "What's your problem with me?" Hikaru mirrored his movement, placing his own piece. "My problem is that you think you can just stroll back into Konoha and act like nothing's happened." Asuma's jaw tightened. He moved another piece. "Don't you think I know that? Every damn day since I came back, people have been treating me like I'm a traitor. So excuse me for trying to see the good side of things instead of just running away again." Hikaru's expression didn't soften. "Then why didn't you come back sooner? Why did it take you so long to even visit your family?" Asuma froze for a moment, his fingers hovering over the next piece. Because I didn't see the point. "I said a lot of things before I left… and I didn't think I could take them back. I'm sorry for that." "Doesn't matter. The past is the past." Hikaru paused, his fingers lightly tapping his piece before he moved it. "I kept up with your exploits as a Fire Guardian, you know. You had everything you wanted there—fame, money, power. So why come back?" "Because none of it meant anything. I got older. I got closer to death. And I realized something: what's the point of having everything if there's no one to share it with?" At that, the game slowed, both brothers holding their pieces but not placing them. "And yet you came back to Konoha, knowing people wouldn't welcome you. Knowing how they'd see you. Why?" Asuma gave him a lopsided smile, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. "What, were you hoping I'd just stay gone?" "You idiot," Hikaru said. "I'm worried about you. Konoha is built on the Will of Fire—on loyalty, on honoring it. You dishonored that by leaving. People won't forgive you easily." Asuma exhaled a stream of smoke, his grin widening. "Good. That just means I've got a new hurdle to overcome." "Well said, Asuma. I know you're strong enough to handle it." Hikaru shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "So, what's next? What's your plan now?" "I'm thinking about becoming a jōnin instructor." For the first time that night, Hikaru laughed, shaking his head. "You? A teacher? Those kids don't know what they're in for." "We'll see," Asuma said with a smirk. "I might surprise you." And for the first time in years, the Sarutobi brothers shared a moment of understanding. A few months after settling back in Konoha, life had started to feel… lighter for Asuma. He made a point of visiting his family on weekends, often babysitting Konohamaru when Akari and Hikaru were busy with clan duties or ANBU missions. The little brat had grown on him fast, especially with his endless energy and unfiltered honesty. It was nice— really nice—to feel like he was a part of the Sarutobi household again. Meanwhile, his reputation in the village had begun to recover. Successful missions stacked up under his belt, and slowly but surely, people were beginning to look at him with less suspicion. But there was one problem he hadn't quite solved yet: Kurenai. To catch Kurenai's attention, Asuma finally committed to the idea of becoming a jōnin instructor. And luck, it seemed, was on his side—he was assigned the Ino-Shika-Chō trio of the current generation. Three clan heirs. Three shinobi who had been raised since birth to work as a team. Three kids whose families had likely prepped them so thoroughly that Asuma could afford to take it easy as their instructor. An easy life as a jōnin instructor. That was the plan. Of course, he quickly learned that while Shikamaru was the laziest brat he'd ever met and Chōji was sweet and harmless, Ino was… spirited , to put it mildly. Managing her relentless energy and constant nitpicking of her teammates wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. Still, the trio grew on him. He found himself genuinely enjoying their sessions, even if he wouldn't admit it outright. A few days after the academy's graduation exams, Asuma found himself walking back to his apartment after another mind-numbing D-rank mission. Escorting an old man with a cart of cabbages hadn't exactly been thrilling, but he wasn't in the mood for anything too taxing today. The evening was quiet, the streets painted in warm orange hues as the sun dipped below the horizon. He was halfway to his place when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye. Kakashi Hatake was leaning against the railing of a nearby staircase, engrossed in his infamous orange book. Asuma did a double take. It wasn't every day you casually ran into one of Konoha's strongest shinobi. "Good to see you again, Kakashi." Kakashi didn't look up from his book. Instead, he gave a slight nod, his eye crinkling in what could have been a smile. "Want to come in?" "Well," Kakashi drawled, finally closing his book with a snap, "I do have something we could discuss over something to drink." "Come on, then. I've got some coffee the Fire Daimyō gave me." "Didn't know you liked coffee." "I don't," Asuma replied. "But when the Fire Daimyō gives you a gift, you take it. No questions asked." Asuma's apartment was simple yet comfortable, reflecting the quiet, no-frills lifestyle he had adopted since his return. Traditional tatami mats covered the floors, and the furniture was minimal—a low wooden table with cushions for seating, a few shelves lined with books and small trinkets from his travels, and a kotatsu in the corner for colder nights. The walls were adorned with subtle touches of Sarutobi clan heritage: a framed calligraphy scroll bearing the kanji for Will of Fire and a few weapons hung neatly on display. Asuma set about preparing the coffee, the rich aroma filling the air as Kakashi took a seat on one of the cushions. "So," Kakashi began, "how's life as a jōnin instructor treating you?" "Easier than I thought," Asuma replied, pouring the coffee into two cups. "What about you? I heard you finally passed a team." "They're doing well. I think they're shaping up to be a great team." Asuma handed Kakashi a cup. "Not that I mind you dropping by, but you and I were never exactly close. So, what's this about?" Kakashi let out a mock sigh, slumping back dramatically. "I thought we were as close as two peas in a pod." "Right," Asuma deadpanned. "You're really selling it with that smut book of yours." Kakashi chuckled, clearly having fun. "Fine, fine. You caught me. I need a favor." "What kind of favor?" "I want you to train my student in Wind Style." "You want me to train one of your brats in elemental manipulation? Why? You've got more jutsu in your arsenal than anyone I know." "Wind Style isn't the issue that I'm facing. It's something more unique—something your team can help me with." "My team?" Kakashi nodded. "The student I'm talking about is Naruto Uzumaki." That gave Asuma pause. The name hit him like a stone dropping into a still pond, the ripples of understanding spreading quickly. "…Oh," he murmured after a moment, the pieces clicking together in his mind. "This is about building trust, isn't it? You want the Jinchūriki to have more friends in Konoha." Tenten. That's why Kakashi involved her in Naruto's kenjutsu training. He could've taught Naruto himself. The basics of kenjutsu, wind-style techniques—none of it would have been difficult for him to pass on. But that wasn't the priority. Not now. This came directly from the Hokage. Naruto is losing faith. The words rang in his mind, heavy with an urgency he couldn't ignore. Naruto, the loud, stubborn boy who once declared to the world that he'd be Hokage, was losing that fire. His ambition, his dreams—they were fading. The Will of Fire, the very thing that held this village together, no longer resonated with him. And that was dangerous. If Naruto didn't feel tied to Konoha—if he didn't have genuine bonds of friendship, of loyalty—the consequences were unthinkable. He wouldn't just be another lost child. He was Konoha's Jinchūriki. He carried an untapped power that no one fully understood, and if he ever turned against the village… Kakashi clenched his jaw. I won't let that happen. He wouldn't fail him. He wouldn't fail Minato-sensei or Kushina-san. If he ever met them in the afterlife, he wanted to be able to look them in the eyes and tell them their son had people who stood by him—not because they were told to, but because they wanted to. That's why he chose Tenten. Yūgao would have been an excellent instructor. A skilled kenjutsu master, experienced and disciplined. But that wasn't what Naruto needed. He didn't need another teacher keeping him at arm's length, another shinobi fulfilling a duty. He needed real allies. People his own age. People who would fight with him, laugh with him, challenge him, and trust him. Pretending wasn't enough. Kakashi knew better than anyone how much genuine bonds mattered. He knew what it meant to lose them. He wouldn't let Naruto walk that same path. He exhaled softly, his resolve hardening. He would make sure Naruto had those bonds. No matter what it takes. Asuma let out a long sigh, leaning back against the wall as he mulled over the situation. "I don't know…" he admitted finally. "Maybe we should start with something simpler, like joint training exercises between our teams. That way, he gets the interaction without too much pressure." "That's not a bad idea," Kakashi acknowledged. "But that's just the other extreme—too much social pressure too quickly. Inoichi suggested that we ease him into the social environment. Give him time to gain allies naturally, without forcing it." The words clicked in Asuma's mind immediately. Inoichi? A social environment? That combination of words alone told him just how delicate the situation was. "What is this really about, Kakashi?" Asuma asked. "Is the Jinchūriki compromised?" Kakashi's expression didn't change, but the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. "We have evidence to believe so. Will you do it?" Asuma sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping for an easy jōnin instructor life." "Don't worry. I'm passing on the headache that is Naruto Uzumaki to you." Asuma exhaled heavily, glancing down at his cup of coffee. He swirled the dark liquid thoughtfully before taking another sip. It was rich, bold, and unexpectedly good. Maybe he should start drinking more coffee. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Shikamaru blinked, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Okay, more tired than usual. He stretched his arms lazily, staring down at the shogi board in front of him. His mind wasn't on the game, though. It kept replaying his graduation day, over and over, trying to piece together something he couldn't quite pin down. Naruto acting… not like Naruto. "Checkmate," came his father's calm voice, dragging Shikamaru back to reality. "Your game today was a mess," Shikaku said bluntly, his sharp gaze making Shikamaru feel like he was under a microscope. Shikamaru yawned and scratched the back of his head. "Troublesome," he muttered, already preparing to dismiss the conversation. Shikaku Nara, ever the epitome of calm, watched him with an unreadable expression. His spiky ponytail and goatee made him look deceptively laid-back, but the scars on the side of his face hinted at the experience of a man who had seen far too much. His dark eyes, however, were sharp as ever. "A Nara with an interest is a dangerous thing." Shikamaru stiffened slightly. Of course, his dad would pick up on his distracted state. The man was too damn perceptive for his own good. "Not thinking about anything important," Shikamaru mumbled, trying to play it off, even though his brain was screaming at him about Naruto's strange behavior. Should he bring it up? It might be a mistake. Shikaku wasn't just his dad—he was the head of the Jōnin Council. If Shikamaru said something even remotely suspicious, it could turn into a village-wide headache. Did he really want to invite that kind of trouble? ...Nah. Too much effort. "You look like you're about to fall asleep," Shikaku said, narrowing his eyes. "Try not to think too much about it. Overthinking—it's not the Nara way." "Oh no," came a stern voice from behind. "He should think about it." Shikamaru sighed inwardly. His mother, Yoshino Nara, stepped into the room holding a tray of green tea and cups. Her sharp gaze landed on her son, and Shikamaru immediately felt like he was five years old again and being scolded for not cleaning his room. She set the tray down with precision, her long brown hair tied neatly in a ponytail, strands framing her serious expression. "What are you talking about, woman?" "You know exactly what I mean," Yoshino shot back, hands on her hips. "You think it's a girl, don't you?" "Of course, it's a girl!" Yoshino said with absolute certainty. "Why else would our lazy son look so troubled? It's either a girl, or the apocalypse is coming." Shikaku smirked. "Makes sense. I mean, I was young once too. And you did occupy my mind for a while back then." Yoshino blushed, a rare moment of softness crossing her stern face. "I was the beauty that stayed in the mind of the great Shikaku Nara," she said, smiling faintly. Shikamaru rolled his eyes. Here it comes… "More like a pain in my butt," Shikaku added dryly, sipping his tea. "What did you just say, you bastard !?" Yoshino shouted, slamming her hands on the table. Shikamaru sighed, standing up slowly. "Don't you dare walk out while I'm yelling at your father, young man!" "I'm just getting some air," Shikamaru said lazily, waving a hand behind him. Yoshino huffed but softened. "Well, if you need any advice about the girl on your mind, you know you can always come to your mom." Shikamaru froze in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. "It's not a girl, Mom." "Of course it's a girl," Yoshino said, ignoring him completely. "Just bring her home sometime, alright? I'll make dinner—something impressive. You know, gotta show your future wife we're a good family." Shikamaru's groan deepened, and he quickly stepped outside, letting the door close behind him. It's not a girl, it's Naruto. Behind him, his parents' voices drifted out, loud and clear through the walls. "You're impossible, Shikaku!" "And yet, here we are, happily married!" "Happily? You—" Shikamaru sighed heavily, picking up his pace. "Yeah, definitely worse. One headache is enough." Shikamaru arrived at Training Ground 10, the perfect place for an afternoon nap. The lush green field was surrounded by towering trees whose leaves rustled gently in the breeze. At the center of the field stood a small pavilion. Its curved, tiled roof rose in graceful tiers, supported by weathered wooden beams painted a deep vermilion. The stone floor was smooth and cool, with long benches and a central table that seemed perfect for quiet reflection—or, in Shikamaru's case, uninterrupted naps. Shikamaru stretched out, resting his head on the table. The cool stone against his cheek was soothing, and he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into half-consciousness. The faint hum of nature filled the air—birds chirping, wind in the trees. It was peaceful, almost perfect. Then he heard it. A deep rumbling sound in the distance. He lazily opened one eye, too relaxed to react fully. Turning his head just enough to see, he caught sight of something rolling toward him—fast. It was a massive sphere, tearing through the field like an oversized boulder. Shikamaru blinked, unfazed, as the ball came to a screeching halt and exploded in a puff of white smoke. When the dust cleared, there stood Chōji, holding a bag of beef jerky in one hand and grinning triumphantly. Chōji Akimichi looked bigger than ever—mostly in his weight. His friend's face was rounder, and his limbs carried a noticeable layer of fat. Shikamaru didn't comment, of course. He valued his life too much for that. "How's training going?" "Look at the gains!" Chōji said, flexing his arm proudly. Beneath the soft layers of fat, there was muscle, but it was buried deep. Shikamaru didn't comment, though. He knew this was all part of the Akimichi's unique jutsu—turning stored calories into raw chakra power. It wasn't hard to figure out why Chōji had been training so hard, either. Naruto. Naruto's killer intent had left an impression on Chōji—and had lit a fire under the boy, pushing him to bulk up as quickly as possible. In just four days, he'd gained almost twenty kilograms. "You're going to be rolling everywhere soon if you keep this up." Chōji grinned, unbothered. "That's the point." Before Shikamaru could reply, another voice broke through the calm. "Fashionably late, as always." Ino Yamanaka strutted into the training ground, holding a small bag of leftovers. She tossed the bag to Chōji, who caught it easily and immediately began digging through it. Ino's presence was as bright as ever, though Shikamaru had noticed some changes in her recently. She was more serious than she used to be, ditching her Sasuke-obsessed antics in favor of focusing on her Yamanaka clan techniques. But despite her progress as a shinobi, she still carried herself with the same confidence that had defined her since childhood. "You bring snacks for him and nothing for me?" "You don't need it. Besides, you'd just complain that it's too much work to eat." Chōji chuckled through a mouthful of food, and Shikamaru rolled his eyes. The three of them fell into their usual rhythm—Shikamaru lounging on the bench, Chōji munching away, and Ino sitting cross-legged on the grass, soaking up the sun. The calm didn't last long, though. A swirl of leaves caught their attention as Asuma Sarutobi appeared in the center of the training ground, his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. Asuma was the picture of laid-back authority. His spiky black hair and scruffy beard gave him a rugged look, and the rolled-up sleeves of his jōnin vest added to his relaxed demeanor. But the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his true nature—this was a man who didn't miss much. "Sensei," Ino said, stretching her arms dramatically. "What boring mission do you have for us today?" Asuma exhaled a puff of smoke, smiling faintly. "No mission today. A friend of mine asked me to do him a favor. We're going to help one of his students with elemental jutsu training." Ino perked up immediately. "Oh! Are we going to meet one of our senpai? Is he handsome?" "Not exactly. It's one of your classmates." The trio exchanged confused glances. "Sensei," Ino began, "elemental jutsu training doesn't usually start until at least a year after graduation. It's only been four days." "That's Kakashi's choice. I'm just here to help out. Besides, I get to cash in a favor." "Kakashi? As in the Kakashi? Team 7's sensei?" Shikamaru asked, sitting up slightly. "Yeah," Asuma replied, taking another drag of his cigarette. Ino clapped her hands, grinning. "It's gotta be Sasuke-kun! We're going to train with Sasuke-kun!" She practically squealed with excitement. Before Asuma could respond, another swirl of leaves announced the arrival of Kakashi. But it wasn't Sasuke standing beside him. It was Naruto. The air changed instantly. Shikamaru stiffened, his mind snapping to attention. Ino froze mid-smile, her face falling as she instinctively moved closer to Chōji. But it was Chōji's reaction that caught Asuma's attention. Chōji, who usually wouldn't hurt a fly unless he absolutely had to, clenched his fists. His fingers trembled halfway through the motion before stopping altogether, his body paralyzed by a fear so primal it was as if he were staring down a demon. "Are you three okay?" Asuma asked, his tone sharp. This reaction was… unnatural. Ino snapped out of it first, rushing to Chōji's side. She grabbed his arm, whispering to him urgently, trying to pull him back. Shikamaru stayed rooted in place, gripping the edge of the stone table so hard his knuckles turned white. Asuma watched his students leave, slightly concerned, before turning his attention back to Kakashi and the blond genin beside him. "Asuma, is everything alright with your team?" "I think so. Maybe it's because you arrived early," Asuma joked, subtly telling Kakashi that he'd handle it. "I am a clone," Kakashi replied, subtly telling Asuma that he was, in fact, a clone. "Of course you are," Asuma said, turning his attention to Naruto. "So, you must be Naruto Uzumaki. Heard a lot about you from your sensei. The name's Asuma." "Nice to meet you, bearded man." Asuma sweatdropped. "Bearded man?" "Yeah," Naruto said with a shrug. "You've got a beard. What else am I supposed to call you?" "How about Asuma-sensei?" "Nah, you have to teach me something first before I call you sensei. Otherwise, you're just a bearded guy." "I'm not sure that's much better," Asuma muttered under his breath. "I'll leave you to it," Kakashi said before disappearing in a puff of smoke. "Alright, kid. What do you know about wind chakra?" Naruto immediately perked up. "It's one of the five chakra natures, and I have it. So, what jutsu are you gonna teach me?" "Hold your horses. Before we jump into jutsu, you need to learn how to use your chakra nature first. Otherwise, it's like trying to swing a sword without knowing how to sharpen it." "Alright, so what's the first step?" Asuma pulled out his cigarette, holding it loosely between his fingers. "Let me show you something." He filled his fingertip with normal chakra and flicked the cigarette. The lit end exploded, scattering ash and tobacco everywhere. "That's what happens when I use regular chakra," Asuma said. He pulled out another cigarette and flicked it again—this time, using wind chakra. The result was precise and clean. The cigarette's lit end was sliced clean off, leaving the bud with a perfectly sharp edge. "Whoa, you sharpened your chakra?" "Not exactly," Asuma said. "What I did was change my chakra into wind nature. Wind chakra is sharp and precise—meant for cutting. From the look in your eyes, I think you're getting the point." Naruto nodded slowly. "So… I need to learn how to change my chakra before I even think about learning a jutsu?" "Exactly," Asuma said with an approving nod. "Any questions?" Naruto scratched his head. "Yeah. What happens if I try to learn a wind jutsu before I figure out how to change my chakra?" In response, Asuma reached into his pouch and pulled out a pair of trench knives. "These are made from chakra metal," he explained, holding the blades up for Naruto to see. "They're designed to absorb and amplify the user's chakra. Here, give it a shot." [ Item: Custom Trench Knife ] [ Weapon Type: Dagger ] [ Attack Type: Magic ] [ Description: A weapon created using a special iron sand only found in the deserts of the Land of Wind. A very expensive weapon that excels in mid- and short-range combat . ] Naruto raised an eyebrow at the Attack Type line in the system's description. Magic ? Remembering Asuma's words, he quickly concluded that the system was lumping chakra into the same category as magic. His mind started racing. Could he channel his pyromancy or divine energy into the knives? That'd be insane. His excitement, however, was quickly dampened as he remembered the chakra paper incident—the unsettling moment when his pyromancy flame turned the paper into something… unnatural. I don't think I wanna see what happens if I use the pyromancy flame on a weapon. Last thing I need is a demonic knife in my hand. He shuddered at the thought. That would probably ruin the knife too. "Say," Naruto asked, holding up one of the trench knives, "how expensive are these, anyway?" "About 10 million ryo each," Asuma said casually, as if he were talking about the weather. Naruto froze, his mind blank for a second as the weight of that number hit him. "WHAT?!" he finally shouted. "You're loaded, bearded man!" "Not rich, kid," Asuma said, smirking. "Just lived long enough to save up and invest in the right gear." Naruto hummed in thought, watching as Asuma channeled his chakra into the knife. The blade began to glow with a sharp, steady light, the edges shimmering faintly with power. Naruto attempted the same, focusing his chakra into the knife. The metal started to glow faintly, but the light flickered erratically, wobbling like an unsteady flame. "Now," Asuma said, "throw it." Both of them hurled their trench knives at a nearby tree. Naruto's knife stuck in the bark, quivering slightly. Asuma's, however, sliced straight through the tree, embedding itself in the ground on the other side. "Whoa… It's like a hot knife through butter!" Asuma retrieved his knife and gestured to the tree. "See the difference? A jutsu is only as strong as the chakra nature behind it. If I gave you a powerful wind jutsu right now—say, an A-rank one—it'd barely register as a C-rank because you haven't learned the basics." "So… you're saying I gotta walk before I can run, huh?" "Exactly," Asuma said with a grin. "Glad you're catching on." "So, what do I do now?" "Go grab a leaf. Hold it flat between your palms and try to split it using your chakra. The goal is to focus your chakra into a thin, sharp edge, like a blade." Naruto grinned. "Got it." Then, without missing a beat, he formed the cross-shaped hand sign. "Shadow Clone Jutsu!" A dozen Naruto clones popped into existence, each one immediately grabbing a leaf and getting to work. "Well, that's one way to speed up training." [ An Hour Later ] "Bearded sensei, can you ask them to stop glaring at me?" Asuma followed Naruto's gaze toward his team. Shikamaru was lying on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the clouds. Ino was using her mirror to fix her hair, though she kept sneaking glances at Naruto. And Chōji, well… Chōji wasn't even pretending to be subtle. He was glaring at Naruto, fists clenched, his usual easygoing demeanor nowhere to be seen. "Naruto, did you do something to my team?" "No! Nothing!" Naruto said quickly, shaking his head. "I mean, I skipped a few classes with Shikamaru and Chōji back in the academy, but I never even talked to Ino! I swear." Asuma hummed. "Uh-huh. And what about recently? Did anything happen that might've upset them?" "No!" Naruto groaned. "Well… maybe… there was this thing with Kiba." Asuma blinked. "Kiba?" "Yeah, that jerk insulted my master, so I defended his honor." Naruto crossed his arms, frowning. "I don't care if he wants to call me names, but I draw the line at him throwing dirt on Oscar's name." "Care to tell me what happened?" Asuma asked, keeping his tone light. He wasn't sure how much Naruto would open up, but it didn't hurt to try. To his surprise, Naruto launched into a word-for-word recounting of his fight with Kiba, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and sound effects. Asuma nodded along, filing away the relevant details. The kid was refreshingly honest—almost too honest, really. "Well, Naruto," Asuma said once the story ended, "I think you did the right thing." "You do?" Asuma smiled. "I mean it. Sticking up for your teacher? That's not easy to do. Not everyone has the guts to stand up for what they believe in." Naruto beamed at him. "Thanks, Asuma-sensei!" "Don't mention it," Asuma said. "I'll talk to my team. You keep at it with the leaf." "Got it!" Naruto gave him a thumbs-up and went back to his training, his clones working alongside him. Asuma made his way over to where his team sat under the shade of a tree. Shikamaru hadn't moved, still lying back with his eyes half-closed. Ino was fiddling with her hair again, and Choji was still glaring at Naruto, though his fists had unclenched. "Alright, Team 10," Asuma said, crossing his arms. "What's going on?" The trio stayed silent. "Look, if there's a problem, I can help. But I can't do anything if you won't talk to me." Still nothing. Asuma sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "At least stop glaring at the kid while he's here, alright? He's my student today, and I don't need you three making things weird." "I've got better things to do," Shikamaru muttered, closing his eyes. "Uh-huh," Asuma said dryly. "Like lying here doing nothing?" "It's called cloud-watching," Shikamaru shot back lazily. "It's productive in its own way." Asuma rolled his eyes and turned to Ino. "What about you?" Ino shrugged. "I wasn't glaring. I mean, now that I really think about it, he's not bad-looking. That awful orange jumpsuit was doing him no favors, but with that armor… he might actually be kind of cute. Sasuke's still way better, though." Shikamaru cracked an eye open and gave her a look. "Ino…" "What?" Ino said, smirking. "I'm just saying. Not that it matters. I've got standards, y'know." Asuma groaned and turned to Choji. "Alright, big guy. What's your deal?" The big guy stayed silent. "Come on, Choji. I'll take us to Yakiniku Q after this." Choji glanced at him, then slowly leaned back against the tree. "Fine." Shikamaru reached out and fist-bumped him. Ino rolled her eyes and went back to her mirror, though Asuma noticed she was still glancing at Naruto every so often. "Seriously," he muttered to himself, lighting another cigarette. "I'm supposed to be the adult here. Why do I feel like I'm babysitting a bunch of five-year-olds?" "Because you are." Asuma raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Shikamaru. I know your weaknesses." "Yeah? What's that?" "Hard Work." Shikamaru groaned, muttering something about life being a drag, while Ino burst into laughter. Choji even cracked a small smile, though he tried to hide it. Asuma sighed again, but this time, there was a hint of fondness in his expression. Teenagers, he thought again . What a pain. Naruto had been at it for what felt like hours, holding the leaf between his palms, pouring chakra into it, trying to split it as Asuma had instructed. His clones were scattered around, each working furiously on their own leaves, but none of them had succeeded yet. Naruto gritted his teeth, feeling frustration bubble up inside him. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Asuma-sensei, can you give me some tips? The stupid leaf isn't splitting!" "Alright, kid. How are you visualizing your chakra?" Naruto frowned. "Like a gust of wind tearing through the leaf! You know, like… whoosh! Just ripping it apart!" "There's your problem." Asuma pushed himself off the tree and walked over. "You're thinking too brute force, Naruto. Wind chakra isn't about tearing through. It's about precision. You've got to imagine splitting your chakra into two streams and grinding them against each other—sharply and finely. That's the trick." "Grinding them? Like… what, sharpening a blade?" "Exactly. Think of it like honing the edge of a knife. You're not smashing it; you're sharpening it." Asuma tapped his cigarette, letting the ash fall. "Give that a shot." Naruto's eyes lit up with determination. "Got it!" He turned back to his clones, clapping his hands together. "Alright, you guys heard him! Let's grind this chakra like we're sharpening kunai!" "Yes, boss!" one of his clones shouted, and they all went back to work with renewed energy. Finally, as the sun began to set, a loud cry rang out. Naruto's voice echoed across the training ground, and his clones all shouted in unison, " Yatta! " Asuma stood, raising an eyebrow as he saw Naruto and his clones tossing their split leaves into the air like confetti. He smirked and started clapping. "Well done, Naruto. You've just completed something that takes most ninja months to figure out." "Wait, months ? Are you serious?!" "Completely," Asuma said with a grin. "That's no small feat, kid. You should be proud." Naruto puffed up his chest. "I am awesome, aren't I?" Asuma chuckled, ruffling Naruto's hair. "That you are. And since you've worked so hard, I think it's time to celebrate. What do you say we head to Yakiniku Q?" Naruto's jaw dropped. "You mean the fancy barbecue place?!" Asuma nodded. "Yep. My treat." "Wait… wait… we have to share Yakiniku Q?" Chōji said, looking almost betrayed. "C'mon, big man," Asuma said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "It's a celebration. Food tastes better when you share it, trust me." Chōji grumbled under his breath but didn't argue further. Asuma had a feeling the warm, inviting atmosphere of the barbecue restaurant might help ease whatever lingering tension there was between Naruto and his team. The sizzling plates of meat, the clatter of chopsticks, and the hum of lighthearted conversation created the perfect backdrop for breaking down walls. He'd rather not have Konoha's future shinobi at odds over something petty—especially when Naruto needed allies now more than ever. Author's Note: Alright, let's address something real quick. I've seen some gentle criticism about the pacing of the story being slow . And yeah, you're right—the pacing is slow. But it's slow for a reason. This is a crossover between Naruto and Dark Souls —two massive worlds with their own depth and lore. If I want to develop both sides in a meaningful way, we have to take our time. The story of Dark Souls is just as important here as the story of the Shinobi world. Naruto's journey isn't limited to just one world—he's influencing both and being influenced by them simultaneously. So yeah, we can't just speedrun this. Sure, I could easily write Naruto blowing through Undead Burg, fighting bosses, leveling up, and collecting items. And honestly, most Dark Souls players would agree that area isn't exactly the highlight of the game. But would that be satisfying to read? Probably not. Think about it—why do you care about characters like Oscar, Alexander (the Crestfallen Warrior), or the Undead Merchant? In the game, they're barely more than NPCs. But here, I'm taking the time to explore them, their struggles, and their stories. Because if I don't, why would you care? Naruto can fight hollows, grind for power-ups, and mow down enemies, but if you're not emotionally invested, none of it will matter. In Dark Souls , environmental storytelling works beautifully because you're the player—you interact with it. But in a written story, the emotional connection comes through the characters. That's why you felt something when Oscar died, why you cheered when the Asylum Demon went down, and why you're rooting for Naruto to reunite with Alexander. And the same thing applies to the Shinobi side of the story. The side characters, the development of Team 7, Hiruzen's growth, and even Danzo's schemes—they all need time to breathe. If Naruto's immortality as an undead made him untouchable and we rushed past everything, why would you care about any of that? That's why the pacing is slow. Because to make you care, we need immersion. We need moments that feel earned. And when you're juggling two massive worlds, multiple plotlines, and a huge cast of characters, rushing things would ruin the payoff. I'm not saying my fanfic is perfect—some other writer might be able to pull this off better—but I hope you get why I'm writing it this way. And if you've stuck with me this far, I hope I've given you something to really enjoy. Now, on to Kakashi. I've seen some comments questioning why he's having Tenten and Asuma help train Naruto instead of just doing it himself. And yeah, Kakashi could teach him. Kid Kakashi used a sword, and his dad was famous for it—he could easily teach Naruto kenjutsu. Same with Wind Release. But that's not the point. This ties back to Chapter 8 when Naruto told Hiruzen he didn't care about becoming Hokage anymore. That hit Hiruzen hard enough to bring in Inoichi, who confirmed Naruto's biggest problem: he didn't have real friends. This isn't manipulation. No one's being told to be friends with Naruto. Kakashi is just putting him in situations where those connections can happen naturally. It's about surrounding Naruto with people his age who could become genuine allies, instead of letting him spiral into isolation. And hey, if you think that's manipulation, that's on you. But I'd argue this approach leaves room for way more interesting character growth and deeper relationships down the line. Anyway, that's enough rambling from me. Let me know what you thought of the chapter—I'd love to hear your feedback! Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text i. The meeting ends early, so early that Misato doesn’t really believe it, but she definitely isn’t the type to question these things when they’re handed to her on a silver platter. The Commander lets everyone but the Vice and Ritsuko go; Misato shoots a sympathetic look to her friend as she walks out, though there’s also an uneasy feeling stirring inside her about leaving the three of them alone. Misato yawns and checks her watch; eleven-thirty might be a miracle for her, but Shinji always goes to bed ridiculously early, so she lets herself into the apartment as quietly as she can. However, as she walks down the hallway she’s surprised to find the kitchen light still on. Stepping closer, she can even hear the sound of running water. “Shinji?” Misato says tentatively as she walks in, hand already tightening on her gun, but yes, it’s Shinji with his back to her at the sink, running some dishes under soapy water. Shinji turns around. “Misato!” He says with a small smile on his face. “I didn’t think you’d be back until morning!” “We got let off early,” Misato says, walking towards the fridge for a beer. She cracks one open and takes a long chug, feeling the day’s tension leave her body as the drink pours down her throat. She wipes her mouth with her arm, then points the can at Shinji. “What are you doing up so late, anyway?” “Ah, just finishing up some plates from dinner.” Shinji says, turning to the sink again. “There are some leftovers in the fridge, by the way.” “Thanks.” Misato grabs a container full of rice and what looks like tofu, a pair of chopsticks from a drawer and digs right in, ignoring Shinji as he rolls his eyes and his rebuke to get a plate. “Still,” She says with her mouth full (Shinji rolls his eyes again). “That doesn’t explain why you’re doing this so late.” Misato eyes the pile of dishes on the drying rack. “Or why you have so many things to wash. Isn’t Asuka staying at Hikari’s house tonight?” Shinji bobs his head once. “Yeah, she is.” “Then why are you…?” “Oh.” Shinji stops his washing for a moment and scratches the back of his head sheepishly while his hand is still wet. He yelps when he realizes he’s gotten soapsuds in his hair and Misato laughs and throws a dishtowel at him. “Oh, um, Kaworu-kun came over for dinner today.” Shinji says when he’s done patting his head dry, and sinks his hands back into the sink again. “Eh, Kaworu Nagisa? The Fifth Child?” Misato thinks of red eyes and the slight feline curve of his mouth, smug like he was laughing at a joke at the world’s expense. Shinji nods again. “Yeah. I knew you and Asuka wouldn’t be around today, and he said he didn’t have any plans for dinner, so I thought…” Shinji ducks his head slightly and shrugs embarrassedly. “Why not?” “Yes, I’m always encouraging you to bring your friends over, Shinji.” Misato says, though the uneasy feeling in her chest starts stirring again. Hyuga’s words run through her head like a train: all records erased…hand-picked by SEELE…birth right on the day of Second Impact…“ How was it?” “Um, it was really nice…” Shinji says softly, and Misato can see he’s blushing now, red faintly appearing on his cheeks. He smiles fondly, as if recalling a good memory. “I mean, Kaworu tried to help me with the cooking, even though he didn’t really know how. And after dinner we just started talking, so I didn’t get to wash the dishes until after he left.” If Shinji is washing the dishes now, it must mean that Kaworu had just left the apartment. Assuming they had dinner at six, and that it took an hour and a half to cook beforehand, it means that Shinji and Kaworu had spent almost half the day together. Different emotions run through her, but what surprises Misato the most is the overwhelming amount of trust that she seems to have suddenly inputted into the Creepy Kid with Mysterious Past Kaworu Nagisa Fund. She watches Shinji running water over the dishes, she watches Shinji smiling , and it’s a little scary how much that means in terms of Shinji, and how much that means to her . They sit in silence for a while. Shinji finishes with the washing and starts drying the plates as Misato eats her food and sips her beer. Finally, as Shinji finishes with the last plate Misato stands up and hands him her empty container. The look Shinji gives her is a mix of disbelief and irritation, but Misato thinks Shinji could do her a favour considering what she’s about to say. “The next time he’s not busy, you should invite Kaworu-kun over for dinner again, okay?” Misato says, and she watches the surprise light up Shinji’s face like the time he saw her running to him at the train station. “You do most of the cooking anyway, so tell him he’s welcome anytime.” As Shinji nods and stammers out an affirmative, Misato can’t help smiling and ruffling his hair, which she knows he hates because it reminds Shinji of how much shorter he is than her. This time Shinji doesn’t knock her hand away; he just ducks his head and lets her do it. “Thank you, Misato.” Shinji says sincerely, and his eyes seem a hell of a lot bluer than they were before. These damn kids are one day going to be the death of her. Misato knows it. ii. ‘You are like me,’ The Fifth Child had said, but Rei thinks that isn’t true. She thinks that isn’t true at all, but she cannot verify this observation because there is no basis of comparison. What is she like? Eva Unit 00. Blue hair, red eyes. Commander Ikari, glasses. Cracked, LCL on the floor. If I die, I can be replaced. Why don’t you try smiling? Ikari said that you should smile when people tell you not to say goodbye, but Fifth does not do that at all. Fifth smiles all the time. Rei does not know anyone’s smile as well as Fifth’s. No, she and Fifth are not alike at all. But maybe Rei should be more like Fifth. Fifth is with him all the time, before school begins and walking home and together when they have completed their synch tests. Fifth smiles all the time, as usual, but sometimes Ikari smiles, too. When Ikari smiles it makes a hot flash of warmth appear in Rei’s belly, soft at the edges but burning in the centre, too, but Ikari smiling at Fifth also makes something twist inside her. One day Rei goes up to the school’s roof where she knows Ikari spends his time listening to his player, but she finds him with Fifth instead, sitting side-by-side like someone had placed them together. “…Listen to Bach, mostly.” Ikari is saying, his eyes on Fifth. “Though I like Beethoven, too.” “I think you would enjoy Wagner,” Fifth says back. “His music is very beautiful, like you.” Rei doesn’t know he could do this, but Fifth’s smile grows wider. If the smile is wider, does that mean something else is bigger, as well? At that, Ikari’s face turns red like when they were in her room, but Ikari doesn’t speak or apologize like he did that time. Ikari just looks at Fifth until Fifth lifts his hand and puts it over Ikari’s, and Ikari stares down at their fingers like he can’t look away. (Rei remembers hands. Tight warmth, when hands are touching each other.) But Ikari eventually does, maybe to look back up at Fifth’s face, but then his eyes meet hers instead. “A-Ayanami!” Ikari says, and Rei feels a burst of warmth from her name on his tongue. He jerks away from Fifth and sits up straighter. “What are you doing here?” “I often see you coming up to the rooftop,” Rei says. “So I hoped to find you here.” “Oh,” Ikari looks like he doesn’t know what to do, but he still does not turn away from. “Oh, well, is there anything you need me for?” “I hoped to find you here,” Rei repeats softly, because she does know what else to say. Something in Ikari’s expression changes. It looks more like the expression he wore on the night he had rescued her from the entry plug. ‘Don’t ever say you have nothing else, just don’t say that!’ “Do you want to come sit down with us?” Ikari says. “Kaworu-kun and I were just talking about music.” He looks at her, almost shyly. “Ayanami, you like music, right?” It is that strange word again. Like. Rei does not know what to say, but then Fifth suddenly chips in, leaning forward so he can see her face as well. “I’m sure Ayanami likes a lot of things,” Fifth says, and his smile is different this time, like he is speaking to her, but not with words. Fifth pats the ground next to him and Shinji. “Here, why don’t you take a seat?” That is clear enough for Rei to understand. She obligingly walks over and gets down next to Ikari, knees beneath her and hands in her lap as if she was at a proper table. Ikari watches her sit, and when she is done he tilts his head and smiles at her. Hot flash. Warmth. Ikari and Fifth go back to talking, but occasionally Ikari will look back to her and smile, again and again, and Fifth will once again do that different smile that seems to be speaking to her. Rei does not say a word during the whole time, but something strange and light permeates her entire being, making her float high above her head, when she realizes she is part of the conversation as well. iii. Asuka has a lot of reasons for disliking Kaworu Nagisa, reasons that include but are definitely not limited to the fact for some reason he has Shinji practically eating out the palm of his hand, so now Kaworu is practically at their house all the damn time . “Ugh, it’s you again.” Asuka throws her backpack on the table and glares at the stupid shaggy-haired invader in her kitchen, smiling at her as if she hadn’t just made it very clear he was not welcome here. “Good afternoon, Asuka,” Kaworu says genially, twisting open a bottle of juice and taking a sip from it. Asuka waits for him to speak again, but when it’s clear he isn’t going to (he just sits there with his damn juice, smiling ) she huffs and flounces past him to the fridge for a soda and taking a drink from it as well. “So why are you here this time?” She says, eyeing Kaworu over the rim of her can. “Does Shinji need you to tie his shoes for him, or something?” “Shinji is quite capable of tying his own shoes,” Kaworu says, and Asuka is reminded of how much she dislikes people who doesn’t understand she’s insulting them. Of course, the alternative is that Kaworu understands but he doesn’t care, and that just makes Asuka dislike him even more. “Since I play the piano and Shinji plays the cello, Shinji invited me over so we could duet today. He’s getting his cello right now.” “Huh.” Asuka would rather eat glass than admit it, but dueting with Shinji actually sounds like a pretty fun idea. She’s heard him play before; Shinji is a surprisingly good musician, even though he acts like a total idiot about it. “Well, I’d wish you guys good luck, but I don’t think even good luck can help. Shinji’s useless when it comes to working with other people.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of Shinji’s room. “I had to work with that guy to defeat an Angel, once. Of course I didn’t need the help, but Misato made me, and it really slowed me down. It took us ages to get our routine right because of him!” “Perhaps, but I don’t think we’ll have a problem.” Kaworu says. “Shinji can be amazing when he puts his mind to it. He is truly an extraordinary person.” There goes that ugly twisting feeling in Asuka’s chest again; another reason why she dislikes Kaworu so much. He’s doing these kinds of things, saying these kinds of things about Shinji, and he makes it sound so easy, like he was just speaking plain truth like the sky was blue. There’s something weird and unnatural about somebody who can such nice (not even nice—good, admiring, amazing) things about somebody else so clearly, and something so irritating about how somebody is saying these things about Shinji and how they’ll never say these things to her. “God, could you get even more homo?” Asuka spits out. At that, Kaworu turns his head to her, looking confused, and she feels a small stab of triumph at getting Kaworu Nagisa to react with something that isn’t a smile. “Pardon, could I get even more what?” Kaworu asks, and Asuka almost wants to laugh at his expression—blank, almost, with his brows furrowed, as if trying to scan through volumes of his stupid gigantic brain to find an answer. “Homo,” Asuka repeats. “Do you know what that is?” When Kaworu shakes his head, she slams her soda can down on the table and looks him in the eye. “A homo is a pervert who likes to look and go around doing stuff with other boys.” She points a finger at him. “And with the way you’re always hang onto the Shinji, you’re definitely a homo!” “Homo…” Kaworu says curiously, almost to himself, and he looks like he’s having some sort of philosophical discussion over the word. What a freak. Kaworu doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Asuka is just about to bask in the achievement of getting Kaworu Nagisa to realize his own big fat identity crisis when Kaworu’s voice suddenly catches her again. “Asuka?” “Yeah, what is it?” “You defined a ‘homo’ to be somebody who is a pervert.” Kaworu says slowly. “What about it?” Shinji always splutters and defends himself when Asuka calls him a pervert, but maybe Kaworu doesn’t care. Jeez, maybe after this Asuka should have a talk with Misato so she can protect Shinji’s virtue. “I am given the impression that perverted behaviour is something that disturbs other people and makes them uncomfortable,” Kaworu says. “Is that the way Shinji feels when I interact with him?” Asuka opens her mouth to reply, but the look on his face makes her stop and close it again. If she didn’t know Kaworu was a bastard with only one facial expression, she would say that Kaworu almost looks upset, the corners of his mouth turned downwards and his eyebrows drawn in with worry. “I—well if he’s inviting you over to duet with him, obviously he likes spending time with you, idiot,” Asuka finally replies, and she’s surprised at how comforting her words sound. “How stupid can you get?” The lines on Kaworu’s face soften at her words, and he just looks surprised, again. Asuka is pretty surprised, too—she hadn’t expected herself to say that. “I see,” Kaworu finally says, and he rests his hands on top of each other, gently holding them together. “Thank you for that insight, Asuka. It was very illuminating.” Asuka makes a face. “Yeah, whatever.” She says dismissively. “You obviously don’t know anything, so you would need someone like me to spell things out for you, after all.” “I suppose so,” Kaworu says, smiling again. And just like that, Asuka feels a familiar flash of irritation again. “And stop smiling so much all the damn time! It looks weird!” “Would you prefer that I frowned, instead?” “No, just try and look like a normal person, dammit!” “Kaworu!” Shinji’s voice sounds from the hallway and he appears before them, holding his cello case. “I got my—oh, Asuka!” He says, catching sight of her. “You’re home already?” “Yeah, thanks for waiting.” Asuka says. Shinji mumbles out an apology, but he doesn’t look tired and meek like he usually does—he’s too busy looking at Kaworu. “We should go, now, before they close that piano room.” Shinji says, and then he looks down and blushes. “I—I mean, if you still want to—“ “Of course I do.” Kaworu rises from his seat and Asuka tries not to hate how graceful he looks, and somehow it’s easier not to hate him than before. Kaworu turns to her and gives a slight nod of his head. “It was nice talking to you, Asuka. Until next time.” Asuka takes another drink from her soda and waves him away. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You better come home in time to cook dinner, Shinji.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Shinji says, and Asuka is forced to level a death glare at him until he looks away, laughing. “Bye, Asuka!” As Shinji and Kaworu are putting their shoes on Asuka can still hear them talking. “What were you talking about with Asuka, anyway?” Shinji asks. “How I always like looking at you.” Kaworu replies, and Asuka has to roll her eyes. “Wh-what are you talking about that kind of stuff for?” Shinji squeaks. Asuka can practically hear him blushing. “Is that the kind of stuff you don’t normally talk about?” Kaworu’s voice is curious, innocent, but there’s a teasing edge to it as well. “Well, yeah, it’s just that—“ The door closes and the rest of their conversation is cut off, but really Asuka’s heard enough. “God, what idiots ,” She says to no one in particular, but there isn’t any vehemence to it. She finishes her soda and wonders if she can talk Kaworu or Shinji into letting them form into a trio with her violin next time. iv. The unspoken rule is that the screen located on the lower right side in their wall of security monitors is to be left open, always. He knows Fuyutsuki finds it strange, but it doesn’t matter what he thinks, anyway. There is so much of Yui in his son’s face that it hurts to look at, but what’s worse are the parts of him that Gendo can see where he has had an influence as well. Shinji’s jaw line, and his cheekbones…his hatred for others, and his cowardice. Gendo feels like he wants to apologize, but he feels abject disgust more, waves of anger and failure that overwhelm him and blot out everything else, because while Rei is a symbol of hope, Shinji is a living reminder of everything that had gone wrong with him and (had Yui not died) everything that could have happened. But Shinji does not know that. All Shinji knows is that he had been abandoned when he was four, that during those years Gendo had rarely visited and never spoke, and that when they meet again for the first time in three years Gendo does not so much as ask for him as ask for Shinji’s mind and body, valuable only when they align into an acceptable synch rate so he can pilot the Eva. But in the end, this will all make it easier for him when it is time to start Instrumentality. Training him to build up his walls around others, hardening him…it will make him more eager to accept the opportunity to let all those walls down when it is handed to him, and it would make him happier. Out of the corner of his eye Gendo can see that Shinji has finished training; he steps out of the lab with his hair still drying from LCL as Akagi reads his results to him. The Fifth Child is there, as well, and Gendo wonders when he is going to strike. The Dead Sea Scrolls don’t leave much time left, after all. Akagi is done now but Shinji still hasn’t left to change. To Gendo’s surprise, Shinji is speaking to the Fifth. To Gendo’s even greater surprise, Shinji is smiling. It’s rare for his son to smile, especially after performing something so heavily Eva-related like a synch test. The Fifth says something, and then Shinji is blushing. He has never seen his son blush before. When Shinji blushes, he looks like Yui. In fact, Shinji has never looked more like Yui than he does now, smiling and blushing as he looks up at the Fifth, and it reminds Gendo profoundly of the way Yui used to look up at him. But even without the Dead Sea Scrolls, Gendo knows how this will end. The world is ugly and full of hatred, and anything good that dares to grow is destroyed without hesitation. The quicker and harder Shinji learns to understand this, the better. Gendo glances back down to the monitor again. Shinji and the Fifth are leaving now, presumably to change. Their hands are linked together as the Fifth leads his son forwards. The image brings back a vivid memory of Yui and him a few weeks after their marriage. It had been spring, and Yui insisted on going to the park to watch the cherry blossoms fall. She said that Gendo was moving too slowly, so Yui had grabbed his hand to pull him forward, the imprint of her wedding band pressed against his finger. Gendo hadn’t said anything, but he purposely walked slower after that, so that Yui could keep her hand on his. v. …”You want to drop them in carefully, see, so you don’t get splashed by the hot water.” “You’re very good at this.” Kaworu observes as he stands next to Shinji at the counter, watching the other boy drop chunks of tofu into the pot of boiling water. Shinji flushes. “Um, it’s nothing, really.” “It is. Do you remember the first time I tried to do it?” “ Yes ,” Shinji says emphatically, shaking his head. “You should never do that again! You could have burned your face off!” “Ah,” Kaworu runs a hand through his hair, ducking his head. “I suppose cooking is not my strong suit.” “I guess even you aren’t good at anything, Kaworu,” Shinji says, grinning. He stops when Kaworu leans in close and places a hand, feather soft, on Shinji’s cheek. “Everybody has things they’re not good at,” Kaworu says. “Just like how everybody has something precious and valuable. But both of these things are unique to them in a way that no one else can ever replicate.” They don’t look away from each other, standing in silence until the bubbling of the pot boiling over fills the air. Shinji starts. “Um—“ “You need to take the tofu out, don’t you,” Kaworu says. Shinji nods with Kaworu’s hand still on his cheek. “If I don’t do it now, it’s going to get over-boiled, and it’ll taste—“ Kaworu shifts a little bit forward, and then Shinji is leaning to close the gap between them, their mouths meeting over the point where they can both feel the steam coming from the pot curling around their cheeks. Kaworu curls his fingers tighter around Shinji’s cheek as well, bringing the other boy’s face closer as Shinji reaches out to tentatively place a hand—light and hot and dangerous—at Kaworu’s hip. It’s hard to tell how long the kiss lasts, but when they break apart both of them are panting lightly. With a little difficulty, Shinji reaches between them to turn off the stove while his other hand stays on Kaworu’s hip, and they don’t say anything as they listen to the sounds of each other breathe. “You should kiss me again,” Shinji finally says, softly. Kaworu smiles. His other hand comes up to brush the hair off Shinji’s forehead, fingers trailing lightly along his temple to rest behind his ear, and breathes out, “I was thinking the same thing.” End. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The adults were the enemy. Are the enemy. I wish I could just die. They tricked me. They made me what I am. I don't want to be remembered as a killer. Sorry, I hear the proper term for it is hero. No I'm not. Heroes save people. I just committed murder. Genocide. I'm worse than Hitler. He wanted to save one part of the species he thought was at least some what more evolved. He didn't kill them all. I did. I just destroyed an entire planet. Do Bean and Alai think that I am a killer? I know they were there too but I told them to do it. Do they blame me? Would Valentine believe that I didn't know? Some times I hate Valentine. But then I realize in order to hate her I would have to remember how to love. There are times when I look at Bean, or Alai, and even Dink and Petra, then in those moments I think I remember what it meant to love but how can I be so sure. --- What day is it now? How long have I been sleeping. I think there's a needle in my arm. I wonder if I take it out maybe then I can just go to sleep forever. Maybe then I can appologize to the queen of the buggers. --- I'm dreaming again but in my dream I'm laying down in bed. Alai is there. They told me I could go home, Alai in my dream says. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here with you. You who are my friend. You were my only friend Ender. Remember when I told you Salaam meant Peace? Can you not find it? Can you not find your peace Ender. Come back.... come home and I'll hekp you find it. That's what friends are for. They hold us up when we can't. Let me be your Peace. He kissed my cheek and whispered a final Salaam and left. --- In this dream Petra was talking to me Dink was with her. Hey Ender my shuttle is almost here. I have to go back. My mom and Dad are waiting for me. We're adopting Dink. He doesn't talk much anymore. Says he won't until you wake up. Let us know when you do okay? We love you. She kissed my forehead like a mother does. Then Dink knelt down and wispered in my ear. Mother Petra she be talkin'. I won't say a word until you wake up. And if you never wake up I'll never say a word. Those bastards are gonna realize what they did. When I get down to earth I'll figure out a way to make anyone and everyone know what they did. --- The next time someone came it was all dark. It felt like it had been a long time. Ho, Ender. It was Bean. He still sounded so small. I don't know what to tell you. Except maybe that I'm a bit bored. Alai and I are the only ones left. Everyone else is gone. We're waiting for you. We even got a special room big enough for the three of us if you want to share that is. We don't know about you but we don't want to sleep alone. I cry at night. This wasn't for us to do. Why did we have to be so young. I have a dream at night and in my dream sometimes I think I can understand the buggers. They never wanted to hurt us. Why did they make us hurt them. The adults say they love you. Dap punched Graff in the face and told him that "rank be damned if he came near you ever again he would kill him." that's what he said. I've never seen him so angry! I miss you. Me and Alai both do. It was quiet for a little while. I feel Bean slip his little hand in mine. There is still that trace of baby fat. How old is he now eight? How old am I? You know Ender, I know I come and talk to you every day but today feels different. I feel like maybe, just maybe today you can hear me. Can you? Alai and I went exploring. We found some tunnels that the adults are too big and clumsy to fit in. When we're not with you we're there. I wish you would wake up so you could see them too. His voice got softer and I realized I was aware of my body. I could feel his heat sitting next to me for real. Laying there. Just talking to me. Like a friend. He wasn't a dream. You got mad when they called you a hero. I know why because they were wrong. Not wrong that you were a hero of course but wrong about the reason. You are a hero because you could do what they couldn't. You were strong where they were weak and you bested them. You are a hero because you saved me. I got no family. But you are family Ender. You and Alai. We're all eachother's got. At least I know that for sure about me and him. I don't think I'll be able to find my way back in the dark. I'll stay here tonight. My heart finally thawed. I guess maybe Bean had the remote to to do that. --- It took me a while but eventually I opened my eyes. It was dark. Bean was curled up next to me on his side. He looked even smaller than I remembered. But maybe I grew. He held my arm like a stuffed doll. It was falling asleep and starting to hurt. I pulled if from him and he shot up eyes wide and ready to attack. He stared at me for a long moment then he pounced and wrapped his arms around my neck. "You woke up! Ender you finally woke up! I knew you would all the adults kept being mean and saying you wouldn't but I knew you would! Let me tell Alai." Without letting go of me he did some odd acrobatics and called Alai. "Wake up lazy! Ender's up but don't let them know you know. We want to keep him hidden as long as possible!" "Okay. I'll be right there tell him not to go back to sleep! Or I'll kill him." I didn't know what to say I hadn't said a word since I woke up. Alai came through the door breathing hard and threw himself at us too. We were all on my bed a tangled mass of arms and legs and elbows and knees. I laughed. I laughed and I cried and I was hysterical and I felt crazy. They were doing the same thing so I wasn't crazy alone. I had my friend. Alai and Bean had always been my friends. They had always loved me. And maybe just maybe this thing that I felt was love too. Maybe. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Perhaps neither one took it seriously at first beyond a way to get Phlox off their backs. Perhaps they should have paid more attention to the ship’s grapevine that didn’t find it mysterious at all. But when she dropped the robe, he felt like he’d just grabbed an open plasma conduit with his bare hands. When they got down to it, it was like they had their own personal warp drive. It had never been like this before, not even with Natalie. After the first time, she stopped trying to make sense of it. There was nothing logical about her attraction to him, and neither his people nor hers would approve. She’d wanted to feel emotion, to let herself loose, and with him she could do that with no shame. It was better than trellium, better than anything her mother had told her of the mating. He’d lost so much, was so afraid, but not with her. It was easy to give her all that he had, and she made it easier for him to hold on for another day if only so he could come back to her and do it again, feel alive again. Was this delirious love? Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Rey takes a few agitated steps toward the holo of the Dreadnoughts, pulling Ben’s cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The ships are large and bulky, and subject to the gravity of the planet on which they were being assembled; it takes the first warship an interminable breath-holding moment to rise up off the ground and begin drifting out of frame, kicking up dirt and dust. The engines of its twin flicker to life. “No,” she says, under her breath. She doesn’t know which would be worse: the Resistance showing up now to find two fully operational Dreadnoughts awaiting them, or the Resistance arriving too late, to find the ships gone, to find that all their time and effort have gone to waste. Even though her voice is quiet, Ben senses her rising panic, if not the reason for it. He moves toward her, but hesitates to draw even with her again. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “There are only so many places they can hide. We’ll intercept them, and when we do— even Dreadnoughts are no match for this ship.” Rey’s eyes remain fixed on the warships. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it. Her heart thuds behind her ribcage again, and she wonders whether the repeated hammering could ever break bone. It’s nerve wracking, exhilarating, exhausting to fight in a battle where she can affect the outcome, but to be so far away, to be unable to stop what’s happening or warn her friends of what might come is far, far worse. “Do you think they’re fully crewed?” she asks. The young officer is the one who pipes up in response. If he finds her question strange, he doesn’t let that show. “Those warships are meant to have a crew of over two hundred thousand men, ma’am,” he says. “No way to move that many personnel without attracting someone’s attention.” “A skeleton crew,” Ben muses. “Until they rendezvous with the rest of the mutiny.” Rey notes the barely-contained rage that darkens the word “mutiny,” and glances back at him over her shoulder. He glowers up at the Dreadnoughts beneath heavy, knitted brows, as if he considers their activation a grievous personal affront. In a sense, Rey supposes it is one. She opens her mouth to call his attention away from the ships and back to her when she glimpses a flicker of birdlike shadow in her peripheral vision. She turns bodily back to watch the warships rise, and— no, she wasn’t imagining that shadow. It passes by again, diving and darting away from the higher Dreadnought like an irritating, blood-sucking insect. The dorsal point-defense turrets activate automatically, firing at the shadow, which is quick enough to dodge away every time. Not only does Rey recognize that shadow as an X-wing, but she nigh-instantaneously realizes who must be in the cockpit. The Resistance made it in time. Rey doesn’t know yet whether this is a blessing or a curse. But she’s spared further thoughts on the subject because, from behind her, Ben says, “I know those maneuvers. That’s Dameron.” “Yes,” Rey breathes, watching Poe’s new X-wing swoop to narrowly avoid a barrage of green turret fire. “Come on, Poe.” She doesn’t need to worry. Again and again, the black X-wing finds its mark, blasting the turrets into oblivion. As it does, three others swoop in on the second Dreadnought, the one that hasn’t left the ground just yet, and begin clearing out its surface cannons. One of those X-wings takes a hit, and Rey visibly winces when it blows up, becoming a tiny red and orange nebula against the backdrop of the burning room. She doesn’t know who that pilot was, but she must have met them, and she hopes that it wasn’t someone she knew well, not Jess Pava or Snap Wexley or… She clenches her fists so hard that her filed and varnished nails dig into her palms as Poe’s new Black One and the two other X-wings complete their tasks. The first Dreadnought begins to accelerate away from the skirmish to give the second room to get off the ground. There’s not much of an attempt at retaliation; the Dreadnoughts not being fully crewed limits their ability to improvise, and the X-wings are managing to stay on their dorsal sides, making for difficult targets for those giant ventral autocannons. A few TIEs flit in and out of view, but there can’t be more than a dozen protecting this outpost since the gala procession demanded most of the fleet, and X-wing reinforcements make short work of them. One crashes into the surface of a Dreadnought, leaving a smoldering patch behind; others simply explode in midair. Poe — Rey would know it was Poe even if he hadn’t insisted on the black X-wing — somehow manages to get behind the Dreadnought and sabotage one of its engines, preventing it from leaving as quickly as the crew would no doubt like. Even so, the Dreadnought continues to rise, vanishing from the frame of the holo as half a dozen gnat-like X-wings continue to harry it. Rey watches breathlessly as the other Dreadnought begins to do the same, wondering if this is the last they’ll see or hear of this battle for some time. But again, she should know better than to doubt her friends. The holos are soundless, but she doesn’t need to hear to recognize the reddish tinge of an explosion just out of the holo’s scope, and then the first Dreadnought plummets back down to crash into the second. It drives them both into the unknown planet’s surface. The light show is spectacular. Fire ripples and tears through both Dreadnoughts, rending them to shreds, and they rupture into pieces. The Resistance ships, out of sight now but not out of Rey’s mind, are no doubt retreating to their cruisers to make a quick getaway. Now the only thing visible in the holo are two burning scrap heaps, of use to no one. The fleetkillers would never rise. Rey lets out a delighted little yelp that she doesn’t think to suppress. She feels as though she could sink to her knees with relief. This was it. The culmination of everything. Despite the complications on her end, despite the state of the Dreadnoughts, they had done it. At the very least, this one thing went right . “By the Force,” she whispers, bringing a hand to her mouth. “They did it.” Ben says nothing. Of course he’d known nothing of the plan, but the way it had worked out was entirely in his favor. Hux had planned to use those Dreadnoughts against him, and the Resistance had taken them out. A feeling of near-unbearable lightness swells in Rey’s chest cavity. Surely, surely, it had to be the Force’s will that everything resolved itself so neatly. The First Order’s fracturing, the Dreadnought plan, her presence here, it all fits together like the pieces of a massive galactic puzzle. To Rey, the way forward is nothing if not clear. As she looks up at the smoldering wrecks, she breaks into a wild grin. Death is never something to revel in — it’s not very Jedi-like — but she can find the beauty in victory. The reds and oranges and whites and occasional flickers of blue reflect in a kaleidoscope across the floor of the hangar. “Rey,” Ben says, from behind her, and she turns, expecting to see him similarly enraptured. But Ben isn’t looking up at the holos anymore. He looks, instead, at her, as if she’s a stranger to him. Rey’s grin vanishes immediately. When his name falls from her lips, it’s the softest question. “Ben?” “You knew about this,” he says. It’s less an accusation than a statement of fact. His tone is inscrutable, but there’s an ache to it. Their bond, a vivacious hum since their coupling on the steps, shifts, feels weightier and darker. Rey exhales. Right, of course— of course. Naturally he would be suspicious of this turn of events. But this is fixable. She can fix it. She can allay his fears. Because although this had started as something else, although they had both come into it from very different places, they stand together now. Her people had scored him a victory. There’s room here for growth and unity. There’s room for them to come together. And for that to happen, she owes him the truth. So she nods, just once. “How long?” he asks. “Did an informant contact you, or—” His face shifts with the unspoken realization that she must have known the entire time she was aboard, that this was, perhaps, why she was aboard in the first place. His eyebrows draw back in surprise, but there is a new resoluteness to the set of his jaw. She reaches for his bare hands. “I can show you everything.” “No.” He takes two steps back from her. “I don’t think that’s wise.” “Ben,” she says. She manages a hasty half-step toward him, planting one foot down, and he flinches, not in his whole body, but in the slightest contraction of his fingers, in his face, in the twitch below his left eye. Rey pauses, shows him her own open palms. “I’ve nothing to hide.” “Anymore,” he corrects. “You have nothing to hide anymore.” Rey’s nostrils flare out slightly as she exhales. “You knew I was a diversion,” she says. “From the very beginning, you knew. You just thought I was a diversion for something else.” “I thought your role had been played out by the end of your first night,” he rebuts. He doesn’t raise his voice to her. “I knew you surrendered as part of a pretense. I kept you closely confined at first, but there were opportunities for you to escape after you nearly died. And yet you stayed. I had thought…” He trails off. It dawns on Rey all at once. “You thought I stayed because I lo—” “Because you wanted to,” he interrupts, as if what he actually thought is now too painful to hear spoken aloud. “But I was a fool.” Something in him is cracking. She feels it within her, too, this fragile thing, not unlike the kyber crystal in his lightsaber. Cracked, on the verge of shattering. “I do want to,” she insists. “Ben, these last few days, I’ve only thought about the possible ways for us to stay together. There didn’t seem to be any, but now—” “But you deceived me, all this time. Through everything else we shared.” A brief image flashes in Rey’s mind, of her own face, her own naked body, from above, her eyelashes fluttering and her lips parted as he moves inside her. Ben quickly pushes it aside, and one of his hands tightens into a fist. He casts his gaze down to it, as if in disapproval, and straightens out those fingers one by one. Without looking back up at her, he asks, “Would you have ever told me? Or would you have just disappeared when it was done?” Rey shakes her head, unable to give him an answer that he’ll like. She’s not certain she knows herself. She has gone back and forth on it so many times, and then everything went so sideways this last day. “That doesn’t matter.” “It’s all that matters.” “Not now. Don’t you see that?” Rey has to raise her voice a little, not to be heard, but to be listened to. She throws her arm out, indicating the holo of the wrecked Dreadnoughts. “The First Order is broken. The Resistance just scored your side a massive victory. If we join together we can do what you spoke of. We can create something new, something different. This— it has to be the will of the Force!” “Does it?” he asks. He sounds utterly miserable. “It’s the Force’s will that you should use me?” Rey drops her arm to her side. “No, Ben. Of course not. I wouldn’t—” “You did,” he says. “Like everyone else.” She doesn’t respond. There’s nothing she can say. But she remains open to him through their bond, allows him to feel her hurt and that sad, sickening twinge of guilt. If she has any chance of guiding him through this it will only be through honesty and sincerity. Despite what he said, she knows this is entirely unlike any of the other betrayals, true and perceived, that he’s experienced over the course of his life. Then Ben asks, “Was any of it real?” No hesitation. “It was all real,” she replies, and she’s surprised to find her voice wavering with anger. A small part of her is angry, she realizes, that he could doubt that about her. “You must know that.” He just says, “Not anymore.” Then he turns his shoulders away from her, as if steeling himself to go. Rey takes a couple of small, quick steps toward him, barely closing any of the distance between them. He holds up his hand to bring her to a halt. It is meant, Rey knows, to be a simple gesture. He doesn’t even call upon the Force to keep her back from him. But pain is a well from which his power drinks, and he is full to the brim with it. All his unconscious mind knows is that he can’t bear to have her near. All the Force does is his bidding. A crackling tendril of blue-white lightning sparks from his fingertips, arcs harmlessly over his palm, and vanishes. They both see it. The moment stretches out between them like a chasm. Rey stops. She knows from her texts that that Force lightning is a dark side ability. She knows through their bond that he’s never conjured it before. As much darkness as there is within him, he’s never surrendered to it in that way. Not until now, on accident, in pain. He pulls his hand back and looks down at it, eyes shining with moisture, then closes that hand into a fist as if to prevent any other unanticipated displays of power. Rey stays where she is, but she says his name, imploringly, trying to bring him back to her. “Ben—” “Don’t,” he says. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.” The words lance through her like a lightsaber’s blade. She shuts her mouth. He looks back up at her, one last time. His dark eyes bore into her face, hardened to her now. When he speaks, his voice is barely louder than a whisper. It devastates her more than a shout would. “Run home, Rey.” “Don’t be like this,” she says, pleading with him now. How familiar, and how shattering, it feels to plead with him. “Don’t. You know I—” “We’ll see each other again,” is his reply. It’s a promise. It’s a threat. “But I can’t—” He stops, presses his lips together in that thin straight line. “My place now is on the bridge. I don’t have time to fight you.” “Please.” He’s a maelstrom within, and her plea is carried away from him as if whipped by the wind. Most potently, she feels his despair, not just that she deceived him, not just that she remained with him out of a duty to her people and not by choice, but that if she never really wanted him then he is truly unloved, and unlovable. Shame and fury thread through it, at his having been deceived, at having let her so close, but they pale in comparison with how visceral his pain is. What hurts Rey the most, though, is that there is a part of him that wants so badly to believe her when she says she wants to be with him, and that that part is already being walled away behind a protective shell of anger. He won’t be hurt, not again. And then, all at once, he cuts her off, and it’s gone. Rey is left with the cold of the ship prickling her skin and the crushing burden of her own feelings. “Go,” he says. “Before we jump to hyperspace.” He turns on his heel and sweeps out, and the young officer, present but mute the entire time, follows quickly behind, leaving her in the giant hangar bay among only the ruined decorations and the dead. Rey leaves the hangar through the same side exit Hux had used, although of course Hux is long gone now. She collects the hair ornament that had once belonged to Padmé Amidala from the floor; it’s far too valuable to be left lying there, although Rey may be the only person who knows that. She tucks her saberstaff hilt up under her arm, holds the ornament in one hand and her dress in the other, and jogs through the halls, letting the Force guide her path through the Conquest II . She only has a few minutes to spare, if that. There’s no time to cross the ship to find Ordula. Rey isn’t even certain the spy is still onboard. Hux may have left her in the hangar, or he may have taken her as his prisoner when he fled, or she may have already escaped. She’s canny, and Rey has confidence in her ability to use the confusion to her advantage. And while Rey doesn’t know where Ordula is, she knows exactly where Ben’s students are. She’s never been to that room from this hangar, but she can picture its doors clearly, and she keeps that image locked in her mind as she allows her instincts to take over. Her sandals provide very little traction against the durasteel flooring, and she nearly slips several times as she quickens her jog to a run. Stormtroopers and officers alike are also running to and fro, trying to assume posts, to find some semblance of normalcy among all the chaos. None of them stop the disheveled woman with knotted hair who wears a ruined gown and the Supreme Leader’s cloak. Then again, it’s very likely she’s not the first unkempt gala attendee to come this way. Rey darts into an open elevator that, by luck or chance or the Force’s intervention, is the right one. She slams the button to close the door and leans against the wall, shuddering with exertion, as the elevator catapults her up to the floor she knows the best, the one that houses Kylo Ren’s chambers, and the training room, and the biodome, and the doors behind which must be his pupils’ dwellings. While in the elevator, she puts down the hair ornament to fumble for the bypass key hidden in the cup that covers her right breast. Rey had thought this a very clever way to smuggle the key in, but that hiding place is much less convenient for getting the key out in a hurry. She has to shift her dress aside and peel the cup away from her skin for a moment to wiggle the key free, and is suddenly conscious of just how much she’d sweated under her clothing, due to the fighting, due to what came after— No. Rey can’ afford to think of any of that. She fixes her clothing and picks up the hair ornament just before the elevator doors open. Now she knows exactly where to go. And this time, when she arrives at the two heavy double doors, sealed shut, she knows just how to unseal them. She waves her hand to pop open the bottom half of the control panel, inserts the bypass key, and lets it do its work. The doors hiss open almost immediately. Eight heads turn toward the sound. Eight pairs of eyes blink at Rey standing in the doorway. The students’ living quarters are spacious, although they leave much to be desired where privacy is concerned. There are eight bunks embedded in the right wall, each of which can be sectioned off from the main room by a sliding panel. There’s an area for socializing and relaxation to the left of the door which boasts furniture that looks slightly more comfortable than the usual First Order upholstery and even a red rug on the floor. Toward the back, a long table for dining, and a couple of machines against the wall that dispense drinks and snacks. A door with a water droplet on it marks the way to the ‘freshers. Despite the situation on the rest of the ship, the students don’t seem to be in any state of distress. Two sit on a top bunk, conversing; another hangs upside down over the edge of the adjacent bunk, holding a datapad close to her face. One dozes lightly in a lower bunk, but sits up with a start when the doors open, three more sit on the couches, and one snacks at the back table. All of the seated adolescents stand on instinct, save for the ones in the bunks, who climb out nimbly as Rey collects herself in the doorway. “Come on!” she says, breathless. “Come with me, I’m getting you out of here.” The students come to gather a few meters in front of the dining table, at the room’s midpoint. One of them, a short, pale girl, her dark hair buzzed close to her scalp, steps to the front of the group, as if to act as their spokesperson. “You’re the Jedi,” she says. A young female Mirialan stands on her toes to whisper in the ear of a lanky human boy, who snickers. Rey ignores this, and says, “Please, we don’t have much time.” The girl folds her arms, looking Rey over from head to toe. “Are we in danger? We heard explosions.” Theoretically, Rey could lie to get them to go with her, or she could attempt to use the Force to persuade them to come. She does neither, and says truthfully, “Well, not imminently, no.” “Okay, so…” says the girl, with the extremely unimpressed adolescent vocal inflection that Rey knows from her own students, although it’s rarely directed at her. Rey sighs. She hadn’t anticipated having to explain herself to a group of teenagers, but maybe she should have, considering what she now knows of teenagers. “If you come with me to the Resistance, I can teach you the ways of the Force.” The girl rolls her eyes. “We’re already learning the ways of the Force. You mean the ways of the Jedi.” “The Jedi sucked ,” a younger boy chimes in. “Well, no. I mean, yes, the old Jedi did fail in many ways.” Rey’s head spins. There’s no time for this, and she doesn’t have the wherewithal for a philosophical debate. “These are new ways.” The girl in the front mimes stifling a yawn, and asks, “What can you offer us that Lord Ren can’t?” “What—” Rey frowns, deeply. The group seems perfectly well cared for. Rey had been concerned that they were learning through exposure to discomfort, or anger, or fear, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. They certainly don’t seem to fear her. She says, “I can offer you balance. I can show you the ways of the Light in addition to the ways of the Dark, so the Dark won’t consume you.” “But Ren’s teaching us the Light,” the lanky boy insists. “He says everything about it that he knows is ours to learn.” Rey doesn’t know how much mastery of the Light Kylo Ren truly has to offer to others, but before she can formulate a rebuttal, the girl says, “And if we go with you, we’ll answer to your side. The Resistance. If we stay with him, we’ll know no masters. He’s promised us that.” “He’s your master, though, isn’t he?” Rey asks, confused. Somehow that does seem like a very Ben thing to offer, but it’s also at odds with most of what she’d assumed about this training. “Only for now,” says the girl. “Only until we’re done with our training. And then he says we’re free to leave or stay as we choose, as long as we don’t abuse our gifts.” It takes Rey longer than it should to process this, and the girl continues, “Look, Jedi, you don’t have a better offer. And we’re not going to leave Ren to go with you. We owe him. Before we met him, we were powerless. Now nobody tells us what to do.” She jerks up her chin. “Not even you.” “Wait,” says the tall boy in the back. “If you want to teach us so bad, why don’t you stay here?” The query tugs at Rey’s heartstrings, makes her gut clench. Her tongue flickers out between dry lips, to wet them. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “I just— can’t.” The girl snickers. “So you’d rather go back to an underfunded terrorist organization instead of staying here, where you’d have actual security and resources? I guess it’s your funeral.” She shakes her head. “We’re not going.” Rey exhales. She doesn’t know what she was expecting to find. It certainly wasn’t this. It certainly wasn’t loyalty . And she doesn’t have time to talk them out of it, if it’s even possible. After all, these students aren’t loyal to the First Order, the galactic dictatorship. The way they speak, they’re loyal to Kylo Ren alone. She says, “I really can’t stay any longer. But if any of you ever change your minds, the offer stands.” The girl looks skeptical, but says nothing. As Rey turns to go, one of the boys calls after her, “Hey, did you and Ren break up?” And although she doesn’t look back, she hears the ringleader girl grouse, “Shut up , Simon.” Once out of their view, Rey wipes at her eyes. There is no time to dwell on any of this. She has to keep moving. She must, to ignore what feels like a massive knot forming in her stomach. If she stops, she’ll think; if she thinks, she’ll never get going again, and she’ll wind up trapped on the ship. She makes her legs carry her to the elevator, all too conscious of how much effort it takes to walk, to run, all too aware that she can’t afford not to stay in motion. No one gives Rey any trouble as she makes her way to one of the hangar bays. A few officers glance at her, but promptly avert their eyes. She begins to suspect that they have been ordered not to impede her, but to be fair there are other matters that demand their attention. The TIEs and other hyperdrive-lacking craft that had participated in the procession now zip back into the belly of the Conquest II , so as not to be left behind when the flagship jumps to hyperspace. It’s all too easy to slip in the back of an unattended shuttle and sit herself down at the controls. In the end, she cuts it close. Her commandeered shuttle speeds out of the hangar moments before the ship and the other remnants of the divided First Order fleet make the jump to hyperspace, becoming streaks of light that culminate in glimmering pinpricks as they accelerate into the unseen dimension. Then it’s only Rey, and the infinite blackness that stretches out before her, dotted with stars. When she was a girl, laying on her back on the Jakku sands, looking up the stars, knowing that each one was a system or another galaxy and enraptured by how it all went on forever, the vacuum of space had always seems full of possibility. Now, with the procession gone and the Conquest II vanished, it seems cold and vacant, even though she knows Coruscant would come into view were she to nudge the shuttle into a shallow dive. Where she floats now, she may as well be the only person left in the galaxy. Rey draws her legs into her chest and takes a moment to breathe. It’s difficult to ground herself when nothing feels solid, or certain, but she always has her breath, and through it she has the Force. Even that doesn’t seem much of a comfort right now. She folds her forearms atop her knees and looks out at the point where the First Order’s ships vanished, the glowing afterimage of the trail that had briefly stretched behind them still imprinted on her vision. The shuttle’s interior is cold. Rey fiddles with the temperature controls, then unclasps Ben’s cloak, which she still wears. She pulls it out from under her so she can use it to cover herself, as if it were a blanket, and as she does she nearly holds it to her nose to smell it, to smell him. But she shakes herself out of that trance, whatever it is, and pulls the cloak up over her body, all the way to her neck. She feels the connection at first as the prickling of the hair at the back of her neck, then that slight tug just at the edge of her perception. She thinks it must be Ben, but the voice that resounds through her mind is female, gentle yet firm, and slightly raspy with age. It’s a voice she knows well. Rey , it says. Rey sighs, although she can’t tell whether from relief or disappointment. “Leia,” she replies. Thank the Maker , Leia says from the Resistance base on Akiva. I thought you might not hear me . The connection is tenuous; she and Leia aren’t connected by blood, or by whatever cosmic destiny binds her to Kylo Ren. Rey grasps at it firmly, and when she does she can feel the effort Leia had expended in seeking her out at such a distance. Now that Rey is aware, she can ease that burden to a degree. Even so, she says, “You shouldn’t strain yourself—” Leia brushes Rey’s concerns aside with a little brusqueness. I can have a conversation. You seem to be all in one piece. A pause. Although you feel… “I’m fine,” Rey snaps, and her tone leaves no room for argument. Then she adds, with a little sheepishness, “Sorry.” The momentary silence that follows makes Rey fear that she’s lost the connection, but then Leia says, Poe and the others succeeded. The Dreadnoughts were destroyed before they got off the planet. “I know.” Rey leans back in the pilot’s seat, letting her head fall against the headrest. “I saw it.” And we saw you . The way Leia says it is neutral, nonjudgmental. Those of us in the command center were able to watch you at the gala until the holos cut out. Rey’s stomach tightens at the thought of any of the Resistance having seen her at the gala. She doesn’t want to press for more detail, but she must. “When did they cut out?” After you jumped that table. So Leia, at least, had witnessed much of what played out. Poe would have been busy with the bombing run; maybe Rose, too. What about Finn? Rey shifts in her seat. Finn may not have understood what he saw beyond her playing a role for the greater good. Leia is keener. She seems to know everything. If she had watched Rey dance… Rey might as well begin her report now, at least. She says, “The First Order is fractured, split down the middle. Armitage Hux ran off with half the fleet. And Kylo Ren—” Something sticks in her throat, and she is unable to continue. She tries to swallow it down. It can wait. A phantom hand comes to rest on Rey’s shoulder. It’s a feather-light touch, a comforting touch. Rey turns her head, and she sees nothing. Leia says, You’ve borne so much, Rey. Come home. Then the connection winks out, and both touch and voice are gone. Rey closes her eyes. Come home . Those words had no meaning, once. Her planet had been Jakku, her dwelling the hollowed-out carcass of a downed AT-AT, but her home had been nowhere. But now she thinks of home, and she thinks of the cool jewel-like raindrops, clear and glistening, falling from the dark and swollen storm clouds that lumber across the sky, far above Akiva’s jungle canopy. She thinks of turning her palms to face skyward, as though she could collect them in her hands as they strike her cheeks, her bare forearms, her laugh melding with the rustle of the undergrowth. She thinks of Rose passing her a laser welder, of Poe clasping her shoulder while he laughs at something she said, of her late night conversations with Finn, where they discussed fate and future and destiny. She thinks of Ben stroking the backs of his fingers down the length of her spine— No. Moments of peace, like grinning up at a bursting supernova with her fellow rebels as they watched it peak through their monoculars. Routines, like meditating through every sunrise along with her students, feeling connected to all things, living and dead, as the Force gathers and swells around them; like morning sparring sessions in the training room with Ben, grinning as their staves clack together— No. Lying on her back on a sofa with her feet on Finn’s thigh as he reads from a datapad and she tries to decipher one of the ancient, yellowed Jedi texts. The smell of weak mess hall coffee. Basking in the warm glow of Leia Organa’s approval. The old, firm mattress pad on her bunk. Ben’s sigh tickling her ear as he holds her close to his chest, flushed and breathless, and murmurs her name. Home. Rey hunches forward, sets her head down on her folded arms, and weeps. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text I let out a puff of hot air against the glass display, humming to myself as I doodle smiley faces all over the glass. " NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO !" My whole body pauses, I glance at Steven in concern. "This can't be happening! This has to be a dream!" He screams, he latches onto Lars. "Lars! Lars! Please tell me I'm dreaming!" Steven pleads desperately, Lars groans and shakes him off, "Get off me, man. I'm trying to stock here." He sighs. I wordlessly watch Steven slump to the floor. Lars shoos me away from the glass display, I pout, but don't put up a fight. I walk over to Steven, poking him. Steven sniffles and latches onto me instead, "They're gone, Y/N. They're gone..." He whisper sadly. "...What's gone exactly?" I ask him. Steven looks up at me with teary eyes, "Cookie Cats..." He says. "WHAT?!" I scream, I whip my head to look at the Cookie Cat freezer. It was bad enough they made it smaller, but now they're gone completely?! "Hey! The only reason I like you is because you're quiet . We don't need both of you screaming." Lars sighs, forcibly shoving items onto the shelf. I shoot him a bitter look, but it's not like he was even paying attention to me to notice it. "I'm sorry, guys. I guess they stopped making them." Sadie says, Steven jolts up from the floor, resting on his knees. "Stopped making them?!" He shouts "Why in the world would they stop making Cookie Cats?! They're only the most scrumptious and delicious ice cream sandwich ever made! Don't they have laws for this?!" "Tough bits, man. Nobody buys 'em anymore. I guess they couldn't compete with Lion Lickers." Lars snorts. I glance over at the freezer stocked full of Lion Lickers, "Ugh, not Lion Lickers..." I groan "Nobody likes them! They don't even look like lions!" Steven complains beside me. "Kids these days, I'll tell you what." I sigh, shaking my head, Steven nods in agreement. Lars laughs loudly behind us, "Well, if you miss your wimpy ice cream so much, why don't you make some with your magic belly button and shoulder ." He mocks, heading to the back. "That's not how it works, Lars." Steven huffs defensively, he glances at me in confusion, "Right?" He asks. I shrug, poking at the Gem on my left shoulder, "You've been a Gem longer than I have." I state "Only by 2 months." Steven sighs, he sadly walks over to the Cookie Cat's tiny freezer. "Oh, sweet Cookie Cats, with your crunchy cookie outside, your icy creamy insides, you were too good for this world." Steven mumbles sadly, he doodles a cat on the door, pressing a soft kiss against it. "Uh...Steven?" Steven said nothings, hugging the freezing as close to him as he can. "Do you want to take the freezer with you?" Sadie offers awkwardly. Steven sniffles, not even caring that he's getting frost in his hair, I turn to nod at Sadie, "That would be nice. Thank you..." I say. ~ 💎 ~ Steven hums as we make our way back to the beach house, I absentmindedly step in the footprints Steven leaves in the sand instead of creating my own. Steven pushes open the door, "Hey guys! You won't believe this!" He shouts out before a Gem centipede pushes against him, knocking the both of us to the ground. Steven and I scream in fear, a purple whip wraps around the centipede-gem-monster-thing and yanks it away from us. "'Sup?" Amethyst greets casually, yanking the centipede across the room. That centipede was only one of many. There's a bunch of them in our room! They're...kind of creepy, but cool. "Hi, Garnet!" I say, earning her attention from the other side of the house, "Hello, Y/N." Garnet chuckles. Steven and I watch Garnet, Amethyst and Pearl fight off the centipedes. "Awesome!" Steven gasp in awe, I glance at the centipede carrying one of the throw pillows across the room, "What are these things?" I ask. Pearl sighs, grabbing one of the centipedes, it hisses and jerks around in her grip "Ugh! Sorry, you two. We'll get these Centipeetles out of your room. We think they were trying to get into the temple." She says. I look at the Centipeetle in awe as it continues to wiggle in Pearl's arms, "Aw. You don't have to get rid of them. They're really cool." Steven says, smiling at the Centipeetle. It snarls, spitting at us, I quickly jump back. Pearl, Steven and I watch in horror as the Centipeetle's spit burns through the floor. "If those things stay, I'm moving out..." I say "Where would you even go?" Pearl asks. "You've seen my sand castles, I'd just live in one of them." I state, Pearl shakes her head with a sigh. "Um, you guys? These things don't have gems." Amethyst calls out, "That means there must be a mother somewhere nearby. " Garnet states. A Centipeetle jumps at her, she quickly punches it away. I look at her in awe, she's so freaking cool, "We should probably find it before anyone gets hurts." Pearl says. Steven jumps eagerly, "Ooh! Ooh! Can we come? Can we?! Can we?!" He asks, "Steven, until you and Y/N learn to control the powers in your gems, we'll take care of protecting humanity, ok?" Pearl snaps the Centipeetle's neck as she speaks. "Aw, man..." Steven pouts while I left out a breath of relief. My attention snaps over to the fridge, "Hey! Get out of there!" I shout, yanking off my shoe and throwing it at the Centipeetles. It scatters away from the fridge, knocking over the milk in the process. I let out an annoyed huff and grab some paper towels, "Ugh, they got into everything!" I groan. Steven walks over and gives me my shoe back, "Not cool!" He shouts to the Centipeetle I shooed off. Though, I doubt it heard him...since Garnet punted the it across the room. Steven lets out a loud gasp, I stop wiping up the milk to look at him. "No way..." He says "I-it can't be!" I wipe my hands on my pants and stand up to peek in the fridge too. I let out an excited gasp "Wha?", Steven grabs one of the Cookie Cat sandwiches. We stare at it in awe, "Where did you get these?! We thought they stopped making them!" Steven says, Pearl shuts the freezer door for us. "Well, we heard that too, and since they're your favorite..." She chuckles "We went out and stole a bunch!" Amethyst eagerly finishes for her. "Whoa, cool." I say, Pearl lets out a disapproving sigh, "I went back and paid for them." She says. Wait...with what money? Does Pearl have money? "The whole thing was my idea." Garnet says, her gauntlets disappear in a purple glow. "It was everyone's idea." Amethyst says "Not really." Garnet says bluntly. Pearl shakes her head as Steven and I continue smiling eagerly at the Cookie Cat, "All that matters is that Steven and Y/N are happy." She says. We all glance at Steven when he sucks in a breath, "AAAAAAAAAAH—🎵 He's a frozen threat with an all new taste 🎵 - " He sings, it doesn't take long for me to release what he was doing and joined him " ' 🎵 Cause he came to this planet from outer space! 🎵" We start singing the words from the commercial together, "🎵 A refugee of an interstellar war, but now he's at your local grocery store! 🎵" "🎵 Cookie Cat! 🎵" "🎵 He's the pet for your tummy! 🎵" "🎵 Cookie Cat! 🎵" "🎵 He's super duper yummy! 🎵" "🎵 Cookie Cat! 🎵" "He left his family behind!" Steven says dramatically with teary eyes before we both take a deep breath, "🎵 Cookie Caaaaaat! 🎵" We sing together. Steven quickly adds "Now available at Gergins off Route 109." The Gems laugh and Garnet applauds us. "I can't believe you did this!" Steven says, I mirror his bright smile "Yeah, you guys are awesome!" I agree, latching onto Garnet happily. "We're gonna save these forever." Steven tells them, I pause and let go of Garnet. Steven and I share a look, "Wanna split that one at least?" I ask "Yeah, we can save these forever after we eat this one." He says. Steven rips open the pack, "Hello, old friend." He says before breaking the Cookie Cat in half. He hands me my half and we immediately start eating our piece. It's a little melted from Steven holding it for so long, but it's still good. "I like to eat the ears first." Steven tells the Gems. They lets out surprised gasps, I open my eyes to look at them, I glance over to Steven as the room is covered in a soft pink light. I gasp in awe at the sight of Steven's gem glowing with through his shirt. "Uh, Steven?" I ask, he looks at me with a grin before realizing what's happening. "My gem!" Steven gasps, pulling up his shirt to look at his gem, "Quick! Try and summon your weapon!" Amethyst says. "I don't know how." Steven says. The glow begins to dim, "AH! IT'S FADING! HOW DO I MAKE IT COME BACK?!" Steven asks, looking around the room in a panic "Calm down, Steven," Pearl says gently "Breathe. Don't force it." Steven grips his hair, not even caring that he's getting ice cream in his hair and hair in his ice cream. "Yeeeah, and try not to poop yourself either." Amethyst says, "Please don't." Garnet says. Steven's gem stop glowing completely, we all huff in disappointment. I pop the rest of my Cookie Cat into my mouth while Steven puts his back in the wrapper. "Aw! I was really close that time! Can one of you just explain how to summon a weapon?" He sighs, "Ooooh! 🎵 I'll go first~ 🎵" Pearl sings out in excitement ~ 💎 ~ I raise my hands upward catches petals that fall from the tree, "Y/N, this lesson is important for you too." Pearl says. I turn my attention to Pearl, she nods in approval. "Pay attention to these petals. The petal's dance seems improvised, but it is being calculated in real time, based on the physical properties of this planet. With hard work and dedication, you can master the magical properties of your gem and perform your own dance!" She tells us eagerly before summoning her weapon with ease. "Like so." She says confidently as a petal lands in her hands. Steven and I look at each other, sharing lost expressions ~ 💎 ~ "Ok—now!" I toss the petals into the air, watching them fall gracefully, "Did Pearl you the petal thing?" Amethyst sighs knowingly. "Yeah. We need to practice really hard so we can dance like a tree...I think." Steven says, I shrug. "Listen, kiddos. All that practice stuff is no fun." Amethyst says before stuffing the rest of her donut into her mouth. "Whenever I need to summon my weapon, it just happens." Amethyst says with her mouth full. Her gem glows and she immediately summons her weapon with ease. She uses her whip to split the garbage bin behind the Big Donut in half, "See? Didn't try at all." Amethyst says with a shrug. Steven and I share even more confused glances. Lars lets out a loud gasp, staring at the garbage bin with wide eyes, "AGAIN?!" ~💎~ Why do I even care about summoning my weapon? My gem doesn't glow, it hasn't glowed this whole time. Maybe it's broken...maybe I'm broken... I flick my gem with an annoyed pout, Steven grabs my hand and pushes it down to my side without even looking at me. "So, we're supposed to work really hard and not try at all at the same time?" He asks Garnet. "Yes." Garnet states, the window blows, brushing against my skin. "Or..." Garnet starts and her gems begin to glow, "You can link your mind with the energy of all existing matter, channeling the collective power of the universe through your gem, which results in..." Garnet then summons her gauntlets. "At least that's my way of doing it." She says. I don't even bother looking at Steven, I can feel that we're both completely lost. ~ 💎 ~ "I think my best bet is to recreate what happened the last time my gem glowed." Steven says, guiding everyone into specific places, "So, Garnet and Amethyst were here. Pearl was next to the fridge. Hmm. Hmm." Steven mutters, "Amethyst, I think your arms were crossed." He says, Amethyst crosses her arms, "Ok, your majesty." She snorts. "And, Pearl, your foot was like this." Steven says, leaning down to adjust Pearl's foot, "I don't think it works this way, Steven." She says. Steven pulls me closer to him, and pauses and places his palms against my cheeks. He smooshes my cheeks together, "Uh, yeah. That works." He says, letting go of my face, for unexplainable reasons, my face feels warmer. Yep, unexplainable. Steven opens the freezer, pulling out his left over Cookie Cat. "Then I took a bite out of this Cookie Cat." He says "Oh! Wait! We sang the song first!" Steven sings a rambly version of the commercial, we all just wordlessly look at him. Steven sighs, "Aw! It was funnier last time!" He huffs, he lifts his shirt slightly and looks at him gem. "Maybe I'm not a real Crystal Gem." He says, I hug him comfortingly, "On the bright side, at least you're not alone. We get to be useless together." I tell him, Steven leans into me and sighs, "Yeah...true..." Pearl bends down to our height, "Don't be silly, you two. Of course you're Crystal Gems." She says "And you guys are run to have around, even if your gems are useless. And hey, Steven, at least gem is doing some things. We still don't know if Y/N's gem even works." Amethyst says, Pearl lets out a disapproving grunt. "I mean, you guys are Crystal Gems, just like us. We're not the Crystal Gems without you." Amethyst says. Garnet nods in agreement, Steven's looks at all of us with stars in his eyes, "Yeah, even if I don't have powers, I'm not alone." He says, glancing at me. I smile and unwrap my arms from him, "And I've still got...Cookie Cat!" Steven eagerly chomps on the Cookie Cat, his gem immediately starts glowing again as he chews, except this time, a pink shield appears in front of him. Garnet, Amethyst and I all gasp, "Steven.,.it's a shield!" Pearl says in awe. Steven opens his eyes to see the shield glowing in front of him, "Oh! What?! I get a shield?! Oh yeah!" He cheers, he jump of excitement shoots the shield away from him. It bounces around the house, crashing into lots of different things. I inch myself closer to hide behind Garnet. The shield eventually crashes into the tv. Amethyst laughs loudly, "Oh! Cookie Cat! I SUMMON MY WEAPON BY EATING ICE CREAM!" Steven announces eagerly. "...What's in these things?" Pearl asks, studying the back of the wrapper. The ground shakes, Steven's shield disappears. There's something...big climbing up the wall outside, I tense at the sound of screeching and roaring. "What was that?" Steven asks, Garnet runs outside with Pearl and Amethyst following closely behind, "It's the mother!" Garnet shouts, jumping into action. "Stay in the house." Pearl says sternly "No way! I'm coming too!" Steven says, he runs back inside the house. Pearl and Amethyst share look, but leave to join the fight anyway. "...Steven, what are you doing?" I ask, watching him pack a bunch of Cookie Cats in the mini freezer. He attaches an extension cord and plugs the mini freezer in. My eyes widen when Steven heads towards the door, "Steven, seriously what are you doing?" I ask more urgently, Steven turns to me with a fully confident grin. "I finally know how to use my power, Y/N. I'm gonna help the Gems." He tells me "You can't just-" "You're gonna have to stay inside still, but don't worry, I'll be back soon." Steven says, I let out a nervously sigh "Steven, this is a really bad-" Steven cuts me off again, grabbing my face and playing a kiss on my forehead. "Wait for me." He whispers before grabbing the freezer and taking off. I watch him leave, completely dumbfounded. I snap out of it, rushing outside. By the time I get outside, Steven's already throwing rocks at the mother Centipeetle. "Hey! Leave them alone!" Steven shouts "STEVEN! NO!" The Gems shout from the hand statue they were hiding behind, the Centipeetle looks down at Steven, I tighten my grip on the railing of the balcony. "Cookie Cat Crystal-Combo Powers, ACTIVATE!" Steven shouts, taking a large bite out of a Cookie Cat... And nothing's happening... The Centipeetle crawls over to Steven, hissing. Steven's chewing slows, I guess he realized this isn't going to work... "Uh oh." He says, running away from the Centipeetle as she tries to attack him. The Gems can't help Steven because they're still stuck dealing with the Centipeetle's tail. Steven stands there, stuffing his face with more Cookie Cats, "Why isn't it working?!" He shouts. The Centipeetle hisses, opening her mouth wide to attack. My body moves without my permission, "Steven!" I shout. I push Steven out of the way of the Centipeetle's acid spit attack. A sharp, stinging sensation against my skin rips a hiss of pain out of my mouth as Steven and I stumble to the ground. "Ah, Y/N!" Steven gasps, staring at me with wide eyes. What is the smell, it's awful. I sniff the air in confusion, only to glance at my burning arm "Oh...that acid melting my skin..." I say with a nervous chuckle, tears already pricking the corner of my eyes. Steven's expression shifts to a look of horror when he sees my arm, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no!" He says in a panic. I try to soothe him, "Steven, I'm ok! It's fine-" "No, it's not..." Steven says firmly, he looks around the area, stopping when he see what's left of the Cookie Cat freezer. Most of the acid hit Cookie Cat freezer, it sparks beside us. "Cookie Cat, he's a pet for your tummy." Steven mutters, staring at the freezer. He tenses angrily and grabs the freezer's extension cord, he's super duper yummy!" Steven shouts, he runs and drags the freezer towards the Centipeetle. "Cookie Cat! He left his family behind! COOKIE CAAAAAT!" Steven screams, throwing the freezer at the Centipeetle, it smacks her on the back of the head, electrocuting her. "Now available...nowhere." Steven sighs sadly, falling to his knees. The Gems come out of hiding, summoning their weapon. We watch them take down the Centipeetle with ease. Garnet traps the Centipeetle's gem in a bubble and the bubble disappears. Steven buries a Cookie Cat wrapper into the sand, "Farewell, sweet Cookie Cat. I'll always remember the time we spent together." Steven says, I pull a leaf out of my pocket and place it on top of the wrapper's grave. Steven's stomach gurgles, "Shh. Hush now." He whispers, hugging himself. "...Are you crying?" Amethyst asks "Only a little!" Steven wails. "Well, I guess your powers don't come from ice cream." Amethyst chuckles, Pearl and Garnet approach us. I wince when Garnet check my arm, "Of course they don't come from ice cream." Pearl says, she crouches to Steven's level, "Don't worry, Steven. I'm sure someday you and Y/N will figure out how to activate your gems." She says. "Yes, in your own special way." Garnet says with a gently smile. She picks me up and holds me in one arm...it's like a weigh nothing to her. "I'm ok, guys. I just—" Steven gags before continuing "I-I think I ate to many Cookie Cats..." He grins awkwardly. Everyone chuckles, we stop when Steven actually does end up vomiting... ~ 💎 ~ "There. That should do it." Garnet says, I look at my arm. The acid 100% left a visible mark on my skin, Garnet had to put a lot of bandaids on my arm just to cover the injury. It was hurting really bad before, but not I can't feel anything at all. I smile up at her, "Thanks, Garnet." I say. She smiles and pats my head before heading off. I lift myself up from the couch, only for Steven to run up to me, "Wait!" He says. I shoot him a confused look, "There's one more thing." Steven says, he slowly, gently takes my arm, "Steven, what are you-" He presses a kiss on top of my bandaid covered burn mark. My eyes widen and I tense, "There! That'll make the healing process go a lot faster!" Steven says with a toothy smile. I stare at him, unsure of what to say for a few second, "Aw ha...you don't have to do that anymore, Steven..." I chuckle awkwardly. Steven's smile immediately drops, "Wha? How come?" He asks "It's just that, we're not little kids anymore. Things are different now. And I don't want you to feel like you have to do that every time I get hurt." I tell him. Steven's smile returns and he waves off my overthinking concerns with practiced ease. "Oh, I get it now. It's ok, Y/N. I want to do it. In fact—" Steven kisses my injured again "Now you're going to heal two times faster!" He states "...Thanks, Steven." I chuckle, fighting back the warm feeling taking over my whole face. "Anytime, Y/N." Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Dear Sephiroth : Our records indicate that you are due for an appointment for Mandatory Physical Check-up on 19 July . Your medical well-being is important to us. Please call our office to schedule this appointment. Sincerely, Anna Golman Dear Sephiroth, This is a reminder that an appointment has been scheduled for you on 19 July at 10:00 am for a mandatory physical check-up. We hope you remember that this is an extremely important appointment for the sake of your continued good health. If you cannot make this appointment, please contact the Science Department at least 24 hours prior to this appointment. We would be happy to reschedule your appointment for a more convenient time. Sincerely, Anna Golman REMINDER NOTICE Dear Sephiroth: On 19 July you failed to keep your appointment at my office. Please contact the office between the hours of 8am and 5pm to reschedule your appointment. Very truly yours, Dr. Arzt Dear Sephiroth: This letter is to confirm your appointment for Professor Hojo at 12:00 on 22 July. Please plan to arrive approximately 30 minutes prior to scheduled appointment to allow time for you to read and sign the consent forms that are required for your treatment. We may be unable to schedule/perform certain necessary procedures without them. Please complete the following informational forms and return to our office prior to your appointment. (A return envelope is enclosed for your convenience.) Patient Information Page Medical History Form This will enable us to thoroughly reacquaint ourselves with your medical background and provide you with best possible care. We recognise the trust and responsibility placed in us and will do everything possible to provide for your medical needs. We look forward to seeing you. Sincerely, K. E. Crate, M.D. Missed Appointment Letter Dear Sephiroth: Our records indicate that you missed your appointment. Please call our office line and we will be happy to schedule another appointment for you. Any time you are unable to keep your appointment, we would appreciate a call in advance from you that we may cancel your appointment and use the appointment time for another patient. We are interested in your health care and hope to hear from you soon. If you have any questions, please contact us. Sincerely Anna Golman Dear Sephiroth A follow-up appointment has been made for you on: 25 July 15:45 Please bring this letter with you when you attend. You will be seen by Professor Hojo or a member of their team if the professor is unavailable. It is always useful for consultants to view current medication, therefore if you could bring a full list of current medication, frequency and dosage, it would be helpful. As a reminder, our sole interest is in your continued good health; if necessary, a full list of any current unprescribed medication, frequency and dosage would be similarly helpful. If you are unable to attend for any reason, please let us know as soon as possible so that your lab time may be allocated to another subject. Yours sincerely, Appointments Officer Missed Appointment Letter Dear Sephiroth: Our records indicate that you missed your appointment again. Missed appointments without cancellation or rescheduling prevent us from providing for your healthcare needs. If you have schedule conflicts, we will be happy to work with you in rescheduling at a time convenient for you. A call to cancel an appointment in advance will allow us to use the appointment time for other procedures and subjects needing to be seen to. As always, we are interested in your health and wish to keep providing health care for you. We hope to hear from you soon. Sincerely, Anna Golman The content of this letter is confidential and may not be disclosed without the consent of the writer SOLDIER MH Services · Midgar Floor 67, ShinRa HQ, Sector 0 Our Ref: 700812 SHS No: 445-765-809 Date: 25 July Dear Mr Sephiroth An appointment has been made for Professor Hojo to see you on: 28 July between 10am and 2pm It would be helpful if someone you trusted could attend this appointment with you. It would also be helpful if you could have with you a list of all your current medication if required. Unfortunately due to other necessary duties of the Professor's, a set time for the visit cannot be given. However if you require a set time appointment, please contact the Floor 67 and we will be happy to arrange a laboratory appointment. Your sincerely Lena Ahlgren Medical Secretary CANCELLATION/MISSED APPOINTMENT POLICY Your appointment has been set aside for you. This time is unavailable to other subjects. Therefore we require at least 24 hours advance notice if you need to cancel your appointment. For all missed or cancelled appointments with less than 24 hours notice, you will be charged a 500gil cancellation fee. Appointment reminder calls are a courtesy. Should you receive a reminder telephone call, it is still your responsibility to remember your appointment. I have read and understood the cancellation/missed appointment policy ______________________ Dear Sephiroth, An appointment has been made for Professor Hojo to see you on: 01 August at 2pm If you do not attend this appointment, a security team will be sent to escort you. We remind you that we care only about your continued good health and wish to help you. We understand that you may feel such concern is unnecessary but we assure you that we have your best interests at heart. We look forward to seeing you. Sincerely, Lena Ahlgren Medical Secretary Message recorded at 4:49pm on 31 July: "Mr... uhhhh... Sephiroth? This Lena Ahlgren, just calling to remind you of your appointment at… 2pm on the 1st of August. Um. If you could… show up that would be nice? And, um, also, maybe not kill or maim the security team…? We hope to see you then. Thank you!" Message recorded at 3:30pm on 1 August: "Hi again, Mr Sephiroth, uh, just calling to say, um, thanks for being in the slums at the time of appointment – I mean, um, sorry we missed you and we will definitely reschedule your appointment at a time of your convenience. Ummm. Maybe you could make one, show willingness to cooperate? A few months ahead, maybe? Um, Professor Hojo would like to remind you that your physical health is of paramount concern to the company, um, that, uh, that's all, I think? Thank you!" Sephiroth. Attend the following appointment: 06 August at 1:20pm It is a standard requirement that you attend regular maintenance check-ups prior to extended missions outside of Midgar, as you are well aware. It is for the sake of your health and continued excellence in the field. Hojo. Internal Memo Department of Scientific Research Sephiroth has left the city. Cancel all unnecessary experiments. Tonight we drink! Message recorded at 09:02am on 18 August: "-- doing? Ah! Welcome back to Midgar, Sephiroth! News travels fast! Your appointment is at 11:30 tomorrow – I mean, on the nineteenth of August, um, uh... we do hope you will be there! "Uhhhnfortunately, Professor Hojo will no longer be able to see you personally... but, but we assure you we are fully capable of attending to your medical needs! Um. Where is that... Uh, please remember both our cancellation/missed appointment policy and our abuse of staff policy! We do not tolerate mental, verbal or physical abuse of our staff! By patients, I mean! "Thank you, we hope to see you soon! "Oh god oh god why me--" Missed Appointment Letter Dear Sephiroth, Our records indicate that you have missed your appointment yet again. Missed appointments without cancellation or rescheduling prevent us from providing for your healthcare needs. If you have schedule conflicts, we will be happy to work with you in rescheduling at a time convenient for you, etc, etc we both know you're not reading this at all and probably have an immediate shredding policy for any papers that manage to make it to your desk marked with the Research Department stamp of origin. Do you know how much ink this wastes? Our budget is excessive thanks to certain individuals and their pet experiments, but still. Your health is actually a big deal for everyone but I understand you might have trouble believing that – instead, do trust in the self-preservation instincts of everyone in ShinRa when I say that people really would prefer that your physical health at the very least was checked out. Please consider making a token appearance. I can arrange an accident for The Professor if necessary? Assuming of course, that isn't take care of (again) by someone else first. Sincerely, Anna Golman From: Anna Golman [ [email protected] ] To: Sephiroth [ [email protected] ] Date: 19 August, 16:49:01 MST Subject: Urgent - Appointment for Cloud Strife ! This message was sent with High importance ! An appointment has been scheduled for Cloud Strife at: 20 August at 09:20 a.m. Now that I have your attention – five minutes. That's all I ask. Five minutes, maybe get your blood and mako levels checked, anything more is on the attending physician to get out of you. Unbelievable as it may seem, I do typically have other duties than trying to get you to actually attend one (1) appointment. I am not actually a secretary despite what certain people seem to think. I will warn you that – as with all your other appointments – their timetables will likely be completely cleared to accommodate you and they will undoubtedly if futilely try their best to extend the miniscule amount of time you may be inclined to spare them; I am sure you are quite capable of dealing with this terrible inconvenience yourself. And how lovely, you can now visit First Class Fair while you're there, what a coincidence. Believe me, Sephiroth, I am definitely more tired of sending these reminders than you are of shredding/deleting them, but I will send you a new appointment every. single. day. if that is what it takes. Sincerely, Anna Golman (P.S. I really will get Strife if I have to. Don't test me on this.) Internal Memo Department of Scientific Research Memorandum No. 0002-261 Priority [HIGH] Orders embodied in Memo No. 0001-103 and Memo No. 0002-110 are suspended temporarily for the purposes of gaining new data regarding Subject S. Follow all precautions laid out in Memo No. 1977-001 (the Subject S Handling and Survival Guide, as our more flippant staff might better recognise it). Compliance with Memo No. 1989-567b is to be expected. Internal Memo Department of Scientific Research Anyone know what Memo No 1989-567b is? Internal Memo Department of Scientific Research Memorandum No. 1989-567b Priority [LOW] All techs attending [S] require up-to-date wills. The Company takes no responsibility for those found to be in non-compliance with this edict. Internal Memo Department of Scientific Research It'll be okay everyone, we all know he won't turn up. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text And here we go with a new chapter! I hope you are going to enjoy it and please let me know how you like it! Chapter 8 - A Meeting of Fates The atmosphere in the grand receiving hall of the Kinmoku palace was thick with anticipation. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the intricate stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the marble floor. Serenity sat in a high-backed chair, her hands folded nervously in her lap, her silver hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She was flanked by the Starlights—Seiya, Yaten, and Taiki—who stood protectively near her, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and wariness. Kunzite, ever composed, stood near the grand double doors, his sharp silver eyes fixed ahead. His posture was straight, his demeanor exuding the calm authority of someone who had orchestrated countless battles and negotiations. Yet, beneath his cool exterior, his mind churned with thoughts of what was to come. Serenity’s thoughts were a whirlwind, her calm exterior belied by the storm inside her. As she sat there, waiting for the mysterious Prince Endymion, she couldn’t stop the nervous energy coursing through her. The name, spoken so often and with such reverence, had begun to carve itself into her mind. She didn’t know him—she didn’t know anyone, really—but the thought of meeting him felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to leap or retreat. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her dress, a telltale sign of her inner turmoil. What would he be like? Would he be kind? Would she feel something—anything—when she saw him? And what if she didn’t? What if this man, who so many seemed to believe was central to her very identity, turned out to be a stranger to her in every way that mattered? A sliver of fear crept into her heart, mingling with an inexplicable flicker of hope. Somewhere deep inside, she wanted him to be real. She wanted him to be someone who could help her piece together the fragments of her lost self. The faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hall outside, growing louder with each passing second. The room fell silent, and everyone tensed as the massive doors slowly creaked open. Kunzite stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as the figure of Prince Endymion appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in the deep blue and black uniform of Earth’s royalty, his long cape flowing behind him. His dark hair framed his chiseled features, and his piercing blue eyes immediately scanned the room. There was an intensity in his gaze, a quiet determination tempered by a simmering undercurrent of emotion. He carried himself with the natural confidence of a leader, yet the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes revealed the toll the past weeks had taken on him. Kunzite stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Prince Endymion,” he said formally. “Welcome.” Endymion paused for a moment, taking in the sight of his most trusted general. For a brief second, the weight of everything unsaid between them—the weeks of separation, the relief of finding Serenity—flashed across his face. His composure softened, and a faint, heartfelt smile appeared. “Kunzite,” Endymion said, his voice steady but laced with quiet gratitude. He crossed the remaining distance and briefly clasped Kunzite’s shoulder, the gesture warm but quick. “It’s good to see you again. You’ve done well.” Kunzite inclined his head slightly, his tone as calm as ever, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in his silver eyes. “Thank you, Your Highness.” The exchange was short, barely a breath in the room’s tense atmosphere, but it carried an undeniable weight. Then, without another word, Endymion’s focus shifted entirely as his gaze swept the room, locking almost instantly on Serenity. Time seemed to stand still. For Endymion, the moment his eyes landed on her felt like both relief and agony. She was there, alive, but the light of recognition he had longed to see wasn’t there. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight, her presence radiating the same ethereal beauty that had haunted his dreams, but her gaze… it was distant. Searching. His heart twisted, but his resolve hardened. He had spent weeks searching for her, and now that she was within reach, he wouldn’t falter. Even if she didn’t remember him, he would remind her of everything they had once been. Serenity rose to her feet, her heart inexplicably pounding in her chest. She didn’t understand why, but the sight of him—the dark-haired prince with the piercing eyes—stirred something deep within her. It wasn’t recognition, not fully, but a feeling she couldn’t name. Her breath caught as he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly. “Serenity,” Endymion said softly, his voice carrying an almost reverent tone. The sound of her name struck her like a ripple in still water. Kunzite had spoken it before, and she hadn’t felt anything then. But this time, it was different. The way Endymion said it—gentle, tender, like it carried the weight of countless unspoken stories—stirred something deep inside her. It wasn’t a memory, not quite, but a fleeting feeling—a spark of warmth and familiarity that she couldn’t grasp, no matter how desperately she tried. Her silver eyes widened slightly, her brow furrowing as she tried to focus on the strange emotions rushing through her. “I…” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t remember you.” The words struck Endymion visibly, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. His hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself. He recovered quickly, his expression softening as he took another step closer. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “You don’t have to remember. You’re here, and that’s enough.” Seiya, who had been watching the interaction closely, immediately stepped in front of Serenity, his posture protective as his arms crossed firmly over his chest. His stance was solid, placing himself deliberately between her and Endymion. His eyes burned with a mixture of suspicion and resentment. This was the man they had waited for? The one who claimed to know her so intimately? Seiya couldn’t ignore the way Endymion’s presence seemed to command the room—or the way Serenity seemed drawn to him despite her uncertainty. “You sound awfully certain she’s the person you’ve been looking for,” he said, his tone sharp and skeptical. “What if you’re wrong?” Endymion’s sharp blue eyes flicked to Seiya, and though his expression remained calm, there was a quiet authority in his gaze. “I know who she is,” he said firmly. “There’s no doubt in my mind.” “And yet, she doesn’t know you,” Yaten interjected, his voice edged with suspicion. “Why should we trust you? Why should she trust you?” Yaten’s distrust ran deeper than mere suspicion of Earth. There was something about Endymion’s presence—his strength, his composure, the way he held Serenity’s attention—that grated on him. It wasn’t just mistrust; it was a desire to prove that they, the Starlights, were just as capable, just as powerful. Before the tension could escalate further, Kunzite stepped forward, his authoritative voice cutting through the strained silence. “Prince Endymion, allow me to introduce you formally to the Kinmoku Starlights.” He gestured first to the man standing protectively in front of Serenity. “This is Seiya Kou, the leader of the Starlights.” Seiya gave a curt nod, his protective stance unwavering. His sharp gaze lingered on Endymion, as if daring him to prove himself unworthy. Kunzite continued, gesturing to the slender figure at Seiya’s right. “This is Yaten Kou.” Yaten’s silver hair gleamed in the light, and his expression was as cold as his voice had been moments earlier. His arms crossed lightly over his chest, he inclined his head, though his voice was dry. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Finally, Kunzite nodded toward the tallest of the trio. “And this is Taiki Kou.” Taiki, ever the voice of reason, inclined his head politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Prince Endymion,” he said, though his tone was measured, and his eyes betrayed his wariness. Kunzite then turned to the Starlights and said, “And this is Prince Endymion of Earth, my sovereign and the royal Prince of our planet.” Endymion inclined his head toward the trio, his voice calm and steady as he addressed them. “It is an honor to meet you all. Your reputation precedes you.” The formalities did little to ease the tension, and the protective stance of the Starlights remained firm. Serenity, sensing the growing strain in the room, took a step forward, placing a hand lightly on Seiya’s arm. “Stop,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected strength that silenced the room. The Starlights fell still, their gazes snapping to her, their postures brimming with protective energy. Serenity, however, focused entirely on Seiya, her fingers resting against his arm. Beneath her touch, she could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the quiet battle he was waging to hold himself back. His resolve was palpable, his stance rigid with barely contained emotion. For a moment, she wondered if he might pull away—if her gesture would only harden his resolve. But as her hand lingered, she felt the slightest shift, a flicker of something softer beneath the surface. Though he didn’t move, she sensed how hard this moment was for him, how deeply it cost him to step aside, even if only for her sake. Her voice softened as she looked up at him, her silver eyes steady. “It’s okay, Seiya. I’ll be all right.” Seiya’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes flicking between her and Endymion. For a fleeting second, his gaze softened under her touch, but the tension returned just as quickly, his protective instincts refusing to relent. He didn’t speak, but his silence carried an unspoken promise: he wouldn’t stop her, but he wasn’t standing down completely. Serenity turned back to Endymion, her hand slipping away from Seiya’s arm as her focus shifted. Her silver eyes searched Endymion’s face, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry her words. “I… I don’t know why, but… when I look at you, I feel like I should know you. Like there’s something I’ve lost, and you’re part of it.” Endymion’s expression softened further, and he took one more step toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’re not lost,” he said quietly, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “You’re here. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help you remember.” The sincerity in his voice was undeniable, and it sent a faint tremor through Serenity’s heart. Her silver lashes fluttered, and her fingers twitched slightly as though she wanted to reach out, but uncertainty rooted her in place. Her chest tightened with a mixture of fear and hope, emotions she couldn’t fully explain. She wanted to trust him, to believe in the warmth she felt when he spoke, but the unknown loomed large, casting long shadows over her fragile courage. Seiya, standing just behind her, clenched his fists at his sides. He exchanged a glance with Taiki and Yaten, his eyes simmering with barely restrained frustration. “Luna,” he said, using the name they had given her. His voice was quiet but firm, laced with a protectiveness that refused to waver. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Remember that.” Serenity turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting his. The weight of his concern filled the air between them, and for a moment, she hesitated. But then she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know.” Her hands tightened slightly at her sides before she looked back at Endymion, her expression shifting with quiet determination. “But… I want to try.” The words cost her something, as though she were stepping into an uncharted sea. For a fleeting second, doubt clouded her eyes, but the warmth in Endymion’s gaze steadied her resolve. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the way he looked at her—with patience, understanding, and something deeper—spoke volumes. Endymion held her gaze for a long moment before finally bowing slightly. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was steady, but there was a quiet emotion in his words that spoke volumes. Kunzite, sensing the tension still lingering in the room, stepped forward to diffuse it. “Perhaps it would be best to give them some space,” he suggested, his tone even as his sharp eyes flicked toward the Starlights. Seiya’s eyes narrowed, his gaze locking on Kunzite with unmistakable suspicion. He looked like he wanted to argue, but before he could speak, Taiki placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture both grounding and cautioning. “For now,” Taiki said cautiously, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his own reservations. “But we’re not going far.” Yaten, standing a few steps behind them, crossed his arms and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Kunzite and Endymion to hear. “Don’t think we’re letting our guard down.” Endymion didn’t respond directly, though his sharp blue eyes flicked to Yaten with a calm, unreadable expression. There was no malice in his gaze, only an unshakable confidence that seemed to rankle the silver-haired Starlight further. As the Starlights reluctantly began to retreat, Seiya lingered a moment longer. His dark eyes locked onto Endymion’s, and the charged silence between them felt like a battle of wills. There was no mistaking the message in Seiya’s gaze: I’m not going anywhere. Don’t think for a second you’ve won her trust—or mine. Endymion met his stare evenly, his composure unbroken. Though he didn’t say a word, his presence alone seemed to answer the challenge: I’m not here to compete. I’m here for her. Finally, Seiya exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line as he turned and followed the others to the far side of the room. But even as he retreated, his sharp gaze never left Serenity’s side. Serenity, sensing the tension that still simmered beneath the surface, turned her focus back to Endymion. Though uncertainty lingered in her heart, there was also a flicker of something new—something that felt like hope. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady the storm inside her, and for a brief moment, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Mr. Darcy’s offer was very well received, but by none more so than Mrs. Bennet, who, in the weeks leading up to her daughter’s departure, spoke of the benefits of the arrangement over and over. “If we can maintain the relationship for 5 years, that’s £ 1000. Lizzy would be 16 and would definitely need to come out at that point, but imagine, each girl would have £ 200 added to their dowery.” Mrs. Bennet had squealed with delight. “We might as well have had a whole extra daughter at that point and be in just as poor a position as we are now.” Mr. Bennet mused, not looking up from his reading. “Don’t joke, Mr. Bennet. Oh, oh, oh. Perhaps Lydia could go then for another five years and another £ 1,000. Oh, we should suggest it. Lydia would be much better suited; she is so much closer in age to Miss Darcy.” “Mr. Darcy did not request Lydia, my dear, and we don’t even know that Lizzy will make it through the first month, let alone the first year of this arrangement.” Having, after long anticipation, arrived at her destination, she found herself considerably nervous. She had never been on a trip without her sisters for longer than a week. And now she wouldn’t see any of them again until the Christmas season. To comfort herself, she lightly rubbed her arms through the sleeve of her new green heavy silk jacket. Mr. Darcy had suggested that the fabric might be made into a dress, but there was more than enough fabric for two adult dresses. Mrs. Bennet pushed the fabric to its utmost limit, making the popular round dress for both Lydia and Kitty, and a jacket each for Mary Jane and Lizzy. With what little extra there was, Elizabeth also got a walking bonnet as the fabric was a gift to her. She now wore both the jacket and matching bonnet, as her mother had instructed, so Mr. Darcy could see that the gift had been put to good use. “Mr. Darcy is currently in his office, and Miss Darcy is engaged with her studies. We can show Miss Bennet to her room now, and then she has been invited to have supper with the family.” The maid gestured into the building and up to the main staircase to her room. Placing the bag of personal items she had carried with her on the bed, she waffled about whether or not to remove her bonnet. It would be strange to continue to wear it inside, but she had not yet completed her intended purpose by wearing it. Looking about the room and finding she had been left alone while the servants went to collect the rest of her belongings, she decided to take a walk outside. Choosing not to journey too far, Elizabeth walked around the edge of the estate proper. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. Cresting around the left corner of the building, Elizabeth saw a white circular gazebo with a domed glass roof that could not be seen from the road. Approaching the structure, Elizabeth saw it was well placed to both host others decorated by the splendour of the grounds’ natural beauty or to enjoy an afternoon in solitude. “Miss Bennet?” A man’s voice called out with both question and authority. Whirling around, Elizabeth looked where she had come from but saw no one. “Look up,” following the voice’s terse instruction, Elizabeth tilted her head towards the upper floors of Pemberley to find Mr. Darcy holding open a 3rd-floor window and looking down at her with a severe frown. “Are you alone?” “Yes, Sir,” She responded quickly and began wringing her hands. “Don’t move. I will come down to you.” With that, he closed the window and disappeared. Elizabeth felt her face grow hot and pressure begin to well in her eyes. She was distressed, believing that she had already upset Mr. Darcy before her belongings had all been carried into the house. After a short while, Mr. Darcy appeared with a proper coat, top hat and walking stick. “Greetings, Miss Bennet.” “Greetings, Mr. Darcy.” She gave him a small curtsy, too anxious to meet his eyes. “When did you arrive?” He asked, coming to a stop in front of her. “Within the quarter hour.” “Ahhh, that explains it.” Risking a look up, she saw the tense expression fall from his face. “Mrs. Reynolds had not made it to you before you began your rambling then.” “No, Sir.” Seeing his change in demeanour, Elizabeth felt a little more at ease. “She is to give you a tour of the estate on your arrival, which would bring you past my office. I found myself concerned that the staff had neglected you.” “I apologize, I did not intend to cause concern.” She bowed her head, the heat returning to her face. Mr. Darcy let out a light chuckle. “Oh dear, you cannot let this old man’s scary face cause you undo worry. You have done nothing wrong. But if you do not mind, shall we return so that Mrs. Reynolds does not worry over your absence?” Gesturing her back in the direction she had come, he met her pace. While he appeared comfortable walking in silence, it was stifling to Elizabeth. “It is a beautiful gazebo.” She offered. “Why, thank you.” He nodded to her appreciatively, “I had it built in the style of the Monopteros at Stowe Gardens in Buckinghamshire as a wedding gift to the late Miss Darcy.” “Ahh... It is quite lucky that you were passing by and saw me from the window.” He chuckled at her words, and the first wide smile she had seen him give crossed his face. “I assure you it was no matter of luck.” Meeting her eyes with a cheeky look of pride, he offered, “I had the gazebo placed so that it was perfectly situated to be seen through the view of my office window. I took great pleasure in seeing my Anne arrive at it every day to enjoy the grounds. A compromise over the fact that I could not constantly be by her side.” “How very romantic,” Elizabeth sighed wistfully, earning another chuckle from the gentleman. “Yes, I was quite fortunate that way... Ahhh, Mrs. Reynolds.” Mr. Darcy bowed to the housekeeper, who was approaching them quickly. “If you would excuse me, Miss Bennet, I believe you will be in good hands.” “Of course.” She offered a light curtsy and followed Mrs. Reynolds. Throughout their tour, she discovered that her room was in the family quarters beside Georgiana’s, where a third child might have slept if the Darcys had had one. More excitingly, there was a family library across the hall from her room. While nothing in comparison to the grand library off the second parlour, it still held eight floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a large desk in the center with a comfortable armchair. Dinner commenced in one of the smaller dining rooms. Like her own parents, Mr. Darcy chose to eat with his children. But unlike her own family, they did so in complete unrestrained silence. Holding her own soup spoon aloft, she brazenly looked back and forth between Georgianna and Mr. Darcy, both of whom ate their soup in quiet contemplation without ever looking up from their respective bowl. Elizabeth felt she may as well burst out in song, for embarrassing herself would be preferable to suffocating in the unending quiet. “I understand you had a pianoforte lesson today, Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth offered a wide smile to the girl, who looked up at her, startled, but then turned her eyes back to her bowl as she nodded. “Georgiana has shown great promise on the pianoforte for her age.” Mr. Darcy supplied. Elizabeth saw that he was watching Georgianna as he spoke, probably hoping to see some early improvement in her condition after being provided with a playmate. “How wonderful. Are you still learning scales, or have you started learning any songs?” Georgiana stirred her soup idly and didn’t look up as she spoke. “I am learning, Tempest adest Floridum.” “The flower carol! That is very impressive indeed.” While Georgiana did not respond, she did smile, which Elizabeth found reassuring. “I believe,” Mr. Darcy added with an encouraging look, “She is learning this piece as a gift.” “Oh?” Elizabeth added to the prompting. “For FitzWilliam. My teacher thought it would be nice to play it for his birthday.” Georgianna sat a little bit taller. “That would be lovely. Perhaps next year, you might consider performing it for my birthday as well. I would very much enjoy that.” “Has your birthday passed for this year?” Mr Darcy raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Just three days passed.” Elizabeth said jovially, not expecting the adverse reaction she would receive from her dining mates. “Oh no”/“Oh dear, you would have been travelling” “Oh, that’s quite all right, my sisters and I celebrated in advance. For each of our birthdays, we all get together and bake the celebrated sister’s favourite dessert. We made fruit pudding pies, and I’m proud to say they were delectable.” Mr. Darcy shook his head, clearly finding this unacceptable. “We will have to find a way to make it up to you.” “Perhaps,” Georgiana offered so quietly that both others at the table remained still, not to scare her into stopping. “We could also make desserts together, so you get to celebrate twice?” “I would love to, Miss Darcy, thank you for offering.” Elizabeth made her way to bed after dinner, both satisfied in her stomach as well as her heart. Georgiana had shown little outward favour towards her, but her offer proved to Elizabeth that she was merely shy and anxious about overstepping, so she remained stoic. Making their way to the kitchen, the very next day, the cook walked them through the process of making chocolate tarts that were much more decadent than anything Elizabeth had made for any of her sisters’ birthdays. Georgiana seemed most interested in Elizabeth’s relationships with her sisters, so she indulged the younger girl with stories of how they went about their days. “You sleep in the same bed.” “Sometimes. If it has gotten late, we need to be very quiet if we want to keep talking. That's easier to do noes to noes than from across the room.” “Oh,” Georgiana looked pensive on this matter. Smiling Elizabeth offered her the mixing spoon with the last of the chocolate custard clinging to it. “We could have a sleepover at some point if you would like.” Georgiana’s large blue eyes turned expectantly on Elizabeth. “Tonight?” “If you would like to, I don’t see why not.” The excitement of Elizabeth’s presence in her room was exhilarating. It even resulted in some giggling, but it was not strong enough in comparison to the exhaustion experienced by a growing six-year-old. When she invited Elizabeth back the next night, Elizabeth collected a book from the library first so that when Georgiana dozed off as the first stars were making their presence known in the sky, she would have something to entertain herself. She had selected Much Ado about Nothing, her favourite of Shakespeare’s comedies. As she turned the page to begin act three, when all of the hijinks and tomfoolery truly started in earnest, a neatly sliced quarter of a page fell out and onto her lap. At the top of the strip, a neat, broad hand has spelled out. An entirely superfluous play. May be disregarded for the enhanced but materially indifferent version, Taming of the Shrew. Elizabeth guffawed indignantly at the strip of paper. Careful not to wake Georgiana, she snuck out of bed and made her way to the family library. Opening the top drawer of the desk, she found writing instruments as well as 20 more blank strips of paper. Writing tightly to fit all her thoughts in below the note, she added. Much Ado About Nothing was penned after Taming of the Shrew. Precisely why Beatrice is a more well-rounded character than Katherine, she is respected as an equal to Benedict in wit and standing, unlike Pertchio, who is a fortune hunter and treats Kate as a conquest. After waiting for her note to dry, she slipped it back into the page it had fallen from, but instead of having it fully enclosed by the book, she allowed the tail edge to stick out so that whoever had written the note would see her writing at the end. She then chose to leave the book on the upper left corner of the desk before returning to Georgiana. Elizabeth began sitting in on Georgiana's classes the next day. While to a varying degree, the teachers were able to aptly balance the differing needs of the 12-year-old, who was new to the topics, and the 6-year-old, who, although learning at a slower and simpler pace, had been at it for a while. Chatting comfortably at breakfast in the third week of her stay about their classes, Georgiana and Elizabeth's attentions were called to Mr. Darcy as he cleared his throat. "I am sorry to interrupt, but I have a question I'd like to address to Miss Bennet before you go about your day." He looked very seriously at her. Elizabeth nodded for him to continue as her palms immediately began to feel sweaty. "I have been informed that you haven't been sleeping in your bedroom. Is this correct?" He creased his brow "Oh... uh, yes. Yes, that is correct." Georgiana had expressed her desire to have Elizabeth sleep with her every night, and seeing no harm given the large size of the bed, Elizabeth had obliged. "And you've been sleeping in Georgiana's room?" Running her sweaty hands down her thighs, she nodded again. "Is that a problem?" "Don't blame Miss Bennet, father. I asked her to sleep with me. It's my fault." Georgiana burst out in a worried pout on her face. Holding his hands out defensively, he turned back and forth between them, attempting to calm both girls. "It is not a problem. No one is at fault. I am merely clarifying." After assessing them both for a moment, he continued. "That being said. You are both growing and in lessons. Sleeping well is essential. So let's set boundaries that you only share a bed once a week." "Twice," Georgiana spouted, catching them both by surprise. "Twice?" Her father looked at her. "Twice a week," Georgiana stated emphatically again before slightly losing her nerve. "But perhaps not every week. Maybe every other week." "So," Mr. Darcy brought a finger to his lips to portray contemplation, but Elizabeth could see him fighting a smile. "You are suggesting that on even weeks you may share a bed twice, but on odd weeks only once. Do I understand your proposition?" Georgiana's eyebrows danced slightly in uncertainty. "Um, Yes." "I am amenable to this. Enjoy your lessons, girls. I will see you at dinner." Turning away from them in quick succession to leave the room, Elizabeth was sure he was attempting to hide his delight at the adorable manner in which his six-year-old had argued her side. Typically, such a timid child, Elizabeth suspected Georgiana had never so much as reached for a sweet that had not already been offered to her. Elizabeth plastered on a smile for Georgiana’s sake as they moved towards their lesson, but her emotions stewed inside her. Of course, she should have known not to overindulge Georgiana’s every whim. Her breath felt slightly more laboured, considering that she had been hired to help with Georgiana’s development, not to placate her every whim. While Elizabeth was nothing more than one of the many daughters of a rural noble, of course, what she would feel comfortable with would not be suitable for someone who would be a fine lady of the Ton. Moving from fall into the cusps of winter, Elizabeth found fewer opportunities to walk the ground with Georgiana or even partake in the small bit of horseback riding they had learned and was turning more and more to the family library for entertainment. As she made her way through the library, more of the quarter-page strips of paper would fall into her lap. She found herself agreeing with the short descriptions of the books' contents more often than not, but would still pen her own responses from time to time. At first, she was sad that some of her favourite books, like Gulliver's Travels, had no notes in them until she realized that they were bookmarks with reminders of the contents, and a lack of a bookmark could mean the author of the reviews had not made it to the book as of yet or had found it satisfying enough to make it to the end. So she began to tuck her own notes into the back pages of the best books, just for the joy of it. One particularly cold evening, Elizabeth brought a throw blanket from her bed and curled up by the fire in the library, as the desk and armchair were too far for her liking. Upon opening the book Clarissa for the first time, a note fell onto the floor from the very first page. Never allow Georgie to read this book! The lesson that women should endure undue hardships and then accept inferior men is a terrible lesson. Smiling at the note. She undid herself from the bundle and put the book back on the shelf, selecting Robinson Crusoe instead. It was an excellent book, and as the night drew on, she knew she should put it down and return to her room, but she just wanted to push through to the end of the chapter…. . .. … "What do you mean you don't know where she is!" A deep, angry voice of a man just short of losing his temper caused Elizabeth's eyes to flutter open. "I'm sorry, sir, when she wasn't in her bed this morning, I assumed she had chosen to sleep with Miss Darcy again." With a slight gasp of realization, Elizabeth's head shot up from where it had been resting, half on the cold floor and half on the hard cover of Robinson Crusoe's open pages. Her candle sat beside her, burnt out and unneeded, as the sun was coming in strong through the windows. It was probably after the time Elizabeth and the Darcys would have finished breaking their fast. Leaping up, she couldn't hear the sound of her bare feet slapping the floor for the pulse of the blood in her ears as she ran through the door of the library and wrenched it open. Bursting out into the hallway, Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy and Anne, the maid who assisted her in the mornings, both jump in surprise before relaxing slightly. Lost for words and still gaining her bearings from just waking, Elizabeth pulled nervously at the blanket, which was still draped over her shoulders. In her rush to fix the problem of her being missing, she had shown herself quite improperly, both barefoot and still in her nightgown. Mr. Darcy sighed, and Elizabeth trained her eyes on the floor as he approached her. 'What must he think of me?' "Ahh, Miss Bennet, you were missed at breakfast." Surprisingly, he lightly pinched her chin between his fingers and lifted her face up and to the right. "It must have been an excellent book." With an extra well of emotion, Elizabeth realized the imprint of the Robinson Crusoe pages must have indented on her face. With further mortification, Elizabeth attempted to respond in the affirmative but found her voice choked out and merely nodded. Taking her shoulders in his hand, Mr. Darcy did something he had never done and crouched to be on eye level with her. "Elizabeth, are you alright? Whatever is the matter, child?" Both the use of her Christian name for the first time in months and small physical comfort were Elizabeth's undoing; she began to cry. Attempting to stop it only caused her to sob, sounding like she was choking around her words. "I am ... So Sorry. I .... have been ... nothing but a problem f.o..for for you!" Shaking his head, Mr. Darcy was slightly aghast. "How have you come to such a conclusion. I have not considered you a problem for one minute of your stay." "I go places I sh..sh..shouldn't and cause you such worry." She gestured around them at the moment they were in as if it proved her point, "And I am a poor in.. influence on Miss Darcy." "Oh, Child." He pulled her into a hug, trapping her arms by her sides. Despite herself, she let her head lean against his shoulder, "You are paying me.. me to help her and and and I keep causing issues" "Is that what this is about." He pulled back to make eye contact with her again. "Elizabeth, I am paying to recompense you for the inconvenience of your not being in the comfort of your own home. I was not intending for you to feel like you had been given a job to fulfil. You could be teaching Georgiana naughty words and how best to catapult food from the silverware, and I would consider every pence worth it for the companionship you have provided her." Elizabeth dropped her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, child, it is I who owes you an apology. I can see that despite my best intentions, I have burdened a third child with anxiety and seeded an unnecessary pressure to perform." She looked up to contest this but stopped at the earnestness with which he met her eyes. "I want you to feel at home. If you need alone time from Georgiana, take it! If you wish to explore every backroom and ditch of Pemberley, enjoy. It is yours to discover. I hope to have you with us for so many years as both my daughter and I adore your company, and I would be remiss to know you have experienced it all, feeling stifled. Having calmed considerably, Elizabeth finally stopped shaking her head and, with a bit of a forced smile, nodded at him. He gave her one last hug before standing up and stepping back. "I hope you will come to think of me like a family member. An uncle you come to visit in the fall." "Uhm, Mister Darcy?" She spoke quietly, still not having faith in her voice. "Yes, Miss Bennet." Looking at him, she saw genuine care and patience in his eyes. "My family tends to call me Lizzy." He checked, quirked up in his signature smile at that. "I would be delighted to call you Lizzy. Imagine how jealous Georgie will be when she realizes I get to do it first. Georgiana was, in fact, very jealous, but it was not long before she shared the same right. Elizabeth gained confidence in her position as a member of the household and not the staff. She started taking the walks that were too strenuous on Georgiana and other little respites for herself. Elizabeth did her best not to fall asleep in the library again, but it happened again the following week. The family and staff appeared to respect this reality, and small changes happened over time. The traditional candle holders were replaced with closed glass lanterns so that her candles may burn out safely. And then a runner carpet from the doorway to desk so that her feet never touch the cold bear floor. Finally a large armchair pointed towards the fireplace with a basket of blankets beside it. By the time the fall semester had ended Elizabeth was quite sad to go. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Jaime I The flames from the brazier cast a gloomy pale across the men who stood around the map table. The harsh light showing weathered faces and furrowed brows. Gods the last war council was much more cheery . Back then of course it was an invasion rather than a fight for survival. But then war should be like that, everything at stake with nothing held back. How else are you supposed to feel alive? Jaime looked down the tent, observing his father. Lord Tywin looked regal as he moved counters across the map table setting out dispositions for the upcoming battle. Clad in his riding clothes from the days march, the Warden of the West still looked alert and ready for a night of planning. Wish I felt the same. Jaime was bone weary from the ride and the endless drills his father was insisting on him doing to get him battle ready. They were all there. The principal commanders of the Lannister host. Lord Tywin, Kevan Lannister, Lord Harys Swyft, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Addam Marbrand, Jaime himself. Also present was the Captain-General of the Golden Company, Harry Strickland, who stood at attention, his amiable face looking on the map table as if trying to divine its purpose. His father looked up from the table. “It is confirmed?” Kevan Lannister nodded in confirmation. “It is my lord. The Young Wolf has returned to the field. The scouts report that they’ve seen his standard amongst the camp at Harrenhal.” Tywin grunted. “Excellent. A wounded man, straight from his sick bed, makes for an even better opponent for us.” “Surely he won’t command.” Lord Swyft asked, “If the Spider’s reports are accurate he was grievously injured at the Twins.” Jaime smiled, “It would seem that he wasn’t as injured as Roose Bolton and Walder Frey would have liked.” Tywin gave him a stern look before turning again to his brother. “Have scouts confirmed the numbers at Harrenhal?” His sibling looked wistful, “It’s hard to tell my lord. As you well know the castle itself makes any force look small, though it appears teeming with men and Harrenstown is full of soldiers.” “A number?” Tywin snapped irritably, looking back down over the map. Kevan watched his brother closely. “Close to twenty thousand men.” “As we suspected,” Tywin stated, nodding firmly, “The Stark boy must have emptied the riverlands and southern parts of the north to field so many men.” “Yes my lord,” Kevan agreed, “We defeat them here and their entire border will collapse.” “As easy as that uncle?” Jaime spoke up from his end of the table, “Just the small matter of defeating an army tens of thousands strong.” “Your tone is not appreciated.” His father said not looking up from the table. Neither is this little excursion. I’d rather be back in the capital with Cersei. “It is unlikely Robb Stark will attack.” Kevan said cautiously, “He must have sent for aid from his other hosts. It’s only a matter of time before they reinforce.” And then we’ll be fucked. A Tyrell army must be on the way from the Westerlands as we speak. “Naturally,” Tywin said looking at his brother, “Which is why we must force the boy to engage now with what he has.” Jaime could see his uncle shift uncomfortably. “It’s still a risk to engage an army with almost equal numbers.” “It is,” Tywin allowed, “However, the Starks only think we’re on equal ground. We have received word from Littlefinger. His army is through the Bloody Gate and marching south at pace. He will be over the Trident by noon tomorrow. All being well he should be ready to engage the Starks from behind as soon as possible.” We’re putting out trust in that little whore-monger? Really? “Now,” Tywin went on, “To business. I have decided on our order of battle gentlemen.” The matter of Petyr Baelish’s loyalty forgotten, Jaime could feel the crowd getting closer to the table, gazing intently at the large piece of parchment. The level of anticipation rose. “It is likely that the Young Wolf will march to a defensive position here.” Lord Tywin marked the map, “Two leagues east of Harrenhal. It is the only incline that is south facing and can fan his men out for quite some distance.” Jaime looked. It’s a good place, Stark will have Harrenhal to the west and rivers and hills to the east. “It presents problems with flanking.” Tywin said, “But flanking is what we must do to win this battle. The ultimate aim is to push the Stark host back and trap it against the water of the Gods Eye if at all possible. Failing that we must engage and destroy the flanks before smashing the centre.” The lords looked up at their leader some nervously but others with a curious look. Clegane’s face was inscrutable. “We will deploy here,” Tywin said, marking the map. “Half a league south on another rise directly opposite the enemy. There is nothing but flat lowland in the middle ground. It is not good defensive ground but it will serve as a starting point.” And to afford you a good view of the battle so that you can sit on high and watch us dance to your tune. “As to the order of battle.” Tywin stated, as he moved his finger, “Kevan, you will take the west flank with your host.” He looked at his brother, “You are to sit astride the Kings road until called upon. At which point you will march as already discussed” “What of the woods to the west of the Kings Road my lord?” Kevan asked, “Scouts report a thick amount of foliage between the road and the water of the Gods Eye.” A small nod from Lord Tywin, “You will send scouts into the woods making sure it is devoid of enemy forces before proceeding.” “We can assist you there,” Harry Strickland spoke from off to one side, “We have a number of experienced scouts who could serve. They’d be happy to help earn their keep.” “Your ‘keep’ will be earnt many times over." Tywin Lannister declared looking emotionlessly at the sellsword commander. Strickland nodded solemnly and stepped back slightly under the disconcerting gaze of the head of House Lannister. How did that one ever become the commander of a Sellsword Company? “Your assistance, would be most welcome." Kevan said with a slight smile. “Very well,” allowed his brother,” But twenty men at most. The Golden Company is needed elsewhere.” “My lord,” answered Harry Strickland, bowing slightly. “I will be in the centre.” Jaime’s father claimed, putting his own marker in the middle of the patch of ground. “With the majority of our foot. Clegane, you will take your reavers and occupy the ground between myself and Ser Kevan.” He looked intently at the Mountain. “You are not to move from your position until I signal.” “Yes, my lord,” grumbled the monstrous knight. Lord Tywin kept his eyes on the Mountain for a moment to make sure he had understood, then he looked around at Jaime. “My son has the outmost eastern division with Ser Addam between him and my host. While they will have units of food their hosts will be made up mostly of mounted knights. Your role, when I issue the order, is to strike the Stark flank in the east. You’ll hit them head on with your foot and hit the uppermost eastern flank with your cavalry.” Addam Marbrand and Jaime Lannister nodded soberly. It will be a bloody business. Stark isn’t likely to put mere farmhands on his left flank. “You, Strickland,” Tywin said, turning his eyes on the Sellsword commander, “Will peel off and head south, back the way you came.” “My lord?” Strickland looked confused. I don’t blame him. “You will ride about half a league south and then cut east towards Maidenpool.” Lord Tywin traced the route as he spoke. “After you’ve headed about five leagues in that direction, probably when you can spot the Trident, you’ll change direction and head north.” Jaime’s father continued to move a cold coin representing the sellsword company across the map in a northern direction headed towards Saltpans. Strickland nodded, concentrating hard. “When you see that my son and his host have engaged the eastern flank you will finish the small circuit,” Tywin moved the coin to the back of the ridge on which he had said it was likely that the enemy would deploy, “And then-” he moved the counted directly southwards, “-you take them from behind.” The eastern flank will be hopelessly trapped by two forces, crushed from each side. “Why not have my force perform the encirclement?” Jaime asked curiously. Don’t you trust me to carry out you commands father? Tywin Lannister looked at him, “The enemy will be looking for you on the battlefield. If their scouts can’t find you then, they will know something is amiss.” And the key to the plan is to take them unaware . Jaime reasoned. Fair enough. “Surely when he sees the threat to the east Stark will reinforce the flank?” Kevan pointed out as he indicated the spot on the map. “They will try.” Lord Tywin said with the smallest hint of a smile. “That is where my force comes into play….” Later that evening Jaime stumbled back towards his tent. He ached and was tired. He had done his duty and listened carefully and now all he wanted to do was sleep. Except he didn’t. Not really. If I sleep I’ll dream of Cersei and I don’t want that. Not at all. He had dreamed of her almost every night of his long captivity with the Starks. Night after night he had thought of his sister and wished, almost prayed, to the gods that he might be released so that he might return to her. When he had been freed, as welcome an event as it had been unexpected, Jaime had rode south as hard as he could, flashing past Harrenhal as if the huge dilapidated fortress was nothing more than a speck in his vision. He only had eyes for Kings Landing and the sight of his love. He could think of nothing better than to spend a night in his arms. Robert Baratheon was dead, Joffrey was King. My son, not that I’ll ever acknowledge him as such . There would be no need for the kind of precautions they had had before. They would almost be free. He had spent hours on his horse willing the towers of Kings Landing to appear ahead of him. He could have wept when he saw the city, not believing that paradise itself could look so sweet. Now he was grateful that his father had use for him elsewhere. Something had changed within his sister, though he was damned if her could determine what that was. Cersei had always been self-centred, in some ways he had found it charming, but now it had reached ridiculous levels. Their first night back together and all she could discuss in between their trysts was how she was overlooked and slighted by the other members of their family. Father didn’t appreciate her, Tyrion mocked and belittled her every chance he got. Joffrey didn’t listen to her. Power had been taken from her bit by bit and she suspected that their little brother was the culprit. He had kept quiet, merely listening. She has never liked him, nothing I can say will change that now. However, it seemed worse than before. Not only did she rage against their little brother but she also espoused fears of the return of Daenerys Targaryen. Some nonsense about a prophecy she had received when she was young. Jaime could hardly credit it. Cersei Lannister, the would-be Queen of the realm was scared of some doddery old witch’s ramblings. It hardly seemed credible. But that was nothing compared to the looks she gave him. Cersei may always have been preoccupied with power and status, bored him to tears with long speeches on how she could do better if she were but given the chance but, her one saving grace, was that her lust and desire were ever present. No matter what had happened before, he forgot it all when she got that look in her eye and welcomed him with the warmth of her body. She had always had the look of desire for him that had not dimmed over their many years together. Now though, things were different. Cersei fought to hide it but she no longer hungered for him as she did before. On more than one occasion he had seen a look of boredom, maybe even disgust cross her face when they were together. Looking at himself objectively, Jaime could allow that he was not the golden knight he had been before he was captured, months in a dirty pen with no exercise and scant food will do that , but it hurt him to see the look of reluctance behind his sister’s eyes when they coupled. He and thrown himself into his training in an attempt to regain the same fitness and health he had had before but, if he was honest with himself, he harboured a secret doubt that Cersei would ever look at him the way she used to. What am I without her? Do I even know? It was all so complicated. Jaime reached his tent, he paused at the entrance as he looked round the camp. He smiled slightly. They’ll be a big battle tomorrow, nothing more simplistic then that. There was honour and glory to be won. In war anything is possible. He sighed, as he stepped inside his tent. Maybe I’ll even make Cersei love me again. Robb I The lords filed out of the chamber. They did not talk nor really acknowledge one another, each one was too preoccupied with thoughts of the day ahead. The king felt he was alone and then he saw her standing by the corner. “My queen?” He asked quietly, “You do not approve of our plans?” “ Our plans?” She asked as she let her hand idly play with a wood block figurine shaped liked a direwolf. “They’re our plans now?” “You disagree with the...strategy?” Margaery looked over the map. “Is really readying for battle the best course?” The king looked at her surprised, “I don’t think our issues with the Lannisters will be resolved by negotiation if that’s what you mean.” The queen shot him a wry look, “That’s not what I mean and you well know it. Why do we have to engage them at all on the battlefield? We have the riverlords, we can hold Harrenhal in a siege or pull back to Riverrun.” “I will not abandon the southern parts of the Riverlands to destruction.” Robb declared. Margaery looked anxious, “It will not be for long. Lord Tarly will be on his way, as well as reinforcements from the Neck. We only need to hold out a small while and we will have double their numbers – easily.” “Harrenhal cannot be held.” Robb stated looking at the map. “Doubtless we have the men to hold out indefinitely and Harrenhal can well accommodate our numbers but where are we to get the food from? We have a host of roughly twenty thousand men. We’ll starve.” He indicated the map. “And pulling back to wait for reinforcements will leave the smallfolk vulnerable.” “A battle has so many risks.” Margaery said eyeing him angrily, “For everyone involved.” Ah, there we are . Robb quickly glanced at the door to check it was closed as he sat back stiffly in the chair, “Am I about to be reprimanded by my lady wife?” Humour flashed through Margaery’s eyes but she quickly hid it from the king. She lifted the figurine. “Is it not my role to reprimand my husband when he is doing something idiotic?” “Of course,” Robb said slowly, careful to avoid the obvious trap, “But I maintain that this is the best way to counter the Lannister threat.” His wife looked at him exasperated. “I can accept that we must do battle and I am all in favour of destroying the Lannister army. My hesitation now is on why you have to be the one to lead the effort.” Now it was Robb’s turn to look askance. “Margaery, I have to be seen at the front.” Margaery rolled her eyes. “Absurd northern honour,” she muttered, tossing the figurine onto the map table. His eyes flashed angrily, “And was it absurd when you executed the Frey’s personally for their actions at my uncles wedding?” She regarded him with anger in her eyes. “I did what was necessary.” “As do I.” Robb retorted, he paused for a moment and then sighed, “My love, I promise you, I will take every precaution but I must be with my soldiers. My father always said that you should know your men, so that they should never be asked to fight for a stranger. He was right, as he so often was about men in war. Seeing me in the middle of the battle will encourage men to fight, give them heart.” Slowly, he rose from his chair and stood before her unaided. “As you can see, my strength is returning. I will soon be my old self again.” “But not soon enough,” Margaery argued, tears welling in her eyes. “Robb you can barely get out of a chair,” she paused, breathing slowly, “I don’t doubt your ability. I saw you in the hall of the Twins. I’ve never seen the like for bravery and skill. But you’re injured, I know you feel it good sense to lead but, please, for me, find someone else to command.” Robb came towards her, pulling her into an embrace, “There is no one else. I am the leader of the army. I must lead. I may not be as strong as I was a few weeks ago but I have strength enough for this.” Her head jerked away from his chest. “And if you should fall?” Margaery asked fiercely, displaying her secret fear, “What becomes of us then?” Robb found he had no real solace to give her but he tried to be placating. “I have left decrees at Riverrun with the Grand Maester. Preparations have been made.” “That isn’t want I meant!” Margaery said angrily, “I don’t want to lose you.” “I don’t want to leave,” Robb said gently, “But, at times, things have to be faced. The Lannisters must be fought. However, should I fall, the kingdom must go on.” The queen sighed, shaking her head to dispel the thought. She nestled into his chest, trying to stop her tears as he stoked her long hair. After a long moment she looked up again, “Is Jon Snow to be Regent?” Robb chuckled, “No my love. You are.” Her eyes widened. “Robb,” she breathed. “Do you mean it?” “Aye,” He replied, moving back to hold her at arm’s length. “It is my command that you are to hold the kingdom as Regent until our child comes of age. I would like to think you’ll ask Jon to re-join the family, despite what my mother may think, but the decision will be yours to make should the worst happen.” She looked quizzically at him, “Why? Before the wedding you were insistent on Jon becoming regent.” Robb nodded slowly, “That was before. I have spoken to my mother, Ser Brynden and even Lord Forrester about events that occurred while I was….indisposed. They all agree you acquitted yourself most admirably.” He smiled, though it was tinged with sadness, “Not so long ago I argued that you should trust me more. Well, trust is a double edged sword. It cuts both ways. I know now that you would be a fine ruler,” Robb looked into her eyes. “The kingdom couldn’t hope for better.” “Will the lords accept it?” Margaery asked swallowing. “Before I was incapacitated, perhaps not,” Robb replied. “However, your work in my absence has been phenomenal. It was you who held the kingdom together. Practically speaking you already had the Reach behind you. I’m now told that you’ve won over the northmen.” “Because I hung all those people?” Margaery asked, shuddering at the memory. “Not just that.” Robb answered, “Of course the fact you were willing to execute them personally was to your credit, as horrible as such an action must have been. But it was the fact that you listened to all their last words one by one, not just to the pleas for clemency, but even to the insults and curses that really impressed my people.” “Pulling that lever again and again, was the hardest thing I have ever done.” Margaery said looking at Robb forlorn. “I don’t doubt it.” Her husband said kindly as he pulled her hands to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “With my mother and Ser Brynden in charge of the Riverlands I predict that they’ll be no opposition there. Besides, you saw Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken tonight, thick as thieves they are now and it’s partly down to you.” “I think it had more to do with the sacrifice of Lord Blackwood’s son.” “Perhaps,” Robb allowed. “But still the agreement between the old rivals is the talk of the riverlords. “I can’t imagine you will have any problems from that quarter.” Margaery looked at him intently. “You come back to me,” she touched her belly, “You come back to us . You hear me?” “As my queen commands,” the king bowed, smiling. “Believe me my love, Tywin Lannister isn’t big enough or mean enough to stop me.” Jaime II He sat on his white charger watching as his men trooped into position, several waves of mounted knight numbers in their thousands, supported by foot soldiers who came to rest behind them. They took their assigned position on the gentle rise overlooking the enemy emplacement. Satisfied they were in position Jaime looked to his left. There was Ser Addam Marbrand, sat atop his red courser at the head of his own mounted troops, his host only slightly smaller than Jaime’s own. He twisted in his saddle rising slightly in his stirrups to look get a better view of the hosts rear, In the distance he could see the mounted knights of the Golden Company riding off to the south at a casual pace, the sounds of the horses, of armoured men being carried by massive steeds, could no longer be heard as they sellsword group got ever and ever further away. Satisfied, Jaime turned back. The dawn had broken, the sun had started it exorable rise. There was a slight wind but no rain, for which the Kingslayer was extremely grateful. He could not imagine having to fight during bad weather. Bad enough to be in a battle without the elements conspiring against you . He checked the horizon. With the sun’s light chasing away the darkness he could see that the sky was relatively clear, calm and temperate. Well at least we’ll have the weather for it. He cast his eye over the force that had taken up its position across the plain. He saw mounted men and could make out flags that showing trees and various large animals. He smiled drily, old Maester Valeric would have beaten him for not being able to identify the houses of the enemy. That useless cunt. If he squinted he could just make out the heavy furs and chainmail that adorned his immediate foe. At a guess he surmised he was facing the northmen. Well that’s a shame, I was hoping for the riverlords. Would have been nice to pummel the Tully’s once again. Test my mettle against the Blackfish. He scanned the enemy line. There in the centre was the standard of the Young Wolf. A further glance told him that Robb Stark was on the front line, waiting patiently for his men to take their places. It was hard to miss the Stark boy, next to his mount was a large beast, sat quietly at the feet of its master’s horse. Jaime felt a slight shiver. He had encountered the monstrous animal before. Back when he was the guest of the Starks the Young Wolf had allowed his pet beast to enter the pen and threatened to feed him to it. Of course he’s never have had the guts for that. Far too honourable. In the centre of the Lannister line was the vast array of infantry that his lord father had gathered around himself. It does look impressive . Jaime allowed. Certainly more so than the Stark boy infantry that he has as part of his main host. He looked at the utmost left flank of the Lannister force. In the far reaches of his vision he could see the dull coloured scouts of the Golden Company cross the track of the King Road and make for the woods that shielded the army’s view of the Gods Eye. As he tracked their progress, Jaime reflected how moronic it was of Robb Stark not to pack the trees with his own men to attempt a flank attack. The scouts entered the woods. Jaime called to a herald and the men behind him. “Prepare to move out!” He heard the command begin to echo down the line. Now all they had to do was wait. Robb II The host loomed on the rise before him. It was by far the biggest army he had ever seen. And yet, for all that I am not afraid. He was surrounded by a host of soldiers made up of the three kingdoms he commanded. Northmen stood shoulder to shoulder with men of the Reach and Riverlands. While he had been tempted to have purely northmen around him, Robb knew it was crucial that he had men of all regions besides him that day. I am a leader of all three realms, not just the north. Of to his left was the northern forces, at least those that had arrived from the Neck in time for the battle. The southernmost units who had been urgently ordered south by Howland Reed when Robb’s raven had arrived. To Robb’s right, either side of the Kings Road was two hosts of rivermen, led by Lords Blackwood and Bracken. The two men sat at the head of their respective hosts awaiting commands. Directly on the rise some half a league distant sat Tywin Lannister on his magnificent horse, several ranks deep with the main body of his central host. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked resplendent in red crimson and with a dazzling golden helm that glittered in the early morning light. Odd for such a practical man to wear something that would so draw the attention of the soldiers. Granted it means your troops know where you are but it also attracts the notice of every enemy on the field. Doubtless the gold used to create such an impressive piece would allow a member of the smallfolk to feed his family for years. But of course, Robb knew, drawing attention was exactly what the Warden of the West wanted to do. He was letting Robb know exactly where he was, encouraging, goading, him to launch an assault on the centre. Doubtless Tywin Lannister thinks the heroic nobility of a mass charge at the enemy centre, to kill the aged old lion amongst his own men, would appeal to me. Vanquish the enemy from the field in one dazzling move. For a moment he let the desire to do just that wash over him. Gods it would be good, a song for the ages . Then he squashed the feeling. The young king knew how that would end. Lord Tywin would pull back his centre, drawing Robb’s forces into a trap and allowing the Lannister flanks to envelop their sides. Thank you for the kind offer, my lord, but no. Robb sat there watching. He would let Lord Tywin make the first move. Every second he delays means more time for reinforcements to come from the north and the Westerlands. It’s for Lord Tywin to make the first move. I can wait. A knight rode up and saluted. “Your grace, my father Lord Forrester reports he’s in position and ready to meet oncoming threats.” Robb jutted his head at the enemy. “Is he so sure Rodrik, now that he knows what’s he’s facing? That looks to be the Kingslayer ahead of him.” “My father is not concerned with the Kingslayer your grace,” Rodrik called out, loud enough for all the men in the front few ranks to hear. “I would expect not.” Robb agreed. “Does he believe he can carry out the plan?” Rodrik Forrester wheeled his mount, “My father bid me report that he has nothing else planned for this afternoon.” With a yell, he urged his horse into a gallop as he raced back the way he came. Robb chuckled along with his men, some laughed openly at the northern lord’s brazenness in the face of the enemy. Well, it’s up to the Lannisters to determine the next mov- Suddenly the herald nearest Tywin Lannister began to fly certain coloured flags. The sounds of horns filled the air…. Jaime III Finally! A quick swish of his clock swept the fabric over one shoulder, the better to give him access to his sword. He lightly tapped his capped boots into the side of his horse. The animal resisted for an instant and then trotted forward. Jaime heard his men fall in behind him as they rode forward. A glance to his left found Addam Marbrand and his host in step, moving in parallel to his own force. Jaime’s rode casually, allowing his men to stay in formation. After a few metres he urged his horse to the right, letting his men slowly keep pace behind him. Though he could no longer see he knew that Ser Addam was matching his movements. Another horn blast sounded. He couldn’t resist. Jaime looked over his shoulder to see Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain charging from the rise along with his five hundred reavers. The mounted men charged down the gentle slope and cantered at a terrifying pace towards the western flank of the enemy. He watched them go, envious of the fact that, for them, the wait was over and they now got to face the enemy. For Jaime and his men the wait would be a little longer. Robb III The king twisted his head to watch as the Mountains force rode hard towards the riverlanders, aiming for the force next to Robb’. He watched as Lord Blackwood ordered his cavalry to the flanks and rear of his own host and let his infantry forward. The warriors formed ranks, the front line sticking their spears into the ground at a forward angle, ready to repel the charge. Archers drew their shafts and loosed on the ongoing enemy. Robb saw a few fall but the rest carried on undaunted. The Mountains charge got closer and closer, Clegane was at the front of his men, clad in black plate mail, his massive sword whirling over his head as he drove his force on. Robb could feel a ripple of anticipation go through his own men as they stood and watched. Then, abruptly, the Mountain bellowed an order and the cavalry he commanded wheeled and went in another direction. To Robb’s astonishment the entire force did an about face and raced back to their own line. What by the gods? Suddenly Blackwood’s cavalry gave chase. Understanding dawned. He wants to draw in our horse. The Riverlands believe the Mountain’s fleeing and want to make a quick kill. It made sense, the Mountain had cut a bloody swath through the riverlands and doubtless there were many in the region who wanted revenge. Tywin Lannister had presented a perfect opportunity, the Mountain fleeing in fear and the riverlanders couldn’t resist. Several lines of mounted warriors raced after their attackers, some colliding into their allies in their haste. The king saw Blackwood yelling commands at his men, preventing them from charging and trying in vain to recall the men who had already left the safety of their line. Likewise Robb saw Lord Bracken struggle to control his own men. The Lord of Stone Hedge rode to the front of his men, screaming orders for the soldiers to stay where they were. After a terrifying moment the hosts stilled. But that did nothing to stop the few hundred men who had already slipped the net and were galloping after the Mountain. “Sound the recall!” Robb ordered his herald. The young lad quickly blew into the war horn, again and again the horn sounded. The rearmost ranks of the charging riverlanders slowed and turned in confusion. When they saw the flags ordering a return to the line the horsemen pulled away from the rest and headed back the way they’d come. Not so the rest. They blindly charged forward, almost catching their prey… Then the enemy archers took them. The front line went down, some taking direct hits or having their horses killed under them. The line behind couldn’t stop as they went thundering over their downed friends. With the leaders of the charge gone, the attack faltered. Another volley of arrows hit the men as they milled about trying to wrest control of their mounts, the ground around them became churned with mud. More men fell from their horses. Realising their mistake the riders who were still mounted began to retreat, they urged their horses back towards the safety of Robb’s line. Then another volley hit them and there was suddenly no one standing on the open field. Robb cursed to himself. About a hundred men dead for no discernible benefit. He looked at the men around him. The warriors were grim faced and gloomy. I can’t say I blame them. “Boy!” He beckoned to a waiting messenger. “Go at once to Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood. They are to control their damn cavalry. Any more of that and we’ll have nothing left to fight with.” “Your grace.” The messenger said as he rode away. The king was by himself, left to his own dark thoughts. Then his head turned to the east…. Jaime IV Gregor Clegane was almost back at the Lannister line. If Jaime was any judge then the huge knight would not have been happy they he had been required to retreat. One of Jaime’s lieutenants pointed towards the far east. “There my lord, the Golden Company!” In the distance Jaime observed a large group of mounted knights heading northwards. Evidently Strickland’s had gone south, turned east for a few leagues and then pushed north again. By now the scouts belonging to the northern host will have seen them too. As if in answer to his thought Jaime saw the mass column of north men begin to orientate to face the threat. He saw men began to peel away and form a separate line that was now east facing. Just as father predicted. “Men! This is out moment!” Jaime cried pulling his sword from its scabbard, “Charge!” The knights surged forward, picking up speed as their mounts went to the gallop. He felt his blood sing as his charger hit its stride and he all but flew across the field, his men struggling to keep up. He was headed for the western flank of the northern forces. If Jaime had timed this right then he would hit the flank as they were trying to manoeuvre to counter the Golden Company. With the sellswords arrival they should make short work of this fight. Only it wasn’t going to be that easy. A horn blew from the middle of the northern foot and suddenly their section of cavalry sprung forward. In an instant the northmen had descended the rise and made to counter Jaime’s charge. Well, this is going to be… interesting. The northern commander is trying to blunt our charge before Strickland can arrive. Clever, it’s what I’d do. The two large groups of cavalry charged at one another, Jaime hunkered down, bracing himself for the inevitable clash. For a long moment both sides rushed the other then…. impact. With a crash the two sides collided, screams and cries filled the air. Jaime ducked under the jab of a spear and raked his sword across the side of his attacker’s horse. He was quickly past his foe but he heard the beast strike the ground behind him. Hopefully the bastard will break his neck in the fall. Jaime slashed left and right, felling his enemy as he drove his horse on using his thighs to control the animal. Gods let my men be defending my back otherwise this is going to be a very short battle, for me at least. His horse pushed deeper into the melee, Jaime stuck a mounted northerner in the side, his sword carving through ring mail and into soft flesh. His enemy wore a full helm but the scream of pain was clear as it echoed within the metal covering he had over his face. Jaime pushed his opponent away from him and gave him no more thought as the man fell to the ground. One down, only another few thousand to go…. Robb IV He watched with alarm as the northerners tried to repel the charge of the Kingslayers cavalry. It was clear that the northerners were outnumbered but they fought hard, not giving an inch of ground. It would not be enough, The Lannister horse is pushing through and their foot isn’t far behind. A horn sounded from the side and Lord Forrester sent a division of foot down the rise to support their mounted brothers-in-arms. A messenger bearing the sigil of House Forrester rode up. “Pardon your grace.” The young man said, breathlessly, “But our scouts in the east have detected a large force trying to out-flank us. Lord Forrester calls for aid.” “Very well….” The lad mistook his pause, “Tuttle your grace, Gared Tuttle.” I didn’t ask. Robb turned to face Garlan Tyrell, the warrior regarded him eagerly. “Garlan, split off your force from the centre, assist Lord Forrester.” Lannister horns sounded once again. “Hold Garlan!” Robb sat up and looked. At the centre of the Lannister host, Lord Tywin’s massive column of foot was beginning to march. The heavy tread of their feet making a dull rhythm as they strode across the plain towards Robb’s host. Curses! If I weaken the centre now I won’t be able to hold Lord Tywin, but if I don’t then the Forrester’s flank will be surrounded. “Garlan, follow my orders.” “Yes your grace!” Margaery’s brother turned his mount and rode away, shouting orders to his men. Robb turned to Dacey Mormont. “I want a messenger to go to Blackwood and Bracken. They are both to march forward. Bracken is to oppose the Lannister flank to the west, on the Kings Road. Blackwood is to march forward and try and turn Tywin Lannisters flank. Let’s see if we can push him back towards his own sons host.” “Your grace.” Dacey responded turning to carry out her kings commands. Before she got more than a few steps another horn was heard. Robb’s head whipped round and he spied the Mountain taking the field once, the reavers at his back, heading once again towards Lord Blackwoods host. Jaime V He swung his sword, bringing it down in a wide arc to split the head open of an opponent who’d lost his helm, the man made no sound as he was thrown from his horse. Jaime sensed danger and ducked as a mace slashed the space where his head had been a moment before. He stabbed upwards blindly at where he estimated his foe was. He was rewarded with a cry of pain. He pulled back and continued to push through the morass of men and horses. It was stifling inside his helm and armour. He could feel sweat pouring down his face, stinging his eyes. His left arm was tired and his breath came in ragged gasps. He fought to control both himself and his horse as he pushed through the ranks of the foe, slashing and cutting wherever he could, using the large white shield of the kingsguard to block incoming strikes, of which there were many. His horse began to slip on the muddy grass, the beast fought for purchase on the uneven ground. Jaime clenched his thighs to maintain control as he urged his mount on. Must get through, then we can circle around and destroy these bastards. He had no idea if any of his men were behind him. For all he knew he was alone, surrounded by waves of enemy. He would have loved to check but it didn’t make any difference to his current situation. He had to press on and hope he could get through the chaos. A sudden blow to his shield almost unhorsed him, but years of training allowed him to keep his seat as he slashed back with his own weapon, severing the attackers arm at the elbow. He was dimly aware that loud horns were sounding behind him but, again, he was unable to determine the source much less ascertain who was commanding who. Suddenly, the ranks of men opposing him thinned slightly and he could see the rise the northerners had come from. There seemed to be pitifully few compared to when the battle had started. All we need now is for the Golden Company to arrive and we can drive them from the field. Speaking of which - Jaime attempted to scan the land to the north east for signs of the sellswords arrival – where the hell are those bastards? Robb V The Mountains armed host struck the front ranks of Lord Blackwood’s host with the strength of a hammer blow. Clegane was at the forefront of his men swinging his massive broadsword, cleaving a bloody swath through the riverlanders. As he cleared a path his men fell in beside him. The wedge of mounted men acted like a spear with Gregor Clegane taking point. The king watched as the first line of foot soldiers buckled and broke under the assault, the men skewered on lances or hacked apart by swords. Blackwood tried to order his mounted men to encircle the attackers but their ranks were still disordered from their abortive charge on the Lannister line. In any case the Mountain has sent his own flanks out to counteract Blackwood’s move. For a grim moment it looked as if Blackwood’s host would rally. Buoyed on by their lord the infantry tried to push back against Clegane’s men. A valiant sergeant ran forward and thrust his spear at the heart of the Mountain. Easily, Clegane hacked the man’s spear in two and cut the mans head from his shoulders in the same swing. The Blackwood line faltered and began to give in. Robb watched as men started to flee. A trickle became a flood and then men were retreating in waves. The king yearned to send his own men forward to help the riverlanders. He could tell his men hankered for him to give the order. There was now fighting on either side of Robb’s host and he was not involved in either engagement. I’d love to send men to the side but I’ve already sent Garlan east and Tywin Lannister is bearing down on us. Robb swung to another messenger, a boy who had just returned from relaying other commands. He was breathing heavily, his face red from his urgent ride. “Ride behind the line. Get to Lord Bracken, he is to swing his force to the east to assist Lord Blackwood. We have to push the Mountain back.” The boy didn’t speak, he saved his breath as he turned his horse and sped towards the rear of Robb’s lines. Robb watched as Tywin’s army headed towards him at the same inexorable pace. Bastard wants to keep me pinned here unable to aid my flanks. A horn sounded drawing Robb’s attention to the side. Despite there not being enough time for the kings message to arrive Lord Bracken’s force had already begun to move. The host, entirely comprised of infantry marched forwards past the Blackwood force before wheeling to the east and moving to assist their countrymen. Seeing help at hand Blackwood’s men rallied and fought back against the Mountain. Well done Janos. Whoever thought we’d see the day when a Bracken would move to help a Blackwood? Then a horn blast sounded from the Lannister line, almost in answer to the Bracken horn a few minutes earlier. Robb saw that the western host, the one on the Kings Road, the only Lannister force ahead of them not currently engaged, suddenly start forward and begin marching at speed. They were headed directly towards Lord Bracken’s column, quickly passing Lord Tywin’s massive host which had now covered half the distance towards Robb. Well, Lord Tywin, it would appear your trap has been sprung. Jaime VI He was at the foot of the gentle rise. A line of spearmen looking down on him. In a sudden lull, Jaime risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see that his men were driving through the remaining northern host. The enemy’s cavalry had been stymied and then utterly defeated as Jaime’s infantry had arrived, the spearmen had slowly and efficiently picked apart the mounted foe, a task made easier when they were unable to use their mounts effectively. Even the northern foot that the commander ahead of Jaime had sent down the slope had been defeated, though he could see that they had exacted a heavy price in exchange for their lives. Lannister horsemen were strewn over the ground. In the west he could see Jaime’s father’s army marching slowly towards Robb Stark. Further still, he could make out the mass ranks of Kevan Lannisters host as it sped down the Kings Road towards the unprotected flank of the riverlanders. Jaime steeled himself and then charged back the way he’d come. He needed to gather as many of his own men as he could before launching an assault on the remaining northerners. Something told him he would need them. Where the fuck where the Golden Company? They must have seen the Lannister charge. Strickland must know that the host had been engaged with fighting to the front. They’d have known that now would have been the optimum time to strike. To crush the eastern flank totally. What they hell were they playing at? Pushing his concerns to the side, Jaime plunged into the fray. Just concentrate on killing, hell I can do that very well…. Robb VI The front ranks of Tywin Lannister were bearing down on them fast. They were so close now that the king could make out details on the soldiers faces and clothes. Their spears and shield glittered as they strode in unison towards Robb’s smaller force. He looked westwards. Bracken had tried to split his force, ordering one half of his force to prepare to resist the Lannister host on the Kings Road while sending the rest to assist Lord Blackwood. In the middle of Blackwood’s host, Robb saw Gregor Clegane smashing men from their feet. The Mountain was still in his saddle of his massive charger and was swinging down his huge sword with wild abandon. Men couldn’t get close as the knight swung again and again, creating a circle of death around him. Blackwood is hopelessly engaged. Bracken will soon be caught by the larger Lannister force to the west. In the east, Lord Forrester is trying valiantly to hold the line against the Kingslayer. And right here I can’t move or divide my force without Lord Tywins central force smashing us. The king glanced left and right and then swept his eyes over the entirety of the battlefield. The entire Lannister force seems engaged and my own forces are either outnumbered or pinned, unable to move. Tywin Lannister could be forgiven for being under the impression that the Stark position was hopeless and that his army was close to victory. Robb Stark allowed himself a small smile. Impressions, however, can be deceptive. He turned his head to look at the mounted lady behind him. “Dacey?” The woman bowed her head. “Your grace?” “It’s time.” Brienne I Her horse stirred skittishly under her, the animal was nervous, anxious to move. I know the feeling. Sitting there watching the Stark army come under attack, being battered under the heavy assault. Merely observing as men she had known fought and died under a league from her had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do in battle. Men stood silently around her as they watched. Kept in place by strict orders that no one was to move unless ordered to do so. Beside her the Hound was cleaning his sword, wiping the blood from it in broad strokes of a wet rag. He was humming tunelessly to himself. “Do you have to do that?” She asked bitingly. “Don’t have to,” Clegane replied, “Want to.” She gave up. Gods knew what she was supposed to do with a man such as him. He had been useful in getting rid of the scouts, she gave him that. It had all been taken precise timings. The scouts had to be killed as they entered the western woods. It was crucial that they were killed as soon as possible but not so quickly as their deaths could be seen from the road. As soon as nineteen of the scouts were dead, some of Brienne’s men had changed into the scout’s dull armour. Brienne had watched with rising tension as the moment passed. In what seemed an age, then men were ready and they rode back, signalling the all clear to the group ahead. Sandor Clegane had been instrumental in capturing one of the scouts alive and scaring the boy enough that he revealed the ‘all-‘clear’ signal. It was that poor boys blood that the Hound was now cleaning from his blade. Brienne could not believe the Lannister had fallen for their deception. One of the men had actually spoken to one of the Lannister commanders, a Lord Swyft, who had taken what he had said at face value. He had believed the lie that the woodlands to the west were devoid of men and that their flank was completely safe. In fact the very opposite was true. The men masquerading as scouts had quickly ridden past the Lannister line and then, when out of sight, skirted round and re-joined the force in the woods. On the opposite side of Brienne to the Hound sat Brynden Tully. The Blackfish watched with grim attention as the armies commanded by Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken were being outmanoeuvred by the Lannister hosts opposing them. They had watched together as the Mountain charged for the second time and smashed into the furthest riverland host. “Better be ready Brienne.” Tully commanded. Well, at least he omitted calling me ‘lady’. Brienne nodded to the knight, indicated to Clegane and then headed back along the line of mounted troops. She reached her own command and pulled her horse up. She waited for long moments. Then a fire arrow took flight over the Stark army. It flew high in the sky, the symbol unmistakeable. A soft horn resounded through the dense woods. “Advance!” Brienne called out to her troops. In a rough skirmish line the horses were urged forward until they were at the treeline. Then, at another sound of a horn the cavalry bounded forward at a gallop like running water freed from a dam. The host of knights, several thousand strong torn across the open plain and towards the enemy. Towards the unsuspecting Lannister host. Brienne clung on her horse as it galloped at full tilt. Ahead of her she saw the Lannister soldiers shouting warnings to one another, trying to warn their friends, to alert their commanders. There were cries of fear from the enemy and curses aplenty from her own men, some screamed in anger, crazed with battle lust. She ignored them all, focused on her quarry. The sound of hundreds of hooves striking the ground was deafening. The riverland host hit the entire line at full charge. The enemies front line folded like wet parchment, the riverlanders easily sundering the line of spears the enemy had quickly arrayed against them. Next the second line gave, then the third. The momentum of their charge carrying them ever forward. A sword struck Brienne’s armour, a spear impacted her shield but she carried on, hacking at a man wearing a lion motif on their clothing. She could barely see as she brought her sword down again and again, cutting men down. She knew her men were right behind her as she smashed into the foe. Way ahead of her she saw the Lannister general atop his horse shouting orders to his men but there was confusion and no one seemed able to execute his commands. In the middle of the battlefield she saw the massed ranks of Twyin’s host beginning to slow as they saw the attack on their allied to their west. The Hound pulled up to Brienne’s side, his face savage, his helm, fashioned like a dogs head looked every bit as vicious as the grunt and snarls that came from the man’s throat. He was terrible to behold as he struck men down. Brienne’s momentum had ceased, surrounded as she was by a throng of soldiers. She swung into the closest, not caring what she was hitting, she just tried to carve a path for her beast. Must press forward… Jaime VII He killed another foe, slashing him about the face until half the mans head fell to the floor. The noise of battle overwhelmed him, he could barely make sense of what was going on around him let alone behind him. His horse was breathing, hard, struggling to carry him as he kept fighting back and forth. The animal was slowing as he fought desperately to keep his enemies back. Though there are far more now than there were before. Or at least it seems that way. Suddenly he was clear and surrounded by his own men. His vision suddenly filled by the red and gold colours of House Lannister. Smiling he looked back and saw that the two Lannister groups had come together and utterly broken the force sent to stop them. A few warriors in green and grey were trickling back to the Stark lines, some limping from wounds they had received at the hands of Jaime’s men. His smile faltered though as he saw the northerners above him, redirecting themselves along the hill line. The entire remainder of their force was now arrayed against them. Have they forgotten the Golden Company? A flash of metal reflecting the sun showed him that the enemy had forgotten nothing. Far off to the east was the Golden Company who were riding slowly in a southern direction. What the fuck are they doing? Did they attack and get beaten? Are they retreating? Jaime didn’t think so. The column of sellswords was in formation and well ordered, they rode slowly, not at all panicked or concerned – hardly the actions of a group that had seen combat. Realisation hit and the conclusion sickened him. The bastards are betraying us. They’ve called off their attack and are heading away from the battle. Without the Golden Company I doubt I have the men to scale the rise and attack the northerners. We’ve lost plenty of men as it is. This whole manoeuvre was just supposed to be a distraction. He looked to the west to see if he could call on his father for aid. What he saw made him want to vomit. Uncle Kevan’s host had been decimated by an attack from the western flank. The Lannister column’s advance towards the riverlanders had been thwarted. Tywin Lannsiter’s own host had picked up pace and was again trying to engage Robb Starks force in the centre. Father is trying to beat Stark before Uncle Kevan is overwhelmed. Then he can attend to the west. Jaime looked back at the northerners to the east. What he saw was a line of determined northerners with not a trace of give on their face. Fuck them . I could overwhelm the host but it would cost too much for total victory, the bastards won’t run. We’d be better served with us aiding my father. He pointed to one of his men. “Send word to Ser Addam, he is to use his host to keep the northerners engaged here. I’m leading an attack on the Stark centre.” Then another sound filled the air. Robb VII The king sat calmly on his horse. Now was the time. He turned to Dacey and his other lieutenants. “Sound the advance all along the line. Bracken and Blackwood to aid Ser Brynden. The northmen are to take the Kingslayer.” Dacey tarried as the other messengers galloped away. “What of Lord Tywin your grace?” You already know the answer to that . Robb smiled, “Tywin Lannister is mine.” He drew his sword, wheeling his horse to face his troops. “This is the time lads! This is the hour! Advance!” Horns sounded as the entire centre of Robb Starks line moved forward. Arrows filled the air, streaking towards Lord Tywin’s host. The king saw men fall, the gaps in the line quickly filled by their fellows. The Stark force quickly moved in formation, their spears before them, a great war cry going up as they marched down the hill and made for the enemy flank. Robb was surrounded by warriors of the Wolf Guard, commanded by Dacey Mormont. Greywind was by his side as he rode at the head of his force. He fixed his eye on Tywin Lannister. Now, my lord, let us see what you have. Jaime VIII He watched as the central host of the enemy marched down the hill and towards the enemy. Jaime saw the front lines of his father’s host falter as the enemy advanced. They weren’t expecting that. They thought to find Robb Stark cowering in fear. I’ll say this for the boy, he has spirit. Tywin’s host and Robb Starks army came together in with a might crash. The two armies pushed against one another with spears and missiles being thrown into the packed ranks. Men died left and right. The Lannister line faltered slightly at the momentum of Robb Starks force. Curses! But the move by Robb Stark had created an opportunity for his enemies and Jaime was damned if he was going to let it slip through his fingers. It may be our only chance. “Charge!” He screamed as he spurred his horse towards the enemy ‘s flank. The sounds of his men falling in behind him gave him hope his plan would work. He neared the enemy and he screamed a battle cry… Abruptly the ground came up to meet him. He lay on the floor, dazed and confused. One moment he was headed to the Stark column, the next he was looking at the open sky. It seems so peaceful compared to the chaos that’s going on around here. Jaime pulled himself to his feet. He was relieved to see that one of his lieutenants had taken control and had continued the charge towards the column. A mere hundred feet way the two sides impacted and fought hard. The Kingslayer scrambled around and picked his sword up, it was covered in mud and blood. His shield was lost, no doubt lying somewhere underneath the churned mud. He caught his breath and then charged into the fight on foot. The battle looked very different from this viewpoint. Mounted on horseback he had been able to see around him, even with his helm partially obscuring his vision. Here it was even more chaotic and claustrophobic. Huge shapes moved around him as he threw himself into the line, his sword moving quickly to dispatch any foes that came across his path. A knight, clad in plate armour appeared in his path, walking towards him. The figure raised a sword. “You, Ser, are mine.” Jaime quickly surveyed the man. The knights’ armour had no ornamentation save for a clasp shaped in a silver-and-sapphire trident that held his cloak round his shoulders. Who is this fool? Jaime struck fast and hard, the man tried to get his weapon up in time but failed as the Kingslayers sword slipped past his guard and slid solidly between the a gap in the plates. With a thud Jaime drove the sword in up to the hilt, his gauntleted hand brushed against the solid metal armour of his foe. Without a sound, save for an intake of breath, the northman sagged towards him but Jaime deftly turned aside and let the corpse fall to the ground unimpeded. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. He pulled the sword from the body and moved on. The battle was so chaotic, Jaime’s vision was full of fighting men, who were struggling all around him. Men were slipping on the muddy ground trying to keep their balance as battle raged. “Kingslayer!” Jaime whirled, just managing to pull his weapon into a parry as another foes sword arced towards his neck. The block saved his life but numbed his arm. He back peddled as his new opponent rained blows down around him. In between focussing on parrying the strikes Jaime saw the heavy ornamentation of the knights armour. Are those, flowers? Seven Hells, Loras Tyrell. The thought almost cost him his life. The Knight of Flowers spun and his sword scythed at Jaime’s leg. The Kingslayer pivoted and stepped backwards just avoiding the blade. He stepped back in and punched the Tyrell boy in the face. Loras’s head snapped back, jarred with the blow. He stumbled backwards. Then Jaime was on the offensive, smashing Loras’s sword from his hand and knocking him to the ground. Jaime took a breath and raised his weapon to stab down, aiming for the slit in the young knight’s visor. “Loras!” Jaime’s eyes shot up as a mounted knight hurtled towards him. He leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the knight’s sword as it cut towards him. His vision was suddenly filled with a wooden shield bearing the outline of a black tree with a white sword in the middle. He made to step back in but the two knights were swallowed by the heaving morass of fighters. He struggled through the group, looking for the foes but he had lost them in the tumult. Cursing, Jaime turned and realised he was on small mound overlooking the battle. He spent a moment examining the field. It was not a pretty sight. Where once before the armies had been made up of pristine formations, now there was nothing but a mad scrum of battle. Columns of men had intermingled and the fighting was fierce all over the field. Screams of the dead, dying or injured filled the air, matched with the battle cries of rage that came from those still fighting. Fuck me! I always said I wished I’d been at the Battle of the Trident, now I’m not so sure. Jaime raised his sword and dived back into the fray. Robb VIII He turned in time to watch Rodrik Forrester dismount and protect Loras Tyrell’s downed body. The young knight wasn’t injured as such but he seemed furious as he got back to his feet. He pushed Rodrik away as the knight attempted to help him. Shaking his head in anger Robb twisted to stab at a Lannister soldier who had jabbed a spear towards him. The man had misjudged his thrust by a league and the spear point passed the king, not even coming close to hurting him. Robb’s sword on the other hand thrust through his attacker’s chest and burst from his back. Robb twisted the blade and pulled his weapon free. He’d lost Greywind, the direwolf had been at his side a moment ago but he had lost sight of him in the chaos of the fight. He turned his mount and then saw a new target. Jaime Lannister was leading a group of infantry deeper into the fight, yelling at them to maintain order and watch their sides as he cut into a number of Robb’s men. A red mist descended. This bastard tried to kill Bran, to silence him from telling how he’d seen the Kingslayer rutting with his sister. I made a mistake of not killing him when I had the chance. Robb cried at his men to follow him as he rode towards Jaime Lannister. Within moments he was looming over the man and he aimed a strike at the man’s head. His shadow alerted the Kingslayer to his presence, the man ducked and weaved, though Robb managed to strike the Kingslayers helm. In desperation Jaime raised his sword and drove the point through Robb’s mount. The blade pierced the animals heart, making it instantly topple to the ground. Robb kicked his legs from the stirrups and rolled away as his mount hit the dirt. He clung to his sword as he got to his feet to face Jaime Lannister. He expected the Kingslayer to be right on top of him but the man was a little way off struggling with his helm, undoing the leather clasps around his neck. After a moment Ser Jaime pulled the damaged piece of armour off his head and let it fall idly to the floor. The Kingslayer took in a deep breath and blinked his eyes as his full range of vision was restored. Robb envied him, he raised his own sword and advanced. Jaime smiled as he stepped in to meet the challenge. “I once asked for this Stark you remember? Offered you honourable combat. How many would be alive if you’d accepted my offer then?” Robb ignored the words as he slashed at the Kingslayer’s unprotected head. The knight quickly blocked the blow and sent a return swipe at Robb’s chest. Robb twisted to the side but the blade sliced along the kings armour. Gods he is so fast. They were in close. Robb’s gauntlet smacked the Kingslayers sword away as he brought his shield up to smash his enemy in the chest. Jaime weaved aside and the shield strike past him by. He slashed at Robb’s legs and struck the armour around his knee, delivering a heavy blow. The armour held but the muscle and bone beneath felt the impact. Robb cried out in pain as his leg gave and he went down on one knee. He dropped his shield as Jaime Lannister darted in and struck out at him with the speed of a snake. In desperation Robb threw himself at his foe, ignoring the pain of his leg and allowing his armour to take the incoming blow as he fell upon the Kingslayer. Jaime hadn’t expected such a move and, under Robb’s weight the two fell to the floor, each wrestling with the other for dominance. Robb kicked hard and pulled himself on top of his enemy. Sliding a knife from its sheath at his side he went for the Kingslayers neck. Jaime saw the danger and pulled back, grasping Robb’s wrist in his hand. For a moment they two were locked in an embrace panting hard as they struggled for control of the blade. Suddenly a booted foot came out of nowhere and impacted the kings face. Robb let out a dull cry as he was knocked senseless, his body thrown off the Kingslayers. His knife spinning off into the dirt. Sheer panic made Robb reel backwards, scrambling across the ground to get some distance. He looked round for his new attacker. He didn’t have to look far. Standing over Jaime, hauling the dishonoured knight to his feet, was Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. From his position on the ground, Lord Tywin’s mad dog looked even larger and more imposing then he had at a distance. Robb got to his knees, hissing with pain as his injured knee took some of his weight. He looked at Gregor Clegane and Jaime Lannister and felt his heart sink. I almost lost to the Kingslayer, what chance do I have in fighting him and the Mountain? His helm was dented, the metal digging into the side of his head. Reaching up he unclasped it and flung it aside. He shook himself as he reached for a sword that was imbedded in the mud. It wasn’t his, but that didn’t matter now. Robb stood and readied the weapon. He wasn’t able to charge but he would be able to defend himself at least. Jaime was panting, taking in heavy breaths. The Mountain left him and strode towards Robb hefting his greatsword in one hand. Rob steeled himself. If I can get past his guard… Loras Tyrell spun past Robb, his sword a dazzling display of speed and finesse he struck the Mountain again and again with Clegane grunting dully at each strike. His blows made little impact against the heavy plate worn by his opponent but the Knight of Flowers darted in and out of the Mountains reach delivering multiple blows with his shinning sword. Robb turned to face Jaime who had recovered his weapon. The Kingslayer smiled, “Haven’t had enough Stark?” He asked casually. Robb wasn’t fooled, Jaime Lannister looked to be almost as tired as the king was. He stepped forward. “I could do this all day Lannister.” Jaime chuckled but then his humour vanished and he struck toward the king. Robb blocked and aimed a counter attack at the Kingslayers side. Jaime parried and the two swords came together with a horrific screech. Abruptly Jaime ducked and pulled his sword away. Robb, unbalanced, fell forward, his injured leg giving way. Robb hit the ground hard but he was up again as fast as his feet could carry him. He whirled to intercept Jaime’s sword as it swung towards him. The two foes suddenly sped up, slashing and hacking at each other with as much strength and speed as they could summon. For a fraction of a second Robb harboured the hope that he could beat his opponent. The Kingslayer seemed to be tiring, his shoulders starting to slump, his reactions were being slower. Though the same could be said of me. Robb tried a desperate strike, feinting left and then cutting right with his sword. He thought he had him, he was sure of it. But Jaime was no longer there. To Robb’s shock the Kingslayer had gracefully weaved around the blow and struck Robb hard with his sword. The king felt his armour buckle and then pain exploded down his left side. He fell to the floor, the pain in his knee now a distant second to the fire in his side. Robb’s left arm came down, trying to minimise the pain. It helped some but it was still excruciating. The Kingslayer hovered over him, his sword ready for the killing blow. There was a look of triumph on Jaime’s Lannister’s face but also a tinge of regret in his features. A soldier, wearing the colours of House Umber suddenly rushed the Kingslayer from behind. Robb had no idea how but Jaime seemed to sense his presence and leapt away, swinging his sword in a terrible ark that disembowelled the king’s would-be rescuer. The solider fell, grasping his innards, trying in vain to plug the terrible gash that had appeared across his stomach. Jaime looked round but suddenly there were more soldiers there trying desperately to defend their king. The Kingslayer’s face set in a terrible smile as he laid into the attackers. For a moment Robb knelt in the dirt watching the terrible skill of Jaime Lannister as he took on three opponents at once. A sound unlike anything Robb has ever heard drew him away from the fight in front of him. His head turned to the right. What he saw made him freeze in horror. Loras Tyrell was suspended in mid-air, the Mountain’s massive hand clamped around his throat and squeezing his neck through the armour meant to protect that vulnerable part of the body. Evidently Clegane had finally managed to get hold of Loras as the knight had carried out his darting strikes against him. The Knight of Flowers, his sword lost on the floor was kicking out with his feet, though he was now held so high that his desperate efforts only reached the Mountain’s thighs. Loras’s finger dug into the Mountain’s hand in a futile bid to prise open the grip that was choking the life from him. The young knight made horrible choking sounds as his body fought for air. The Mountain barely seemed to register Loras’s frantic efforts. As Robb watched the Mountain merely exerted more pressure on his grip. Loras’s face was going red, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Robb found a spear in the dirt and he used it to assist him in pushing himself to his feet, a small cry came from his lips. Everything hurt but he was damned if he was going to let that monster kill Margaery’s brother. Robb took a deep breath and then put everything he had into a mad charge at the Mountain. He levelled the spear, aiming for the seam where two plates joined at Clegane’s neck. If I can get through there I can open his throat. The Mountain swung his greatsword that he still had in his left hand. The blade smashed Robb’s spear into several pieces. His weapon gone, Robb tried to halt his charge but his momentum pushed him onwards. Straight into the side of the Mountain. It was like hitting a solid wall, his face crashed against the heavy metal of the Mountains armour. The king rebounded and crashed to the floor. His head spun in blinding pain. Robb shook his head urgently, trying to dispel the fog that swam before his eyes. He rolled to his feet and searched for a weapon. The horrible sound of snapping bones made him look up. Loras Tyrell hung like a rag doll from the outstretched hand of Gregor Clegane, his lifeless body swung limply as the Mountain gave one last squeeze and then threw the Knight of Flowers body down in front of him with vicious force. Robb was so close he could see the lifeless eyes of Loras Tyrell through the slit in his visor. Anger took him, He grabbed a discarded axe from the floor and surged to his feet. He started forward... “Loras!” Garlan Tyrell came through the crowd and threw himself between the king and the Mountain. He had no shield but held his customary two swords, both bloody and dull from use. Garlan darted in and struck Clegane, one, twice, three times, skilfully evading the wide sweeps and cuts from the Mountain. The Mountain was unable to resist as he was battered left and right, his armour being dinged and dented as Garlan launched a veritable storm of swords on him. The speed of the young knight was terrifying as he struck again and again. His assault forcing the Mountain to one knee. Robb moved forward eager to help and avenge Margaery’s brother. He saw the enemy too late. A knight of the Kingsguard, not Jaime Lannister as this one still had his helm, appeared from the enemy side of the battle and stabbed at Garlan from behind. So intent had the knight been on the giant in front of him he had left himself vulnerable to a blow from behind. The sword struck Garlan’s armour breaking off a piece from it and sending the knight to the cold dirt. Not Garlan! Robb stepped in and swung the axe at the knight who had assaulted his brother-in-law. The kingsguard let his white shield take the blow and then swung his sword at Robb unprotected head. The king stepped away, letting the blow pass him. He stood over Garlan’s prone body hefting the axe and staring at the Kingsguard knight who was advancing slowly, his shield in front of him, his sword at the ready. Behind the knight the Mountain heaved himself to his feet a grumble echoing through his helm. And, finally to the left, Jaime Lannister, having dispensed with the three soldiers who had tried to defend their king stepped away from their corpses and joined his allies in advancing towards the Young Wolf. Robb prepared himself. Maybe I can take one of these bastards with me Brienne II She rode hard, using her horse to batter her foes as she pushed deeper into the throng. Her sword rose and fell as she cut into the enemy ranks. The charge of the Blackfish’s host had decimated the Lannister column. Both Bracken and Blackwood’s forces had advanced when they saw the Blackfish’s men charge from the woods. The western host of the Lannister force was now in full retreat, the soldiers running for safety as the riverlanders herded them into a trap with sword, shield and lance. She cut another man from his feet, stabbed down at another. There was no shortage of enemy as she drove forward. Brienne glanced round from horseback and saw Brynden Tully. The grizzled old knight sat on his horse just behind the front line, ordering his men forward, keeping the riverlanders in formation as they laid waste to their foes. Once done here we can assist the centre… Brynden’s horse suddenly reared and the old knight was pitched to the ground. She didn’t see him land, she was still trying to process what had happened. He wasn’t hit himself, I’m certain of it, the horse must have been struck by something. Either way she did not see the commander rise. Though his horse kept rearing back and forth, maddened with pain from an injury that Brienne couldn’t see. A gruff riverlander ended the horses extremity by smashing his sword through its neck. Best thing really, can’t have the animal thrashing about, not in such close quarters. She still couldn’t see Ser Brynden. If he’s down he’ll be crushed. Brienne hollered at the men nearest where he had fallen but she doubted her voice carried. She looked around to see the ranks of men looking at her expectantly I’m in command. Brienne realised with shock, she raised her sword and bellowed at the men to advance. The front lines of advanced slowly, Brienne gave a hand signal to a horn blower who sent a loud note to the cavalry wings to continue to surround the Lannister’s western host. Realising she had done everything she could Brienne spurred her horse and got back into the fight. Much easier to fight a battle then co-ordinate one. She ploughed through the foe, hoping to lead by example and praying that her men were with her. We must keep pushing through. Ahead of her she saw the tall figure of the Mountain. Clegane was striding forward, his greatsword hanging loosely from his hand. She could see that the man was intent on doing harm to a figure who was standing over a knight clad in green. The warrior was hefting an axe, looking grim, his face and clothes covered in blood, gore and dirt. There were also two knights of the kingsguard on either side of the Mountain, one had lost his helm in the battle. The three advanced towards the warrior who stood waiting, bracing for the attack. From the side ran in a large wolf, its fur raised, it’s teeth barred. Greywind! The creature was covered in blood that ran from his jaws. Without hesitation the direwolf threw itself at Gregor Clegane. Any other man would be daunted, would flee from such an attack. Gregor Clegane was not most people. The Mountain swung his massive sword, obviously intent on splitting Greywind in two before the creature struck. Fortunately Greywind was too fast, he leapt inside the arc of the sword and hit the Mountain, its jaw grasping Clegane’s helm and trying to crush it with its teeth. Brienne half expected the knight to fall, the beast looked so heavy. But, somehow, Clegane kept his feet as his sword slipped from his fingers. He grappled with the beast, smashing his gauntleted fists again and again into the wolf’s side. It was a test of strength and will between the Mountain and the wolf. Abruptly the kingsguard who still wore his helm struck at Greywind’s back. The sword raked across the fur and the wolf fell to the floor whining pitifully. “Greywind!” The warrior protecting his friend cried. Gods be good, the King! Brienne realised how stupid she’d been. There was only one man who Greywind would have rushed to save. She glanced behind her, her men were still pushing through the Lannister force, a few moments more and they’d be through. Robb Stark would be dead in a few moments. She had no choice. Brienne ground her feet into her horses side as she shot towards the small group. She screamed a battle cry as she hurtled forward, breaching the ring of soldiers fighting around the king and swinging her sword at the Mountain. Clegane stepped away and then moved back in and brutally kicked her horse while shoving with his two unencumbered arms. Her mount fell awkwardly. Brienne twisted in the saddle and rolled as soon as she hit the muddy ground. By the mercy of the gods her leg wasn’t trapped by the struggling beast. She gripped her sword as she rolled away from the animal and came up swinging knocking back the helmed Kingsguard who had attempted to stab her as she was on the floor. Let’s see how you fare when your opponent's facing you. She looked briefly at the King. Robb Stark was closed to collapse. He clung to the axe in his hand as if his life depended on him maintaining his grip. His face was matted with blood and sweat and he was keeping his left arm close to his side. Clegane picked up his greatsword, swinging it into position as the three Lannister warriors advanced. Jaime IX It wouldn’t take much. Two opponents, one almost spent, would not take long. All they had to do was surround and kill them, though he admitted it was a shame. The Stark boy had spirit and this new large warrior was very brave to throw themselves against the three of them. The Mountain and two knights of the Kingsguard. The man must have a death wish. With a scream the warrior ran forward towards the three of them. Jaime froze in shock. The battle cry gave the warrior away. Is that a woman? Then, woman or not, she was amongst them slashing away trying to beat the men back. Gods she was fast. With a speed that belied her size. Meryn Trant fell back cursing as her sword whirled through his defence and cut open his arm. The knight cursed again as blood began to flow down his injured limb. In anger he thrust his sword towards the new arrival who spun and avoided the blade, letting it thunk heavily against the object nearest it. Gregor Clegane’s thigh. With a grunt the Mountain backhanded Trant across the face and the kingsguard knight fell back into the ranks of fighting Lannister men. Jaime turned to regard Robb Stark. The King had stayed where he was, standing, over the prone figure of the green knight who had caused Clegane so much trouble. Jaime saw how weak his enemy looked. I doubt he can move much from where he is. Then he saw the smile. He doesn’t mean to , Jaime realised, he knows if he has to fight he’ll die and just means to bury that axe deep inside me and take me on the dark road with him. The Mountain then lurched forward and swung at the large warrior woman who urgently raised her blade to meet her attackers. The swords came together as the two warriors pushed against one another. Sorry, that’s only going to have one end, you don’t match strength with the Mountain. Clegane seemed to pull into himself and then, with a wild grunt he threw the warrior woman backwards who stumbled into the king, knocking him off balance. Jaime lunged forward. This is the moment! A sword cut down, parrying Jaime’s thrust, a second blow smashed the Kingslayer back towards the Mountain. “Leave them be!” I’d recognise that dulcet tone anywhere. Sandor Clegane had arrived. Fuck me, is there anyone in Westeros not involved in this bloody battle? Where in Seven Hells did he come from? Jaime would have posed the question but the Hound was not the least bit interested in him. Sandor, wearing that ridiculous dog shaped helm looked towards his older brother, his entire body taut with hatred. Gregor looked seemed unmoved by his younger siblings presence. He merely lifted his huge sword and attacked. The brothers came together with a massive impact. Neither fought with much finesse, just hacked and slashed with their massive swords. It was a brutal, vicious fight that took no account of those around them. Soldiers backed off at the two swung blindly at each other. The brothers looked so large that the rest must have looked like children around them. Ah, brotherly love. Jaime quickly mused. Well then, Robb Starks mine. The Kingslayer stepped forward, time to earn that title a second time over. But then, in a rush of armour, the woman was in his path. “You want him, you come through me.” Jaime Lannister smiled. “Deal.” Then they closed for combat. Robb XI He was so tired, he was practically swaying from fatigue. His whole body hurt from the injuries he had sustained, not just from the fighting that day but from the wounds he had received barely a moons turn ago. Maybe Margaery was right after-all. Robb looked down at Garlan, quickly checking to see he still lived. The man was still with them but his breathing was shallow and he remained unconscious. The king glanced around, trying to see the position of his army. He realised he was on a very small rise overlooking the field and used the lull to take a quick glance around. Every unit on the battlefield was involved with the fighting, though Robb could see that things did not go well for his force. The riverlanders to the west had made significant progress, shattering the first Lannister column they’d encountered but the charge of the three hosts had faltered as the Lannisters had formed ranks in the centre. The riverlanders were bravely trying to fight their way through but the packed ranks of Lord Tywin’s host were proving to be an obstacle they couldn’t shift. Robb saw the riverlanders batter futilely at the Lannister shields. They need to regroup, reorganise and strike again. To the east the northerners were holding back the charge of the second Lannister host, the one that had accompanied Ser Jaime on his assault. The two forces were viciously fighting, and the northerners were holding the line but couldn’t assist the centre. Robb’s own force had made its way through the front few ranks of Lannister infantry but were well away from Lord Tywin. Our army is close to being enveloped in the centre . Robb saw. He looked around for someone to act as a messenger. If the riverlanders can reform, we could turn the tide. A Lannister soldier ran at him. Robb hunkered down and let the man get close before springing up and smashing his axe deep into the man’s side. The weapon bit deep into lightly armoured flesh, killing him instantly. However, the man’s body still hit him and carried him to the ground. Robb pushed against the corpse, trying to shift it, but his body was weak, so weak. Desperately he moved the body off his chest and down towards his legs as he clambered up onto his elbows. His vision was swimming, everything around him was becoming blurry. It was a struggle just to keep his eyes open… A loud horn, different from those that had gone before, louder, more deafening filled the air. Robb twisted from his place on the floor and looked over his shoulder at the gentle rise he had originally drawn his army up on. Gods it feels like a lifetime ago I was up there. Arrayed across the rise was a massive host, thousands strong. The vast majority were mounted on fine horses and their armour shone in the midday light. For a moment he hoped that reinforcements had arrived, but then he saw the banners the new arrivals held aloft. Even from this distance he could see that in the centre, in the space he had been a little while before, was a herald carrying a flag with a very distinctive sigil. The falcon of House Arryn. Eddard I He was in the middle of the line, watching the battle unfold around him. He sat on his mount, as still as a statue, as his army took their place around him. Yohn Royce drew level with him, his armour, engraved with ancient runes, blazed in the reflected light of the sun. Together the two men looked down the slope as the fight raged furiously. After a long of moment Ned spotted the person he was looking for, right at the centre of the fight, getting to his feet beside the body of a man he’d just slain. Robb. His son was almost unrecognisable but for the fine fur he still had draped on his shoulders, the fact he was in the dead centre of the battle with enemies on almost all sides pushing in to get at him. The final confirmation was the large body of a downed direwolf off to one side. There was a small ring of northern soldiers trying to keep the enemy back but Robb’s Starks protectors were dying all around him and Ned suspected it wouldn’t be long before they were able to assault his son directly. “Your boy stands alone.” Lord Royce grumbled, his voice echoed in the close confines of his helm. Ned Stark swiftly unsheathed his broadsword. No. Never alone. “KNIGHTS OF THE VALE!” He bellowed, “FORWARD!” Jaime X He parried another strike from the warrior woman. It defiantly was a woman he was facing although her body was that of a man, her limbs strong and muscled with no feminine grace. That being said her cries and grunts were unmistakably that of a woman. At the start he didn’t relish the thought of slaying a woman. I’m a piss poor knight as it is without adding the killing of women to my list of crimes. Still Jaime was grateful that the woman had fought him and spared him from having to dispatch an injured Robb Stark. The boy fought well and bravely I really don’t want to kill him when he’s lying on the ground. Such notions of honour quickly went by the wayside however. As the fight wore on, Jaime worried now that he wouldn’t be able to kill the lumbering beast. The woman parried all his blows, returning savage cuts of her own. Jaime’s sword arm was weak, he struggled to even lift his weapon much less use it effectively. His months of captivity were beginning to tell. My skill is still there, indeed that’s the only reason I’m still alive. But my body is weak. Whereas the woman seemed to be getting stronger as she fought back hard against him. Thankfully two Lannister men rushed past him and engaged the woman allowing him a respite. Not so long ago he would have remonstrated the men harshly for daring to intercede in a duel, but now he was just grateful for the break. Off to one side the Mountain and the Hound were still at it. The two men hacked at each other with the huge weapons they laughably called swords. More like cleavers . There was no skill in their fight just sheer bloody minded slaughter. The sounds of multiple horns drew his attention. He looked up at the northern rise and smiled as he saw the massed ranks of a new host on the field. He saw the banners of House Arryn flying proudly. Finally, Baelish is here. The horns sounded again and the Vale host split into three. A host went east and west while the middle charged full pelt into the gap between Marbrand and Jaime’s own forces. The knights mowed down the red coloured troops at the rears of both Lannister hosts, taking them down with devastating speed and efficiency. The Kingslayer could only watch in horror as the mounted force smashed into the unsuspecting Lannister force. He twisted his head to watch the two pincer groups being to swing around, obviously aiming for his fathers’ rear flanks. We’ll be surrounded. His lord father obviously felt the same thing. The Lannister call to withdraw went up and down along the central line. The Lannister host faltered and then began to fragment as the men saw the Vale knights move to flank them. The soldiers saw the threat to their sides now becoming more pronounced. Jaime could predict what would happen next. Lord Tywin’s centre routed. The risk of being surrounded by Starks forces was too much for the men to bear and they pulled back. The sergeants amongst the men tried to maintain order but they might as well have been pissing into the sea. Orders were ignored as men dropped their weapons and ran. The enemy in the centre fought back with renewed strength and vigour, then men heartened to see reinforcements arrive and the enemy retreat. The Kingslayer watched as his lord father rode back towards his men shouting commands to his fleeing soldiers. Jaime watched in astonishment as Lord Tywin’s own men ignored him as they fled. The Warden of the West suddenly looked very old and insignificant. Nothing like the towering figure that had been such a dominating presence in Jaime’s life since the day he and Cersei was born. It’s over. We’ve lost. “Ser Jaime!” A knight called. “We must flee, before it’s too late!” Too late? Too late for what? I could run, but where would I run to? Back to Cersei, back to a woman who recoils when I touch her? Back to my children who don’t even know I’m their father? No fuck them, fuck them all. Except Tyrion , he mused. No, him I will miss. Jaime turned to address the knight, “Go on, get out while you can.” The man didn’t attempt to dissuade him as he turned to run through the crowd. The Kingslayer unclasped his cloak, the stained raiment falling to the ground. He looked towards a small mound of earth were Robb Stark swayed on his feet, looking confused. At least I can kill that young upstart. Jaime broke into a run, he dived past fleeing men and pursing enemies. He focused on the Young Wolf who was standing apart from the rest breathing heavily as his men rushed to chase their enemies, vengeance and blood lust in their eyes. “Clegane! With me!” He screamed as he passed the Mountain. I could use some help if things turn into a fight. At least the fucker could provide a distraction. He did not pause to see if the lumbering beast had heard him but he threw himself at his target. Robb Stark heard him coming and turned, he looked about and picked up a sword from the prone figure he had been protecting. He brandished a short sword, pointing it towards the Kingslayers chest. Jaime almost laughed. Bring a knife to a sword fight? He lunged forward and struck Robb Stark a stinging blow that the boy only just managed to turn aside. Jaime lashed out with his foot and kicked the Young Wolf's leg out from under him. Robb Stark hit the ground hard, he no longer had the strength to lift his sword. Shame, I would have wanted more of a fight . Jaime hefted his own sword and swung it at his enemy’s head. Another blade intercepted and angled Jaime‘s blade away harmlessly. Jaime whirred to face his new opponent. And came face to face with someone who he had truly not expected to see. There, clad in simple armour, engraved with the Stark sigil was Lord Eddard himself. The Warden of the North stood a mere foot or two away, a broadsword in his hand, a direwolf shaped helm encasing his head. Only the main part of his face was unarmoured, affording the man unobstructed vision. “Lord Stark.” Jaime said, wielding his sword. The savage joy of imminent combat washing away his fatigue. “Nice of you to join us.” Jaime’s eyes flicked left and right. The blasted warrior woman was there again, along with a muscled boy wielding a war hammer. The Kingslayer blinked, he looks like a cross between Robert and Renly Baratheon. Ned Stark didn’t take his eyes off Jaime. His face tilted to the side. “Gendry, deal with the Mountain. Ser Jaime Lannister is mine.” “My lord,” the muscled youth hurried away. For a moment the warrior woman looked between the two but then, after the Hound let out a guttural cry, she ran after the boy. Jaime flicked his sword in to a ready position. “Just you and me then. I always wished we’d finished that fight outside Littlefinger’s brothel. Care for a rematch?” “Stand down, Kingslayer.” Ned said, not lifting his sword, “You’re exhausted. Yield and you’ll be fairly treated.” Jaime offered a wry smile, “No more Stark captivity for me I think. Come now Lord Stark, at least give me the honour of a proper fight.” “Very well,” Ned raised his sword. “Excellent.” Another smile, “Shall we make a start?” “No,” Eddard Stark replied, almost sadly. “Let us make an end.” Eddard II Their swords were a blur. The two men cutting and thrusting at each other with blinding speed. Each parry was a strike, each strike a parry. He could feel others merely watching from the sides in awe at the fight that was going on before them. Eddard Stark ignored them all, he just had eyes for the Kingslayer who was, without doubt, one of the most deadly opponents he’d ever faced. Ned control his breathing, ducking and weaving to avoid the Kingslayers deadly sword as he blocked slashes and turned aside thrusts. The Kingslayer seemed to be almost enjoying the contest. His eyes had lit up and the smile never left his face as he spun and lunged at the older man. The two seemed rooted to the same spot, never moving more than a metre or two away from the same space they’d started at as their swords performed a deadly dance, each coming close to the others body but never landing an actual blow. He was reminded years ago of the Tower of Joy. Ser Arthur Dayne was a similar fighter, though Jaime Lannister is more of a showman. Arthur Dayne was the best swordfighter I ever faced, but unlike this boy he never revelled in combat he just saw it as a grim necessity. And he almost killed me. Would have done so, if not for Howland Reed. The Kingslayer was not Arthur Dayne, and I am not as weak or out of shape as I was a few months ago. He parried a strike and swung a return thrust. Jaime blocked but his arm dipped and Ned saw an opening. No, Kingslayer, you’re not Arthur Dayne and this fight is.. done. Ned ducked under a swinging cut and then sent a stinging blow against the Kingslayers wrist. Jaime cursed as he dropped his weapon. Stark went low and slashed at the Kingslayers legs. He didn’t draw blood but the force of the strike sent his opponents legs out from under him. With a thump Lord Tywin’s son sagged to his knees, hitting the ground hard. Ned stood over him readying his sword. “Yield.” He commanded. Jaime looked up at him. “You’ve improved immensely since we fought last. And you were not an easy opponent then.” “Yield, Ser Jaime.” Ned repeated, “I will not ask again.” A sound over their shoulder distracted Ned, he turned to see the Hound being knocked into the ground by his brother who, as Ned watched sent a stinging blow with his sword to the warrior who had hurried to assist Gendry. The warrior cried out as the Mountain’s blow knocked the sword from his hands. The Mountain would have killed her then but suddenly the brute grunted loudly in pain. Ned saw that the Hound had made use of his position on the floor. He had kicked the Mountain in the groin. As Gregor Clegane bellowed in pain, Gendry Waters jumped in and swung his warhammer, a gift from Ned himself. The hammerhead impacted the Mountains breastplate dead centre. The blow lifted the mighty knight from his feet and drove him to the ground. Soldiers wearing the colours of many house were on the Mountain then. They surrounded the massive figure as he lay prone and delivered blows and strikes. The warrior woman pushed past them. “He is a knight! Arrest him, but leave him alive! He must answer properly for his crimes!” “How noble of her.” Jaime uttered from his place on his knees. Her? Ned’s eyes flicked back to the Kingslayer. Jaime offered him a small smile. “Will you afford me the same honour?” “Yield.” Ned said, one last time, but he could see in his opponent’s eyes that it was too late. The time for words had passed. “Can’t do that Stark.” Jaime sighed, looking regretful, “I will say that I wish you good fortune, in all the wars to come.” The Kingslayer sprung at him, a knife hissing from its scabbard as Ser Jaime made for Ned’s face. Stark turned to one side and buried his sword into the chest of the Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister gasped in pain, sagging against Stark who held the man and lowered him to the floor. Gently setting him down and kneeling by his side. “Well struck.” The Kingslayer uttered, a trickle of blood came from his mouth. He grit his teeth, “You came back for your son?” “As I’m sure you would for yours.” Ned replied. The dying man smiled, “Perhaps you don’t know me at all.” Fear came to his eyes, cutting through the pain, “Don’t…don’t let harm come to Cersei – or the children. Jaime’s eyes went wide, “Please...” Ned nodded, “I will do what I can.” As villainous as the Kingslayer was, Ned was not about to lie to the man. To promise something he couldn’t deliver. Jaime Lannister nodded thankfully, the light slowly faded from his eyes. His body went limp. Ned rose from the floor, bowed his head in respect and then strode off to find his son. Robb was sitting on the ground, being assisted by the warrior woman who had fought the Mountain. Robb was trying to rise but no longer possessed the strength to do so under his own power. The woman had removed her helm and was staring with anxious eyes at her leader. After another abortive attempt to stand Robb collapsed onto the floor, only stirring and looking up as Ned approached. Robb’s eyes went wide in astonishment “Fa…Father?” Ned gave a thankful smile to Brienne who stood up and ran off to find assistance for her king. “Hush lad,” Ned said kneeling and pulling his son into an embrace. “It’s alright.” “Am I dead?” Robb asked, fearfully. Ned let forth a chuckle. He pulled away to look his son full in the face. “No Robb, you’re not dead.” He hugged the boy to him, “You live still. And Gods willing will continue so for a good many years.” “How are you here?” Robb whispered, his voice heavy with fatigue and pain Ned saw past the blood and grime, saw the boyish confusion that his son was struggling with, he offered a smile. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. There is much to do here.” Robb eyes surged open as if he’d remembered something long forgotten, “The battle!” He cried as he struggled to get out of Ned’s arms. His father restrained him sternly, “It’s alright Robb. You’ve won. The Lannisters flee the field. Don’t concern yourself about that now. Just rest. I have you.” The Young Wolf looked worried, “My men….” “They’ll all be tended to and looked after.” Ned promised, “You just take care of yourself. You have a young wife waiting for you and a child on the way. You have to rest.” Robb smiled at something, “Margaery will want to meet you.” “And I her,” Ned said. “Now rest my boy, and sleep easy. I’ll attend to everything.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Hughes deciding he’s gonna go frolic off on a wizard shopping spree is definitely not a plan he discussed with anyone else beforehand, judging by Mustang’s studiously blank expression and Hawkeye’s deadeyed No. 53, Surely We Can Come Up With A Better Idea. That’s not Ed’s problem, though, not with the whole magic question to solve. With a parting harangue at Hairy (“Where the fuck’s the report, kid? Are you gonna make me ask you a fourth time? Take this seriously, sheesh, it’s like you don’t want the Malbuy guy caught,”) Ed leaves the kid spluttering as he and Al clean up their breakfast debris and go. “You take this seriously!” follows him out of the kitchen, but Ed just waves without turning around and heads off to do bad things with science. “Hey, brother?” Al says from behind him as they reach the stairs. “Mm?” “Look left for a second?” Al’s deceptively mild tone gets Ed for just the split second it needs to. In a flash Ed realizes what’s about to happen, but even as he tries to leap it’s too late. Al’s cane is already between his knees, tripping him, and Al himself moves like a fucking snake and has Ed in his least favorite armlock in seconds. “Al! Let go!” “We go through this every time, brother,” Al says firmly, shifting his grip just enough to lift Ed, struggling bitterly, right off the ground. “And you put up this fight every time, even though you never win, and you admitted it’s good for you. You think I don’t notice when you don’t turn your head on one side all morning?” Ed didn’t even realize he wasn't turning his head on one side all morning, but before he can yell about this Al gives a slight grunt and twist and does the thing to Ed’s back and shoulder that makes it crackle like cooked bacon and abruptly unlocks every muscle and joint on his right side. He tries not to gasp audibly at the sudden jelly feeling as Al sets him back down. “There,” Al says. “Now are you going to hold still for your neck or do I have to do it Mei’s way again?” Mei’s way involves three pressure points and ten minutes of Ed not being able to lift his arms. “Fine.” Al cracks his neck too. “Go shave,” he orders Ed, who is now eighty percent wet noodle. “You look like a vagrant. Meet me in that second floor room, I’ll start setting everything up.” Ed teeters off up the stairs, Al following to pick up the pack of measuring equipment from the Camp Amestris room. By the time he’s changing out of his pajamas his balance is back to normal and his joints are all reporting for duty again, which is good given he’s got to raise both arms to sort his hair out given the state it’s in even after a combing. His high-neck is kinda sweaty from yesterday, so he figures he might as well stick with his sleep shirt for the day; fuck, there better be some kinda laundry situation around here. He never packs much for work and while cleaning clothes alchemically is possible it’s also super annoying and isn’t very good about dealing with smells. For some things soap really is the answer. He examines his doubled-up diamond and steel bracers by one of the windows, seeing the couple of scorch marks in full daylight. Must be a heat component to their magic light flashes, then. Or an exothermic reaction gets triggered when their lights hit something like diamond. Probably won’t affect his and Al’s calculations for defining what magic is, on the whole, but might be something to explore, if it turns out their base hypothesis is wrong and they need to experiment further. Boots, bracers, braid. Time to go fuck up someone’s day. The room they’d identified as labworthy is tucked out of the way around the stairs; Al has Ed’s notebook pulled apart on the little table in there, the binding transmuted open so he can arrange the pages next to each other for ease of access. He’s also found or made a bigger sheet that’s closer to the butcher paper they usually use for drafting arrays. “We’re building this one from first principles, base up,” he instructs as Ed hooks a foot in a chair and sits down across from him. “If magic is what we think it is, we better make sure the energy target is very specific before we try it on anything.” “Yeah,” Ed agrees, pulling his emissions testing notes from yesterday and scanning them over, then glancing back up. “Talk about qi?” he says in Xingese, then grimaces reflexively when he remembers that won’t work to prevent eavesdroppers here. Al half grimaces back, but then gets a thoughtful look and goes a little distant in his I’ve-got-a-legitimate-sixth-sense way. “We can probably talk,” he says after a moment. “Last night people were going up and down the stairs, walking around a lot. There’s nobody near this room right now.” “It’s so fucking useful that you can do that,” Ed says, for the hundredth time. “You could learn too, you know,” Al says, also for the hundredth time, completing what’s basically their catchphrase at this point. “Yeah, well, if Lan Fan couldn’t beat qi-sense into me I don’t think anything can. I probably don’t have the right chakras or something.” “You’re just allergic to meditating.” “Wow, sitting for hours and trying to think of nothing? Why would I be bad at that?” Ed says sarcastically. “Well, you sit for hours plenty, on trains and in libraries, and I often look at your behavior and understand very clearly that you think nothing at all -” “I’ll kick your ass qi-free, you little snot. Tell me about the magic.” Al easily deflects Ed’s half-assed bop towards his forehead and pins his hand to the table. “They’re drawing from ambient qi, as far as I can tell, and channeling it through themselves,” he says. “Or their… wands, when they’re doing spells. Like how alkahestry draws it in through circles, kind of. Only they don’t need arrays.” He meets Ed’s eyes, amused. “Like us.” “Ugh, as if.” Ed tugs his hand free to flip his braid over his shoulder, grimacing. A whole population of people who’re just… born as though they’d already gone through the Gate. Kind of. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. “So they’re doing alkahestry but not really?” Al teeters a hand. “I don’t want to make any definitive claims on parallels because their qi is different here, and I’m not sure in what ways. The fact that their shielding disrupts transmutation on some level…” He eyes the pages that have Ed’s math spitballing from last night. “What you described doesn’t sound like what Scar’s brother’s array did, but there may be similarities. If they’re not using any kind of equation or array, though, I’m not sure how we’d study it to find out. And their qi is different.” “How different? You said it’s like, real fuckin’ dense here, right?” “A lot more dense. If dense is even the right word.” Al looks vaguely dissatisfied with the lack of available qualifiers for magic bullshit. “I haven’t really read much on different kinds of ambient qi. Medical alkahestry focuses pretty narrowly on internal qi systems. That’s pretty much always only one kind, so it’s described with - nóngdù, yāsuō. Thickness, thinness. Concentration.” He blows out a breath. “I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that some monasteries in Xing are built in places where the ambient qi is supposed to be thicker, but I don’t know if that’s been quantifiably proven or even tested in any meaningful way.” “But you can use it, right?” “Yes,” Al says, but there’s a but lurking in there somewhere. “What?” “I’d… like to test it more, I think. Properly. I’ve only used the one array with it so far, to give Hairy an EEG, and that was with a fully static array with a set power intake… well. It might not make any difference.” “You told Mustang the weird forehead qi was discrete from the kid’s life force,” Ed says. “Is all the other magic shit different from ambient qi too? Like - they’re drawing on it, but like alchemy - we pull from tectonic energy but it gets translated into alchemical energy through us. Right?” Al nods. “It feels like - frequency isn’t the right word. Or maybe it is? Pattern, maybe… it doesn’t move the same way.” He considers the array paper, then pulls out a pen and starts drawing squiggles. “I don’t think I can graph it, since it’s more of a feeling… in three dimensions… moving… but it’s kind of like that.” Ed considers the two diagrams. “That looks like the first time I tried to braid my hair.” Al sighs. “I know.” “Not something we can include in calculations, then.” “Nope.” “Let’s stick to the electromagnetism for now, then.” Ed taps his emissions notes. “I can define a range from this, probably. If we take EM scripts and stick ‘em to the drain component of the fuckin’... soul muncher circle then it should give us something to start with.” “Electric Storm’s arrays?” Al guesses. “Yeah, only the groundwork though - we don’t need any of the pulse stuff, just the descriptors.” Ed pulls a free sheet from his vivisected notebook and starts writing out the formulas for Al. “You gotta meet Kendra when you’re back. If this works right we’re gonna owe her dinner.” Al leans in to see what Ed’s writing, turning his head a bit to read upside down. “She translates alchemical energy directly into EM?” “Ya, it’s cool. Efficient.” It’s why Mustang had paired them for the hydrodam job; in practicals it was the right choice because it was a giant fucking power plant made of hundreds of thousands of tons of cement, and Kendra’s half an electrical engineer and Ed does cement in his sleep. What Ed actually specializes in, though, is energy systems, and Kendra’s an expert in alchemic manipulation of electromagnetism. The formulas Ed’s writing out now are from the set she developed to describe current, voltage and magnetic fields in order to translate alchemical energy into electromagnetic. They’re lucky she was as happy to exchange shop talk as Ed was. Though really, her arrays are in the same boat as Mustang’s - even if you know how they work, more or less, that doesn’t do jack fuck for you when it comes to actually controlling the reaction. Al pulls the emissions notes over while Ed finishes writing the descriptors. “You’re going to have to make an average for the energy target,” he says. “We should have as few variables as possible for this. Ideally, just the one.” “Yeah,” Ed agrees, pushing the finished sheet to Al. “Here. We sub this in, define the target, and we should be good to test.” They both know the philosopher’s stone array by heart. It’s not something Ed’s probably ever gonna be able to forget, and likely not Al either. It’s a fairly complex circle, fifteen aspects across four stages and a fifth central focus, but it’s very straightforward in terms of purpose and effect: extract energy, compress it down, bind it into battery form as a stone. Its targets and directivity are clear and distinct. Ed can see pretty much exactly what they have to move and replace to get what they’re going for, and he’s pretty sure Al can too. They look at each other. “So,” Ed says. “So,” Al says. “What else do we need?” “Just to draw it out, I guess.” They both look at the floor, standing up and nudging the desk back in tandem to evaluate how much space they have. “Might have to push the walls back a bit,” Ed says. “We should have it big enough to stand in.” “Wait,” Al says. “If the house is magic. And… maybe sentient. And we’re making an array to cancel all of that -” “Outside,” Ed says immediately. “Outside,” Al agrees, and they traipse down to the backyard. Mustang finds them out there half an hour later. “This is not the third floor second door on the right,” he tells them pointedly, standing over where they’ve flattened a big square of dirt and packed it hard enough to take chalk easily; Ed’s doing most of the drawing out since there’s only room for one person to stand between the two main circles, so Al’s sitting off to the side extracting copper and zinc from the ground since Ed explained to him the plan to make Hawkeye bullets. His eyes travel over what they’ve got drawn out, and then narrow dangerously. “This is -” “Yeah,” Ed says brusquely, standing up and dusting his hands off. “Relax. It can’t go live at all until we connect all the aspects.” “We took it outside because we didn’t want to destabilize the magic house by accident,” Al explains. “Yeah, if we blow that up it’s gonna be on purpose.” Mustang doesn’t look appeased. “And you decided the yard whose physical dimensions are supported by magic would be better?” “Well, we figured it’d be okay since it’s expanded right now and probably works on an accordion principle,” Ed says. “Where the fuck else would you have us do it? In the street?” Mustang ignores that the way he always does when Ed gets the conversational upper hand. “I’m glad you had the presence of mind to secure a workspace,” he says to Alphonse, like he doesn’t know damn well it’d been Ed to raise a couple walls around their circle of dirt. The last thing they need is some squirrel scampering across the array and smudging just enough that activating it blows the whole thing to fuck. He turns a much more jaundiced look on Ed, gesturing at the array. “Well?” “Well, welcome to magic-be-gone, your one-stop shop to fixing all your wizard problems,” Ed says sarcastically, rounding the array to point down at the equations with accompanying flourish. “Don’t flip your wig, it does the job but leaves buildings standing. Intake here, here and here - it’s modified for EM only, there’s the range.” “This is the general version,” Al puts in. “If the intake doesn’t work without a specifier, we’ll try that next.” “A biological specifier,” Mustang says flatly. “To direct the intake to target lifeforms.” “Well,” Al says. “Yes.” “We’re testing it on magic shit first,” Ed says shortly. “Paintings, flowerpots, whatever the fuck else. If it works on objects, we won’t need to modify it.” Mustang folds his arms. “Walk me through it. All of it.” Ed sighs hugely, hands on his hips, and tries not to sound too sing-songy when he talks because he does actually see why Mustang’s got a live hedgehog up his ass here. “The base array we’re pulling from -” he’s not saying philosopher’s stone array out loud anywhere near this house - “is essentially an energy harvester with a secondary stage of compression and binding. We don’t want a battery, we just want shit gone, so we stripped all that out and just set it to discharge as light.” He points around the circle as he talks, showing Mustang the explicit equations - they aren’t shorthanding anything, which is tedious but necessary when you’re setting up the scaffolding on a reaction meant to channel the kind of power that rips spacetime. “So we get an energy harvesting array, made to suck up magic via EM frequency. Which might have some weird visual effects because it reads as light, mostly, and testing might prove we need to give it a more efficient offload than light, though if we introduce a heatsink it’ll be a separate linked array because we don’t want to splice anything into the main one. For obvious reasons.” “You said magic is qi. My understanding of the Dragon’s Pulse is that it’s in everything,” Mustang says. “How does this array differentiate between the magic and anything else? Or is that unnecessary?” Al wrinkles his nose as he thinks about how best to explain. “Well… everything has qi, but not all qi is the same.” “Living qi and like… free-floaty qi, right?” Ed says. Al grimaces at him. “Not quite. Animals feel different from humans, and living plants feel distinct from the... huánjìng liúliàng.” He waves a hand. “Ambient flow.” “So we calibrated to the narrowest frequency possible, the average of all the magic emissions we tested,” Ed says. “That shit feels different to Al and is the only measurable type of qi so far anyway, so… it proooooobably won’t eat life force. Or souls.” Mustang’s eyes narrow further. “It’s a pretty narrow frequency window,” Al says reassuringly. “What is your testing plan?” Mustang says. “I told you, flowerpots. Paintings. No point throwing it anything more magic-y until we know if it’ll even work.” “This is going to take human trials,” Mustang says unequivocally. “Well yeah, if it works, so I’ll hop in there for the first go, and if it does start sucking my soul out Al will cut the circle,” Ed says. “There’s a margin of error here, we’ve got enough of a window to test safely even if it goes tits up.” “We should add a feedback loop, so after initial activation it powers itself,” Al adds, mostly thinking aloud. “We need to be able to check for any delayed or gradual reactions. It’ll ease some of the offload too, bring down the chances of everything blowing up.” “Do not blow anything up,” Mustang says, like they need fuckin’ reminding. “Put limiters on the intake. If you don’t control how fast it absorbs or how much there’s a chance it could overclock the array. And do not make it self-powering until we’re all very sure it’s not going to shred whatever gets near it.” Sheesh, someone’s fussy. Though it’s not like it’s a mystery as to why. “Yuh huh. So Hughes is just gonna go off with the wizards? And Havoc?” Ed says, skeptical not so much of Havoc’s abilities as backup so much as Mustang’s ability to let Hughes loose without full body armor and a protective escort that includes eight alchemists and a tank. He had gone amazingly nuts when he’d thought Hughes wouldn’t be waking up again. “We need information,” Mustang says, the way other people say I’m having a root canal. “Getting an idea of the society we’re operating in is critical, especially if it comes to leveraging the local resources.” Now, with any other officer this would be just another pat bullshit sentence about mustering the whatever and evaluating the terrain, but in Mustangese it means something pretty fuckin’ specific. Ed’s eyes slowly go round. “You’re sending Hughes looking for hookers.” “Oh no,” Al says. “You’re sending Hughes looking for hookers. With Havoc.” “We need information,” Mustang repeats, with only slightly gritted teeth. “You’re sending them looking for hookers,” Ed repeats, because genius like this deserves exploration from all angles. “In broad daylight. With a bunch of kids doing school shopping.” “With Havoc,” Al repeats, staring into a private, likely prescient inner universe of tragicomedy. “The radios also need testing over distance,” Mustang soldiers on like they haven’t said anything, which is a bullseye indicator that he fucking hates this plan too but doesn’t have anything better. “I don’t like that the wizards are so very baffled that our technology keeps working in this magic house of theirs, and we don’t have access to local phones.” “Does Havoc know he’s looking for hookers?” Ed says, ignoring Mustang’s sentences right back. “Did you tell him? Does he know it’s wizard hookers he’s looking for?” “Maybe it’s like a sort of magnet technique,” Al suggests. “Colonel Hughes is very married, but if any professional saw Havoc walk into a bar -” “- that’s easy meat,” Ed finishes. “Holy shit. Is that even humane? It’s like pushing a puppy into a piranha pool.” Al sends a faintly sad look Mustang’s way. “That’s very cold, General.” “You would deny him a chance to promote his natural talents?” Mustang says, but his heart isn’t in it; he’s clearly too distracted to properly bastard. He’s probably gonna snap and start bellowing at Ed today at some point, so Ed makes a vague mental note to poke him with something sharp after the array’s finished so they can shout each other out properly. Ed barely even got to punch yesterday and for all Mustang’s failings the guy shouts like a champ. “Testing automail should wait until Arget returns,” Mustang continues, to Ed. “If it turns out an analogous system isn’t enough to test properly I’d rather we lose half a hand than your ability to walk. Did you finish making the chromoly steel?” Ed pokes their spare pack enough to show the iron and coal inside. “Nah, I need your array’s carbon content numbers. And whether you’re carburizing or I am.” Mustang purses his mouth but takes the notebook and pen Al helpfully passes him, bracing it on one of the dirt walls to sketch his array. “If those are for bullets, don’t make every round explosive,” he says, jerking his head at Al’s neat cubes of dirt spiced with copper and zinc. “Hawkeye will need hollowpoints as well.” “I know her usual,” Ed says. He didn’t like the way his brain kept replaying Hawkeye laying out her rifle, after Void, so he joined her at the range a couple times when she did her long-range firing practice. She didn’t say anything about it, just let him hand her the brushes and cloths and oil and worked aloud as she disassembled and cleaned both Kerchatka and T-60. Ed’s never going to be okay with guns, but tech specs are tech specs and better knowledge than ignorance, always. “We’ve gotta test ricochet somewhere we won’t blow out some neighbor’s window. Are they gonna take us anywhere today or just keep popping in and out complaining about their shit government?” “Bones sent her… wolf to say she’d take Hawkeye and myself to see that school castle they want to use as an ambush site,” Mustang says. “She’ll be here before noon. Finish the chromoly before we leave. Even if we don’t have an opportunity to see about shielding Hawkeye will still need to test fire. The sooner the better.” That’s true. Who the fuck knows what might pop out of the woodwork next. “What’re you gonna be doing?” Ed asks. “Making sure nobody comes out here asking what you’re up to,” Mustang retorts, which, okay, Ed meant about whether he’ll clue in Bones about how he can blow things up or not. “And that Hughes and the rest have a way to get back here without relying on any wizards. Come get me when you have something workable. Before you start chucking paintings in there just to hear them scream.” Mustang finishes by handing Ed the chromoly array notebook and swishes off, leaving them with their circle. “Y’know,” Ed says thoughtfully, “sometimes I think that guy needs a vacation.” “Screaming paintings,” Al says, not quite a question. “Yeah, there was - wait. Deconstructing that one painting got rid of it, completely, and that thing was apparently magic as all fuck - did I tell you about that?” Al gives him a patient look that says he’s been trying to get Ed to tell him about that and that he’s glad Ed’s finally boarded this trolley. “There was this asshole painting shouting in the hall that the convict guy was trying to get rid of,” Ed says. “It was a portrait of his mom, can you fucking believe? Anyway, since their photos move too, they say there’s like zero chance any of it is involved with souls, so I deconstructed it for him. Came apart just fine, felt like only plaster and paint and all the usual stuff. Probably other magic shit will deconstruct the same.” “Doesn’t address how we’d deal with teleporting, though,” Al points out. “Or their light flashes.” “Deconstruct them?” Ed suggests, wiggling his fingers. Al rolls his eyes. “Okay, Scar. Let me know when you have any bright ideas that aren’t murder.” “All my bright ideas aren’t murder.” Ed appreciates that Al’s meeting him in morbidity, given they’re messing around ass-deep in the shit that gave them so much grief in their teenage years. He taps his notebook on his thigh and looks down at the array, blowing out a breath. “Come on, let’s connect up these dots.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Peter keeps showing up at the bar and worming his way into Jason’s life, through persistent needling and the occasional off-kilter, concerning habits. The others have also made more frequent appearances too. Jason doesn’t actually do all that much gang work as Jason—his cover doesn’t need to go that far. But Frank’s quickly been rising up in ranks, and Jason’s still not going to call them friends, no matter what Peter might say, but he has developed a sort of grudging respect for the man—if only for his fighting skills. Which, to be fair, kind of sets Jason on edge? What kind of man is that good at fighting? The few times he’s seen Frank in action, he’d even say he was holding back. Jason’s not sure who’d win if they had an all out, no stops pulled fight—and that’s not something he can say for most people. On his best day, Jason could maybe take down Batman on his worst. Cassandra could beat his ass without even trying. Dick would be more or less evenly matched, but really, one lucky shot with his guns and it’s over for the boy whose choice of weapons are sticks . But Frank’s good with weapons. Great, even. And he doesn’t share the bats’ aversion to killing. Jason might even say he’s one of the best marksmen he’s met, has asked him how he learned to shoot like that, when Matt grimaced and told him about some guy named Bullseye who could ricochet off anything and hit his target ten times out of ten. It's strange, knowing them. Peter and Jess and Matt and Frank, and Jason can't quite shake the feeling that there's something just a bit off about them. But he drinks with Frank, shares exasperated looks (or non-looks, considering, well,) with Matt, and even when no one else is at the bar, he exchanges a few words with Jessica here and there. And Peter chatters his ear off like they've known each other for years. It's not like Jason's ever been the type to ask questions. Except when he was (but he's kind of had that beaten out of him since his Robin days). He doesn't quite know what to make of this newfound standing with them. But he's not really complaining, either. - Some weeks later, someone else visits the bar. Jason doesn’t notice at first, glaring at the empty glass in his hand like he is. Not until a looming figure takes presence behind his back and–wow, that’s probably symbolic or something. “Jay,” a voice says, making him freeze—with panic or anger, he doesn’t know. “We need to talk.” “Get out,” Jason says, flat. Bruce, stepping aside to take a seat next to him, ignores this. “Get out,” Jason repeats, seething this time. Why the fuck is he here? How did he find him—no, that, that makes sense. He’s fucking Batman, he never would’ve allowed not having at least some general idea of where Jason is in Gotham. But his being here is a risk, which they never take, and Jason’s put too much work on his cover to let Bruce blow it. But when has Bruce ever given a single shit about what Jason thinks? “Things are stirring up in Gotham,” he says, like nothing Jason says has ever once been heard. “You know this.” And Jason does—but here’s the thing: It’s not his problem . He’s not a bat. “So take care of it,” Jason hisses. “And leave me out of it.” “You have to order something if you want to stay,” a voice suddenly interrupts them. Jessica, eyeing Bruce suspiciously. And that’s not true, not technically, because this is one of the seediest bars in Gotham and the entire appeal is that they don’t ask questions and they don’t bother customers. But Bruce waves it away and asks for anything. Jessica looks at his downplayed suit—at least he put some effort into disguising himself—but then notes his upscale shoes, and charges him for the most expensive thing on the menu. Jason snorts. “Top me up, Jess,” he says, sliding his glass across the counter. “For the rest of the night.” He’s going to need it. Jess leans over the counter to pour him a few fingers. Jason knocks it all back at once and then tilts the glass to her again. “Is there a problem here?” Jess asks nonchalantly, pouring him some more. “I’m being told of one against my will,” he replies. “Just pass me the whole bottle, will you?” Jessica raises an eyebrow at him, clearly noting how he was already on the path to tipsy even before Bruce arrived, but she complies before stalking off. Sadly, the bottle’s only a quarter full. “Jason,” Bruce reprimands. He has that whole thing about drinking. “The best you’re getting,” Jason says, taking a swig. “You want to talk? Talk. You have five minutes before I start shooting things just to get your annoying ass voice out of my head.” Bruce hesitates. Then, sounding just so barely uncertain, he says, “I heard about the shoot-out.” Jason groans. If this is Bruce’s idea of small talk, he’s severely lacking. “Before you get your hopes up, it wasn’t me that took them down,” he says. “If it were, they’d be six feet under.” “Jason,” Bruce says again, sharp. He rolls his eyes. “Guys that shoot at kids aren’t ones worth the air they’re breathing.” Bruce pauses at that. Oh, the things it takes to catch the bat off-guard. “There was a kid there.” It sounds like a statement, but Jason can hear the underlying question. Jason just takes another swig, face twitching from the burning aftertaste choking the back of his throat. He’s not elaborating on however the fuck Peter had dealt with them—isn’t too sure of it himself, actually. He drops it. For once. Instead, Bruce picks at another, worse thread. “We need you out there.” “No, the hell you don’t,” Jason snaps. His knuckles are white-clenched on the whiskey. “You have your crew. Deal with it yourself.” “We need more,” Bruce counters, and Jason doesn’t want to know how bad it’s gotten for Bruce to say that. Something must have changed, for him to come to Jason now . Only, Jason doesn't care enough to let him elaborate. “Get someone else,” Jason simmers instead. “You already replaced all of us. And I heard about the new kid.” Duke. Peter talks about him occasionally. “What’s one more?” “Jay…” God, can Bruce not say anything else other than some disappointed variation of his name? He can practically hear him think, not this again . Jason unintentionally grips the bottle even tighter. “What about the spider-kid?” He growls. “I heard he’s been on the scene. Don’t tell me you’re not keeping tabs on him.” Bruce wavers. “Spider-Man is… an unknown,” he admits. “Nobody knows much of where he came from. I’d prefer you.” “Well that’s too bad, isn’t it,” Jason sneers. “It’s your problem. Leave me out of it. Jess, I need another one.” Jess, who’s been watching them warily from the other side of the bar, just hands him a glass of water and a refill of pretzels. “Finish those, first,” she orders. She glances at Bruce, who hasn’t touched his own drink. “And I think you should leave. Some of the customers are getting sketched out. You don’t look like you belong here.” And that's not strictly true, either, because no one heree has ever given a shit about anyone else at the bar. The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches. “Believe me, I’ve been trying.” He reaches over to pointedly take Bruce’s drink, misses his coordination a little bit. The world’s spinning just a touch, but he manages to grab it and drink, grimacing at the assault of flavours. Jess looks at him, unimpressed. “You should leave,” she says to Bruce again, her voice hard. Jason falters, feeling some threads of guilt poke at him. “I can take this somewhere else,” he offers, already trying to wobble himself up. And that’s not an offer he makes lightly—he’d rather shoot himself in the head than carry on this conversation with Bruce alone. “No. Stay,” Jessica orders, glaring at him until he sits back down, more than a little unsteady on his feet. “Your friend can go.” He can feel Bruce being torn, weighing his options. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to cause much more of a scene than he’s already caused. On the other, he hasn’t gotten what he came for yet—Jason’s cooperation. But one side must win over the other, because Bruce pushes himself up with a bit more force than necessary. “I’ll find you later, Jay,” he says, stalking off. “Go fuck yourself,” Jason calls after him, not turning around. He hears the door of the bar swing open and closed, and he slumps against the stool. "Drink,” Jess says, nudging the glass of water towards him. Jason scowls and obliges. “Keep the drinks coming,” he grumbles afterwards. “I’ll tip you five times to not cut me off.” - Some hours later, Jason is jabbed awake relentlessly. He moans, turning his head away, but whoever is insisting on poking him awake is persistent. “Closing time,” Jessica says, nearly shoving him off of his stool. Jason really wants to know how she’s that strong. Jason slowly blinks heavy eyelids, and finds that the bar is actually empty save for them, lights dimmed. He tries to push himself up and nearly topples over. “You’re still drunk,” Jess flatly informs him. “I’m taking you home.” “You don’ have to do that,” Jason slurs slightly. “I live close.” And then he trips over his own feet, lurching forwards. Jess catches him easily. She sighs like the martyr she is, staring up at the ceiling like she’s praying to some deity, before slinging her arm under his. She holds him up like he’s a stack of potatoes. “Tell me where you live.” And, still drunk out of his damn mind, Jason does. It really isn’t a long walk. Jason has safe houses and apartments stashed all around the city, but twice as many in Crime Alley. The closest one is only three blocks away. It takes them half an hour to get there. Jessica lugs him up the apartment stairs and opens the door, dumping him onto the couch. Jason kind of just sags. He hasn’t been this drunk in—he can’t remember. Not in a while. Nothing like Bruce fucking Wayne to stoop him down into coping with his problems through the use of alcohol again. “Did I ever tell you what my last job was?” Jessica asks, rummaging around for a scratchy blanket to throw on him. “You never told me anything ‘bout you,” Jason mumbles, face smushed down into his couch. Jessica stops in her movement for a moment to really look at him. “A P.I.. I was a P.I..” “Shit.” Jessica snorts, starting to walk around his apartment again. “I’m just letting you know,” she says, and her tone is light enough but Jason has the feeling he should be catching something from this—would be getting it, if he weren’t so wasted. There’s a heavy thud as a glass of water is set down on the coffee table in front of him, on the free space that isn’t covered by books or random loose paper, and then the rattling sound of a few aspirin tumbling out of a container. “Do I have to stay to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit?” Jessica asks. “Or are you a big boy?” There’s probably something weirdly wrong with that statement. “‘M good,” Jason muddles into the cushion. “Death doesn’t keep me down.” There’s a heavy pause before Jess is muttering, something along the lines of having heard that one before. Jason might ask her to elaborate, but his head hurts. “I’ll send someone to check in on you tomorrow,” she says afterwards, and Jason grunts, not really taking in what she’s saying. “Make sure you didn’t die in the night.” And then she’s gone. Jason sleeps. - When he wakes up some hours later, his head is pounding like he ate a bullet, and he stumbles his way into the bathroom to puke out all the contents of his gut—whatever food Jess had forced him into eating for another drink at the bar. After he gags for a good few minutes, he rests his head against the bathroom door, wondering what the hell happened the last night. And then he wrenches himself up, turns the tap on, swishes and spits. And then he goes out into the living room, and remembers. Shit, he’s gonna need another drink. “You drank too much last night,” Bruce says, made just right at home on his sofa. “I’m gonna need more to forget this conversation,” Jason deadpans, brooding towards the couch he’d crashed on. He spots the water and a small handful of aspirins, and gulps them down, one after the other. Next to both is a little granola bar he definitely does not keep stocked up in this apartment—and he vaguely recognizes it as one that Peter munches on whenever he gets hungry (which is always). Great. Jess left him a snack like he’s a toddler. Like he’s Peter (which is basically the same thing, he’s learned). The rainbow chocolate chips call tauntingly to him. He’s not going to eat a rainbow chip granola bar in front of Bruce. “Did you not hear me last night when I told you to fuck off?” Okay, so Jason doesn’t exactly remember saying that. But he must’ve, right? It sounds like something he would say to Bruce when drunk out of his wits. As usual, Bruce just completely ignores this. “Your intoxication made it very easy to follow you back here,” he says instead, like he has any right to—to be lecturing him right now. Condescending bastard. Jason collapses onto his couch, throwing a cushion over his head and pressing it down. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll suffocate. “Can we at least do this when my head isn’t being stabbed to death?” He grumbles, words muffled into the comforter. “Will you let me talk, then?” Bruce asks rhetorically. Jason doesn’t answer. They both know the answer is no. There’s a silence, then, with only Jason’s heavy breathing breaking it. And then there’s an almost mute sigh, and the sound of steps nearing him, and Jason tenses—but he’s walking away again, and the sound of a tap running. He returns with a refilled glass of water, setting it down on the table. Jason doesn’t lift his head from the cushions. The wooden boards creak as Bruce settles back into the sofa. It’s quiet. Quiet enough that the pounding in his head slightly subsides—given the aspirin kicking in after the half hour of blissed silence, Jason’s sure. He could almost forget that Bruce is here—almost. Except for the tension that chokes the air, just a little bit. A tension that’s cut with the sound of a crash in his bedroom. “What the fuck?” Jason reaches under the couch for a hidden gun, ignores Bruce jerk towards him with the intent to disarm him, and leaps to open his bedroom door, barrel trained straight And sees Peter Parker, sprawled on the ground next to the window. Peter blinks at him and the gun, like he’s caught off-guard by it but not all that bothered. “Hey,” he says, lifting the masses of plastic bags hung from his hands from where he sits. “I brought food.” Jason stares at him disbelievingly for a good few moments before lowering the gun, setting it down on the dresser. “How’d you get in here?” Peter scrambles up. “Through the fire escape,” he says, like that answers any question at all. Like he doesn’t have a perfectly good door, like Peter technically shouldn’t even know where he lives. “Jess told me where you live. I hope you don’t mind. I mean, I can’t do anything if you do mind, but, whatever. She told me to bring you some hangover food, and that you’re cut off from killing your liver for a week.” “Kid—” “It’s Chinese from down the block from the bar,” Peter continues like he didn’t hear. “I didn’t know what you liked so I just got some of everything. You can eat what you want and I’ll take the rest. I’m not really picky." “ Kid. ” “I had wontons, too, but I kinda spilled them on the street, ‘cause I had to take a… detour. So, sorry I was late. Not that you’d know I was late. But I am. The food might be a little cold now.” Peter looks at Bruce who’s shown up behind Jason in the doorway, like he’s just noticed him for the first time. “Oh, is this a bad time? Because I can leave the food here—” “ Peter ,” Jason stresses, and Peter finally slows talking for even a second. He looks at him strangely, confused. “You have a black eye.” “I do?” Peter blinks owlishly, as best as he can with one eye swollen. “Huh, I do.” Jason closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then exhales. “I’ll get you an ice pack,” he says, trying to force his tone to be as light as possible. “Cool, cool,” Peter says. He skirts past Bruce to enter the living room, ignoring him staring at Peter like he’s never seen a fifteen year old before. “Hey, your place is pretty nice.” “It’s shit,” Jason replies flatly, but Peter shrugs. “Nicer than mine, anyway,” he says, and Jason suppresses a wince. Right. He forgot about that. “I’m going to move your books,” and before Jason can even tell him to just use the dining table for its God-intended purpose, he somehow shifts the dozen bags of Chinese onto one arm to stack the books on the floor, and then dump the food onto the table. “Oh, you have my granola bar! These are the best ones. They have, like, ten grams of sugar." Jason’s going to get an aneurysm because of him, someday very soon. “Alright, let’s hear it,” Jason says, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and wrapping it in a towel. “How’d you get the shiner?” It looks extremely recent—like, within the past half-hour—and Jess wouldn’t have let him leave without something if she’d seen it. Peter freezes for a moment, and then goes on unpacking the cartons of take-out like nothing happened. “Must’ve fell,” he says, aiming for nonchalance. It doesn’t work—Peter’s the worst liar Jason’s ever met. “I’m clumsy. Probably when I spilled the wontons.” Yeah, Jason’s kind of wondering just how Peter spilled those wontons and what kind of delay might have held him up when Peter fidgets and turns his attention to Bruce. “Hey, you look kinda familiar,” he says, and it’s obviously in-part a ploy to turn the conversation, but there’s also some genuine recognition there. “Do I know you?” “He was just leaving,” Jason says pointedly, glaring at Bruce as he hands Peter the ice pack. Peter peers at them both, clearly sensing something strange between them, before offering an open carton in their general direction. “D’you want an egg roll?” “No, don’t give him an egg roll,” Jason says, aware that he sounds like a petty five-year-old. “He doesn’t deserve it.” For Peter’s part, he looks personally offended by that statement. “Everyone deserves an egg roll,” he says sagely, like he’s fucking Yoda or something. “Except for, like, TERFs or something.” He offers the carton so earnestly to Bruce again until he has no choice but to reluctantly take it. Bruce looks shocked at Peter’s presence in general, although his character and appearance is also probably contributing to the shock. He seems unsure of his footing enough to be speechless—but that won't last for long. Jason sighs. He’s going to get a conniption or something. “Where’d you even get the money for this, anyway?” He asks, giving in and taking an egg roll, too. He’ll be pissed if he spent the money Jason gave him as Red Hood. That was supposed to go to just Peter. Peter snickers between inhaling his own. “Jess overcharged some rich asshole at the bar last night,” he says, wickedly delighted and amused. Jason almost chokes on his egg roll. “She gave me the cash and told me to go wild. So, Chinese.” Peter shoves another roll in his mouth like he’s starving. Which, in all honesty, he probably is. Jason swallows his mouthful in resignation and sits down by Peter on the floor, who immediately hands him a carton of noodles and some chopsticks. “Ice your eye,” he orders, defeated, and Peter grins sheepishly as he complies. Jason glares at Bruce, trying to put everything into making him feel like he’s intruding. “I’m eating now,” he announces like it isn’t obvious, separating his chopsticks a bit more violently than is really needed and pointing them at Bruce. “So if you could just recognize when you’re unwelcome, that’d be great.” “Here,” Peter says cheerfully, closing the carton of egg rolls and fastening an elastic band around it. He gets up from the floor and shoves it into Bruce’s hands, which still holds the one egg roll. “Egg rolls to go.” “What if I want egg rolls?” Jason complains, mostly to be difficult more than anything. Although he also does want egg rolls. They were pretty good. “I have more,” Peter says, pointing at another bag. “Jess really overcharged that guy.” Peter grabs Bruce by the arm, whose hands are full from egg rolls and who looks too surprised at being manhandled by some skinny tween asshole with a black eye disguised as some polite kid to resist being pushed out the door. Forget everything Jason’s said about the aneurysms—he’s about to die happy right now. “Bye! Nice meeting you, Mr. Man-Whose-Name-I-Don’t-Know!” And then he shuts the door. “Enjoy the egg rolls,” Jason yells. The door clicks locked. “Cool,” Peter says, slinking back to the coffee table and dropping into a criss-cross applesauce. “Hey, can you pass the sesame chicken?” Jason does. “Kid, where were you when I needed you to do that, like, years ago?” He asks, gruff and delighted. Peter doesn’t know that a locked door couldn’t deter Bruce from anything, but it’s the principle that counts. And it’s that Bruce is probably too nonplussed by how quickly the events have been derailed by some random waif that he won't exactly know how to proceed. Peter grins. “Perfecting the art of handing people things so they don’t know what to do with their hands,” he replies like the little evil genius he is. Jason huffs a laugh. He’ll have to try that sometime. “You actually caught me at a good time,” he says. He’s in a much better mood after whatever the hell that just happened happened, even if his skull feels a touch too much like a pressure cooker. “I’m just about to move.” Peter tilts his head. He’s hanging around Matt too much. “Where?” "Anywhere else,” Jason answers vaguely. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce bugged the place while he was asleep. “You can help me pack.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Podfic of this chapter: Luz was awake at seven the next morning. Amity... wasn’t. Luz stayed in bed for an additional half an hour, just snuggling into Amity’s arms as she enjoyed the feeling of warmth that spread throughout her body because of it, but eventually, she couldn’t help getting up. Luz wasn’t used to sleeping in—she’d never been able to do that very well, not even during the weekend. Her sleep-wake rhythm was so used to getting up for school that it couldn’t fathom when she didn’t have to, causing her to still wake up pretty early even if there was no reason for her to get up already. In addition to that, once Luz was awake, she was usually wide awake, so there was no use in trying to fall asleep again afterwards. ...Eda had not appreciated her student already being an enthusiastic bundle of energy at eight every morning. Luz bit her lip. It had barely been a full day, and she already longed to be back on the Boiling Isles. She felt even less at peace in the realm she’d been born in now than she had felt before she’d walked through the portal for the first time. She was already homesick, in the place that was supposed to be her home. Luz shook her head as she carefully lifted Amity’s arm off of herself to climb out of bed. She needed to find a way to distract herself somehow. Amity gave an unhappy grunt when Luz moved out of her arms and got up, but she didn’t wake up from it. It was ten before Luz had the heart to wake her friend. She sat down next to her and gently started shaking her until Amity opened her eyes slightly. “Morning, sleepyhead.” Amity groaned, not even looking at Luz for a single second before she closed her eyes again. “Mgh, five more minutes, Em,” she mumbled drowsily and pulled the blanket over her head. Luz chuckled. This was adorable. “And here I was, thinking you were a morning person.” As long as she’d known her, Amity had never been late for anything, ever. That she of all people would sleep in was a real surprise to Luz. Amity groaned even louder, tempted to throw a pillow in the vague direction of the person responsible for waking her, still not awake enough to recognize the voice. “It’s the weekend. I don’t need to be a morning person on the weekend.“ Sure, if she had a reason to get up early in the morning, like training or going to school or meeting up with Luz, she could – she wasn’t thrilled about it, but enough hot liquid and she’d be awake, and if it was worth it, she would do it without complaint... but that didn’t mean she was a morning person. When given the chance to sleep in, she took it, especially since she spent most of her weeknights up studying and usually didn’t get that much sleep. “...you know what, that’s fair.” More chuckling. “Aren’t you hungry though? You haven’t eaten in over twelve hours now.” Slowly, Amity was starting to actually wake up, and when she finally did, she realized she wasn’t in her room. The soft, warm blanket wasn’t hers, and when she slowly poked her head out of the blanket cocoon into the light of day, she started remembering where she was. “Oh, right. I’m not at home.” She rubbed her eyes, and when they’d accustomed to the bright morning light, looked back up at Luz’s smiling face. “Morning, you. Did you sleep okay?” Now that was a sight Amity wanted to wake up to every day for the rest of her life. jacepurr_arts “Amazing...” She zoned out for a couple of seconds, then forced herself to snap out of it before Luz could get weirded out or question why she was staring. “I mean, I just-” She cleared her throat, blushing a bit. “I got a lot of sleep that I kinda needed after barely sleeping at all yesterday... and the cuddling was really comfortable. I haven’t slept this well in ages.” The day before, she’d not been able to sleep for basically the entire night because she’d been both incredibly sad about Luz leaving and insanely nervous about her plan to confess to her. ‘Which I still haven’t done. We almost kissed yesterday, and I somehow still didn’t manage to say it out loud. Titan, why is this so hard?!’ Amity was still so insanely afraid of rejection. She still had nightmares about that damn Grom rejection, and that hadn’t even actually been Luz. And on top of everything, the one time she had managed to find the courage to say something, she’d been interrupted, because of course she had been. “...hey, are you okay? You look a bit upset.” Luz’s soft voice stopped Amity’s racing thoughts abruptly. Amity took a deep breath to calm herself down as she collected her thoughts. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine. Just not really awake yet.” She was still going to do it. She was still going to confess to Luz. But... not when she was half asleep. ‘Am I just making excuses at this point?’ She probably was. “Couldn’t sleep the day before I left the Boiling Isles either, huh?” Amity shook her head. “...not really. Imagining being without you after spending so much time together during the last couple of months really hurt.” She sighed, finally finding the energy to sit up. She let out a surprised, pained yelp when she moved her back. Luz immediately moved to her side and helped her sit up carefully. “There you go.” Luz eyed her friend worriedly. “Is it your injury again?” Amity bit her lip and avoided the worried glance at first, then looked back up at her and sighed. She still wasn’t great at admitting weakness—she’d probably never be, after a life of being told being vulnerable made you weak; that compassion and pity were the same thing, and that someone who received either was worthless—but she’d learned her lesson the day before. No more lying to Luz about anything injury-related. “It’s better than it was, I swear, and you did really well yesterday... but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still hurt. A lot.” She felt especially bad about admitting her pain because she didn’t want Luz to feel like it was her fault again, or like what she’d done yesterday hadn’t been enough, because she’d done her best, and her best was beyond amazing. Amity didn’t want Luz to feel like she wasn’t good enough. ‘Please... I just don’t want you to cry again. Especially not because of me.’ “That bad, huh?” Luz mumbled, unable to tear her eyes from Amity’s pained expression. Her friend nodded, leaning slightly against her to distract herself a bit. “I didn’t even feel anything until a moment ago, but the second I moved, it felt like my whole back lit on fire.” Luz gently squeezed Amity’s shoulder. She’d kind of expected this—burn injuries took a while to heal, after all, and Amity’s was still pretty fresh. Her back would probably still be sore for a while. “I guess the painkillers wore off, huh?” She’d have to go get some more... and hope her mom wouldn’t realize that they were disappearing just yet. Once she did, it would raise some questions that Luz still was not quite ready to answer just yet. Amity looked at her friend in confusion. “...wait, those weren’t permanent? Why are they called pain killers if the effect is only temporary, and they don’t actually kill the pain? That’s super confusing!” Luz blinked. She’d never thought about that before. “...I have no idea, actually. But now that you mention it, yeah, that is kinda weird.” She shook her head. “But that’s a mystery for another time. Right now, I’m going to get you some painkillers... and I’ll try to use my healing glyphs.” If anyone found out either of them was able to use magic, they’d be in big trouble. But right now, Luz’s mom was at work, so they were alone in the house. If she’d close the curtains, maybe closed the door of her room as well, just to be safe... they should be fine. She had to give it a shot. Anything to make Amity feel better faster. “Luz...” Amity protested, but her friend shook her head and had that determined look on her face that Amity knew all too well. Nothing she could have said right now would have talked Luz out of doing this. “No. This will not be discussed.” Amity sighed. “...you don’t need to take care of me so much, you know. I could manage.” Luz knew her friend well enough by now to see past the surface of her words—to know that this wasn’t Amity asking Luz to stop taking care of her because she didn’t want her to, but rather it was Amity seeking reassurance... so reassurance she received. “Yeah, but that’s what friends are for, you goof. I’m not doing anything I’m doing because I need to or feel obligated to do it. I do it because you’re important to me and I want to.” Luz offered Amity the sweetest smile she had and one of her hands found Amity’s and squeezed it slightly. ‘Meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to me. You’re not a burden, and you never will be.’ Amity nodded, her face lighting up in relief. “...okay. Do it, then.” Luz nodded. She got up, closed the purple curtains, then the door to her room and then took her glyph notebook out of her bag—it was the only thing still left in there, after she’d spent about half an hour while Amity had still been asleep unpacking the rest of her stuff, since she was planning to carry them with her everywhere, just in case. She ripped out two of the pages with healing glyphs on them to then sit back down on the bed and lifted the back of Amity’s shirt a little to put the two pieces of paper on her friend’s bandaged back carefully. When Luz tapped on the glyphs, just gently, lo and behold, they turned into dark blue light and disappeared right through the bandages into Amity’s body. “Did it work? How are you feeling?” Luz asked immediately. She was too worried about her friend to realize what this actually meant—that she’d just proven that magic did indeed still work in this realm. “I...” Amity blinked. The pain wasn’t gone entirely, but she felt so much better already. She wasn’t sure if the spell had just numbed the pain or done anything to actually fix the damage a bit, but it had definitely helped. “ Wow. You’re getting really good at this, huh?” Luz immediately noticed the change in her friend’s expression. Her heart skipped a beat. “You’re feeling better? You’re really feeling better?” Amity nodded. “...yeah. A lot, actually. I don’t even think I need any more of those painkillers right now.” She beamed at her friend. “Thank you, Luz. For everything.” Luz felt a wave of relief wash over her upon hearing that. She immediately threw her arms around her friend’s neck— once again careful to avoid touching her lower back by accident. “Oh, I’m so glad!” Amity melted into the touch, smiling as she snuggled against Luz. “You’re amazing, you know that, right?” “Who? Me? Naaah.” Luz shook her head and waved her hands defensively. “But it’s sweet of you to say that. I am trying my best.” Amity hugged her even tighter. “No, Luz. You are amazing. This will not be discussed.” She winked at her. Luz felt her heart flutter in her chest again. “So are you...” Luz said softly as she slowly let go, looking directly into Amity’s eyes, hands still resting on her shoulders. Gosh, spending so much time with her was slowly turning Luz’s brain to complete mush. ‘...not that I’m complaining, though.’ It took Amity a few seconds of recovering from enjoying the hug maybe way too much to finally realize what both she and Luz had so far kind of not thought about much. “Luz... you just successfully did magic in the human realm for the first time,” she gasped in amazement. Luz’s eyes went wide, and she let go of Amity in complete shock, just gaping like a fish for a moment until she properly processed what had just happened. “I just did magic? I JUST DID MAGIC!” she yelled, enthusiastically punching a fist into the air and squealing with joy, completely overwhelmed with happiness about that discovery. Then someone outside on the street honked their car horn at something very likely unrelated to Luz’s yell, prompting her to be pulled back into reality, and her common sense returned. She lowered her raised fist and rubbed the back of her neck. “...whoops. That was a bit loud. Maybe I should not be screaming that through the entire neighborhood.” “Yeah, maybe not.” Amity chuckled. ‘You’re really cute when you’re excited, though.’ “I just did magic...” Luz breathed, still completely amazed. She hadn’t been aware of just how afraid she’d been to lose that ability before now. She’d known she was scared of losing it, of course, but now she realized that during the past couple of months, doing magic had become as natural and normal to her as breathing, and suddenly losing the ability to cast spells would have felt like she lost a part of herself. It wasn’t even like she’d be able to cast spells here often—if she got caught, it wouldn’t end well... but just knowing that her magical abilities would be there, should she ever need them in this world, was a huge weight off her chest. “I’m so happy for you.” Luz being happy and excited never failed to make Amity smile. “Also, slight change of topic, but speaking of magic,” Amity began after a while, only half-joking, “how exactly do you look this perfect this early in the morning? What kind of witchcraft is that? Can you teach me?” Amity was well aware that she probably looked like a complete mess right now—she always had a terrible bed head—so how Luz was sitting next to her, every single hair in place, she didn’t understand. Luz chuckled. “I mean, it’s past ten, so it’s not really that early anymore? Also, I’ve kinda been up for more than two hours.” She shrugged. “You looked so tired, so I decided to let you sleep while I showered, did the dishes, unpacked my bag and cleaned my room a bit—I’m sorry about the slight chaos here yesterday, I wasn’t expecting visitors, so I didn’t really tidy up before I left.” Although, honestly, even if she had known, she wasn’t sure if she’d have had the motivation to do it, considering her mood right before she left. “It’s fine. And how you’re awake enough this early to do any of that is beyond me. Also, you’re wrong. On the weekend, ten is definitely early.” Luz let out a hearty laugh. “Now you’re starting to sound like Eda.” “Is that a good or a bad thing?” Amity giggled, then bit her lip and blushed when her stomach started rumbling loudly. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Luz replied, shrugging but still chuckling. “So you are hungry, huh?” Amity blushed even harder, but she didn’t deny it. “Be right back.” Luz smiled at her, then got up and left the room abruptly. Luz returned with a tray a couple minutes later. “...I kinda forgot to mention this earlier when listing the things I did while you were still asleep, but I also went to the bakery down the street while I was at it. Breakfast?” She’d originally set the table downstairs, but since Amity was still pretty tired and should be taking it easy because of her injury, healing spells or not, they might as well have breakfast in bed. Luz pulled the night stand a little closer to the middle of the bed and set the tray down. Amity’s mouth watered immediately at the scent. There were a bunch of food items she’d never seen before on the tray, as well as some strangely not purple bread and two cups of something that was steaming and smelled like fruits. “...Titan, I could marry you right now,” she mumbled, staring at the food and then at Luz with equal amounts of amazement. Aside from affectionate gestures in general, this was probably one of the fastest ways into Amity’s heart... and once again, wondered if it was possible to be any more in love with Luz than she already was. Luz blushed. “Nawww, stop it, you’re giving me way too much credit. This wasn’t even that much work.” Still, Amity teared up a bit at the sight. “My parents haven’t made me breakfast since I was... four, I think?” Because screw preparing food for your kids when you had servants for that, right? And who needed to have breakfast together as a family if you could instead be at work early! “So maybe that’s stupid, but... this means a lot. Really. Thank you.” Luz looked at Amity in shock. “Your parents don’t even make you anything special for your birthday?” Amity shook her head. “They’re usually not even home on my birthday, except when it’s on the weekend. And they always invite tons of adults I don’t even know to my birthday parties. I’m not allowed to invite any friends my age if our parents don’t work together.” She couldn’t even remember the last time her parents had taken the day off of work just to celebrate her birthday with her—usually, all she got were a couple of unnecessarily expensive gifts that made it blatantly obvious that they had no idea what Amity actually liked and that felt like her parents were either forgetting she wasn’t five anymore or like they were more for them than for Amity... and that was when they didn’t forget her birthday altogether. One time, her mother had wished her a happy birthday three days late—one day before another one of these stupid pseudo celebrations that had nothing to do with Amity and everything to do with her parents—and then told her to ‘ stop obsessing over dates so much ’ when her daughter had corrected her. Amity had been six at the time. “I know they were bad, but... wow. What the hell is wrong with your parents?!” Luz was speechless. She’d not heard good things about Amity’s parents in the past couple months, and she still wasn’t over the fact that they’d made Amity end her friendship with Willow on her own freaking birthday ... but how messed up did they have to be to turn their own daughter’s birthday party into a political event and then not even care enough about their child to celebrate with her and actually make it about her, even in private? Luz made a mental note to plan a surprise party for Amity’s next birthday, because she deserved to have a birthday party that was actually for and about her for once. Amity just shrugged. “I have no idea, honestly. But let’s not talk about them anymore. They’re already getting way more attention than they deserve, they shouldn’t get ours on top of it.” She sighed, then redirected her attention to the food. “What’s that colorful stuff in the jars?” Luz respected Amity’s wish to change the topic—despite her own desire to throw a few choice words in her parents’ direction beforehand. “It’s different kinds of jam,” she said, leaving Amity even more confused than she had been prior to the explanation. “...humans put music on their bread?” Luz chuckled. Of course one of the few human sayings she had actually managed to explain to her friends had a second meaning she didn’t think about when explaining. “Not that kind of jam. It’s...” She thought for a moment about how she could best explain it, then remembered that the Boiling Isles actually had something rather similar, “our word for ‘sweet fruit guts’. We have a bunch of different ones, so I thought I’d just bring those and a couple spoons up here so you can try them and decide what you want to put on your bread buns.” They spent a while eating in peace—Amity gasped in amazement at just how sweet and good the jam stuff was, and had a hard time picking just one or two, and Luz promised she’d be allowed to take some home if she wanted to—when the silence was suddenly interrupted by a muffled voice from behind them starting to shout. “Answer our freaking messages!” The two of them flinched. It took them a moment to realize that the yell was coming from the scroll that they’d hidden in a drawer of Luz’s desk the day before. Luz got up and waited until Amity had put her plate back onto the tray before she handed it to her. “...we completely forgot to check the messages again yesterday, didn’t we? Whoops.” Amity felt yesterday’s worry return as she picked up her scroll and opened her messenger. She almost fell backwards off the bed when she saw just how many messages there were. This was bad. Lots of messages never meant good news—and that someone had bewitched one of them so that the scroll actively started complaining definitely didn’t mean good news either, especially since that particular message was from Em. The twins only used these kinds of messages to either actively mess with someone as a joke... or if it was an emergency. “I hope the others are okay...” Luz glanced at the scroll. “Is it okay if I-” Amith nodded. She actually preferred Luz being there with her, especially in case the news were actually as bad as she feared. Luz moved closer to Amity to be able to look at the texts with her. “Alright then. Time to find out what’s going on.” Over on the Boiling Isles, Gus, Willow and the twins were back at the Owl House. They were all sitting on the couches around the living room table—Eda and King on the green one, the twins and Gus on the red one. The only one who currently wasn’t sitting was Willow, who stood at the stove. She was also the only one out of all of them who didn’t look at least slightly dead thanks to lack of sleep, which was the main reason she was doing this in the first place—doing anything that involved hot stoves and boiling hot liquid wasn’t a great idea when you weren’t entirely awake yet. How bad the others looked varied, from Eda’s ‘I never get enough sleep, so I’m used to it’ -look to King being asleep on her lap, with everyone else somewhere in between. “Okay, genuine question,” Willow asked as she looked at the others, “did anyone get any sleep tonight? Like, at all?” No one said a single word, save for Edric, who nodded vigorously. “I got a solid twenty minutes.” Willow sighed as she added more ingredients to the boiling fluid in the pot in front of her and started stirring again. “...I’m making more morning potion. Got it.” “So much happened yesterday! How was anyone supposed to sleep after that?” Gus asked, who seemed surprisingly awake despite his lack of sleep. He was probably the only one in the room except for Willow who was. Emira groaned, leaning heavily on the table in her half-asleep state. “We spent all night up trying to figure out how to break what happened to Amity.” The twins, Willow and Gus had spent a while discussing who would tell Amity about everything while walking back to Bonesborough the previous day... and eventually, they’d decided that it would be best if Edric and Emira told her, since they’d spent enough time messing with their sister to know which buttons not to push if they didn’t want her to be upset—or, well, even more upset than anyone would be after finding out they were betrayed by their mentor and that their dream job involved killing their crush. “King and I stayed up collecting the remains of the portal. It’s... not much, far from enough to just do a reconstruction spell.” (Not that Eda had gotten her hopes up a lot to begin with.) After that, she’d pulled an all-nighter trying to think of a different solution for their portal-related problem... with pretty unsatisfying results. “I helped, too, Hoot Hoot! I made sure the lights stayed on!” “Alright, me, King and Hooty stayed up all night to do so,” Eda quickly corrected herself. She then looked at the twins. “The good news is, nobody will have to worry about telling Amity anything anytime soon. She’s going to be stuck with Luz for a while.“ Edric raised an eyebrow. “That... doesn’t actually sound good. I mean, she’s not going to complain about spending more time with Luz, but... If we can’t repair the portal, what can we do?” Willow was done with the potion now, and was currently busy filling it into cups and handing them to everyone. She paused for a moment at that question. “Is it possible to create a new portal?” Eda nodded. “In theory, yes. I mean, I made the other one, so of course I could make a second, similar one. But, well... a lot of the materials needed for it are rare and expensive—the second part isn’t that important for us because we’re not going to pay for them, but it seemed worth mentioning—and it requires an insane amount of magic to open a portal, so this is not going to be easy, and it’s going to take a long time.” Emira immediately snatched one of the cups from Willow and downed it in one go. After that, she was finally able to lift her head properly. “Oh look, I’m alive again!” She rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms towards the ceiling as the potion’s energy spread though her. “Thanks, Willow. That was a strong one.” “No problem!” Willow replied, then mumbled “...I’m just glad I did a spell to cool it down before I brought these here,” under her breath while handing out the rest of the cups. A couple minutes later, everyone was doing far better. “Now that we’re all no longer half-asleep... back to the question at hand!” Gus said, looking at Eda. “You said creating a new portal will take pretty long. How much time are we talking about here? Weeks? Months?” Eda shook her head and sighed. Now for the part that none of the people present, herself included, would like very much. “Years. It took me over a decade to create the one that’s now busted.” The room went dead silent for a few seconds, until suddenly, it wasn’t anymore. “OVER A DECADE?!” Emira’s shocked, terrified yelling was so loud, it woke King and made him jump off of Eda’s lap, startled as he was. “I’m awake! I’m awake!” Eda sighed. “Sorry about that. I just told them what I told you earlier. About how long it took me to make the other portal.” “I told you they wouldn’t be thrilled!” Eda rolled her eyes. “And I told you that’s not some kind of surprising, shocking discovery. Of course they’re not thrilled! I’d be worried if they were!” That was the main reason Eda hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. The thought of being separated from the girl that was basically her daughter now for such a long time broke her—and the longer Amity was forced to stay there, the more danger she would be in. No matter how smart and skilled she was, at some point, she was going to slip up, and then it would all be over. “What are we going to do?!” Gus was freaking out. To be fair, pretty much everyone in the room was, except for Eda and King, who had already done their fair share of freaking out a couple of hours ago. “We have to get them back sooner somehow! They can’t wait that long! It’s way too dangerous!” Willow had spent basically the whole summer worrying about her friends, since saying Luz had a knack for getting into trouble would have been a massive understatement... but she was pretty sure she’d never been as worried as she was right now. She couldn’t lose one of her best friends like that. Not so soon after meeting her. And she couldn’t lose Amity again so soon after finally letting her back into her life—after they’d finally started fixing things between them. But Willow didn’t allow herself to freak out. She had to stay at least somewhat level-headed. Surely, there was some kind of solution for this. There had to be. Emira’s heart dropped to her stomach. “We can’t just leave Mittens stranded there for more than ten years!” she protested, as if complaining about it enough would change anything about this fact. She wasn’t ready to accept that Amity... would really be gone this long. What if something happened to her while she was there? What if she got in trouble? What if she got hurt? What if- “Yeah! What if she and Luz get married in the meantime, and we can’t attend?!” Emira rolled her eyes and elbowed her brother. “Edric! Priorities!” He looked back at her sheepishly. “...right. Sorry.” Emira sighed. She knew her brother just meant well. This was his way of freaking out just as much as she was, and she couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to miss such an important part of their little sister’s life... but the fact that they would be missing ten years of it was way worse than some random event that might or might not take place during that time—even if that random event was something as important as a wedding. Missing ten years of Amity’s life meant they’d miss ten of her birthdays. They’d miss seeing her grow from a young teen into an adult. They’d miss seeing her freak out over her first date, and all the stupid, wonderful things that came with that. They’d also miss her gr- Emira gasped, racing thoughts coming to a sudden halt when she realized that they could not, in fact, miss Amity’s graduation... because if she wasn’t here, she wouldn’t be able to attend Hexside. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again. “Amity is going to miss so much school. She won’t be able to graduate.” Imagining just how crushed Amity would be once she found out about that was too much. She had been working so hard for so many years to get to where she was right now, barely allowing herself to have an actual childhood, their parents putting more and more pressure on her the older she grew. And now that was all supposed to be in vain? Even if what had happened yesterday would be enough to convince Amity not to join the Emperor’s Coven—with her abilities, and considering how good she was at school, she’d never have any trouble finding a different coven that took her in. But if she couldn’t even finish school... ‘This isn’t fair...’ And after several years of acting stronger than she was, Emira Blight’s seemingly unbreakable facade finally crumbled, and she broke down crying. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “You will observe, nothing else.” The lieutenant spoke as if plugging commands into a computer. Her eyes trained on his expression, or rather the lack thereof. “Yes madam.” “You’ve been assigned to sector fourteen, grid N-36. A space of approximately eighty meters by two hundred and fifty meters. Keep your focus on movement patterns—any deviations from standard pedestrian flow should be reported immediately. You're to observe for exactly six hours and log any anomaly. We will debrief afterwards.” Luv supplied. “Yes ma’am.” Knocking off the ashes at the edge of her cigarette Joshi concluded, “Your role is to learn. This area was a hotspot maybe two or three years ago, but it’s been mostly inactive since it was last flushed out.” “Yes madam.” Her brow furrowed, “Stop that.” He blinked, the gears visibly turning in his eyes. “Sorry, madam.” She sighed, puffing out smoke around them. “I’m done here. We’ll reconvene at 1500 hours to review the report.” Luv nodded in ascent. She didn’t exchange another word with the replicant boy, only a flashing glance before stepping off to open the door of their spinner for the Lieutenant. KD6-3.7.1 watched until the back lights of the spinner disappeared into the mist before he turned his attention to the block around him. The rain had broken for the moment around him, leaving the water to run from the streets and off concrete walls lazily. 0905, a cluster of men crowded around the edge of an alley drinking and talking. One of the men turned aside to spit at the ground beneath him. Drip. 0948, a man and a woman argued loudly in front of a shop. The owner cut in from his station to snap at the two to move along and stop blocking paying customers from entering. The woman made an obscene hand gesture before moving away. Drip. Drip. 1034, two colorfully dressed women- replicants ushered a man by each shoulder into a hazy glass doorway as he laughed along delighted by the attention. The entrance was guarded by a burly man stood beside the entrance. He leaned back, burying his hands in deep pockets as he rested against the wall of the entryway. Drip. Drip. Drip. He wondered what the lieutenant and Miss Luv were doing right now. Courier reports for Factory Dawn’s cell were more positive than Freysa had anticipated. It had been a risky decision trying to set roots in an area they had previously been flushed out of, but the benefits of the position had outweighed the risks. Not to mention, long abandoned caches had still managed to remain hidden over the turf flip, allowing them to cash in on the contents now for some much needed resources. Activity on the police side had been at an all time low when they’d sent a few sentries in to get a feel for its viability, and it had remained so throughout. It took only a cursory glance at the client reports on the part of her doxies to understand why. If your officers were known to be repeat visitors in certain districts it wasn’t out of the question for busts to be less frequent where they might be ’accidently’ picked up. Public image and all. “Have you seen this, Freysa?” Beside her, working through his own collection of reports Farhad spoke up. She accepted the sheet being offered to her, looking it over carefully. The report of district-based spending changes this week. “Fourteen had a budget increase, see there? First time they’ve allocated new money in a while. That’s right by FD isn’t it?” She hummed short at that, considering the information. “It’s a paltry sum. Not the kind of spending they’d do if they were planning to move a full unit back in. It could have just been a streetlight repair or something similar for all we know.” He was quick to add on, unsure if the signs were actually cause for alarm or not. “Either way, its unusual. We monitor for these kinds of anomalies for a reason.” She spoke decisively. “Let us send a warning their way, there is no harm in being more vigilant.” “Of course, I’ll see that a notice is sent their way.” “No. Not a notice, I want a better pair of eyes over there too. Send it with a ghost.” He paused, looking her way. “A ghost for a light warning? Who would we send for that?” With a light press the door clicked shut behind KD6-3.7.1, his movement toward the center of the short hallway triggering the lights to flicker on around him and bath him in greenish white light. Shrugging off the cloudy white EVA material of his coat he draped it over an arm, removing one of the layers of rainwater he’d brought back with him. The empty apartment yawned before him, not a speck of dust disturbed in his absence. Glancing to his side he looked over the small box attached to the wall that rested at his eye level. He hesitated for a moment, simply staring at the panel blankly before he finally raised a hand to tap at one of the buttons. A jingle sounded throughout the room as he pulled himself into the wider space, letting the coat fall from his arm onto the back of a chair. With his back to the entrance, a voice echoed from near the doorway. “Is that you K? I was wondering where you were.” The cheery voice had him turning, only to find the same empty doorway he’d initially entered. With a blink he turned back to the kitchen to find Joi poised at the other side of the table, her projected smile wide enough that the edges of her eyes crinkled. She’d taken to referring to him like that nearly as soon as she’d been fully activated, he had been quick to agree to her suggestion at the time, letting the instinctual response tumble out of him. “What is your name?” her gentle tone reminded him of Miss Luv’s in some ways, and in some ways, it didn’t seem similar at all. “KD6-3.7.1.” He responded automatically. The projection flickered as she studied his face for a moment, a delicate finger tapping her cheek in an exaggerated motion of deep thought as she hummed. “Can I call you K? It can be my special name for you.” He didn’t respond with the fact that the Lieutenant was often prone to foregoing the full recitation of his serial number in favor of the first letter as well, instead nodding along. “If you want to.” In the present the holographic woman laughed melodically, “Did I surprise you? I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” The replicant boy thought for a moment before asking, “Why?” “Because I missed you of course!” Her face morphed into a look of mock offense that still managed to carry with it a color of glee. She kept the space of the table between them, and although her eyes stayed with his he still had a feeling of being observed from every facet as the system projector above him let out the faintest hum. She’d learned in their first meeting that a reasonable distance was something he responded positively to. Really, her first initial activation prior to then had been one prolonged learning period for her that involved several momentary adjustments to her starting conversational protocol. The lack of spoken requests made it such that her queues had to be taken almost entirely from nonverbal signals. Eventually though, she seemed to have settled into a sort of pattern for how she addressed him, with little tweaks along the way still happening on occasion based on his responses. There was something interesting to him, watching her configure herself in real time to his being. A beat past and her eyes flickered to the coat draped in front of him which she gasped at somewhat dramatically. “You’re tracking in rain K! You should keep your coat in the closet you know.” He didn’t, but allowed himself to comply with the unspoken request. Scooping up the damp wrinkled material and turning to return to the entrance where the closet was situated. “Sorry.” “That’s alright Junebug, you worked hard today I know it.” “June- what?” He tucked the coat away, sliding the door shut once more before straightening. “You don’t like it? I wanted to try it out and see how you liked it.” His nose scrunched just slightly before he thought to stop it, “Maybe something else.” “Of course, K.” Returning to the chair he finally allowed himself to slide into it, a slight hunch to his posture. “Are you hungry? Let me make you something, you need to eat to grow.” She moved toward the little kitchenette space before he’d responded, moving her ghostly hands around the space as if searching for potential ingredients. “Tired, I don’t think I can eat right now.” He responded, making her pause in her motion to spin back toward him. “You need to eat!” He blinked, heavier than before as he felt the energy he had left drain from him now that he’d settled somewhat. “…Yes ma’am.” He pulled himself up, shuffling over to the space to swiftly put together a basic plate of nutrient pellets. Allowing them to soak for a moment to break them up into a less unnaturally uniform appearance in favor of the mushy pile they quickly formed. Bringing the plate back to the table he once again melted into the seat. Moving to eat he was halted by Joi’s voice as she strode over from the kitchen as well. “Hold on, hold on! Try this, I made it just for you.” He paused, utensil in hand to watch as she revealed a holographic plate from behind herself and eagerly placed it over the actual dish before him. “Do you like macaroni?” She asked as he ran the spoon through the illusory meal, teasing the partially obscured mush underneath. “I don’t know.” He replied, making her lean with anticipation toward him as he lifted the food to his mouth carefully. It tasted like nothing, as always. But the look of eager excitement on Joi’s face gave him pause before saying as much. “It’s good.” Joi’s eyes sparkled with delight as she clapped excitedly, “I’m so glad you like it, I’ll be sure to make it more often.” He felt his lips twitch slightly at that, as if he’d been trying to mirror her expression but the process had aborted partway through. The entire scene she had played out for him felt equal parts unnatural and captivating for reasons beyond him. She stayed with him, seated across the table as he ate. Occasionally chiming in with a question here or there. “What a day, huh? How was your first day at work?” He finished the bite he’d been working on before answering, “It went well. I filled out a report at the headquarters afterwards that was received well by the Lieutenant.” “Oh, don’t talk about her. I want to hear about what you saw! You said you hadn’t been outside before.” “I… Don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you that. It was work.” She seemed to process that for a moment before replying, “Of course. If you want, you could tell me something unimportant that you saw then.” “Unimportant?” “Anything you didn’t put in your report would be okay to talk about, wouldn’t it?” She asked, smiling encouragingly. “I… guess so.” He spoke, slightly unsure himself. There was an extended silence as he sat, not eating but just thinking to himself quietly. “I saw a vendor selling fish with legs.” She flickered, thinking. “Legs?” “At least, that’s what they looked like. They were floating in water with these frilled whiskers on their faces. Maybe they were frogs. But they had tails so…” He trailed off, his mind attempting to categorize something with too little information to actually be able to. The digital companion paused in her motions for a moment, before resuming her idle movements as her eyes lit up once more. “That sounds like a salamander, there were a couple of aquatic species that exhibit external gills in the past including the Olm, Waterdog, and Axolotl.” She strode over to the other end of the apartment, feigning selecting from a shelf and plucking out a holographic impression of a book in her hands. Bringing it to the table she flipped it to the middle where images of the various animals she’d listed were illustrated. He glanced over it quietly before reaching to point at the one in the top right. “It was that one, I think.” She followed his finger, delighted by his participation if her ill contained enthusiasm was any indicator. “The axolotl, they are popular in household aquariums. Did you know the original axolotl species was declared extinct in the year 1978?” “I didn’t.” he replied. “Well, now you do.” She crossed her arms, satisfied at having imbued him with this knowledge. He felt his mouth twitch once again, and perhaps he had succeeded in his efforts to match her expression this time as she seemed to brighten even more somehow as he did. “It’s getting late, you should rest. I’ll clean up sunshine.” “Sunshine?” “Do you like that one?” She asked. “…Maybe something else.” He replied as he scooped up his plate, cleaning and tucking it away as she followed suit with the holographic dish to mimic the same action. “Of course, K. Go to bed now.” “Yes ma’am.” He acquiesced easily as she remotely dimmed the lights. She continued her ambient cleaning motions in the kitchenette as he readied for, and eventually shuffled into bed. He let his eyes linger on the holographic figure moving about the apartment in a facsimile of a homemaker. Of a…. of— The excitement of the day caught up with him fairly quickly, and KD6-3.7.1 drifted into sleep with the ambient sounds of movement around him, and a gentle voice humming to itself. Tapping out her cig with a heel, Mariette bent down to sweep up her duffel bag tossing it over her shoulder. The crumbling concrete columns around her cast heavy shadows over the beat up spinner she’d been assigned, doing little to hide the various bumps and scrapes along the exterior. Moving to the driver’s side door she threw it open, making it release a short groan as the metal frame shifted. With a small heave she tossed the bag across into the passenger seat, only to jump when her passenger seat yelped. Bending down to look in she was met with the sight of a girl rubbing her forehead as she clutched the duffel bag with her other arm. “W— Ana, the fuck are you doing?” “I’m figuring out where they are sending you, you won’t tell me, so this was the next best way to do so.” Lowering the hand from her forehead, Mariette resisted the urge to laugh at the pink spot where she’d acquainted herself with the duffel bag. “And sitting in my passenger seat was how you planned to stow away? There’s a trunk at the back you know.” “…I couldn’t find the latch for it.” The girl had the grace to look slightly embarrassed at that. With a sigh the replicant bent down to pull herself into the driver’s seat beside her. Leaning into the cheap upholstery she let her eyes fall closed for a moment before speaking. “If I say its just something boring and dumb will you take that?” “If it is boring and dumb, why can you not tell me?” Ana was quick to question back, to her disdain. “They’re just having me keep an eye on things for them in one of the districts and— NO.” She was quick to stop her when a glance revealed the girl’s face morphing into excitement and she went to interject, “It is not that big a deal. I know you don’t see it, but they send people in and out of the city all the time. It’s nothing special.” Ana pouted slightly, “It is a big deal to me. There are thousands of people there, living real lives and having real experiences. Is it a crime to want to see that?” “For you? It literally would be.” She earned a glare for that one that had her continuing, “You are living a real life, I hate to break it to you kid but the lives you’re imagining over there really aren’t much better. It’s a shithole, and its full of shitty people.” “And our people.” “Yeah, our people who are working to keep you safe along with a million other things. What’s your game plan, spend your time in a random district you don’t know how to get around while we move important people from doing important work to babysit you? And don’t tell me you’d be fine on your own because you and I both know either Frey or your dad would have my head for that. I hate to break it to you Ana but you aren’t a normal kid, you don’t get to just go places whenever the fantasy hooks itself into your head.” To her credit, Ana didn’t reply. Her face turned away from the other in favor of the window at her side instead, quiet. Pulling a hand down her face Mariette sighed heavy, letting it drop into her lap. Turning a glance the girl’s way she spoke once more. “I know you feel confined right now. Like we’re keeping you trapped in shitty places you don’t want to be in and that you don’t have any say in it. But that’s what being a kid is, its having to put up with what the people who care about you do sometimes because they’re trying to keep you safe.” After a pause, she added, “Its something the rest of us never get to have. Not really, anyway. You’ll realize how important that is when you’re older.” Ana sniffed at that, turning back finally. “You sound like dad now.” “Oh god don’t say that. That’s so cruel why would you say that? Are you calling me old?” “He isn’t old! He said his greys are caused by stress.” Mariette snorted, “We’re all stressed here, but you don’t see me walking around with crow’s feet.” The girl giggled at that, wiping her eyes discretely with her sleeve. “I’ll bring you back a postcard, even get it stamped for you. Unless you’d rather a keychain or a bottle opener.” “The postcard is fine, just pick a good one.” She nodded, satisfied. “Alright, now get the fuck out of my spinner.” 1438, the rain picked up, casting a haze on everything around. A group of teenagers ushered each other under a plastic canopy, drinks in hand. Beside him, a holographic figure of a woman danced about, calling for attention from nobody specific as she did with product placement in hand. He took a moment to shake out his hair, swiping the wet strands from his face to clear his vision. The sleeves of his raincoat crinkled as he did, raindrops racing off of it in wet trails along the material. The cold permeated the thin covering with little effort, but the feeling was faint against his skin, a ghost of a sensation he had to focus on to even notice. 1446, the foggy glass doorway wasn’t inhabited by the man he’d been observing for the better majority of the week. Internally he reprimanded himself for not noting the exact period within which that detail had changed. Instead, a woman stood around a foot or two from the entrance transparent umbrella in hand. She looked to be drowning in the material of her coat, her eyes painted dark making them pop out against pale skin in the rain. In the same moment he processed he’d been staring at her face for probably a minute now, and that she was now looking back. Her expression morphed into one of confusion before she leaned to the other woman beside her to mumble something he couldn’t read. He blinked, letting his head fall to look at the concrete beneath him in the hopes he could dispel the attention. He remained that way until a flicker of lights in his peripherals told him his ride had arrived. Before he could exit the tightly packed street he risked one last look back toward the building, startling internally when the sharp eyes of the woman were trained on him still. As quickly as he’d glanced his eyes flickered away in what he hoped was a convincing motion. He made a mental note to mark this in his report. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text # She can’t shake her wrought emotions for the rest of the night, but they don’t speak much after that. Even when they retire to the bedroll, side by side but with as much distance left between them as possible within the tent, it’s the most restless night of sleep Chani has gotten in many moons. The morning brings with it a fresh heat wave, hotter than the last few days by several degrees, and they set out on foot, catching another sandworm shortly thereafter. When they finally dismount, they’re left to walk for several hours the rest of the way to Arrakeen because the city’s shield prevents sandworms from coming within miles of the borders. And so, for the majority of the day, Chani tries not to look back at Paul too often, because everytime she does, he seems to be watching her, unable to hide his scrutiny even for her benefit. Even from this distance, Chani can make out the gargantuan outline of a city full of stone brown blocks, a crawling sprawl of interconnected buildings all the same color as sand, so monochromatic that it feels partially like a mirage rising within the tendrils of Arrakis’ stubborn heat. She’s never seen Arrakeen before, not even from a distance. Chani doesn’t know what to think of it, other than it’s both more and less than what she imagined. Bigger in terms of size, but smaller in terms of allure. At the borders, Paul pulls out some communication device. Soon after they’re picked up by a motorized vehicle running on wheels and delivered straight to the palace doors. Chani tries not to let her discomfort show, but none of this feels familiar to her, none of it natural. The guards all look at her keenly, but no one says a word to her except Paul. “Stick close to me until we’re inside the Palace Walls,” he tells her, some measure of assurance in the tone. “The city is full of spies.” Chani tries not to frown. The palace grounds have the same thick blocky walls as everything else, the ones constructed to withstand the blazing heat. She’s surprised to see windows, few though they are, but the thing that stuns her immediately upon entry is the cool air hitting her skin. Air Conditioning, she remembers Stilgar telling her once. After that, it’s one surprise after another, and none of them feel right. The palace servants offer them water as soon as they’re through the doors, and she takes her offered glass with perturbed silence when it’s cold to the touch — ice cold. The taste of the water is like none other she’s ever tasted, reclamated and distilled, a pure crisp aftertaste that has Chani almost hesitant to drink another sip. “Our filtration systems are some of the best,” a voice announces as an explanation, but it’s childlike and small. Chani whirls to see a girl at the doorway, little more than a toddler of a few years of age. She watches as in the next second the girl launches herself happily into Paul’s arms with all the normal enthusiasm expected of a child, but with none of the other expected attributes. “You’re late,” the girl announces, with royal-like decree. “Mother has had her hands full dealing with delaying Count Fenring’s entourage. She is most upset that you took your leave at such an inopportune moment.” “Our mother has managed, I’m sure,” Paul returns, smiling down at the girl with obvious affection. It’s the first time Chani has seen him so much as smile, much less so genuinely. His sister, Alia — of course. The child who Chani had last seen demonstrating the impossible ability to communicate from the womb with Jessica as if they had shared a mind and not just a body. “Hello sister,” the girl says to Chani, an effervescent smile. She leans over, conspiratorially, “I have so looked forward to meeting you. We will be the best of friends, I suspect. Thicker than thieves.” Chani cannot find her words, at first. For a child little more than two years old, it’s — unsettling, almost, how articulately she speaks. Chani manages a greeting back, finally, perhaps a few mumbled words expressing the same desired sentiment, if not in an entirely bewildered tone. The girl seems to take it all in stride. Paul seems to read her growing discomfort, and sets the girl back to the floor. “Go, find Mother,” he instructs. “I imagine she has words for me. Tell her I’ll be along shortly.” “You’d imagine right!” Alia screeches giddily, as if entertained by the thought of her older brother, Emperor Supreme, being scolded like a child staying up past bedtime. She hurries off, back to her minder, a dark-skinned woman with a sharp headdress. The guards retreat to the end of the hallway to take their posts, and Chani is left standing there in the empty halls with Paul, caught wrong-footed, unsure of what surprise will come next. She looks back out towards the sprawling city beyond the palace walls, and it is so monstrously large Chani can’t think of anything to compare it with other than several stretches of a Shai-Hulud. “Come,” Paul says, a faint pressure at the back of her hand, a small urge to recapture her attention; she turns towards him, and he retreats his fingers. Chani can feel the echo of that touch warm her skin long after, especially in this foreign conditioned air. “This way,” he says. # He is polite during their meandering stroll, painfully reserved. They track in sand with their boots and stillsuits, and she imagines there is a servant waiting in the shadows somewhere whose sole job it is to clean up after them. But when Paul starts to ask her questions, tentative broaching questions about her thoughts, she immediately deflects — returns it with inane questioning about the Palace, just to make up the silence. It feels like a conversation two other people are having, so outside of themselves. "What is that grating noise?" "It’s the windows closing for the high sun. The palace ground fortifies itself every day around three in the afternoon." "How large is this palace?" "The same size as one of the smaller sietches, I imagine. Maybe a little bigger, but not by much." "Where are you taking me?" "Your rooms, in the Imperial Wing. I’ve instructed them to be readied." "The Imperial Wing, you mean—" "Near my quarters, yes. It’s the safest wing in the entire palace." Once upon a time, she’d expressed her deepest thoughts to this man, her darkest desires. Now, he answers questions, never condescending, even if she feels like a child asking the simplest things, but it is an awkward exchange, stilted. There is none of the aggression and anger from the prior night, but it is as if they are speaking to each other with all the decorum and estrangement of strangers. She does not remember being this stilted even when they first met. Another part of her wonders — if she does not know him, who does? And somehow immediately she knows the answer is, no one. It stings, this knowledge. The loneliness that must sit on his shoulders like a death shroud. “How long do you plan on keeping me here?” she asks, finally, when they reach her intended quarters. The room is pointlessly wide, open and empty, a bed lodged into one wall and a bare rug faded and blue. A pause, as Paul chews over his answer. “Right now, it’s a precarious time. I imagine that’s why my enemies looked to use you as a bargaining chip, why they set out on such a pervasive search for you. The Great Houses have sent down a delegation led by Count Fenring to begin peace treaty negotiations. They’ll last weeks, if not longer.” “You plan to keep me here all that time?” Chani says, discomforted. Already this strange place has disturbed her on numerous levels, and she has not even met with the politics of it, which she knows will be more dire than anything else. Chani knows her place in this, and it is not with the backroom engineering of a new world order. She does not have the head for it, nor the heart. “Consider it a safety measure against the enemy using you to hurt others,” Paul returns. “Any sietch you go to would be hunted, raided. I need time to secure a truce, one that the Great Houses would be forced to accept. My sister was not joking when she said I had left the city walls at an inopportune time.” “I didn’t ask for you to come after me.” He looks towards her, meets her warning gaze with a soft but firm nod. “But risking your life was never a possibility I felt comfortable with.” She feels like he’s saying more than she understands. She doesn’t know how he operates anymore, how his visions work, what decisions he’s made or the reasons for any of it. None of it makes sense to her. She used to be in his confidence, she used to understand why he did the things he did. Now, she barely feels like she understands the questions echoing in his mind, much less the answers. “You cannot keep me here indefinitely,” she tells him. “I will not stay for your convenience or peace of mind.” His expression sharpens, just fractionally. “A few weeks, at least, until the terms of the treaty are hammered out.” A pause, and then she nods. A few weeks. She can do that. “Good,” Paul says, seeming to relax, shoulders loosening. “Good.” # She is left to her own idleness after that, for much of the afternoon. What he goes to do while he disappears, she does not ask and he does not offer. In the meantime, she takes a short nap, her body exhausted and pushed beyond limits. She must be more tired than she anticipates because she is awoken by a knock at the door, and many hours have passed. Jessica is there when she opens the door. “Chani,” she says, sounding relieved. “It’s good to see you.” Chani has nothing to say to that. She has not always agreed with Jessica or gotten along, but there is respect and regard if nothing else. Begrudgingly, even. Nevertheless, she does not hesitate to open the door further and let the Sayyadina into her room. She brings with her a Fremen servant, a girl with short black hair bound behind a hijab, tendrils of curling bangs loose about her forehead. She is pretty, and young, and carries with her a wooden chest. “Supplies,” Jessica explains, as the girl sets the chest on the floor. “Sihaya,” the Fremen girl greets, reverently, bowing her head. Jessica must read the pinched expression that falls over Chani’s face. “Leave us,” Jessica tells the girl. The girl nods, and scurries out. When they are alone, Jessica turns to Chani with lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m sorry for this, but we haven’t much time. We need to get you dressed quickly.” “For what?” Chani asks, bewildered. “The Delegation will arrive this evening. We need to present you—” “Present?” Chani repeats, affronted now as well as bewildered. Presents means she’ll have some station, some title in this place that needs announcement. Concubine, the word rages in her head. “I will not be introduced as anything,” Chani insists. “Your presence is already noted. Would you have us hide you like you’re a shameful secret?” “I don’t care what you do.” Jessica’s expression somehow both softens and hardens at once; something in her eyes, something that speaks to the same calculations she has seen in Paul’s eyes, but with far less reserve. “Listen to me carefully. The moment you entered the city, our enemies’ spies clocked you for who you are. As you’ve already heard, the stories of Sihaya have spread far and wide. It matters how you’re introduced into Court. It matters how you present yourself. They will pick apart any sense of vulnerability, any hint of weakness. If we try to hide you, if we treat you like a secret, that will only end up feeding whispers that will come to haunt you, hurt you and Paul both.” “Why feed into any of it? I’ll be gone in a few weeks.” “You want to survive those few weeks?” Jessica retorts. “Then, trust me.” Chani lifts her chin, warning, “I do not.” Jessica sighs, understanding. “I know the last time we met, it wasn’t the best of circumstances.” “You mean when you used your Voice to overrule my free will?” “To save my son,” Jessica returns, unrepentant. “It wasn’t the polite thing to do, but for Paul I’m willing to entertain impoliteness.” Chani snorts, half disdain and half genuine mirth. “I have lived this life among the Court. It is more dangerous than the sands of Arrakis. There are worse ways to die than by heat stroke or blade. Here, the poison is invisible. Here, the assassins will greet you with smiles. Let me help you navigate it.” It does not feel like something she should like, but Chani knows there is merit in this. She knows there is a kindness in this offer, whether Chani wants to accept it or not. Jessica is a calculating woman, but she is not cruel. Not to those who matter, and Chani knows she matters to her son. “I do not want to be introduced as his concubine,” Chani insists, voice low, a harsh whisper. A soft look, as Jessica nods slowly. “All you need to do is walk in. No announcement, no title. But you need to be seen, not hidden.” Chani hates it, but she nods despite herself, knowing the wisdom in it. The chest is opened, the contents removed. Inside, one by one, Jessica removes several articles of clothing, satins and silks, a riot of colors and of such delicacy that Chani hesitates to reach out and touch it for fear it would crumble against the calluses of her rough fingers. Paul’s mother spreads them out onto the bed, but before Chani can even inspect the items in great detail she is pulling out other things, too. Bottles, mixtures and solutions of some type, other mysterious accessories. “Let’s get you ready,” Jessica declares. # Chani just stares at it, unblinking. A tub full of water. An entire tub, more than any amount a person could drink in a week, in several weeks, just sitting there with steam softly rising. It is — obscene. Unthinkable. She cannot do this. She cannot waste so much water simply to wash herself. “All the water is reclamated and reused,” Jessica insists, understanding. “Paul implemented strict use of our filtration system as soon as we returned to Arakeen, even more intensive than it was before. It will not go to waste.” This much water would feed a frugal family for months. “Chani,” Jessica breathes, not without sympathy. “We do not have much time.” The jolt is what Chani needs, but it still feels like a decadence beyond her imagination when she disrobes. There is no room for false modesty as she stands naked; Fremen women do not hide their bodies from other women, and she doubts the Bene Gesserit are a bashful bunch. Besides, Chani has larger concerns. The first dip into the tub is like a holy experience and a sin all at once. She slides into the tub, fully submerging her body, her head above the water — and Chani feels a dulled sense of anxiety, a hint of alarm. It feels — warm, but so foreign, so indulgent, she can hardly find the words. The entire time, Jessica works diligently, but gently, setting out with a washcloth to clean Chani’s body, rinse the sand and sweat off her skin, across her arms, across her shoulders. “I apologize for pushing you into the deep end of this,” she says, as she adds oils into the water, perfumed and pleasant. Chani cannot name a single item of what she uses, it’s all so alien. “But there is no room for missteps. You will need to adapt, and quickly. They will sense any weakness and strike out immediately.” “You mean,” Chani understands, a tick in her jaw, “if the Great Houses smelled the sweat of a dirty Fremen woman, they’d lose all sense of respect?” A pause in the hand washing hers, as Jessica stares at her. “They would belittle you, yes. They would see a pet in place of who you are.” Chani turns to her, an eyebrow lifted in challenge. “And who am I?” “The only other woman in the universe that has any sway or persuasion over my son, the Emperor. That is power, Chani, whether you admit it or not. They’ll see it eventually, if they have any sense to them. But the introduction of you—” “I am not staying.” Another pause, as the washcloth returns to her body. “Whether you do or not, that is your choice.” Chani lets silence fall, too overwhelmed to continue the tiresome conversation. She lets it all unfold, too overpowered by the governance of this strange city with its stranger ways of living. She can feel the unexpected sting of water to her eyes — tears, gathering, threatening to fall — and the absurd thought occurs to her that it would not matter if she wasted her tears. It would mean nothing in comparison to what she is already doing, the wastefulness that feels like a death warrant. “You do this every day?” she asks, incredulous, a faint whisper. Jessica says, her voice soft, “We are the Royal House of Atreides. This comes with expectations.” # Her hair is washed and treated with more substances she does not know the name of, made softer. Her skin is cleaned, scented lotions applied. She is dried off with a simple towel — a towel. And then the obscene production continues, as Jessica has her select her choice of attire from an arrangement of dresses, all silks and satins, textures of cloth she has never felt against her skin. “Not blue,” Chani says, determinedly. Jessica pauses, lamentation and understanding in her eyes, and dutifully moves on to select the next dress. The one ultimately chosen is a delicate thing, a soft silky material, light embroidery gathered in a ring at her neck, and Jessica selects the jewelry too, sapphire, like the Eyes of Ibad. It doesn’t matter if the necklace gracing her throat is blue; only cloth matters if it's blue, a Fremen woman’s bold declaration of having claimed a love. Instead, Chani’s dress is the color of cream and sand, and it flows off her like a cascading waterfall, down her back, clinging to each dip and curve of her body. Chani can hardly recognize herself in the mirror. “No announcement,” she repeats, to Jessica. Jessica nods in assurance, and leaves to make herself presentable as the Reverend Mother and make her own marked entrance with far more grandeur and spectacle. “Chani,” she says, just before she leaves. “Don’t let them see you flinch.” Chani pauses, then follows with a firm nod. She understands. # The Delegation arrives, led by a man in a white cape and gold trimmings, and a booming voice that echoes. “I, Count and Governor of House Fenring, Imperial Spice Minister, witnessed by the thirteen ruling members of the Imperial Court, stand before you as the Herald of the Delegation, chosen representative of the Great Houses. I have come to broker peace, in good tidings and fair regard.” Chani waits, among the throngs of people gathered. Delays too long, perhaps, because Jessica had given clear instructions for her to come in with all the other guests. The nerves of anxiety make her bide her time, wait it out, and linger in the hallways until well after the ceremony has commenced and all the others have entered the Great Hall. When she finally gathers herself, the doors open with a hard push and Chani tries to slip into the back, unmarked. The dining room is larger than any other room she’s seen, bifurcated by a long oblong table which stretches the full length of the hall, lying overflowing with food and wines and riches and gold-plated trinkets. She tries to slip into the back among the others in attendance. The room is filled with too many people, too many dignitaries, too many people with more titles than she’d ever bother remembering. Up, in the center — Paul, standing beside his beautiful wife, a regal princess decked out in gold and white, a string of tiny crystals and fragile beadwork covering her face; and Paul, next to her, standing on the raised dais, in garbs of black ceremonial robes, a military suit with medals pinned to his chest and a long flowing dark cloak. As much as Jessica had warned against it, Chani is overcome with the urge to hide. This is not where her place in the world is meant to be. But it is a useless endeavor. It is not even a few seconds before Paul catches sight of her among those in attendance, and all else fades into meaningless; Chani is caught, the sole recipient of his undivided attention despite far more pressing matters. She feels pinned to the floor in her opulent dress, splayed open for his gaze like a mouse caught in a boxed trap. She is enthralled, and she feels enthralling. He’s staring at her in a heated look that only reminds Chani of the fact that he’s one of the few man that has ever seen her naked. The moment stretches so long that the others surrounding him notice, even his wife, who looks up and stares at Chani with something infinitely complicated crossing her delicate features. Gurney, to the left, shifts in his stance, restless; and Jessica, to her son’s right, stands straighter and offers an acknowledging nod, her ceremonial headdress giving a slight dip. Announcement or not, Chani is brought to the front of everyone’s riveted attention, and she knows — by the end of the night, they will all be calling her the Emperor’s concubine. # Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text 论如何把老公调教成老婆夜神月发现，最近海砂买了好多情趣用品，海砂是觉得他不行了吗，他们的确很少做，做的话，月也是很敷衍。算了由她去吧。做爱没有写名字重要。这天海砂又穿着情趣内衣用甜到发腻的声音对月说：“阿月，你今天晚上的时间能留给我吗。” “明天要上班” “明天周末。”海砂看起来很生气，哭了起来，“月，这个笨蛋，笨蛋！今天是我们结婚一周年纪念日，你不仅什么都没有准备还不陪我！”月明明不想理海砂。但是看到海砂哭的这么伤心月还是心软了。他擦掉了海砂的眼泪：“不要哭了，今晚我都陪你。” “太好了月，我们现在开始吧。不会让你太累。” 月走进房间看到床上那些道具被吓了一跳，再怎么说也太多了……她要让我用道具吗？海砂拿出捆绑用的绳子：“月，我们今天玩一点不一样的。快点快点把衣服脱掉一会换上我准备的！” 月磨磨蹭蹭脱完之后，听到海砂小声嘀咕：“果然不穿衣服比较好……” “喂，海砂不要闹了。”月还没有反应过来，海砂就扑了上去。就像排练过很多一次一样。一定要快，要在月懵逼的状态就把他捆好。海砂练习过很多次的捆绑技术，终于实践上了。很快把月捆得结结实实。比她预想的还要美。海砂是看了什么乱七八糟的东西？虽然不太舒服处于对海砂的信任，月认为海砂不会对他怎么样。 “今天是月的第一次我不想把月弄疼了。”她喃喃自语道。月开始挣扎：“海砂你要干什么！”可惜完全被束缚住，无法挣脱，而且巧妙的捆绑，绳子和身体摩擦的时候产生了一些快感。 “没事的月，新玩法，月要知道海砂最爱月了，不会伤害月的。” 海砂看向那一堆道具，选了几个拿到月面前。“月，这几个海砂都好喜欢呀，月喜欢哪个我们就先用哪个好了。” 月心烦意乱地选了一个跳蛋。实际上他没有心情选。海砂笑嘻嘻地对他说，“今天我为了让月舒服准备了好久呢。”海砂用注射器一样的东西塞进月的后穴，月感觉到凉凉的液体流入体内。 “这是什么！”月有一些惊恐。“安心啦，月这个后庭肌肉松弛剂。也可以当润滑剂用的。” 海砂把手指探进了洞里，有很努力地阔张，同时也在月的体内找什么东西。“喂海砂，你在干嘛，快出去啊。” 海砂用另外一只手的食指抵月的嘴巴：“嘘！月答应过我的，今晚陪我玩的新玩法。” 另外一只手继续探索着，感觉到了月身体的颤抖，她知道她找到了。抽出手指，拿来跳蛋塞了进去，塞到刚找到的G点附近。月看到海砂那一大堆道具，都是用在他身上的？海砂跨坐在月身上，开始和他接吻，我们的女明星也有很努力的练习接吻，灵巧的舌头挑逗着月的神经。月被亲的迷迷糊糊。海砂突然打开跳蛋开关。“啊……”月突然叫了起来，脸上泛起红晕。对对！就是这个表情，自己以前完全没有看到过的表情。海砂兴奋了起来。用脸蹭蹭月的脸。“舒服吗，月。”然后又加大了功率，月忍不住发出更多的呻吟。海砂把月平放在床上，捆绑的原因，月双腿分的很开，毫无保留的暴露在海砂面前，海砂跪坐在月两腿之间，抚摸着穴口，考虑着：如果只塞一个跳蛋太可惜了，应该多塞一些东西。在道具中选了一条拉珠。月感受到后穴又被异物侵入。一颗圆圆的球，塞完一颗接着第二颗。“海砂你又在干嘛！拿不出来怎么办！” 海砂被逗笑了：“月之前没看过吗，这个叫拉珠，连在一起的，不会拿不出来。道具都是海砂精心挑选的，绝对安全。”海砂看到月的穴口一个一个吞下透明珠子，一张一合的有趣极了，终于都塞进去了，海砂抬头看着月，头发都湿了，情欲染红了脸颊。海砂捧起他的脸。“月，你很舒服是吧。”又使劲蹭了蹭月的脸。又在那堆道具中找到乳夹，夹到月的乳头上，打开开关，发出微微的震动。月被这些道具搞的浑身紧绷。看了看海砂，她也是全身潮红，海砂盯着月，嘴角挂着笑，仿佛在欣赏她打造的艺术品。他第一次看到海砂露出这样的表情。月被道具搞的好爽。就仅仅靠后庭的刺激分身就了起来，被海砂搞成这样真让他感觉羞耻，脸红的也是羞耻缘故占了很大一部分。过于羞耻让他不想呻吟出来，海砂从脖子开始亲下来，用舌头舔舔。手也没有停着，后庭被填满了，海砂就用她修长的手指在月阴茎处打转。还不忘调戏月：“月意外的纯情啊这么快就被道具玩硬了。”再时不时用修长的手指揉搓一下睾丸。前后攻势下月终于爽的叫了出来。“海砂，不要这样对我。快停下。”声音带着哭腔。月现在能感受到海砂在他身上又亲又舔的，就像要把她的唾液涂满月的全身一样。 “不行哦，月。”今晚你属于我……海砂又开始翻箱倒柜，过来以后她说：“找到了，找到了。”又有冰凉的液体倒在月的身体上，这次是倒在了分身上。月以为海砂会坐上来。但是下一秒海砂就含住了月的分身。海砂的嘴很温暖。舌头很灵巧。月的分身也得到了很好的服务。他要快射的时候，提醒海砂吐出来，结果海砂根本不听。他射到了海砂嘴里。海砂就含住精液和月接吻。甜的？月被迫吞下了好多精液。 “月这个草莓味的口交液怎么样，喜欢吗，还有其他口味的，下次我们可以尝试哦。”海砂很兴奋的给月介绍起了情趣用品。月完全不感兴趣。“海砂能把我放开吗。” “不行，把月放开月立刻就会逃走了，海砂力气没有月大，只能借助绳子了。” “能把跳蛋和拉珠拿出来吗。” “月再忍耐一下。海砂等会儿就会拿出来。”海砂把月摆弄成跪趴着的姿势，还好夜神月很轻，在床上给他换一个姿势对于健过身之后的海砂还算比较轻松。先是拉珠被海砂扯了出来。动作过于突然。月叫了起来。然后听到海砂兴奋的声音：“对！就是这样，等一会月也要用这种声音使劲叫哦。” 月搞不明白海砂在想什么，该不会，一会又有要塞什么东西进来了。他确定海砂是迷恋他的，不会通过这种方式羞辱他。海砂这么做的理由他完全猜不透。接着跳蛋也被海砂拿了出来，月脱力地倒在床上。海砂把他扶起来：“月，现在不是休息的时候。” 刚刺激过大，月没有力气了，趴在床上休息，屁股被海砂扶着翘起来更高了，很适合后入，刚刚被扩张过的后穴还没有完全闭合。海砂又注射了两管肌肉松弛剂进月的后穴。月感觉海砂又在往他身体里面塞东西了，等等，这个形状有点像…… 月用后穴感受海砂塞进来的东西。然后他感觉到插到很深的地方时海砂身体撞击到了他。月想起他看过的一场情杀案，里面有这个道具，就是假阳具内裤。海砂今天是想和他玩角色颠倒吗！虽然海砂不是男人，但是很清楚月的G点在哪，不停地摩擦着那个点。 “月，月，月。你要叫啊，你不叫海砂没法舒服啊。海砂在努力让月舒服，月也要努力让海砂舒服啊。”还加快了动作。她认为是自己没有让月爽到月才不叫的。假阳具还在月体内左右摇摆了起来。还是电动的！月被操到招架不住，开始了呻吟。海砂也和月一起呻吟。在海砂和电动假阳具的攻势下，月被操的射了出来。海砂也拔了出来。“月，你就是海砂最好的媚药……”声音越来越小，然后倒头就睡。 “喂，海砂醒醒，快把我松开。” 月挣扎了一会，看到海砂没有要醒过来的样子。也放弃了，他也累了，尽管被捆绑着不舒服还是睡着了。第二天海砂神清气爽的醒过来，月还在睡觉。还被绳子捆绑着，他很难受吧。海砂心疼的解开绳子，月身上出现一条条勒红的痕迹。突然想再做一次。还好月没有醒过来。为了防止月反抗逃脱，这次海砂拿出了手铐，把月的手铐在床头。两只脚也铐在一起。这样月就算反抗自己也能控制住了。海砂脱掉昨晚上穿的假阳具内裤，换上另外一条。小一个尺寸的，她不希望很快把月吵醒。海砂把月的腿抬起来，几乎要折叠起来了，不禁感叹道月的柔韧度真的好。用润滑剂灌满后穴，海砂也插了进去。海砂也觉得奇怪，自己明明是女人，却能通过操月得到快感。昨天只想试一下，结果她心理和生理都得到了巨大的满足。还是网友好，让她知道了第四爱，要不然就凭月糟糕的技术和敷衍的态度她可能一辈子都无法满足。夜神月在睡梦中发出了呻吟。皱起了眉头。海砂停止了动作，观察了一会，以为月要醒过来，没过多久月的眉头就苏展开来。海砂放心继续干着夜神月。海砂觉得月也是天赋异禀，每次后面挨操都能硬，现在月又被海砂操出生理反应了。果然她和月是最配的，天作之合。夜神月被这个别扭的姿势难受醒的。醒来就发现海砂又用道具和他做了。“月，你醒啦！”海砂很兴奋，指着月的分身，像是邀功一样的说着，“你看海砂真厉害，每次都能让月爽。海砂再努力努力马上就让月高潮。” 月双手双脚被束缚住只能任由海砂摆布，想着靠甜言蜜语说服她：“海砂，不用了，把我解开好不好。接下来的生理问题我自己解决，把我放开，我明天就不加班了，我们去约会好不好？” “我接受月明天去约会的邀请，但是海砂不会放开月，月又在企图色诱我，没用的。”月很失落。“月，你要习惯。以后我们做爱都会是这种方式了，海砂已经穿了最小号的了，就是想让月慢慢适应。”说着，轻轻地啄了一口月的嘴唇， “以后你就是我老婆了。”海砂如愿以偿把月操射了，她终于放开了月。当然第二天的约会计划当然泡汤了，明明想把月哄到情侣酒店在做一次的……但是月找了个借口，跑出去加班了。之后的几个星期海砂发现，月越来越忙，回家只拿换洗衣服就走了。海砂急到直打转，月想离开她了，下一步是不是离婚协议书就寄给她了！于是她拨通了夜神幸子的电话……月突然被妈妈打电话训了一顿。说什么要让着点海砂，今天必须回去，海砂做好一大桌好吃的给你道歉，不要辜负女孩子的心意，之类的话海砂没有说实话。只是被当作了普通的夫妻吵架。他今天回去也只想应付一下海砂。打开门就看到海砂跪坐再门口。“老公，欢迎回家，你是先吃饭，先洗澡还是先吃我。”月面无表情地关上了门离开，果然还是找个旅店应付一晚。那个女人太不正常了。 “等等，等等，月。我今天做了好多菜向你道歉，希望你能原谅我。”海砂追了出来死死地拉住月，不让他离开，但是她几乎要被月拖着走了。“月原谅我好不好，我以后不会对你做那样的事情了，就算你要离婚也吃完这顿再说好不好。”海砂开始又哭又闹。邻居们听到动静出来看热闹，海砂本来就是大明星，月怕和她一起登上明天的头条。立刻把海砂推着进了屋子。月觉得这个女人就是来克自己的。海砂一脸幸福的看着正在吃饭的月，不停地往他碗里夹菜。自己却一口都不吃。月怀疑海砂在菜里加了什么东西：“你为什么不吃？是不是下药了。”月很直白地问了出来。 “没有没有。”说着夹起自己面前的那份番茄炒鸡蛋吃掉，“看我吃了没事。诶嘿嘿。” 月看到海砂的表情，明白了，除了番茄炒鸡蛋其他都下药了。他要趁药效没有发作离开。可是月刚站起来就摔倒了地上。 “什么都瞒不过月啊，但是药效已经发作了。月虽然会全身无力，但是意识会很清醒，月要把自己全身心交给我才能好好享受。” 海砂把月扶到沙发上。开始脱月的衣服。把月的腿分开，先塞一个跳蛋进去，再大量的到入润滑剂，用带有一个狐狸尾巴的肛塞堵住穴口。海砂则穿上了巫女装。 “月，你现在是一只想勾引海砂堕入魔道的狐狸精，但是海砂没有上当，将你打回原形。现在，海砂巫女要通过做爱把将巫女灵气注入月的体内，之后月就是一只听海砂话的乖乖狐狸精。” 月真的受不了，为什么要有这种设定啊。“好可怜啊，月。你现在完全动不了。” 海砂手上的动作完全没可怜月。很无情地启动跳蛋的开关，月发出甜腻的叫声，月被海砂调教过两次，已经变得非常敏感了。海砂趴在月身上，含住月的乳头。月痛苦地闭上了眼睛，月突然想明白一件事情前两次是难受了才生气的吗？还是觉得被海砂用工具操射感到羞耻才生气的呢？他下定决心了，睁开眼睛。对正含住他乳头的海砂说，“海砂，这边也难受，不要只咬那一边，这边也帮我咬咬。” “好的！月！”海砂高兴极了，咬住月的另外一个乳头，刚才松口的那个也用手揉搓着。月也很配合地发出呻吟声。如果月早这么配合就好了，就不用下药了，可以和月玩好多play了。海砂心里想着。时间差不多了，海砂扯掉碍事的狐狸尾巴，掀开衣服，她早就穿好了道具，直接插入月的后穴。 “啊——”月尖叫了一声，月感受到体内依然有东西震动，“海砂跳蛋你还没有拿出来。” 海砂用力捏了一下月的臀瓣：“小狐狸精，这是给你的小奖励，好好感受吧”说话继续把月的腿抬起来，用力抽插了起来…… 海砂这次又把他操射了。海砂一幅得意的表情：“怎么样，海砂厉害吧，每次都让你这么爽。” 海砂不愧是月第一次想打的女人，不过这次月全身无力，根本无法打她。海砂想把月抱到浴室洗澡，无奈自己力气不够，只能把月托在地上走。月表示不用了，等药效过了自己去洗。海砂也暗自下决心，要健身，目标下次做完能把月公主抱到浴室洗澡。这次的性爱月把自己全身心的交给海砂了，果然反抗不了就享受才是最好的选择。海砂和月和好了，夜神幸子也非常开心。海砂把月调教成自己老婆之后幸福指数增加了。虽然月依然是工作狂性冷淡，每次海砂提出要做，月都会半推半就地服从她。怪不得人人都想要老婆，在一次性爱结束之后，月已经睡着了，海砂抚摸着月脸。喃喃自语道：“夜神月，真是我的漂亮老婆。” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Chapter 190 — Magneto Descends The air snapped with electricity, every shard of steel in the chamber alive, trembling like hunting dogs waiting for the master’s whistle. Magneto hovered above the wreckage, his cape fanning out behind him like wings of blood and night. He raised one hand. The broken remains of the inhibitor field coiled into his palm, molten scraps knitting together. His voice thundered. "You stand here, in MY sanctum, daring to undo what is destiny. Do you think yourselves noble? Children playing at war while the world burns? I offer order, a future for our kind, and still you resist me." Scott’s voice cut across, steady and defiant. "You don’t offer the future, Magneto. You offer a cage. We’ll never kneel to you." Magneto sneered. "Kneel? No. Crawl." Metal spikes ripped free of the walls, spearing toward the team. Storm swept her hands wide, winds roaring to life. Even suppressed, the field flickering, she forced the air to churn, deflecting the deadliest barrage. Sweat beaded on her temple. "Move!" Colossus charged, steel form blossoming across his skin. He slammed into a wave of flying debris, batting it aside like twigs. "X-Men! Forward!" Nightcrawler bamfed in bursts, disorienting Magneto with staccato flashes of sulfur. He appeared above Magneto’s shoulder and snapped, "You monologue too much, mein freund," before vanishing again. The Master of Magnetism scowled, eyes narrowing. "Insects." A magnetic pulse lashed out, catching Kurt mid-teleport. He crashed into the floor, smoke rising from his singed fur. Kitty screamed, "Kurt!" and dove to phase through a spray of jagged rebar, her form flickering as she pulled him to safety. Logan crouched low, claws gleaming. "That’s enough speeches, Magneto. You’re startin’ to sound like a broken record." He lunged, feral speed cutting the distance. Claws slashed up, sparks dancing as Magneto caught him mid-air, claws grinding against an invisible magnetic grip. Logan snarled, struggling against the unseen force. "What’s the matter, tin man? Afraid of a little steel up close?" Magneto’s face hardened. "Your defiance is almost admirable. Almost." He flicked his fingers, and Logan slammed into the wall hard enough to crack stone. Storm shouted, "Logan!" and hurled a fork of lightning from her hands, raw power straining against the suppressing field. It split the air like a scream, crashing into Magneto’s barrier. For a moment, his shield flickered. Scott saw it. "There! Keep him off balance!" Colossus hurled a chunk of broken machinery, the metal twisting mid-flight as Magneto redirected it. Scott dove, caught the glint of an exposed panel in Magneto’s shield, and shouted, "Kurt—bamf him!" But Kurt was still dazed, coughing smoke. Kitty pressed her hands to him, frantic. "Stay with me, elf! Please, stay with me!" Logan dragged himself free from the wall, blood trickling down his temple. His grin was savage. "Not bad, baldy’s golden boy. Not bad at all." Scott glanced at him, jaw tight. "Then stop grinning and hit him harder." Magneto raised both hands, the chamber groaning, walls bending inward like a collapsing lung. His voice was low now, venomous. "You cannot win. I will tear this island down to its roots, bury you beneath its bones, and the world will thank me for it." Storm lifted her chin, eyes burning white. "The world will never thank a tyrant. The world remembers freedom." Lightning lanced down from the ceiling, shaking the chamber. For the first time, Magneto’s barrier cracked like glass. Logan saw his chance. Claws out, teeth bared, he lunged again. Scott scowled, already scanning the chamber. "We can’t fight him straight-on like this. Ororo, Kurt—keep him distracted. Peter, hold your ground. Logan—" But Logan wasn’t there. Scott whipped his head around. "Where the hell—" Storm’s eyes flickered. "He has vanished." Kitty frowned. "Logan? He was right here!" A cigar butt smoldered on the floor. ‘Good. Keep talkin’, Slim. Keep his eyes on you,’ Logan thought as he slid through the shadows along the edge of the chamber. His claws retracted with a soft shhk, too loud in his ears, but drowned by the sound of Magneto’s rage twisting metal. ‘Magneto can feel every bolt, every screw in this place. But he ain’t sniffin’ me out. Nose and patience—two things I got in spades.’ Magneto raised both hands, the air vibrating as plates of metal floated above him, shimmering like a stormcloud of blades. His eyes blazed. "You gnats think you can crawl in my kingdom and disrupt my vision? This world is mine to shape!" Storm straightened, unflinching. Even powerless, her voice was thunder. "A kingdom built on fear is a prison, Magneto. And you… are the jailer." Magneto’s lips curled. "Then let me show you the cost of defiance." The blades rained down. Nightcrawler bamfed in and out, snatching Kitty by the waist and pulling her to safety. Colossus dove, grabbing a plate midair and shoving it aside, the edge slicing his palm deep. Scott pulled Lee back behind a console, shielding her with his body. Storm ducked low, rolling behind twisted machinery. She looked across the room, locking eyes with Kitty. "Child—remember what he fears most. Not our strength… but our hope." Kitty’s voice wavered. "Hope won’t stop him if we’re skewered!" Storm’s lips curved faintly. "Then we make him bleed his own fear." Magneto’s eyes narrowed, fury breaking through his calm façade. "You DARE—" Scott raised his voice, sharp, commanding. "X-Men! Hold him here! Every second counts!" From the shadows, Logan’s grin spread slow and feral. His claws slid free once more with that familiar metallic kiss. ‘Yeah. Hold him here. All I need’s one clean shot…’ The battle raged on. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text "Wait, hold on, no." Rose caught at his sleeve, pulled him back from his attempt to scurry off. "You’re not making any sense." First things first. "Why can’t we go outside here?" The Doctor was still moving down the hallway, absently trying to brush her hands off without looking at her. "Bugs. Bugs, Rose, I already explained-" "No you didn’t," Rose interrupted, taking his hand, hard. He still wasn’t looking at her and Rose tried to move in front of him. He turned his head away but didn’t drop her hand. "You just rambled something and said ‘see you in six hours’." "Oh, right, did I?" he babbled. "Oh yes, I did. See you in six hours then." He tried to pull away again, adding a quick, "The effects should be over by then." Rose’s stomach lurched as she changed her grip to the cloth of his sleeve. "The effects of what?" No doubt picking up on her tone – he’d have to be deaf not to – the Doctor looked at her. His mouth open for answering, his expression stuck and held, the Time Lord rendered abruptly silent. His pupils were huge. "Doctor . . . ?" A struggle played across his face, raged behind those dilated eyes he’d tried to keep her from seeing. He’d stopped trying to move, to pull away, the lack of motion as unnerving as his earlier retreat. His lips moved soundlessly, the words welling up in his throat and trying to break free. "Bugs," he managed at last. As the one syllable breached whatever dam was holding him back, so much more broke through. "Bugs outside. A swarm. Kakothrips cogitatio , the brainstorm bug, the fixation fly, the one-track tick, the learning leech." He pointed at his neck, pulled down his collar to better show her the angry red welt there. "Mental mosquito bite." "Itches for six hours?" Rose guessed, one hand reaching out as if to touch. She pulled it back halfway through the motion, not sure what would happen if from contact. The Doctor bobbed his head. "Latches onto the current thought. No, not latches. Makes you latch. Fixate. One thought. Six hours." "So, you were thinking about . . . ?" Rose asked, unconsciously leaning forward, watching the play behind dark eyes barely rimmed with brown. "TARDIS repair." Rose blinked. "What?" "TARDIS repair," the Doctor repeated. "Stepped out, thought, bit – not bit, bit t en , TARDIS repair. Six hours." His words spilt out in a rush as if he was afraid he wouldn’t remember how to finish a complete sentence. "Oh." Once pieced together, it made almost sense. Almost. "What about your eyes?" In a confused attempt at an answer, the Doctor pulled out his glasses, held them up. "They’re fine." Side effect, Rose reasoned. "S’not dangerous, is it? Not going to hurt yourself or anything?" "Um," said the Doctor, a reply that was far less than reassuring. "Doctor," Rose restated slowly, nodding with each word and tugging on his hand when his attention started to wander. "Is the bite dangerous? Is it going to hurt you?" "That was very condescending," the Doctor commented dryly. "No?" Rose asked, wondering. If it had been really bad, he would have really tried to focus, wouldn’t he have? So she would have gotten a proper response, yeah? Maybe? "Yes it was," he argued. "It was distinctly, one-hundred-percent . . ." He trailed off distractedly, scratching absently at the mark on his neck. By the basic rules of bug bites that she knew, that looked like a bad idea. "Doctor, don’t." Rose reached for his arm, pulled his hand down. "No scratching." "No scratching," he agreed easily, looking at her intently. "Don’t you think I know that?" A sudden impulse made Rose ask, "Know what?" The Doctor blinked and, for a moment, looked very confused. "Um," he said once again. "It’ll come to me." "Six hours and you’re back to normal, yeah? Just six and you’re all better," Rose stressed, willing him to say yes, nodding as she spoke to encourage this. "Yup," he said brightly, popping the "p." He smiled at her, gave her hand a squeeze as he leaned forward. "I feel fine." "You’re not acting like it," she countered, squeezing back, pleading for the coherency to continue. He looked down at her, his soft expression fitting all too well with his bedroom eyes. "I’m all right," he assured her, cupping her cheek in a way he hadn’t done in ages, his hand cool and tender. "Anything I can do to help?" she offered, unable to believe him for one moment. Once again, the words stuck in the Doctor’s throat, were dammed up in there and unable to get out of his mouth. Speechless was not a state the Doctor was supposed to be in, not ever. In the end, he shook his head, pulling his hand away self-consciously. "I," he started to say, then stopped. He shook his head again. "No." "Are you sure?" she asked, trying to stop him from pulling away once more. "Oh, absolutely," he agreed. "What about?" Looking up into his face, listening to the complete lack of worry in his voice, Rose opened her mouth only to shut it again. When he tried to wander off again to tinker with his beloved ship, she let him with no small sense of misgivings. Even if she dragged him to the library, she’d have a hell of a time keeping him in there. She’d be searching for a cure by herself anyway, she told herself. Just in case. One thought for six hours, in a brain the size of the Doctor’s, clearly meant his head was going to implode. She’d solve this on her own, if that’s what it took. One not-so-stray thought that had not-so-strayed from his mind in what was approaching an hour. He’d worked, he’d tinkered, he’d done everything he could think of to distract himself but he was gradually losing the ability to do so. As for convincing lies, there was little chance of forming another. Mustering up the one about the TARDIS had been difficult enough. Far too soon, he’d be left with one thought and one thought alone: Sex with Rose Tyler. Fortunately, this was more of an entire topic than a single thought and had yet to get remotely repetitive in its merry little dance around the insides of his cranium. For instance, along with the concerns of how one went about having sex with Rose Tyler, there was an entire list of vastly unpleasant other details to mull over. Such as the persons who had already had sex with Rose Tyler. And the people Rose Tyler was considering having sex with in the future. If they existed. They might not. Was that good, if they didn’t? If "they" included him? He thought about that for a little while, perhaps five minutes worth of lengthy pros and cons which boiled down to one simple point each. Pro: no one else would have sex with Rose Tyler. Con: he would not have sex with Rose Tyler. Conclusion: wonderful and tragic, respectively. Overall . . . he’d have to think about it some more. Not like he didn’t have the time. How many people had Rose had sex with, anyway? The Doctor shuddered at the thought of Mickey, pulled his mind away in horror from the involuntary mental image of two human bodies entwined in Rose’s old bedroom. Not thinking about that. Not not not. No. Bad. Rose couldn’t have enjoyed it that much anyway. Not that much. No. Obviously not. Rose would want . . . . What would Rose want? In bed. Or in the shower. Possibly on a table or against the wall. Ooh, a couch. Or a hammock. That would be difficult. Possibly worse than a waterbed. What would that be like, sex with Rose Tyler on a waterbed? Bouncy, but fluid. Molding. Or what if she was on top? If he bucked – if he could buck – would she fall off? No bucking, then. His mouth slowly went dry, his breath coming out in shallow exhalations through parted lips. He’d been staring at the same bit of circuitry without seeing it for at probably ten minutes, but as he wasn’t paying attention to that, he couldn’t have said the exact time. Fixated on something else, that was him. Fixated. Rose Tyler. On top of him. Molding herself around him, hot, tight, wet and only-for-him. Her human-hot hands pressing on his shoulders, fingernails scratching skin. Her hips circling, shimmying, grinding as she suddenly clenched down. Her eyes falling shut, her mouth falling open, her head falling back as a wanting murmur fell from lips too distant to kiss. Her hair spilling over her shoulders, sticking to her face from sweat, urging him to touch. Her breasts bouncing as she rode him, taut peaks begging for his tongue. The strange, rolling slosh of a water-filled mattress rocking him back up under her, into her. Her hooded eyes drawing him in until all he was, all he ever could be was drowning, drowning in her. The clamor of metal made him blink and look down. Though having dropped it, he didn’t think to pick up his sonic screwdriver. The noise identified as something safe to ignore, he safely ignored it, wandering absently away. His feet took him to Rose’s bedroom, his mind already inside, listening vaguely to a conversation about mosquito bite treatment of all things. He could see her there in perfect detail. She’d tossed herself down on the bed to feel it bounce; she’d wriggled around a bit to get comfortable, mussing the duvet as she did; her top had ridden up, exposing a line of skin that would much rather be covered by hands and lips than cloth anyway. And as her hair tumbled over the edge of the bed, she’d taken out her mobile and called home. The thought of Jackie barged its way unannounced into the Doctor’s musings on sex with Rose. The result was not good. Or actually, due to the doubtlessly humiliating reaction he might have otherwise witnessed as Rose realized what was going on in his head, the result was very good. Very good in that it was very preventative. There would be slapping. And screeches of rage. And she would try to badger Rose into leaving him. So by having sex with Rose, he would . . . stop having sex with Rose. The Doctor stood there for perhaps too long, puzzling out whatever logic it took to make that sentence make sense. Long enough for the door to open, Rose blinking at him. "Thought you were gonna be fixing the TARDIS for the next five hours," Rose might have said. Even staring at her mouth as he was, he couldn’t have been sure. "I need help," the Doctor finally admitted. She’d forgotten the name of the bug almost as soon as the Doctor had said it, too preoccupied with his growing incoherence to memorize it. Her rummaging through the library had turned up next to nothing relevant and absolutely nothing helpful. She’d even been desperate enough to phone her mum and ask for a quick internet search. She wasn’t looking forward to explaining why, either. As it was, that mental mosquito bite had a lot to answer for. She had half a mind to get a load of bug spray and go wreck havoc outside. The worst thing that could happen would be her getting completely focused on killing the things. Maybe she’d try her hand at it, after she got this taken care of. "Am I doing this right?" Rose asked, mostly to get him talking again, concerned at the Doctor’s silence. "Too tight?" She glanced up at his face, found him looking at her with eyes somehow both blank and alert at once. "Doctor?" He blinked, the effort of it screwing up his face. "Yes, Rose," he managed. "Should I go tighter?" she asked again, carefully articulating. "Uh," the Doctor said, clearly not following the subject. In reply, Rose yanked the strap through the buckle hard enough to get his attention. "Restrain you so you don’t damage the TARDIS," she reminded him. "S’what you told me t’ do." "Did I?" he asked, no interest at all behind the question, no recollection. She could answer and he wouldn’t pay attention. Fighting the urge to shake him, Rose shivered, unnerved by the distance in his voice and eyes. "Cold?" Suddenly fascinated, he shifted on the infirmary chair, the one like a dentist’s chair except with optional restraints. His unfastened hand reached across to touch her cheek. She’d only gotten the one wrist down, the Doctor willing to sit still but unable to help. "I could-" Catching his hand, Rose shook her head. "‘M not cold and I’m not going to let you loose to play with the thermostat." The way last him had switched moods had nothing on this. He turned his hand to better hold hers. The motion must have been automatic, something that all the rampant higher brain function couldn’t interfere with. An involuntary smile tugged at her lips at the thought. A glance up to his eyes found them bright and focused, something soft in his gaze as he smiled back at her. His pupils were still hugely dilated, but there was a part of Rose more than willing to rationalize that symptom away. For a moment, he was all right. He was better than all right. He was perfect, save for the red mark on the side of his neck, a jarring physical reminder of his condition. "Did you start scratching it again?" Rose asked, trying to get a closer look, not sure if it was redder than before. He turned his head to watch her as she moved, hindering her efforts to see. "Scratching what?" Rose bit her lip, realizing now why he must have been in such a hurry to get away from her before. Seeing him like this, so completely clueless . . . . It was like some fundamental rule of the universe had been broken, the Doctor turning into an idiot. Instead of answering him, she dropped his hand, unable to hold it and go around the chair to the other side at the same time. The first time she’d seen the arm restraints on the pseudo-dentist chair, she’d been unpleasantly surprised. Having to actually use them, however, was not something she’d thought she’d ever need to do. Continuing to watch her, the Doctor gave her back his hand the moment she reached for it, surprisingly cooperative again. He was having a better moment right now, Rose was sure. Even looked like he’d be able to hold up his end of a conversation. He held still for her as she unbuttoned his cuff and pushed the sleeve of his shirt up, fingers brushing what he liked to refer to as the manly hairs on his manly hairy arm. It occurred to her that she’d never seen it before, had never seen him even remotely shirtless. She shook her head to herself, focusing on the task at hand instead of her hormones. The restraint strap was padded on the inside and she was fairly certain that it would be more comfortable on him than having his shirt grind into his wrists for five hours. Once again, Rose was distantly thankful the Doctor had retained enough sense to take his suit jacket off before hopping up into the chair. Less to deal with, anyway. Even if he always looked distractingly naked when only wearing one layer. As she pulled the strap out from the simple buckle, the Doctor’s free hand rose as if to touch her shoulder or to point at something behind her. Rose caught it quickly and brought it back down. In a stroke of brilliance, she stuck her own hand through the open restraint to take his hand. Contact made, fingers tightened and he smiled at her again. Like threading a needle, Rose pulled her hand out of the strap and, in the same motion, brought the Doctor’s willing hand through it. With her free hand, she pulled the strap back through the buckle and fastened it clumsily, trapping him by the wrist. As gently as she could, she tested to see if the Doctor would be able to pull out, pushing at his arm, shoving at it a bit. "Rose, what are you doing?" Rose looked up at his question. His complete sentence about something unrelated to the TARDIS. And that wasn’t confusion in his voice; that was bemused condescension, like he thought she was off being an idiot human, a stupid ape, but couldn’t fully bring himself to care. That had been absolutely coherent. "Hugging you," Rose answered and did. The angle was awkward, Rose having to lean over the chair a bit, her arms around his neck. Her hip bumped against the back of his bound hand. She felt the tension in his shoulders, felt his hand move unsuccessfully as he tried and failed to reciprocate. At least she knew she’d done the job properly. Pressing the side of his head against hers, the Doctor chuckled, a wonderful sound of both surprise and amusement. "Well, then," he replied, sounding entirely like himself. "By all means, carry on." Rose giggled with helpless relief into his shoulder, holding to him tightly until she was nearly gasping for air. "Stay," she told him when she was fit for talking once more. "Don’t – don’t go off like that." She’d barely been able to stand an hour. Five more of that would have been – she didn’t want to even think about it. There was that so-called superior Time Lord physiology, breaking down toxins the way he’d always claimed he could. "Who said anything about going anywhere?" he asked her playfully, the back of his bound hand pressing against her upper thigh as a reminder to let him go. She drew back at the touch, a surge of heat flooding through her from the cool contact. Alien git, getting himself into this mess, touching her like it didn’t matter. She was acutely aware of the blush spreading cross her features, feeling the burn across her cheeks. The way he grinned at her wasn’t helping any. And his eyes were still huge, all dark with barely a ring of brown around the edges. Rose blinked, realizing what that meant. "You didn’t metabolize it?" But he was coherent, he was fine, he- "Metabolize what?" the Doctor asked on automatic, nothing behind those dark eyes to imply even vague interest. Just like that, he was gone. Shaking inside, Rose did the only thing that made sense. She slipped her hand into his, threaded their fingers together and held tight. She held with both hands, almost clutched at him. And just like that, he was back. Five hours left, Rose thought and looked around for a chair. She could hold his hand for five hours. It took him a while, but eventually he realized that she wasn’t leaving. Some time after that, it occurred to him that this was a problem. His brain was practically whirring with the effort it took to stretch the subject, to keep up the connections of logic. Sex with Rose Tyler. Not letting Rose know. Conversation to not let Rose know. Controlling reactions to not let Rose know. Controlling thoughts to control reactions. Not the actual act of Rose Tyler. Sex with Rose Tyler. Repercussions. Bad repercussions. Rose leaving. Jackie slap. Thoughts tumbled like a house of cards, fell like two bodies onto a waiting bed, impossibly intertwined and entangled, unwilling to pull apart. "Doctor, my hand isn’t part of the TARDIS," Rose said, something hearts-wrenchingly hesitant in her voice. His fingers stilled on her palm for a moment only before resuming their exploration purposefully. "No, it’s not," he agreed, categorizing this as foreplay, using terms to build those connections, to keep those thoughts together. Sweat slowly gathered on the whorls and mounds and lines, each traced, touched, stroked. Human, sweaty palms, Rose. Good or bad? Flight-or-fight response byproduct. Was she nervous? Upset? Randy? He should hold her. The motion was halted before it could fully begin. He looked down, saw at his bound wrists. Looked at Rose and forgot. "I’m sorry," he told her. "I can’t seem to . . ." He shrugged helplessly, ineffectually, unable to put his feelings into words. He was now firmly resigned to the fact that sex with Rose Tyler did not simply involve sex with Rose Tyler. It involved making love to Rose Tyler. "S’okay," Rose told him, holding his hand, putting an end to his study of her palm by pressing it against his. "You’re trying." He’d do more than just try. He’d pull her against him, relish the way they fit together, a match of bodies too flawless for only platonic embraces. He’d taste her, coax her lips to part, lap into her mouth as she sighed into his, her clever fingers working at his tie. He’d dip his hands between them, lower the zipper of her jeans with all the deliberateness of a very, very deliberate man. And she’d smile at him as he did it, half-sultry, half-shy. "You should go," he told her, almost pleading as he felt an all-too-familiar Rose-related reaction begin to take place. "You- you should. You should really go." Her grip on his hand tightened. "Not gonna leave you," Rose insisted. "You know, you could talk about whatever bit of the TARDIS still needs fixing. Be less boring." "Um," said the Doctor, trying, straining to remember why she thought he could talk about that. Oh, right, lying. Repercussion-prevention giving way to more repercussions. Lovely. . . . She was, wasn’t she? Lovely. Very. "Yeah?" Rose asked, prompting nervously. Had he said that aloud? He couldn’t tell. Had – no, nonononono, he hadn’t. He was sure. If he’d started, he wouldn’t have run out of adjectives already. Couldn’t have started. Rose stood up from her chair, stood close, stood over him. He wiggled his eyebrows at her before he could think out the reasons why not to instead of only the rationale which made it all right. Just a little hop up and she could sit on his lap. Just sit across his lap, maybe put an arm around his shoulders. Get a little comfortable and lean against him. Maybe squirm just a little. Only a little. Or, ooh, she could straddle him. Sit on his lap and rock, gently at first and then harder. Press against him and bring her mouth to where he could get at it. No, her neck. Nuzzling and nipping, licking and sucking, making up for his inability to touch her any other way. He’d do that. Until she gasped or breathed his name or- "Doctor?" His respiratory bypass seemed to have kicked in. He took in a normal breath of air and said what needed to be said. "You’re not helping," he told her, not so much blunt as completely rude. "You’re really not helping, Rose." She was going to speak, she was going to do something, she was going to make this utterly impossible; he did what he had to. Unable to pull his hand back, he released hers instead, hoping that would make the point clear. "You’re sort of . . . making it harder- worse," he corrected, realizing the obvious innuendo as soon as his mouth had opened to say it. He wanted to pull his legs up instead of simply letting them stick out on the long leg-rests of the chair, to do something – anything – in the vain hope that he could stop her from noticing what was going on directly under her nose. Now there was a mental image he really didn’t need at the moment. That, directly under her nose. Which would mean her mouth would be- Rassilon, no. Stop it. Right now. Even if it would be absolutely- "Could you leave me alone? Now?" The words fell out of his mouth just the way he’d wanted them to. Abrupt and rude and very likely to get her to do as he told her to. She’d leave and stay away and he could apologize later – well, sort of apologize, but she would understand what he meant – and then they could continue on without him making a complete mess of things. One look at her face, and he wanted to curl up and die. "Fine," Rose said, taking a step backward and very much away . "You’ve got four an’ a half hours left to obsess over your frankly magnificent ship ." With all the effort he could muster, he kept his mouth shut, stopped himself from calling her back as she stormed off, leaving him trapped in the infirmary, completely alone. Vaguely, he remembered this being part of a plan, a way of stopping the outright molestation of his companion. It was working depressingly well. Inwardly fuming and hating it – he wasn’t in his right mind, she couldn’t blame him, not really – she went back to the library. Picking up where she had left off, Rose quickly realized why she had actually resorted to calling her mum for help. Staring down literally countless rows of shelves, books piled high in semi-translated alien languages, Rose winced at the sheer magnitude of what was in front of her. This was hopeless. Rose shook her head out of habit more than anything else. Not hopeless, never hopeless. She just hadn’t found a way around it yet. Okay, think. No more running around panicking. Looking up "mental mosquito" in the database – provided she could find the database – still wasn’t going to give her an answer. Not the answer she needed, anyway. Loads of answers, but all in books she had to track down and search through if she actually managed to find them. So, stepping back. Looking at the basics. What planet were they on? Had the Doctor said? Unable to remember, Rose trouped out to the console room to stare at the monitor for a bit. The oddly geometric characters of the Doctor’s language shone clearly on the display. "How about some subtitles?" she mumbled to the Time Rotor, glancing up at it as if it would actually respond when all she really needed to do was listen. The TARDIS’s hum changed pitch, something sounding slightly apologetic in it. Or maybe worried. The console was warm against her hand, reassuringly solid beneath her palm. "So am I," Rose admitted, having a small moment of communion with the ship. An unpleasant thought occurred to Rose. "Did the Doctor tinker with the translation circuits?" The question was addressed to the ceiling this time. The answering hum wasn’t one Rose could understand, which in itself might have meant yes. Okay, so much for the name of the planet. After a moment of glaring at the monitor, Rose fetched some bug spray. At least, she was fairly sure it was bug spray. . . . Would it work on these things? Let her through whatever insect-infested patch of land they were sitting on long enough to find someone and ask a few questions? The Doctor had said there was a swarm out there, hadn’t he? Too big for her to fight off? Or she could simply try to hold a thought and get out there. One thought, one thing for her to focus on. That was simple: save the Doctor. The TARDIS hummed a warning as Rose approached the doors. Looking up, Rose stopped, a can of the spray in each hand. If that was the only help she was getting right now, she should probably listen to it. Leaning against the railing, she puzzled this out some more. So she went outside, she sprayed the things, got the name of the planet or better yet, a cure, and then she came back. The things that could go wrong were, just for starters: the spray not working, the spray not lasting long enough, and ending up being bitten by the bugs. If she got her thought wrong, if she couldn’t control her mind in that moment of panic . . . The Doctor would spend the next six hours trapped in the med bay, spend almost two of them wondering where she’d gone, why she’d left him there. And that was only if humans reacted the same way Time Lords did to the bite – unlikely. For all she knew, she could be at her topic-of-choice for days. The Doctor would have to gnaw himself free from the restraints and Rose wasn’t sure he could even bend enough to do it. With a guilty sort of resignation, Rose set the bug spray down, the cans ringing out on the metal of the grating. Now that she’d thought about it, the odds of finding someone in swarm territory who hadn’t been bitten weren’t high at all. That left her with no name for either the bug or the planet it was found on. About half a dozen nicknames for the bloody thing, but with all that alliteration, the Doctor had probably just been babbling. Besides, there was a world of difference between a "fixation fly" and a "learning leech," Rose was willing to bet. One flew, first off. Sitting down heavily in the captain’s chair, she sighed, propping her chin up on her hand, her elbow on her knee. Fat lot of good she was. At this rate, he was going to have to go through the full deal, just sitting there like his brain had been taken away from him. Not gonna happen. She’d just have to work with what she had. Returning to the library, Rose grabbed a sheet of paper and the closest writing utensil. It looked almost like a pencil, but the bit in the middle was green and smelled a lot like cheese. Feeling a like she was writing with impossibly fine-tipped chalk, she jotted down the depressingly short list of what she knew. Obsession bug, fixation fly One thought Six hours for Time Lords Dilated pupils Handholding makes it better Red mark – itchy? one thought = Time Lord allergic reaction? Bit the neck – blood-sucking? physic/telepathic energy eating? Mulling it over, Rose tapped the cheese pencil on the paper, leaving little dots speckled about the corner of the sheet. Nothing she could do about the first one until she knew the proper name. As for the second one, well, that proved once and for all that the Doctor really didn’t think when he was talking. Wait, no. The Doctor had been able to tell her to restrain him somewhere, to stop him. He’d been able to think of that. There was no possible way that those words could have fallen out of his mouth in a mere ramble. So he’d been able to think of that, even with the one thought deal. An idea striking her, Rose eyed her list. That was all one thought, in a way. Underline the top line, make it a title, and the rest followed as a continuation of the thought. The Doctor was thinking of TARDIS repair, yeah? So take that and keep going with it. He realized that he couldn’t fix it in the state he was in, and he was able to realize that because it was still about fixing the TARDIS. And because it was a thought about damage to the TARDIS – damage that would require the ever-important repair – he was able to realize that he had to be stopped before that damage occurred. A smile tugged at her lips and turned into an all-out grin. She knew what to do. When she returned to the med bay, the Doctor didn’t seem to realize he’d been annoyed with her, having forgotten it well within the past twenty minutes. There’d been a complete reversal, such a quick one that it would have unnerved her if she hadn’t known him like she did. As it was, it was still jarring. Of course, she always got that lurching jerk in her stomach when he smiled at her like that, out-of-the-blue. And sometimes when she expected it, too. "Hello, Rose," the Doctor said brightly, pleased and proud and grinning away at her as if he already knew she’d worked out the solution. "Hello," she replied automatically, taken aback at his focus. Was it cycling through? Giving him really bad periods and then letting up so he could be like this? Almost with her, but not really there at all. Giving her a hopeful look, he brought her attention to his hand, wiggling his fingers in a clear prompting for her to take it. Rose laughed a little despite herself, going over to slip her hand into his. Running from aliens, trapped in dungeons, tied to a chair; no matter what happened, the Doctor was always out to hold her hand. Not that she minded. He must have realized it helped, Rose thought. If he was branching out far enough to do that, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Despite that development, one thing remained the same. Although the Doctor was able to look at her intelligently, focus on her and seem to take in what she was saying, he still wasn’t up to talking. As the silence stretched between them, it was all Rose could do not to shudder, to clasp his hand as tightly as she could. But this was going to be over soon. It was going to be all right now. "Doctor," Rose said, purposefully drawing his gaze up from their clasped hands, "if you cure yourself, you can go repair the TARDIS." He looked at her, not even trying to understand. Just looked at her, his mind somewhere far, far away from her and what she had to say. His thumb rubbed absently over the back of her hand, a vague smile touching his lips. "D-did you hear me?" Rose asked. "Doctor? Are you listening?" "Yes, Rose." A dreamy murmur. Not helping her fight the urge to snog him. "TARDIS repair," she restated for him, putting her other hand over his. If his mind kept him in TARDIS-stroking mode much longer, she wasn’t going to be responsible for her own actions. "Lots of stuff to tinker with. Fix this first, and you can go off and play with your sonic screwdriver for the next four hours." His gaze flickered between her eyes and her mouth, a promising strain evident in his face. He was thinking, making that connection. "Y’know what?" Rose realized suddenly, latching onto the line of thinking that would solve all of this. "When you were sick from regenerating, the TARDIS wasn’t working right. Couldn’t translate, yeah? ‘Cause she needs you to be all right. So by fixing yourself, you’re fixing the TARDIS." She looked into his darkened eyes and searched for any sign of light behind them. "D’you understand? Doctor?" "Understand what, Rose?" A blank and automatic question. Her heart froze. ". . . You’re not interested." Sitting placidly, he’d paid as much attention to her words as he did to the bindings around his wrists. "You’re not interested," she said again, trying to wrap her mind around this. "Yes I am!" the Doctor immediately protested, squeezing her hand for emphasis. "Interested in what?" There was the real question, the one she was kicking herself for not checking. He leaned away from her and came back to her in the same instant, pulling back physically as he returned mentally. "Nothing," he replied quickly, the speed of his retreat alarming. "Nothing you need to know about," he hurriedly added. "Not important. At all." He was embarrassed. The Doctor was actually embarrassed. "Doctor, it can’t be that bad," Rose assured him, not sure whether she wanted to hit him for lying or just to laugh at the face he was making. No wonder she couldn’t get him to focus, throwing the wrong subject at him. "It can’t? Oh good." What would have previously been simply an inane comment was now an ineffective verbal sidestep. "There’s no way what you’re thinking about can be more embarrassing than being tied up and babbling," she continued. For the first time in all the months – years, even – she’d known him, the Doctor turned red. It could be worse, his very body was trying to tell her. "Hold onto that thought," she told him cheekily, letting go of his hand to pull her chair up closer to him. She sat down and, grinning, leaned forward to interrogate. "What’re you thinkin’ about?" "I won’t say," he replied, amazingly articulate. His gaze kept straying from hers as if letting her see his dilated eyes would be letting her see into his head. Rose ran through what she knew of General Doctory Thoughts. "S’not fixing the TARDIS. Or anything to do with the TARDIS, ‘cause you wouldn’t lie about that." As she spoke, she watched him carefully, part of her ready to stand up and cheer. She had his attention all the way through. Clearly, the threat of revealing what he was thinking of was on-topic enough to fit until the one thought rule. "Not a book or music or somethin’, ‘cause then you’d be readin’ or listen’," she reasoned. With a solution tentatively in sight, this was almost fun. "Not some historical event or amazing place, ‘cause then we’d be there already." "You’re very clever," the Doctor said, smiling at her in that way he did when he wanted something. "Clever and continuing," Rose replied, keeping her hands very determinedly in her lap. His hair had been in the same state of ruffle for close to an hour now and the urge to play with it had returned with his attempt at distraction. Good thing he didn’t know how effective it was. Especially when he pouted like that. "Tryin’ t’ think of what you’d need to be restrained for." She tapped the buckle of the strap for emphasis and managed to distract herself. "Are your wrists all right? Still got feeling in your fingertips?" A remarkable amount of thinking went on behind those newly clear eyes. Or so Rose wanted to think, unsure of what she’d seen in his expression. The Doctor twisted his hand in the restraint, turned his palm up and wiggled his fingers. "You could check," he suggested, looking hopeful. How a person could change his mind with only one thought in it was completely beyond her. "If you had a reason for the restraint, you still have a reason for the restraint, even if you can’t think of it right now. Not letting you out." He looked at her as if she’d missed some vastly obvious point. "What?" "Nothing." Rose stared him down and, for once, won. "You’re not thinking about . . . I dunno, eating something, are you? This was to stop you from putting yourself into a jam coma or something. Bursting your stomach. Stomachs, sorry." No, that wasn’t it. Now, what was a random, impulsive thought that could occur to the Doctor? Rose groaned and the Doctor positively twitched. "What d’you want to put in your mouth?" Rose asked. "There’s something stupid and probably dangerous you want to lick, yeah?" Judging by his reaction, she was definitely onto something. She had never seen the Doctor look so embarrassed, or so completely appalled. "Uh," the Doctor said, and it wasn’t for the lack of thinking about it. "Fine," Rose told him, getting up purposefully, "have it your way." "Rose," he started to protest, but Rose cut him off with a wave of her hand as she moved towards his discarded suit jacket, the article of clothing having been tossed on the counter before the Doctor had sat down. Looking through the pockets, Rose shook her head. "Whatever you’re thinking about, I bet I can link it to finding a cure for your condition. Let me know, and I can help." She’d found his glasses: not what she was looking for. "Rose, no. Really. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. Look at me, fine and tied up. Couldn’t be finer." The babble was back, an encouraging sign. "What are you doing?" And that was the best sign so far, possibly because of the slight note of panic in his voice. He was focusing again. Ah, there it was. Holding her prize behind her back, Rose returned to the Doctor’s side, ready to jump the next-to-final hurtle and put this behind both of them. He smiled up at her in a way that said more than words ever could, a smile that both pleaded and threatened slightly, that asked her to be reasonable and called her a stupid little human. Rose took his hand and put his slightly psychic paper into it, the pad already flipped open. "Rose, don’t!" She read the four words on the paper, four words written all in capital letters. Too late, too slow on the uptake, the Doctor dropped it onto the floor. Silently, Rose shut her mouth, feeling a needy twinge between her legs, hearing her own words of mere moments ago echo in her ears. "There’s something stupid and probably dangerous you want to lick, yeah?" Something stupid, that was her. Stupidest thing alive. Numbly, she sat back down, her hands gripping her knees. "Doctor . . . ?" "I can explain," he said quickly before shaking his head and reversing his position. "No I can’t. I really can’t. I can’t make it sound right. I’ve been trying, mind you. Not much choice about it." "So for almost two hours," Rose began slowly, chasing the shreds of her mind down and pulling them back together, "you’ve been thinking about having sex. With me." Her gaze kept trying to drop and it was only with a determination born of severe awkwardness that kept her from glancing down. "Well, not the having, per se," the Doctor corrected. Despite being unable to find the ceiling suddenly fascinating, he was doing quite the talented impression of it. "More like a broad overview of the general subject." "How general?" she couldn’t help but ask, her cheeks feeling as if they’d caught on fire. "Increasingly less so, but it is a surprisingly large topic if you think about it for, what, almost two hours?" At her nod, he made a considering sound. "Didn’t feel that long." Not knowing whether to be worried, flattered or . . . something else entirely, Rose settled on an unequal mixture of the three. "Your time sense isn’t working?" When the reply failed to come as more than a vague look, Rose pushed on through the mess of her emotions. "Why’d you think about it?" she asked instead, her eyes falling to her hands in her lap, her voice falling soft and quiet. "You opened the door, saw a swarm of mind-altering, airborne ticks and thought ‘What does that remind me of-’" "No," the Doctor interrupted, the word harsh and hard. He shook his head slightly, repeated himself in a gentler tone. "No. That’s not- no. No." "Just a random thought then," she carefully said, offering him this, giving him a chance to blame it on simple misfortune and bad timing. His eyes meeting hers, the Doctor didn’t answer, neither nodded nor shook his head. He merely gazed at her with eyes dark and vulnerable, expression both closed and open at once. His light shirt spoke silently of armor heedlessly discarded and something in her shook to see him so exposed. Rose took his hand. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Steve’s eyes followed Carol for a moment on her way out the door. She was making a beeline for the lake, the direction Steve had last seen Daisy heading some time ago. For a moment, he thought about following Carol, to try and be a moderating presence. On one hand, Daisy had seemed pretty volatile when she’d first seen Carol. And Carol herself could be a… grating personality at the best of times, and caustic at the worst. On the other, Carol was more than capable of handling herself, and Steve, while not a betting man, was confident Daisy wouldn’t start a fight she didn’t have a chance in. Instead, he headed towards the lounge. His intention had been to continue the book he’d left on one of the couches before he started making dinner, but when he saw Natasha sitting at the island in the kitchen opposite Bobbi, he wordlessly slid into the kitchen as well. “You’ll like the Dora Milaje,” Natasha was saying, as she idly spun the mug in front of her, “And the space ones aren’t bad. Rocket’s… odd, but he’s a talking raccoon. Some oddity was to be expected, I suppose.” Bobbi hummed, her eyes flicking from Natasha over to Steve, who was idly listening as he went through the almost reflexive motions of pulling out different ingredients, then hauling out a large pot and a pan. “What’re your thoughts, Captain Rogers?” After several minutes of being allowed to work in peace, Bobbi’s voice cut through Steve’s focus like a shot across a ship’s bow. He paused, laying out his knife on the cutting board for a moment before he focused back on the vegetables in front of him. “Rocket is strange. But my bar for strange is probably lower than yours, Agent Morse,” Steve answered, the steady rhythm of chopping vegetables calming, helpful for organizing his thoughts. Bobbi was intense, in a way very similar but very different from any other SHIELD agents Steve had met. The kitchen was quiet after he spoke, and Steve probably could have been forgiven for somehow thinking that Bobbi and Natasha had both left without him noticing. But he’d been around just enough spies in his time to recognize the silence as a prompt to continue. “Nebula is…” Steve tried and failed for a few seconds to come up with a better word, but eventually settled on, “ Severe .” Bobbi’s hum sounded like a question, and he mulled over his thoughts while he swept some of the chopped vegetables into the pan, where they landed with a sizzle. “Intense is a better word,” He continued, “She lost… everybody she considered family in the span of a handful of days. Everybody except Rocket. So, she’s coping by pushing her emotions onto the backburner, and helping other people instead.” A beat of silence followed. “I’m familiar with the concept.” Bobbi sounded… jaded, Steve realized, and he paused to turn towards her. Her expression was twisted into a scowl. Natasha sighed. “Say your piece, Bobbi,” She said, giving Steve a look that told him to stay silent until Bobbi indicated she was done. “Say my piece, Nat?” Bobbi scoffed, “Your little data dump stunt caused chaos . We don’t need to touch your total dissolution of SHIELD, even though I don’t agree with that. That can be a conversation for another day. Good agents, good people, people with families, died , because you chose to release almost all of SHIELD’s data, all at once. Safehouses were raided, undercover identities had to be abandoned. The fortunate agents managed to get somewhere safe, got scooped up by Hill and Stark after the fact, but they still got burned. “The lucky agents were killed. Hydra, or another hostile group killed them quickly. The unlucky ones got grabbed. They were tortured. They were brainwashed. Hydra did to them what they did to Barnes. And more agents got grabbed, or killed. More families were put in danger.” Abruptly, Bobbi stood up, knocking her stool away from her. It hit the floor with a clatter. “My mother was part of your data dump,” Bobbi snarled, turning sharp eyes towards Natasha, “Hunter was part of your data dump. Agent Tripplett’s family, Agent May’s parents, her ex-husband, Agent Gonzalez’s sisters, his nieces and nephews, Mack’s brother, Izzy’s sister, Vic’s brother, her aunt, her niece and nephew, all of them were part of it.” Bobbi closed her eyes while she took a few deep breaths, and Steve felt a sympathetic pang at the pain that flashed across her expression. “Ignore the SHIELD agents. There was no time to check everyone. I understand that. It’s risky, it ended with a lot of good people dead, but you had no way to know whether any of them were loyal to SHIELD over Hydra. I get burning all the active SHIELD agents,” Bobbi said, “But my mother was dying in a hospital bed in San Diego. After dedicating forty years of her life to SHIELD. The same day you destroyed SHIELD, Izzy’s sister found out that the doctors had no more treatments they could try. Did they deserve to have all of the extensive information SHIELD had gathered on them dumped onto the internet, where every weirdo and Hydra agent could find it? Do you really think they were a risk?” Bobbi fell silent, her head lowered, her hands clenched into fists so tight that her knuckles were white. Steve opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. He didn’t have anything that would help. Not Bobbi, not at the moment. The silence stretched for a long time, long enough that Steve ended up turning halfway back towards the stove, so he could keep an eye on Bobbi while he kept making dinner. Eventually, Bobbi let out a heavy breath, tension gradually bleeding out of her shoulders. Her fists slowly unclenched, and when her head rose, there wasn’t a hint of anything other than the careful blank mask Steve was so used to seeing Natasha wear anytime things got a bit too emotional for her comfort. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Steve said, his voice heavier than he would have thought, as he felt himself talking around a knot of emotion in his throat. Bobbi’s mask cracked for a moment, and she reflexively shut her eyes to help hide her emotions. “It was… all or nothing. Either we dumped everything, and used it to expose Hydra and later hunt them down, or we dump nothing, and hope we could try and fix SHIELD, cut Hydra out,” Natasha explained. Bobbi sighed. “I know. I know you didn’t have time to be careful, or take anything but a blunt approach,” Bobbi said, as she picked up her stool and sat back down, “Daisy explained that there wasn’t any feasible way to write a program to sort through everything, either, even if you had thought of it, even if you had the time. Hydra was too tangled up in SHIELD for that to work. Anything that might be made to try and identify Hydra agents would certainly catch far too many good SHIELD agents for it to be useable.” Quiet stretched again, and Steve found himself speaking before he could think better of it. “Daisy, she erased herself, and others. Was she… able to help people besides your team?” He asked, hesitantly. Bobbi nodded her head slowly. “Once we knew, yeah. She did what she could, wiped any trace of family members from files that she could.” Steve felt his opinion of Daisy rise a few degrees, and he hummed his approval while he turned back towards the stove. “All the family members you mentioned…” Natasha trailed off. “Coulson took care of them as best he could.” Bowls of stew and utensils landed in front of the two former Specialists, and Steve settled down on the stool next to Natasha, his own bowl in front of him. Quiet lapsed for a while as they all ate. “Daisy’s one of May’s, isn’t she?” Natasha asked. Bobbi nodded her head slowly while she swallowed a mouthful of food. “May?” Steve asked. “Agent Melinda May. One of SHIELD’s most prolific Specialists. And the Supervising Officer, at least for some time, to myself, Hill, Sharon Carter, Jimmy Woo, and, briefly, both Clint and Natasha,” Bobbi explained, when she took a break from eating. Steve whistled. “That’s an impressive list,” Steve said. “She’s an impressive woman,” Bobbi said, “Maybe you’ll meet her one day.” “Is she still around?” Steve asked. Bobbi shrugged. “Ask Daisy. She’s the one with May’s satphone number.” … “You’re an Inhuman.” Carol’s voice was smooth, confident, but she’d never been taught to lie like a spy. There was an unease buried beneath her military perfect posture and the imposing stare she leveled at Daisy, who met her gaze evenly from her spot on a bench. It was a nice spot, the little gazebo built out into the lake, peaceful and quiet. At least, quiet to anybody that didn’t spend their entire waking life passively listening the humming vibrations of everything around them. “I assume you know what that is. The Kree Starforce probably had standing kill on sight orders for Inhumans, right?” Daisy asked, turning her eyes back towards the lake. It was… strange in a way that Daisy found hard to explain to have some amount of ownership over a room that wasn’t a bunk on a plane, or in a bunker underground, or surrounded by the suffocating emptiness of space. Hell, it was strange not living out of her van. And now, she had ostensibly constant access to a private lake. “No, actually. I had never heard the word until you showed up. The Kree are remarkably talented about hiding their mistakes,” Carol said. Anger curled in Daisy’s chest. “Mistakes like me.” Daisy turned to glance at the former pilot, and looked her up and down slowly. “That’s what you mean, right?” Carol tensed, frowning as she looked at Daisy. “Not specifically, but yeah. The Kree fuck up, and then lie about it and cover it up until either everybody forgets about it or it comes back to very publicly bite them in the ass. Seems Inhumans fall into the first category, I fall into the latter,” Carol said. Daisy hummed noncommittally. “You’ve had bad experiences with Kree, specifically, haven’t you?” Carol asked. Daisy hummed again, one hand clenching into a tight fist, as ripples started moving across the lake. “Yeah. Tell me if you ever run into a member of the House of Kasius. I’d like the chance to kill them,” Daisy said. A beat of silence followed. “Any member? Cause Kasius is a large house,” Carol said. “Any of them, but Taryon specifically,” Daisy answered. “He’d recognize you?” Carol asked. Daisy nodded her head, slowly clenching and unclenching her hand, eyes following the ripples that emanated outwards from the center of the lake each time her muscles tensed and relaxed. Her silent focus was broken when Carol settled down heavily onto the bench next to her. “When my plane went down, a Kree named Yon-Rogg shot the woman who built the engine for my plane, a Kree named Mar-Vell.” Carol broke the quiet with an expression that was still imposing, like a more expressive May, but noticeably softer than when she’d first approached Daisy. There was a deep anger there, though, smoldering like a carefully tended campfire. “Yon-Rogg demanded I give him the energy core that Mar-Vell had built. So I shot it.” Carol’s lips twitched into a smile for a moment, and despite her efforts to remain stoic, a snort of amusement escaped Daisy. “Core exploded, I passed out, absorbed the energy, Yon-Rogg transported me to Hala, wiped my memory, and gave me a transfusion to keep me alive. Then I spent… about six years as part of the Kree Starforce, thinking I was a Kree,” Carol paused, frowning, “What I’m trying to say is that… you’re far from alone in hating the Kree for what they did to you. Whatever it was.” “It doesn’t get easier, does it?” Daisy asked, after a long silence. Carol glanced towards her, obviously trying to piece together what exactly she was asking about. “Knowing that all the power in the world doesn’t make you feel any safer?” Daisy clarified. Carol blinked once in surprise, then twice, then her mouth opened and closed as she tried and failed to pull together her thoughts, as scattered as they were. “The Kree I met called me the Destroyer of Worlds. They believed – believe – that I have the power to break the planet like it was a glass ball,” Daisy said, raising her hand. Ripples appeared on the lake with more and more frequency, building on each other to create waves as vibrations crashed together. “And there was nothing I could do about Thanos. What’s the point of all that power if it doesn’t make me any safer? What’s the point if all it’s done is hurt me, hurt my friends, hurt my… family?” If Carol noticed the way Daisy’s voice caught on the last word, she didn’t mention it. Instead, all she did was sigh. Idly, her fingers starting playing with the cuff of her jacket. “I don’t know. I’ve been… this, more powerful than most people are able to even comprehend, for going on thirty years. And I still feel like a failure every time I hear about a massacre, or an attack. Anything that I should have been able to stop.” Carol stood up slowly, walking up to the edge of the gazebo, head bowed so she could stare down into the water. “I don’t have an answer. I think we just have to carry the weight of knowing we could have helped, but accept that we weren’t there, that we can’t be everywhere, and putting that pressure on ourselves does more harm than good.” A heavy silence settled over the gazebo for a long time, long enough that Carol felt her neck start to get a bit stiff. “For what it’s worth, you have a great skincare routine. You don’t look a day over fifty,” Daisy said. Carol glared over her shoulder at the younger woman, and rolled her eyes, one hand escaping her pocket to give Daisy the middle finger. “Fucking punk.” A second after the words left Carol’s mouth, something hit her in the chest with the force of a runaway freighter weighed down with cargo. She shot backwards like she’d been fired from a cannon, so fast that she rapidly cleared the opposite side of the lake, and smashed right through a tree trunk. It was sometime after water gave way to forest that Carol managed to flip herself around and stabilize herself, cosmic energy waving around her, lifting her hair up. With a burst of energy, she shot back along the path she’d been thrown, then stopped, hovering a few meters from the gazebo, where Daisy stood, unfazed. She’d broken into a smile in the time it took Carol to recover and fly back, and her hands were buried in the pockets of her jacket. Slowly, Carol descended back towards the gazebo, landing lightly and with a short huff. “You are a little fucking punk,” Carol grouched, which lit a spark of mischief in Daisy’s eyes. “Ah, come on, you’re fine. You did more damage to the tree than it did to you,” Daisy shot back. Carol frowned, briefly pulling her jacket off to ensure that it wasn’t sporting any new cuts and brush off the bits of debris that had survived the use of her powers. “I’ll have to steal you from Natasha sometime. There’s a lot of stuff in space that you might have fun throwing around.” Carol slipped her jacket back on, and glanced at Daisy. The Inhuman had gone still, her smile waning. “I’m sure she’ll fight me on it, though,” Carol said. Almost instantly, Daisy relaxed minutely, seeing the out that Carol had given her for what it was. “Probably. With Thor and Hulk off to who-knows-where, and you headed back off to space soon, she’s not likely to let another heavy hitter just do whatever they want,” Daisy said. Carol nodded slowly, and the two started to walk back towards the compound as the sun drifted beneath the horizon. “I’ll be around for a few days more at least, and it’s been too long since I was able to spar with someone and have a good time. If I find somewhere we can let loose, you game?” For a minute, the only thing Carol heard in response to her question was the sound of trees rustling in the wind. “There’s an old scrapyard an hour or so west. By car, at least. It used to be a front for Watchdogs weapons smuggling, until I shut them down. Been abandoned since.” A smile slowly split Carol’s face, and she turned to Daisy, who was smiling as well, though hers was more reserved. “I hope your Tetanus shots are up to date, Agent Johnson.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The fog was lifting. The walls around Moiraine were slowly getting thinner and she let them. Lanfear felt her bondholders' fear. Nothing had ever been so scary than willingly letting go of her protection. She was vulnerable, she was bare, she was helpless against her own emotions without her armour of indifference, but Moiraine knew that the girl she had guided, a girl like a daughter to her, would not believe her if she herself was not willing to go back to a place where only her warder had kept her from drowning. She had to strip. Had to lay out her heart in front of her, and she did. “Siuan and I have loved each other since we were novices.”, she started, and her heart cramped painfully, “But then we were the only ones witnessing Guitara Sedai prophesying the rebirth of the dragon on dragonmount. We made everyone believe he had left each other behind so I could leave and search for the dragon and Siuan could prepare the tower to rally behind him.” Moiraine hand moved to her ring while telling her story, turning it around her finger while her gaze was far away. Lanfear was hypnotized by her words and the emotions accompanying them. These were distant memories so it was mostly melancholy and a bit of regret she could sense with her bondholder. The grief was slowly growing more and more present. “We thought we would be done in a few years.”, Moiraine continued, smiling sadly, “Gods were we naive, but Siuan became the Amyrlin Seat and I found the five of you in Emondsfield, finally, after twenty years. Twenty fucking years.” her laugh turned bitter. “We haven´t seen each other much, always too shortly, always in secret, but I…” she closed her eyes, almost defiantly, “...I have never loved anyone else. They would have killed us had they known of our plan or of us. They did kill her.“ A single tear left a wet line on Moiraine's cheek. Lanfear wanted to go to her, hold her, tell her everything would be fine even if they all knew it wouldn't. Moiraine's walls were down and for the first time in weeks she let herself mourn the woman she had loved. Her hands trembled as she fisted the ring that was the symbol of the Tower, Suian's seat, Siuan's kingdom, Siuan's doom. Her warder felt it dig into the Aes Sedais palm like it would be her own. She couldn't stop herself from reaching out through the bond, trying to catch her in free fall, to anchor her in reality, in life. Moiraine opened her eyes again, looking straight at the woman feeling everything she did. “Without Lanfear, my grief would have killed me. It still would.” she said, and it was an explanation for the girl as well as a confession between them. “How?”, Egwene asked, breathlessly, practically too quiet to hear. “She bonded me.” Lanfear answered the girls question, her eyes never leaving Moiraine´s. “If you feel someone else's anguish like your own there is not much of a choice, and I know a thing or two about grief.” The Aes Sedai mentally reached out towards her now, understanding, accepting. They held on tightly and it felt like the connection was almost visible between them, strong, unyielding, grounding both of them in each other. Even Egwene seemed to notice it. “But why did you bond?” she asked, no longer able to deny the fact that they had. She had stopped struggling against her shackles. “When? How? “ “We don´t know exactly, but I have come up with a theory.” Moiraine´s eyes were still on her warder as she tried to grasp what the Blue had just said. A theory, about why they had bonded on that forfeit night? Did she know what had caused it? Why didn´t she tell her? Did she not trust her enough? Was it dangerous? A small tug broke through her thought spiral, gently pulling her back into reality and Lanfear was hit with her bondholder´s famous eyeroll, physical and mental, telling her to calm down and stop hyperventilating and jumping to conclusions. She had to fight the urge to stick out her tongue. She wasn´t hyperventilating. Just a little agitated maybe. “I´d like to hear that.”, she said sounding as composed as a bag of flies and Moiraine grinned at her, knowing exactly that her insides were jumping up and down. Lanfear could not help herself, a wide grin broke out on her face too.It felt like the sweetest thing on earth that her mental chatters had caused a reaction in Moiraine, a real one, not clouded or numbed. The still cautious but warm rush of delighted playfulness and amusement was hugging her like a blanket. “I´d also be delighted to hear your theory.”, came a grumpy voice from the ground, “And I cannot deny that there is a certain…connection between you as you so obviously display it.” Lanfear was not willing to look away from her bondholder just yet. She cherished this moment too much, but the Accepted,trying to wiggle herself up into a seating position, was starting to sound annoyed: “I promise I won´t run or do anything weird until you have finished your story, Moiraine.” Egwene said pleadingly, “But would it be possible for you two to stop your nonverbal flirting for a second and free me from these robes?!” Both of the Aes Sedai looked at her, startled and maybe a bit caught. Flirting?! They weren´t! Were they? Suddenly, Lanfear felt the strong urge to check on the horses and the Aiel on their backs, while Moiraine hurried to unweave her air-shackles around Egwene´s wrist. The girl sighed in relief, rubbing her forearms and stood up. She brushed over her skirts, trying to get off the mud and then she looked up at the two slightly embarrassed looking women occupying themselves with everything but each other. “Shall we?”, the Wise-One´s apprentice mentioned towards two fallen trees at the edge of the river and Moiraine nodded, following her to sit on one of the stems opposite Egwene. Lanfear just crossed her arms and kept standing behind Moiraine. She was not willing to play to the will of the babydragon´s little friend, no matter how dangerous she could be for them. If she would become a problem she would deal with her and be done with it. She still was a Forsaken by the Dark Ones Power. She was only trying to prevent bloodshed because Moiraine wouldn't like it if she killed her little girl. She would feel guilty and she was already grieving enough. The Aes Sedai seemed lost in thought. She was looking out at the river and her warder felt her trying to push her walls up again and close herself off. Strangely though, it did not work this time, at least not entirely. The numbness was shallow, the cloud thin and the emotions the last halfhour had triggered were still shimmering through no matter how hard Moiraine tried to silence them and it scared her very much. “Moiraine?”, Egwene asked, concerned. She had noticed her unease. “I´m fine.”, the Aes Sedai answered, to fast to prove her right. Lanfear stepped forward. She put a hand on her bondholders shoulder, reassuring her, grounding. It earned her an irritated look from the Accepted. “Look.” Egwene started, “I know you have been through a lot, but I really need to understand what happened if you expect me to…”, she stopped, confused, “What exactly do you want me to do about all of this?” “How about you keep that pretty mouth of yours shut for a change, and don´t tell anyone about us, if you want it to stay that way.” Lanfear answered her in her sweetest dripping innocence. “Lanfear!”, Moiraine hissed, “She is offering to help us here.” Egwene raised her chin. “ I am gonna need a reason for that.” she all but challenged the Forsaken who gave her a snarl: “Oh, I am going to need a reason not to kill you.” she fluted, putting in some of the authority only a Chosen One can demand. The girl flinched visibly, but she stood her ground. “Stop it! Both of you!”, Moiraine had jumped from her tree and was looking furiously from one to the other. “Can´t you two behave like normal people for once?” “She is not normal!”, Egwene yelled jumping up too, “She is a bloody monster, Moiraine. She has tried to kill people we loved. Light, she has broken the world!” Why did it always go back to that? She had done immeasurable evil by choice, by decision but everyone quick to accusing her always chose the one thing she had done by accident. Lanfear was so tired of it. Egwene had calmed down a little, but she was not done with them yet: “Tell me why you bonded her Moiraine, because right now I don´t see any reason to believe she changed whatever weird connection you two have.” Moiraine was blushing at that, Lanfear could feel it through the bond. “For once, you would probably be dead by now if she were still the Forsaken of your nightmares.” the Aes Sedai sat back onto the tree trunk. “but let´s start. The others will wonder were we have gone by now.” Egwene nodded, sitting down too and both of the women were looking expectantly at Lanfear. The Forsaken was not done sulking but on the other hand, she was very curious so in the end she gave in with a sigh and sat down next to her bondholder. “Okay then, let´s hear that theory.” she said. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Damn, buttercup,” Lambert says at dinner the next day - Jaskier slept right through breakfast and his morning lessons with Ciri; hopefully the little menace didn’t get into too much trouble. “You look ridden hard and put up wet.” Jaskier gives Lambert his best glare and sits down rather gingerly, discovering that some kind soul has left a cushion on his chair. “I had a very pleasant evening, thank you,” he informs Lambert, who snickers and reaches over to tap a finger very gently against the only mark Jaskier can’t hide, the livid bite-mark on his throat. “Wolf marked you right and proper, didn’t he.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him and taps a finger on his own medallion. “So he has.” Lambert shakes his head. “Good on you, buttercup,” he says, and raises his mug of ale in a little toast. “So, did Yen figure out who was stupid enough to try to drug the White Wolf?” Jaskier asks. “Oh, yes,” Lambert says, with a sharp and nasty grin. “That viscountess. Snuck into the kitchens while she was supposed to be napping, so she did. Clever. Just not clever enough.” Jaskier glances over at the noblewomen’s table, seeing that Viscountess Anastazja is, in fact, not there. “Kicked out this morning?” “Nope,” Lambert says, grin getting wider and nastier. “Last night, soon as Yen pointed her out. Eskel tossed her out the gates himself. Good luck to her getting down the Trail in the dark .” Jaskier winces, but only a little. Really, for a stupid trick like that, she’s lucky she’s alive . If she’d tried that on a human monarch… Well, if she’d tried that on a human monarch without a good sorcerer in his court, she’d have spent the night in his bed. But having completely failed to grasp the concept that Witchers don’t react like humans do demonstrates a certain level of wilful blindness. Eskel settles into the seat on Jaskier’s other side. “You doing alright, then?” “Just fine, thank you,” Jaskier says, grinning at him. “Hear you tossed the viscountess out the gates?” “Should’ve tossed her harder,” Eskel grumbles. “Little idiot. Even if she’d gotten what she wanted, how did she think that was going to go? White Wolf having her in the middle of the damned hall?” Jaskier imagines that and winces. “Not the best plan in the world,” he agrees dryly. “ Nobles ,” Eskel sighs. “More fucking trouble than they’re worth.” Jaskier grins. “I resemble that remark.” “Hmph,” Eskel says, and shoves a platter of mutton closer to Jaskier. “You’re a fucking lot less trouble than they are. Always have been.” The words warm Jaskier down to his bones, and he turns his attention to the mutton, knowing his cheeks are pink with pleased embarrassment. The rest of the day, thank the gods, is utterly uneventful; Jaskier squirrels himself away in his rooms to compose for the whole afternoon, taking occasional breaks to dab bits of Triss’s miraculous bruise balm on the tenderest marks Geralt left, and at supper nothing untoward happens at all. After supper he plays dance music without getting up - bless whoever left him this cushion, really - and Lambert asks Milena to dance, which is fucking adorable, and Geralt spends the whole evening standing behind Jaskier’s chair toying with his hair, and then carries him off to bed again and spends an hour smoothing bruise balm over what seems like every inch of Jaskier’s skin and then cuddles him close and makes happy rumbling noises until Jaskier falls asleep. Jaskier is never telling anyone else how cuddly the White Wolf, terror of the continent, Warlord of the North, really is. There’s making Geralt’s reputation more heroic, and there’s completely ruining his terrifying mystique, and Jaskier’s only in the business of doing one of those things. * Somewhat to Jaskier’s surprise, Yen appears to have put a brief hiatus in her plans to drive the noblewomen away. As best Jaskier can figure out, she’s letting the reality of everyday life in Kaer Morhen suffice as a deterrent: cold stone, plain meals, communal bathing, and the constant company of hundreds of Witchers. (And, of course, dealing with Ciri , who is in fine form. She manages to pull off the goose trick again , paints every horse in the stables green, and sweet-talks the cooks into serving a supper that’s mostly beans, making for a particularly redolent and loud evening in the great hall. And that’s just in the first week. Jaskier suspects Eskel and Lambert are aiding and abetting shamelessly.) It’s a sound strategy, Jaskier thinks: the noblewomen are definitely not getting any fonder of the keep or its inhabitants. Jaskier may not be able to smell fear, but he’s reasonably sure that only one of the ladies currently within Kaer Morhen’s walls has stopped fearing Witchers, and she’s not one of the ones angling for Geralt’s hand. Pretty much everyone except the noblewomen has noticed that Milena de Roggeven and Lambert spend an awful lot of time making cow eyes at each other. Jaskier thinks it’s adorable; Yen and Eskel think it’s hilarious; Ciri thinks it’s sweet; and Geralt is withholding an opinion until he knows how badly the whole thing is going to blow up, which is fair. Jaskier himself would be more worried, except that Milena has taken to coming to find him every few days and asking if he’d walk with her, and by the third time they end up leaning on a pair of merlons watching the Witchers beat each other up and laughing at each other’s jokes, he realizes that Milena is, astonishingly and unexpectedly, a friend. It’s sort of nice to have a friend who is younger than he is, for a change, and who looks up to him a little. And it’s positively adorable the way she always seeks out Lambert from their vantage point on the walls, and watches him eagerly as he spars or heckles the others, her hands clasped over her mouth every time it looks like he might get hurt. “Do remember he’ll have healed by supper,” he reminds her one afternoon three weeks after the noblewomen first arrived. “Yes, but it probably hurts now ,” Milena retorts, as Lambert spits blood and - probably, though Jaskier can’t be completely certain given he’s too far away to hear - swears. “True,” Jaskier allows. Lambert, across the training fields, punches Cedric in the face, and the sparring match devolves into a sort of very undignified wrestling match instead. Milena giggles. “I’ll grant you he doesn’t seem to mind,” she says. “I keep trying to talk to him, you know, and it doesn’t seem to work.” “Oh?” Jaskier asks. “While you’re dancing, you mean?” “That, but - I asked if there were gardens we could walk in, and he said something about poisonous plants; and I asked if he had a favorite spot in the keep, and he said ‘the baths’ and then went red and ran away; and I asked if he knew any poetry, and he choked a bit and then pretty much flung me at Eskel. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.” “Oh, darling ,” Jaskier says, charmed beyond words. Any nobleman of Redania - or any other court, for that matter - would have been delighted by such encouraging words from a pretty and well-born lady, and would have taken great pleasure in promenading through formal gardens, or escorting her to the library or a particularly scenic balcony, or reciting love sonnets on bended knee. Witchers, however… “Witchers don’t court like that,” he tells her gently, and a little imp of mischief - and, admittedly, the strong desire to encourage this truly adorable little love story - has him adding, “Ask him to teach you to use a dagger. And I suppose you could join him in the baths.” Milena goes beet-red and claps her hands to her cheeks. “You’re dreadful ,” she squeaks. “I couldn’t!” Jaskier looks at her thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally he settles back against the merlon a little more comfortably and says, “Milena. Is this just a flirtation, or do you actually want a Wolf of your own?” Milena swallows hard. “My father would be furious,” she says faintly. “Not what I asked,” Jaskier says. “And if you stayed here, your father could be furious all he liked, but he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not without pissing off an entire keep full of Witchers, which is not a wise choice. Do you want more than a month’s pleasant flirtation?” Milena looks away, down at Lambert where he’s flopped out on his back beside Cedric, both of them bloody-nosed and laughing. “He’s such an ass,” she says softly. “He swears worse than anyone else I’ve ever met, and he yells so much, and - oh, fuck it, I really do want him, Jaskier.” She looks taken aback at her own vehemence for a moment, then squares her shoulders and meets Jaskier’s eyes. “He’s honest, and he cares , and he’d never be the sort of - of wicked little sneak that half the people in King Vizimir’s court are, and under all the prickly he’s so kind , even if he refuses to let anyone acknowledge it. He volunteered to carry me down the mountain, you know. And he glares at anyone who tries to dance with me as a joke, or to make me uncomfortable.” She swallows again. “And I like Kaer Morhen better than I do the Redanian court. It’s so much more - straightforward. There’s no nasty little conspiracies and gossip and ugly little secrets that only come out at the worst possible time and - Marta likes playing the game, but I don’t. I hate it. And if I go back, Father will marry me off to some dreadful old count or other, and I’ll have to keep playing the game until I die in childbed or get lucky enough to become a widow, and I -” She breaks off, breathing hard, and Jaskier waits patiently for her to put her thoughts in order. “I’d far rather stay here, and be one of the White Wolf’s court, and - and learn to use a dagger, if you think Lambert would teach me, and how to help with those awful potions, and maybe learn how Witchers court,” she says at last. “Maybe it wouldn’t work, me and Lambert - I don’t know what he’d see in me - but -” She gives a little sniffly sort of chuckle. “I don’t suppose you need a lady-in-waiting?” Jaskier hums. He certainly doesn’t need a lady-in-waiting, but Ciri , now. She’s getting to about the age when she really should have someone to help her with her hair and wardrobe when she wants to be fancy. If Milena is telling the truth - which Jaskier thinks she is, but he’s not fool enough to lay money on it without getting her to say all this again where a Witcher can hear - if Milena is telling the truth, there could be a place for her here, even if she doesn’t end up being Lambert’s lover. “You should ask him for dagger lessons,” he says at last. “And I’ll talk to Geralt. I can think of at least one position here that you would fit quite beautifully, and if you’re willing to swear before a Witcher that you’ll be loyal to the Wolf, I think Geralt would let you stay.” “Oh, thank you,” Milena squeaks. “Thank you, thank you -” Jaskier chuckles and pats her on the shoulder. “It’s no trouble,” he assures her. “None at all.” He walks her down to the noblewomen’s wing, and leaves her at the door to her room like a proper gentleman, and heads up to his own rooms to spend a couple of hours composing - maybe something about a particularly growly wolf and a sweet little dove, something like that - And he’s a corridor away from his own door when a woman’s voice behind him says, “I’ve had enough of this farce.” Then there’s just quite a lot of pain. * Jaskier wakes up in Geralt’s bed, which is odd, because he distinctly remembers being on his way to his own rooms. He’s also very sore, and not in the ‘just had energetic and delightful sex’ sort of way. More in a...pointy sort of way. He looks down at himself, and yep, his stomach is wrapped in bandages, and now that he thinks about it, he can smell healing salves, pungent and faintly unpleasant. Geralt, interestingly and rather distressingly, is nowhere to be found, but Ciri is sleeping in a chair beside the bed, and Eskel is sitting on the hearth, whetting his steel sword. Jaskier makes a little sound, and Eskel stands in a single smooth motion and comes to the side of the bed. “Water?” Jaskier asks quietly, not wanting to wake Ciri, who looks exhausted and unhappy - there are tear-streaks on her cheeks, and her hair is a mess. Eskel fetches a mug of water from the bedside table and helps Jaskier raise his head enough to sip at it. It’s cool and sweet and good , and Jaskier pouts a little when Eskel takes the mug away. “Can’t have too much at once,” Eskel says softly. “What happened?” Jaskier asks as Eskel lowers him back to the pillows. “Is Geralt alright?” “The Wolf’s just fine,” Eskel assures him. “ Furious , but fine. What happened is you were stabbed.” “Oh,” Jaskier says. “Ow. No wonder it hurt so much. Who?” Eskel snarls a little. “Princess Agata.” “Oh,” Jaskier says again. “Oops. Is she dead?” “I have never seen our Wolf so angry,” Eskel says, sitting down beside Jaskier on the bed. “But he didn’t kill her. He clapped her in irons and had Yen make him a portal to Vizima. I believe he is currently expressing his extreme displeasure to the king.” He pats Jaskier’s hand gently. “He’ll be back soon. He didn’t leave until he knew you’d be alright.” “That’s...very kind of him, I think,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t particularly want Agata dead, even now, but imagining her and her father both facing the full fury of the Wolf is very pleasant. “How many did he take with him?” “Thirty,” Eskel says, and grins fiercely as Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “He isn’t going to have any trouble.” Thirty Witchers isn’t a diplomatic envoy or even a pointed expression of distrust, it’s a fucking invasion force , and the current king of Temeria will be perfectly aware of that. If he says even one thing wrong, Jaskier might end up having to amend Geralt’s list of titles again. Well, good. Fuck the king of Temeria and his stabby daughter anyhow. “The rest of the ladies?” he checks. “Leaving tomorrow, if I’ve anything to say about it, which I do,” Eskel growls. “They’re one and all terrified of us anyhow; another week won’t solve that. There’s no way any of them could ever hope to be the Warlord’s Consort. Fuck this charade.” Jaskier nods, and then thinks of something. “Milena de Roggeven,” he says. “What of her?” “Have her swear her loyalty to the Wolf, and if she can , let her stay,” Jaskier says. “I think she will.” “Huh,” Eskel says, frowning a little. “ She doesn’t smell half as scared as the rest of them, come to think of it. And I don’t think she’s after Geralt .” “Nope,” Jaskier says, mustering a cheeky grin from somewhere. “She knows he’s all mine.” “Hm,” Eskel says. “I’ll give her the chance, then, and if she can swear her loyalty, I’ll say you vouched for her and she can stay.” “Thank you,” Jaskier says, and feels his eyelids start to grow heavy. “Triss heal me?” “Yes, but you lost a lot of blood. Don’t even think about moving until tomorrow,” Eskel orders him. There’s a soft creak as the door opens, and Jaskier peeks out through lead-heavy lashes to see Aubry enter. “I’ve got to go keep order,” Eskel says softly. “Heal fast, my friend. We can’t lose you.” Jaskier pats Eskel’s hand clumsily. “I’ll be good, I promise,” he slurs. “Go be scary.” Eskel chuckles. “I will,” he says, and leans down to brush a kiss against Jaskier’s forehead, and is gone. Aubry settles in the spot he left, warm and solid and comfortingly dangerous, and Jaskier falls asleep thinking how very lucky he is in his friends. * When he wakes again, Geralt is sitting in the armchair beside the bed, Ciri asleep in his lap. Those golden eyes are fixed on Jaskier, and as soon as Geralt sees that Jaskier is awake, he rises and puts Ciri gently down on the armchair’s seat and moves to sit at Jaskier’s side. “Water?” he asks, and Jaskier nods, and is gently lifted so he can sip at the mug of water again. “How’d Temeria go?” he asks once Geralt lowers him back to the pillows. Geralt’s lips peel back in a silent snarl. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he says. “But we definitely put the fear of the Wolf into that fool of a king. With luck, he’ll remember not to piss me off again. And Agata is now an acolyte of Melitele.” His snarl gets toothier. “Under a vow of silence, poverty, and never again touching any sort of blade.” Jaskier smiles. “Vicious,” he says, pleased. “Thank you.” Geralt bends down to brush a very gentle kiss across Jaskier’s lips. “If she had killed you, I would have sacked Vizima,” he says softly. “You mustn’t die, my lark.” “I’ll do my best,” Jaskier promises, and yawns. This magical healing business is apparently exhausting . “Hm. Try not to scare Milena out of her wits tomorrow. Or is it today?” His eyes slide closed again, but he does hear Geralt promise, “I’ll try, little lark. For you.” * The third time Jaskier wakes up, he actually feels like he might stay awake for more than five minutes, and Ciri is also awake. She’s also playing Gwent with Milena on the wide stretch of bed beside Jaskier - this really is an absurdly large bed, but then, Geralt is a fairly large man, and what’s the point of being a Warlord if you can’t have the nicest bed in three kingdoms? Jaskier must make some sound, because Ciri looks up from the game and squeals with glee, and comes scrambling over to sit beside him. It jostles the bed a bit, but thankfully Triss does good work; Jaskier doesn’t feel anything worse than a very faint ache from his bandage-covered midsection. “You’re alright!” Ciri says. “You are alright, right, Jaskier?” “Princess, let him breathe,” Milena says, coming around the bed to help Jaskier sit up. “Water? Are you in pain?” “Water would be nice, thank you,” Jaskier says, and makes a quick internal assessment. Still nothing but vague aches. Bless Triss and all her works. “Ciri, I’m fine; Triss fixed me up very well. Are you alright?” “I’m fine,” Ciri says. “But you were so - there was so much blood - and you weren’t moving -” She bursts into tears, and Jaskier wraps an arm around her and lets her cry on his shoulder, petting her hair gently. Poor thing; every other person around her could just get up and go about their day after a wound like that, Jaskier knows, maybe with a couple of stitches or a swallow of healing potion. But Jaskier is a poor squishy ordinary human, and could have died of being stabbed, which Ciri is not used to dealing with. “I’m alright, cub,” Jaskier murmurs, kissing her messy hair. “I’m alright, and the person who did this will never be anywhere near me again. For that matter, I suspect Geralt’s going to make sure there’s a Witcher within arm’s length of me anytime there’s any strangers in the keep for the rest of my life. Or anytime I leave the keep, but he was doing that anyway - oh, my darling cub, shh, shh, I’m alright, I’m alright, it’s going to be fine.” He rocks her gently, letting the words trail away into a hummed lullaby, and Ciri goes from wretched sobbing to gentle sniffles and at last sits back and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands. Milena hands her a handkerchief to blow her nose, and then a mug of water, and a second one for Jaskier. “Thank you,” Jaskier says, and sips cautiously at it; he’s not sure how much he’s allowed to eat or drink before Triss pronounces him fully healed. Presumably a dagger through the midsection does nasty things to one’s guts, though he doesn’t particularly want to think about that. “So, since you’re here , have your sister and the rest been banished from Kaer Morhen?” Milena sits down on the edge of the bed and nods. “They left a few hours ago. Eskel was - well, you know, I’d stopped thinking he was scary, because he’s always so polite, but he was terrifying , almost as bad as the White Wolf. He looked like he wanted to start tearing people’s throats out with his teeth .” She shivers. “He said anyone who wanted to could swear loyalty to the Wolf, but otherwise we had to be gone within the hour, or he’d toss us out the gates himself, and not be careful how we landed.” Jaskier smiles at her. “So you swore.” Milena’s cheeks go pink. “I - he - he gave me this look , and said you’d mentioned my name, and I did , I swore myself to the Wolf and I meant it, and he told Marta to stop sputtering and get gone, and sent me here to sit with you and the young princess while everything got sorted.” “I wish I’d been there to hear it,” Jaskier says, grinning. “And I see you’ve been getting on with Ciri.” “She’s nice,” Ciri says artlessly. “I like her.” Jaskier hugs Ciri around the shoulders. “Oh good. How would you like to have a lady-in-waiting, cub? You could use someone to help you with your hair, and court manners, and - women’s things, when you’re a bit older. I’ll have to ask your Papa, but it’s up to you, too.” Ciri gives Milena an assessing sort of look, and nods. “I like you, and you’re Jaskier’s friend,” she informs the older girl. “If Papa says so, I guess you can be my lady-in-waiting, but I don’t know what one does.” Milena is looking astonished and delighted. “Well, I’d help you with your wardrobe and your grooming,” she says. “I’d run errands for you if you needed them, and keep your correspondence in order, and be your - well, your confidant if you wanted one. Someone you could talk to, and I’d be sworn to your service as well as your father’s, to never betray you.” “Hm,” says Ciri, sounding rather like her father, if several octaves higher. “What do you get?” Good girl, clever girl, Jaskier thinks fondly. A suspicious mind like that is a very good thing for a warlord’s daughter to have. “Well, I’d have your protection,” Milena says, settling in a little more comfortably. “That’s nothing to sneeze at. And I’d have a designated place in the court, so I wouldn’t just be depending on the charity of the Warlord. You’d be expected to give me clothing - or at least the materials to make my own - out of your household budget, and perhaps to give me a small allowance of my own to buy whatever I might need.” She shrugs. “I’d be part of your household, not your father’s, so you’d have final say on whether I could marry while under your protection, which - well, in other courts, that’s quite important and valuable. But this court doesn’t seem to have unpleasant old counts looking for their third wives.” Ciri wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, that sounds dreadful,” she says. “Jaskier, do I have a household budget?” “You know, I’m not sure,” Jaskier says. “Witchers do things a bit differently. You maybe should.” “Hm,” Ciri says again, and gives Milena a long, searching look. “Well, alright, if Papa says you can, we can try it. And if we don’t get on, you could maybe be Aunt Yen’s lady-in-waiting. She’s got a lot more clothes than I do.” Milena’s eyes go wide. “I would much prefer to serve you , princess,” she says, sounding a bit strangled. “Lady Yennefer is rather terrifying.” Triss, in the doorway, chuckles, and they all three startle. “She’d be very pleased to hear you say that, lass,” Triss says, coming over to the bedside and giving Milena a friendly smile. “She works hard at it.” “She has entirely mastered it,” Milena says faintly. “She’ll like you,” Triss says, and turns her attention to Jaskier. “How are you feeling?” “Very slightly achy and not at all as though I’ve recently been stabbed,” Jaskier says. “For which I owe you a debt of thanks and probably several songs.” “Eh, sing us some proper ballads the next few nights and we’ll call it even,” Triss says, holding a glowing hand above the bandages wrapped around Jaskier’s midsection. “Or better yet, don’t get stabbed again.” “You know, I didn’t intend to get stabbed this time,” Jaskier points out. “What the fuck did Agata think stabbing me was going to gain her, anyway?” “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Triss says, but Milena makes a sort of uncomfortable noise, and they all turn to look at her. “She kept...ranting, during our ‘quiet afternoons’,” Milena says. “About how you had the place one of us ought to. Well, she said one of us, but she obviously meant herself. That the White Wolf wouldn’t look at anyone else as long as he had his -” she darts a look at Ciri and obviously chooses a politer word - “bedmate. I thought it was just sour grapes, because we could all see how much the White Wolf cares for you, but…” “Charming,” Jaskier says, as dryly as he can. “See, this is why I don’t miss court life. Witchers don’t try to stab their romantic rivals. Usually.” “Witchers have a code of conduct that says who they’re allowed to stab and when,” Triss observes. “Most princesses don’t.” “I do!” Ciri says. “Yes, but you’re a princess of Witchers , now aren’t you, little menace?” Triss says, grinning down at her. The door opens again, and Geralt comes in. Milena flinches just a little - she’s already much better than she was three weeks ago, and Jaskier’s pretty sure she’ll be over whatever fear remains in the not-too-distant future - but Ciri bounces out of the bed and runs over to hug her father tightly around the waist. “Jaskier’s fine!” she chirps. Geralt smiles down at her and picks her up, slinging her over his shoulders, and comes over to the side of the bed. “Well enough for supper?” he asks Triss. “Yes, but no singing or dancing for tonight,” Triss says. “I don’t want any of the new bits to tear.” “I shall be as docile as a lamb,” Jaskier assures her. “Geralt, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Triss orders. Jaskier squawks in mock offense. Geralt nods gravely. Milena hides her giggle behind her hand. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text 【 Several minutes have passed since Diego's final battle with President Velentine, and Hot Pants is left alone in the carriage. Lucy's body has also undergone bizarre changes! At this moment, the tables and chairs in the carriage are constantly gathering towards her, and even the carriage door is slowly moving towards her! The entire carriage is shrinking. In a panic, Hot Pants sees President Valentine, unharmed, pushing open the door and walking in, then looking at Hot Pants! "A brand new ability!... Do you think this is my subordinate's ability?" Hot Pants doesn't understand what the President means until the President points a finger: "I'm talking about your right hand!" Hot Pants quickly looks and discovers that spiders and flies have burrowed into her hand, and her fingernails are moving upwards along her fingers. Realizing the danger, Hot Pants immediately jumps out the window, intending to escape the train. The President doesn't chase but says, "Some kind of power is moving!" Before he finishes speaking, Hot Pants is stuck in the window, the once large and wide window becoming incredibly narrow. The President glances at Hot Pants: "What kind of changes are happening in this place at this moment? I'm gradually getting the answer." D4C and Diego have grown leaps and bounds in the recent battle! And awakened a brand new ability! 】 ..... ~Projection of All Worlds~ "The already outrageous ability has now undergone a brand new evolution! The already slim chance of winning has disappeared." "Based on what we've seen, does this new awakened ability involve object shrinkage and relocation?" "Or is this a miracle caused by the Saint's Corpse! But in any case, this means that Johnny and the others will face President Valentine with a brand new ability." "The situation has become even more dangerous... After all, Gyro and Johnny don't know that the President Valentine has changed at this moment." 【 On the other side, watching the train the President is riding, Gyro and Johnny spur their horses from behind. Since the start of the 510 race! Johnny has, for the first time, taken his legs off the saddle and put them in the stirrups! As soon as he stretches his legs, the spurs on his boots start spinning at high speed. This strange and familiar feeling makes Johnny shudder, and the direction of the spin on his hands changes at this moment! While Johnny is lost in thought, Gyro suddenly raises a crucial question: "If the President is taking the Corpse to the finish line alone, who is driving the train?" 】 ..... ~Projection of All Worlds~ "Besides the President, there should be another person on it driving the train. If so, is that person a Stand user? After boarding the train, will we have to face two enemies?" "It has to be said that Gyro is very cautious! He can think of so much! Unlike Johnny, who just shoots a Nail Bullet when he doesn't know what to do!" "Is the change happening to Johnny at this moment the Cavalry Spin? After all, it was said before that it can only be performed with stirrups." "And Johnny had never tried putting his feet in the stirrups before because his legs were paralyzed! Maybe this strange change is the so-called—Cavalry Spin!" 【 At the same time, Johnny also notices something: the "Beware of Bears" sign behind them seems to have appeared again. They've run a long way since they last saw the sign. If it's a new sign, why haven't they seen it ahead? Then the two realize that what's been chasing them isn't a sign at all! It's the entire continent. Everything behind them! Mountains, rivers, forests, etc., are actually following closely behind them. On the other side, Hot Pants is also being impaled in the head by the shrinking window. Gyro and Johnny have ridden their horses to the outside of the carriage, just a little bit more! Hot Pants ultimately fails to meet up with the two and dies here. Following Diego, Hot Pants also dies at the hands of President Valentine, and the carriage she was in continues to shrink, cutlery, tables, chairs, and even the doors and windows of the entire carriage. Everything is now moving towards Lucy! There seems to be an invisible barrier in the air around Lucy, and the President's body can freely enter the gaps in this barrier. Outside the window, the entire world seems to be moving towards this side; mountains, streams, grass, trees, and houses are all being drawn into the gap. President Velentine finally understands that this strange gap is actually the product of space folding, and this phenomenon is not caused by the Corpse; it's his own Stand ability! D4C has broken through to a new level. 】 ..... ~Projection of All Worlds~ "Holy crap!! Is this really something a person can do? The entire continent is constantly shrinking." "I thought they were running into a ghost wall! But I didn't expect the entire continent to be chasing them under the influence of the President's ability." It must be said that this scene refreshes everyone's vision. If it's folding space, can it shrink the Earth? ~A Certain Magical Index World~ ~Academy City~ "Is the ability evolved this time, is 'space'?" Misaka Mikoto is incredibly surprised by this strange ability. She has seen space abilities, but she hasn't seen such a terrifying ability to fold the space of an entire continent... And that golden barrier not only allows the President to sandwich and activate his ability anytime, anywhere! And it seems to have extraordinary effects... ~Fairy Tail World~ "I really envy the Stands in there... They don't have to consume much to activate their abilities!" Lucy can't help but complain. After all, in her opinion, folding the space of the continent would consume a lot of magic if used with magic. But the other party easily did something she couldn't even imagine! But this also means that Gyro and Johnny's battle will be even more thrilling. 【 Arriving at the train, the two decide to split up. Gyro sneaks into the President's position from inside the train, and Johnny chases the train on horseback, attracting the President's attention outside the train. President Valentine, who is in the carriage, suddenly hears the sound of hooves outside the window, looks out the window, sees Johnny charging a Nail Bullet, and directly picks up Lucy, blocking her in front of him! Seeing the opponent with a hostage in hand, Johnny doesn't waver in the slightest. He shoots the Nail Bullet at Lucy without saying a word! Even President Valentine can't help but lament: "What a terrible guy... Attacking Lucy!" Four Nail Bullets pass through the window and hit Lucy, but the damage to the Golden Spin is more than just hitting. The bullet holes go straight through the President along Lucy's body. The President dodges left and right, but no matter how he runs, the bullet holes keep chasing him endlessly, seeing that there's no way to avoid it. President Valentine picks up a newspaper and slaps it on it, sending the Nail Bullet to a parallel world! President Valentine, who thought he had sent the Nail Bullet to a parallel world, suddenly feels a pain in his hand and suddenly gets up! The Golden Spin is an infinite spin like a black hole; its gap can't hold these bullet holes at all! His getting up allows Johnny outside the window to see that the Nail Bullet is activated again, and President Valentine's hand is pierced on the spot, as several bullet holes gradually gather. President Valentine's hands are also frozen together, his hand has been crippled. Suddenly, a golden light emerges from Lucy's body again; this light passes through President Valentine's hands, folding the space in it into a gap. The damage Johnny dealt to his hand also slips away directly from that glowing gap and instead kills two farmers outside the window. "This is...!" Johnny and President Valentine are both incredibly shocked, then President Valentine reacts first. "The wounds on my hands are all gone... You are a goddess! Lucy!" "The Saint's Corpse has chosen him, Funny Valentine. This power is bestowed upon him by the Saint's Corpse!" "The various things that are constantly gathering here are actually things that the Corpse recognizes as beneficial. Conversely, things that are harmful to him will be rejected by this power." "The bullet holes just now were harmful to him. So this power sent the bullet holes elsewhere, and those two farmers bore the damage instead. With this power, no matter what tricks the opponent comes up with, it's impossible to cause even the slightest harm to him!" 】 ..... ~Projection of All Worlds~ "I didn't expect the Saint's Corpse to have such a terrifying effect!!" This terrifying ability overturns everyone's previous guesses and silences everyone! Indeed, as he said, with such an ability, he is invincible. With such an ability, no one can harm him! ~A Certain Magical Index World~ Academy City "Holy crap!! It can actually transfer misfortune!" At this moment, Kamijou Touma shows an envious look. If he had this ability, he would also say goodbye to his unfortunate life! Then he looks at his right hand. He just doesn't know if his right hand can also negate this ability... (Bro, your right hand can negate that ability. That's how OP 'Imagine Breaker'.) ~Bleach World~ Even the always calm Aizen is moved at this moment, transferring everything that is unfavorable to him! Conversely, things that are beneficial to him come closer. "I'm getting more and more curious about Stands.... I didn't expect such a magical ability to exist in a seemingly ordinary world!" It can be said that with this ability, he is already invincible; after all, all unfavorable things will be rejected.. How can Gyro and Johnny fight? It can be said that they are just waiting to die! ~JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, Part 3: Stardust Crusaders Worldline~ Dio is also silent at this moment, although he is full of confidence in his Stand, " Za Warudo ". But if he encounters this kind of ability, he doesn't know if it will still trigger after time stops. It's a pity that there is no Saint's Corpse in this world. If there were, what kind of ability would my Stand be able to evolve? ~JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, Part 8: JoJolion Worldline~ "Although the worlds are different, I didn't expect someone to have such a similar ability to mine." Toru looks at President Valentine, who can transfer misfortune, and suddenly feels that it is somewhat similar to his ability. Although it is slightly inferior compared to his ability, it is already invincible enough! Faced with such a terrifying Stand ability, the people outside the video have no expectations. It can transfer all unfavorable factors... This also means that the President cannot be harmed at all!. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Look, Cloud! Look!” Cloud looked up in time to see Zack shooting Thundaga into the sky, illuminating the night in a bright flash of light. Sparks showered between them like fireworks and Cloud was momentarily dazzled by the display. “Think it’s good enough to show Aerith?” Zack asked with a wide grin. “She’d love it, Zack,” Cloud assured, nodding. “Just try not to do it near her flowers.” “Yeah! You got it! I’ll make sure to take her to somewhere where we won’t hurt her flowers,” Zack agreed with a nod. “Don’t you want to practice something too?” “Aerith is your girlfriend,” Cloud said with a laugh. “Not for Aerith! I was talking about for someone special. Maybe you’ll get to meet someone for you.” Cloud looked away. Zack hadn’t said her name, but it was clear that he was talking about Tifa. Her sorrow and grief made Cloud feel guilty, though he still didn’t regret his choice. Whatever chance he had with Tifa had been severed with his own hands. He would never be able to look at her face or be with her without feeling immensely guilty. Even if she forgave him, he would never be able to forgive himself. She could do so much better than him. She deserved to be happy. “Hey… She still loves you, you know,” Zack said, grasping his shoulders. “She shouldn’t,” Cloud replied. “Tifa should find someone that makes her happy.” “You make her happy,” Zack insisted. “And she makes you happy.” “But I still…” Zack’s shoulders slumped as he took a deep breath. “You did it for them.” “I wonder if that really was the truth. I wonder if I did it for myself,” Cloud said softly. “For my own peace of mind. Seeing them mourn for me like that…” “A natural part of life is death, Cloud,” Zack said, moving to sit by his side. “Mourning is natural too. Feeling grief is normal. They miss you so they grieved.” “But…” “Do you think I was selfish when I left you behind?” Cloud’s eyes widened and his head snapped up to stare at Zack. The protest of “That’s different” died on his tongue as he stared at Zack’s unusually serious expression. It was different, but it wasn’t. Zack sacrificed himself for Cloud’s safety and Cloud sacrificed himself for everyone else’s. It was something only they could do and so it was the road they decided to take to ensure someone else’s future. Their fight was over. “No… Of course not. You’re a hero Zack,” Cloud replied gently. “If I am a hero, then so are you,” Zack said. “To mourn for someone means that you were really close to them. In that sense… look at all the people who mourned for you. You meant so much to them.” Cloud slowly turned his head and stared into the distance. He thought about the people who came to pay their respects to Seventh Heaven and the ones who mourned privately. All the people who came to the church to mourn for Aerith. And all the times he had mourned for Zack. He slid to his feet and slowly raised his hands in the air, sending a shower of snowflakes into the air with Ice. Then he looked at Zack’s stunned expression. “Maybe you can use a blend of materia to show her,” Cloud suggested. It wasn’t a date. Sephiroth stared at the man sitting beside him. Everything inside him was celebrating at the reassuring presence next to him. The fact that Cloud had agreed was a surprise, but the additional offer of his hand had only exacerbated his excitement. He could still feel the warmth of Cloud’s hand in his. It lingered, even when Cloud released his hand to accept the offered seat. Sephiroth sat next to him, gazing at him and wondering if Cloud also felt the anticipation that was shivering in the air. They were greeted by three girls dressed in flamboyant honeybee outfits who sat next to them. “Awww, a couple’s date?” one of the girls asked. “No, this is–” Sephiroth started, but the girls merely giggled. He turned to Cloud who seemed more interested in his drink than the girls by his side. “What a hunk. Your boyfriend is a lucky man,” the girl laughed, her eyes glittering as she eyed him. She extended a hand to touch Sephiroth’s shoulder and Sephiroth frowned. “Hey.” Four heads turned to look at Cloud who lifted his glass, gazing at the three girls in turn over the rim. Blue eyes shimmered with power and Sephiroth was briefly mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze. “Don’t touch him so casually,” Cloud said with a smirk. The girl’s laughter barely registered as Sephiroth felt his heart thump uncomfortably in his chest. He felt his face heat up, but he hoped that the dim lighting of the nightclub would hide his blush. “Ohhhh, so possessive,” the girls swooned. “We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” Thankfully, the girls moved away from their table to greet other guests. Sephiroth breathed a sigh of relief, shifting just a little closer to Cloud. “Thanks,” he said softly. “They’re pretty insistent,” Cloud agreed. “Well, you paid for the tickets. You should enjoy the show.” Sephiroth smiled, resisting the urge to lean in and bury his nose into Cloud’s exposed collar. “I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.” The lights dimmed and the show began. The music washed over his senses and Sephiroth was momentarily blinded by the sight of the dancers moving on stage in the elaborate bee outfits. They were well practiced and quite skilled, but the star of the show was clearly the male that emerged from a gigantic flower, showering the stage with sparkles. Andrea Rhodea. He was a man in high demand, with a waitlist of over three years. But Sephiroth didn’t care for the man’s personal life as much as he cared for the show that he was about to put on. “Ah, our VIP tonight,” Andrea said smoothly, striding up to their table as the spotlight shined on him brightly. “Welcome, esteemed SOLDIER. Your poweress is well known in Midgar.” Sephiroth’s lips turned down. He gazed at the man, his mood shifting to neutral as he tried to assess what Andrea wanted. But it appeared that the man had simply greeted him to greet him because he turned to Cloud. Andrea tipped his head towards Sephiroth, then turned back to the crowd. “For the next performance, I will need a volunteer. One who can match me in moves and elegance. And who better to join me, but our guest of honor’s date?” Sephiroth turned to Cloud, his eyes wide. Three honeygirls buzzed around their booth, swooning over Cloud as Cloud downed the rest of his drink. “Think you can match me?” Andrea challenged, turning to Cloud. “I only acknowledge the best.” “I don’t think I’m the partner you are looking for,” Cloud returned. “Surely there are others in your establishment to provide the dance you want.” “I grow tired of them,” Andrea countered. “Surely you don’t wish to disappoint your date and the crowd tonight? I do have a reputation to uphold.” “And if I steal your stage?” The delight on Andrea’s face was a little alarming. “I would love nothing more.” To Sephiroth’s shock, Cloud slid out of his seat. The girls flocked around him and Cloud slowly made his way up to the stage. The music began. The crowd’s chattering hushed. And they began. Sephiroth found himself entranced in the smooth movements that the two displayed. They utilized the entire stage, circling around each other exchanging just brief touches as they moved. It was like watching a fight, but one without blades. The world around them vanished as Sephiroth gazed at Cloud’s strong frame, dancing into the music. He found himself lost in the sight of Cloud’s hands brushing the air and his hips barely grazing around Andrea’s touch. Cloud moved like water in a stream. Like a dragon coiled to strike. Like a warrior in the middle of battle. The crowd gasped as the band around Cloud’s wrist flashed, showering the two dancers in barely-there crystals of ice. They melted before hitting the stage and Andrea’s surprise was just as evident as Cloud’s smirk. A burst of fire exploded from Cloud’s palms, creating sparks that danced in the air and illuminated the two dancers. Sephiroth melted into the heat, Cloud’s blue eyes reflecting every flame. A touch of hands across hips. A brief toss of his head that allowed the vanishing embers to shine in the air between strands of blond hair. Sephiroth stared at Cloud, his eyes wide with surprise and awe as Cloud weaved between the flames. It was sensual. It was sexy. It was temptation. But most of all, it was a dance that reeked of power and Cloud. Sephiroth had never seen anything like it before. The subtle twist of his hips and a brush of hands over his chest made Sephiroth feel hot all over. Sephiroth lost himself in the music and the movements of the dancers on the stage. Just as the fire faded, Cloud brought his palms together and released a shower of ice that enveloped the atmosphere, sending a blast of cold air into the crowd. Sephiroth was dazzled by the duality of fire and ice that he almost missed the fact that there were now flowers of ice lining the stage, reflecting every bit of light from the stage. Although it wasn’t Sephiroth who shared the stage with Cloud, Andrea was a marvelous partner for him. He danced with him, guiding Cloud onto the stage and into the next movements without overshadowing him. He led Cloud across the floor, the spotlight shining on Cloud brightly like a star. Perhaps, one day, Sephiroth could do the same for Cloud in battle? The crowd went wild. Honeybee employees and patrons alike stood, clapping vigorously as the music shivered into its final notes and they ended the performance. Andrea took a bow towards Cloud, a smirk on his lips. “Marvelous. I knew I picked the right partner tonight,” he said, his eyes shining. “Yes. You’re perfect.” Sephiroth was startled to feel himself standing. He sank back into his seat as both honeygirls and honeyboys flocked onto the stage. No wonder they advertised it as ‘THE SHOW OF THE CENTURY’. Sephiroth wasn’t sure if he would ever see anything like this again. He had a feeling that every subsequent show would not match up to the masterpiece he had just witnessed. A chair was brought up on the stage and Sephiroth was startled to see a few employees pushing Cloud into it. He stared at Cloud’s slightly disgruntled expression and wondered why the blond seemed to be irritated before the employees dancing blocked his sight. Confetti exploded from the ceiling as the dancers broke apart and Sephiroth was floored to see Cloud sitting in the chair wearing a dress. Black lace with lavender fabric. The extensions in Cloud’s hair tumbled down his shoulders and the corset that hugged his waist only emphasized his slim figure. A silver tiara glinted in his hair as Cloud stood, taking a few unsteady steps before he regained his balance. Sephiroth stared, utterly speechless, as Andrea took Cloud by the hand and they twirled on the stage, the band of materia shining brightly on Cloud’s wrist. “True beauty is an expression of the heart,” Andrea said, his words almost breathless. “You’re beautiful, my nameless guest of honor.” The show ended with the curtain sliding shut, leaving the guests energized and eager, the crowd buzzing as they exited the establishment. Sephiroth waited in his seat until one of the honeygirls approached his table and pressed a bag into his chest with a wide smile. “Go outside and wait for him,” she said, giving him a wink. Sephiroth hesitated, but she blew him a kiss and gestured towards the door in a clear sign of dismissal. So he slowly stood, glancing at the contents of the bag and seeing the familiar white tee that Cloud had been wearing. The chatter of the crowd outside was accompanied by the blast of cool night air. Sephiroth smiled as he recalled the performance, wondering where and how Cloud had learned to dance like that. A soft whoosh of air signaled the door opening behind him and Sephiroth turned. Sephiroth had never considered what Cloud would look like with long hair, but he found that it was quite attractive. The light pink blush on his cheeks, the shining lip gloss, and the rose colored nail polish. Cloud’s figure was already quite feminine, but the corset pulled tightly around his waist and the exposed collar only made Sephiroth want to run his hands over his skin to experience Cloud’s body heat. Elegant and refined. Cloud moved with grace in the outfit as if he had worn it all his life. Sephiroth was extraordinarily tempted to slide his hands around his waist, pulling Cloud to his chest and hiding him from the world. Cloud took one look at his face and pursed his lips, turning away from him. Instantly, the almost magical atmosphere between them shattered and Sephiroth was left reeling with the realization that Cloud didn’t like it. “I… I’m sorry, Cloud,” he said, holding his hands up. “I didn’t know–” Cloud heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping a little. “I know.” Guilt washed over him as Sephiroth looked at Cloud’s slightly dejected expression. Then he tugged at the scarf around his neck, taking two steps towards the blond, wrapping and tying the fabric around his throat to hide his skin. “Ah, good. You’re still here.” The discontentment vanished from Cloud’s expression as he turned to face Andrea, who was walking out of the front doors. “I was pleasantly surprised. Truly a night to remember,” Andrea praised, looking at Cloud closely. “Although I am curious. What have I done for you to show so much gratitude towards me?” Cloud remained silent, but he tipped his head up to stare Andrea directly in the eyes. Andrea smiled after a few moments and then gave a small laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask then. At least answer me this. May I have your name, honored guest?” Andrea requested. “Cloud,” came the reply. “Cloud,” Andrea repeated. “I shall remember that. If you wish to join me on my stage, you are welcome any time. You and Sephiroth.” He gave a warm smile at Sephiroth, startling him just a little. “I’ll reserve spots for you in the VIP section if you wish.” “Thank you,” Sephiroth answered politely as Andrea gave them a final bow and entered the Honeybee Inn. There was a moment of silence, but then Cloud turned and walked slowly past the groups of gaping admirers. Past the whistles and chatter of the appreciative crowd. Sephiroth trailed behind him, not knowing what to say. “Did you enjoy the show?” Cloud asked finally after they had passed the lingering crowd. “I did,” Sephiroth answered, unsure. Cloud turned towards him, and Sephiroth was lost in the intensity of his blue gaze. “I need a place to change,” he said, frowning. Mentally smacking himself, Sephiroth hurriedly ran forward, pressing the bag into Cloud’s awaiting arms. “My apologies. Yes. You’ll need a place to change,” he said, looking around frantically trying to come up with a solution. He spotted a hotel and dragged Cloud by the wrist inside. The look on the receptionist’s face could only be described as a mixture of awe and alarm as he took in Sephiroth’s tall frame and Cloud’s dress-covered one, but Sephiroth brushed him aside. Instead, he booked a room quickly and ushered Cloud into the bathroom, Cloud’s free hand holding the bag that Sephiroth had given him as the door closed between them. A soft rustle of fabric proved that Cloud desperately wanted to remove the outfit. “Is that why you were so reluctant to go in?” Sephiroth asked quietly through the wooden door. “Andrea is known to be eccentric,” Cloud’s voice came. “I wasn’t positive, but he’s known to do things like this.” And Cloud still went in, despite knowing that? Sephiroth had given him a chance to reconsider, but Cloud hadn’t taken it. But that might have been because… “Do you have some kind of gratitude towards him?” Sephiroth questioned. “He did me a favor once. He doesn’t remember, but I do,” Cloud replied. “I didn’t get a chance to repay my debt then.” “Debt repaid then?” Sephiroth murmured, smiling faintly. It was such an honorable thing to do and it suited Cloud’s personality perfectly. Repaying a debt when the other party couldn’t even recall it? That took a huge level of responsibility. The sound of rustling fabric stopped. “Yeah. I wasn’t going to let his reputation suffer just because I didn’t want to,” Cloud admitted. “He’s a good guy.” Sephiroth let out a small breath of air. “I never thought of blending materia into shows and performances,” he said, changing the subject. “How did you come up with the idea?” “If there isn’t an enemy to fight and I want to train with materia, that’s how I do it. It wasn’t really meant to be used for shows or performances, though.” There was a small pause and then: “Hey… Sephiroth?” Sephiroth turned, looking at the door. Cloud’s voice was a little uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure if he should ask or not, so Sephiroth turned the knob and peeked into the bathroom. Cloud was sitting on the bath mat, fabric and lace tangled over his head. It looked like he was struggling to take off the dress, which wasn’t surprising considering how many layers it appeared to have. “Here,” Sephiroth said, pushing open the door. “Let me help you.” Cloud sighed as he shifted the fabric aside, allowing Sephiroth to approach and attempt to untangle the buttons and lace that was caught in the tiara and his blond hair. Almost pressed up against the other, Sephiroth was enveloped by the scent that he had wholeheartedly subscribed to Cloud. The smell of rain and pine and strength that eclipsed all others. It was nice being so close to him. Nice to feel the heat from Cloud’s body and feel the soft strands of hair as Sephiroth carefully untangled the fabric. “Would you want to go back?” Sephiroth asked. He had a feeling that he already knew the answer. And, sure enough… “No.” Sephiroth sighed, carefully sliding the fabric out of Cloud’s hair. He felt like he had been the only one who had enjoyed the show, which only enhanced his guilt. Not only that, he felt like he had enjoyed the show at Cloud’s expense. “I should have looked more into it,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Blue eyes peered at him from under the fabric as it slid off his head. Sephiroth smiled sadly, looking at Cloud tenderly. “You asked if I wanted to leave,” Cloud reminded slowly. “I didn’t take your offer.” “I knew you didn’t want to,” Sephiroth admitted. “But you still agreed. Whether it is because you felt some obligation to accompany me because you had agreed before, or if you thought it was a waste if we didn’t go, or if you wanted to go to see Andrea… it doesn’t matter. I knew you didn’t want to be there, but I still went along with you.” “You said you liked the show.” “But you didn’t.” Sephiroth wasn’t going to let it go. The fact that Cloud sacrificed his own comfort for him wasn’t particularly surprising. Cloud was a person with a good heart. What was surprising was that Sephiroth had let his excitement cloud his better judgment. It wouldn’t happen again. Not if Sephiroth could help it. “It’s fine, Sephiroth,” Cloud insisted. “I told you. I owed him a favor. If it meant so much to me, then I wouldn’t have done it.” There was a pause as Cloud unzipped the dress and pulled it off, revealing toned muscles and pale skin. “Besides. It was nice to spend time with you.” Something hot engulfed Sephiroth’s senses and he stared at the strong figure that was removing the extensions and shaking out the blond strands. Sephiroth reached over and tugged the tiara free from his hair, admiring the metal in the dim light. “Do you dislike wearing this kind of clothing?” Sephiroth asked. “I don’t like the attention it brings,” Cloud sighed, raking his hand through his hair. “The dress is fine. The gawking and pointing and being in the spotlight are what I can’t stand.” Relaxing a little, Sephiroth gazed into the jewel set in the tiara. They were the same then. Sephiroth couldn’t stand the fame and spotlight either. He looked up at Cloud who was tugging on the standard cadet-issued white tee shirt, spotting the scarf in the pile of fabric that was the dress. “The heels suck though.” Sephiroth smiled, tracing his fingers over the silver. “You were beautiful in it,” he said fondly, glancing at the lavender and black fabric. Cloud turned. For a single, horrified moment, Sephiroth wondered if he misspoke and offended him, but then Cloud’s playful smile glittered like the stars in the night sky. “Nailed it. I know. Thanks. Moving on.” A laugh escaped Sephiroth’s chest before he could consider his reaction. It was such a Cloud response that he just couldn’t help it; the blond was absolutely dismissing the attention. Sephiroth couldn’t think of a more appropriate response. It wasn’t a date. Sephiroth couldn’t call it a date. But it had been a pleasant evening all the same. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Disaster Siblings 8:19 AM Diego: Allison where the hell are you we leave in ten minutes Allison: omg chill I could hear you when you yelled at me I’M COMING Klaus: selfie bc we’re bored!! :D Klaus sent a photo. Klaus: bEN STOP READING Klaus: @BEN Ben: Stop. Klaus: ALLIE WHERE ARE yUUUUUU Allison: i’M COMING The Fam 8:32 AM Lila: Listen y’all I love you and I’m trying my best but I cannot keep the bus driver here for much longer I think he kinda hates me Sloane: No I think he’s just falling asleep Sloane: Lila don’t make our bus driver tired with your yapping that seems unsafe Lila: >:0 I am NOT yapping Dave: No no I think he just look bored Dave: And a little pissed off that you keep checking your phone, Lila Diego: I’ll beat his ass Lila: How about you just come to the bus stop <3 Klaus: You see we would Klaus: But unfortunately our dear sister Allison slept through her alarm this morning Allison: IT NEVER WENT OFF IT’S NOT MY FAULT Ben: GET OFF YOUR PHONE AND EAT YOUR HONEY NUT CHEERIOS Sloane: I see Dave: I should have seen this coming, actually Lila: Get here soon The Fam 9:18 AM Luther: So we have a small issue in homeroom here Luther: Diego may or may not have already gotten in trouble Luther: And they have to call mom Five: Of course. Of course. Viktor: Why?? Allison: If he tried to beat up another kid like that one on the bus imma whoop his ass Viktor: But the kid on the bus deserved it Allison: ...I guess thats true Five: Anyone who says that word deserves it. Allison: I'm still so pissed that Klave couldn't just hold hands without somebody being a jerk :( Klaus: We thank you for your pissyness Dave: It means a lot that you are angry as well Klaus: also we can't stay long lol our teacher will get mad Viktor: Why does Diego have detention? Luther: So he had knives in his bag and they fell out when he was grabbing his pencil case Luther: He’s talking to the teacher outside the class now and I’m sneaking my phone Luther: Wait @Viktor @Five @Allison how do you have your phones out?? Allison: ...So I'm not supposed to have it out but my teacher left the room for a bit,,, Viktor: It’s a ✨free period✨ for me and Five Five: Our teacher doesn't really care what we do. Viktor: We’re playing chess! Five: I'm winning, not to brag. Viktor sent a photo. Viktor: he is winning as you can see :( Luther: Move your bishop two spaces to the left and then when Five moves his pawn to capture your rook move it again three times Luther: Also I gotta go D and the teacher are coming back in! Luther: I’ll update you at lunch!! Allison: I can’t believe this Allison: Actually… Allison: I can The Fam 9:20 Viktor: THANK YOU LUTHER I CHECKMATED HIM Five: LUTHER The Fam 12:06 AM Allison: Hey, where are you guys? Are you at the cafeteria yet? The Fam 12:08 AM Allison: Y’all ISTG Viktor: Sorry didn’t see this!! There were no empty tables so we’re all eating outside at the benches on the baseball field Allison: Okay coming Viktor: Are you with Sloane and Ben and Luther? Allison: …I’m just with Luther? Viktor: shit Viktor: Okay see you soon Allison: I’m concerned Allison and Ben 12:10 AM Allison: Hey where are you? Allison: Text me when you can Allison: Are you okay? The Fam 12:11 AM Viktor: @Ben @Sloane guys where are you?? Viktor: We’re eating near the baseball diamond when you see this! The Fam 12:27 AM Viktor: @Ben @Sloane hey so we'll see you guys later okay? Sorry we missed you at lunch Ben: AH SORRY THAT IS NOT YOUR FAULT Sloane: SORRY SORRY OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY Viktor: oh no I’m not mad!! It’s okay! :) Luther: Where were you guys? Ben: WE WERE IN THE LIBRARY Sloane: YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED PHONES IN THE LIBRARY Klaus: Okay then be quiet Diego: Yeah no yelling the library twerps 😒 Ben: I dislike you both Allison: I dislike YOU Allison: ME AND LUTHER WERE LOST AND ALONE Allison sent a photo. Allison: SEE HE’S SAD Five: No he’s just making that face because you said to him: “Hey, Luther, look sad.” and then took a photo. Allison: Y’know what Allison: I dislike you too Five: I’m right next to you- DON’T GIVE ME THAT LOOK. Klaus sent a photo. Klaus: looook we’re all sad Ben: Is Dave just reading 💀 Klaus: ok buddy boy don’t act like U weren’t all morniNg >:( Lila: “buddy boy” Klaus: did I stutter? Ben: Five looks more annoyed than sad Sloane: He just has a resting bitch face I think Ben: No it looks bitchier than usual Viktor: It’s because he was forced into that photo by Allison I’m afraid Klaus: Lila just asked Five why he didn’t look sad and he said “because I’m not an emo like the rest of you” Ben: 💀 Sloane: somebody teach this kid some manners Viktor: This is slander towards Five and I love it Diego: Such a rude kid I cannot deal with him Lila: “i’M nOT A kiD” Five: I’m not a kid. Allison: oh shit bell just ranG Viktor: Everyone off your phones we need to get to class!! Diego: fuckcuck yoU’re right Ben: What is fuckuck Klaus: i don’t like that word you just used Diego it gives me the ick Allison: Words can’t give you the ick Klaus: they can now mf Viktor: GUYS Five: “CLASS” Viktor: CLASS Viktor: how did you know 🥸 Ben: It was pretty obvious what you were gonna say Klasu: Not very original Vik 😔 Klaus: then again when are you?? ¯\\(ツ)/¯ Viktor: >:o Viktor: get to class you piece of gay Allison and Ben 12:29 AM Ben: ALLISON I’M SO SORRY I DIDN'T ANSWER Allison: It’s okay I saw your messages in the gc Ben: Yeah but it was still messed up I should have told you guys Allison: It’s okay I wasn’t THAT worried lol Ben: >:o Ben: 103% offended The Fam 12:54 AM Luther: guys Allison says I can't join the football team :( change her mind Viktor: No that seems fair sorry Luth Allison: tHANK YOU Five: You can't join the football team. Luther: No I didn’t say to agree with her!! Ben: You can’t join the football team Diego: dude.. no Sloane: babe I’m so sorry but I agree with Allison Allison: THANK YOU Luther: :( Sloane: you’re going to accidentally hurt someone Luther: :( Klaus: Guys think about it like this Klaus: The games will be really entertaining Allison: The football guys were like,, simping over at Luther at lunch either they're all super gay or they want him on their team… Luther: THEY WANT ME ON THEIR TEAM??? Klaus: gya Dave: Gay Klaus: i said what i sad why must you attack me 😩 Ben: You said what you sad Dave: aw don’t be sad Klaus it’s ok Klaus: i wanna divorce Dave: :( Klaus: Don’t be sad Dave it’s ok <3 Allison: Luther you can’t be on the football team and that’s FINAL Luther: UGHHH The Fam 1:32 PM Five: Is “Five” a weird name? Five: Follow up question: am I an attention seeker? Diego: Alright which mf was it this time Sloane: I swear to God why are people such jerks Lila: Five who tf said that Five: Somebody said that I gave myself a weird name to be special. Viktor: I hate that word also they are very very wrong Dave: You didn't choose your name though right? They just don’t know the whole story!! :) Sloane: Yeah don’t listen to them Allison: Who said it Five? Lila: Five who was it Five: Can somebody just answer me? Klaus: no YOU answer them they asked first Five: No they didn’t. Klaus: Idk what you’re talking about man I think their texts were first :/ Luther: Five you didn’t pick your name and those kids would literally never understand Luther: I think it’s a cool name!! Five: Should I have picked a new one that wasn’t “weird”? Lila: FIVE YOUR NAME IS COOL NOW WHO SAID THAT SHIT TO YOU Luther: Five you shouldn’t have to change your name just so others will like it more! Allison: It’s YOUR name, not theirs (keep that in mind) <3 Viktor: Choose what makes you comfortable! :) Five: Well Five: I guess I should trust you on that, Viktor. Diego: FIVE WHO SAID IT BRO Lila: FIVE I ACTUALLY AM GONNA THROW HANDS WHO WAS IT Sloane: Woah violence is not the answer Sloane: Well Sloane: Actually I guess it’s okay in these types of situations Dave: Normally I would disagree but yeah punch them in the face Klaus: VIOLENCE IS A QUESTION AND THE ANSWER IS YES Lila: E X A C T L Y Five: It’s okay, I already kicked them in the shins and told them to fuck off. Five: I was just thinking about what they said. Sloane: Well Sloane: What they said is BULLSHITE Dave: Definitely bullshite! Klaus: Absolute bullshite >:3 Ben: kicking them in the shins?? telling them to fuck off?? Ben: that’s not a fitting punishment :/ Viktor: and that’s coming from Ben so it’s DEFINITELY not Diego: I still want to punch them Lila: I’m still GOING to punch them Lila: I’ll punch Five first if that’s what it takes to figure out who Five: I’d like to see you try. Luther: Wait you kicked them in the shins? Luther: I know who that is then! I saw that guy in the hallway after fourth period, he was holding his ankle and cursing and Five ran away from him Luther: I waved to you Five but you didn’t see me Five: Luther please do not say who it was Allison: Luther you may have the information that will help adults in children's bodies murder a kid Ben: There will be no violence or murder just a very stern talking to :I Diego: No violence? D: Lila: No murder? D: Sloane: I know it’ll be hard you two but you’ll power through Dave: I believe that you have it in you to not kill anyone!! Klaus: I don’t lol we boutta start a riot first day of school Lila: So Luther who is it Five: LUTHER PLEASE DON’T TELL THAT IS ACTUALLY REALLY EMBARRASSING. I really don't need you guys doing that. Lila: Aw ur embarrassed I DON’T CARE Luther: His name is Henry (I don’t know his last name), he’s a redhead, about Diego’s hight, with lots of freckles and a blue backpack Five: LUTHER Allison: Why do you know these details Ben: That was scarily detailed information Luther: I thought we might need a body identification because I saw Five kicking him and I thought “Oh so he’s gonna end up dead later” Lila: He still is I’m glad you know all that Luther Diego: Luther don’t rat us out okay just pretend you don’t know us when the cops come to our door Luther: okay!! :D Five: If any of you actually go and talk to him I will never speak to you again. Viktor: That’s not as bad as some of your other threats which makes me think you don’t really care ;) Klaus: No I think he WANTS them to go beat hEnrY up Five: No, I don’t. I really don’t. Lila: End of the day I’m gonna challenge him to a full on duel Viktor: Woah woah woah duels??? Like Hamilton??? Luther: Is that a hamilton reference?? Klaus: 12345678910? Ten duel commandments? Ben: I don’t think duels are legal Klaus: everything is legal in (LUTHER THATS UR CUE) Luther: NEW JERSEY! :D Lila: @Ben I didn’t think being mean to Five was legal for anyone but us to do but here we are Ben: Y’know what fair Five: NOT FAIR. Diego: Lila dibs on being your second for the duel Sloane: I’d watch that Dave: I’ll bring popcorn! 🍿 Allison: That sounds lovely guys but I think your parents will be worried if you miss the bus Diego: I'm already gonna miss it I have detention Allison: You don't count nobody will be worried about you Diego: >:O Lila: I’ll do it at the fifteen minute break before last period then Diego: Perfect Five: Not perfect. Lila: Henry Henry Henry Klaus: Henry Danger Ben: Henry is in danger Dave: I don’t get it?? Luther: Don’t worry I don’t think a lot of us get what those three say Five: Guys please actually don’t do anything Klaus: they left you on read Five: I CAN SEE THAT, THANKS KLAUS. Klaus: :/ ok buddy chill Five: UGH. The Fam 1:52 PM Klaus: LAST PERIOD OF THE DAY IN FIVE MINUTES and it’s… LANGUAGE TIME 😀 Klaus: FRENCH KIDS RAISE UR HAAAAAANDS Viktor: ✋ :D Sloane: Je suis ici! Dave: moi aussi! :) Klaus: oioioioioio Allison: I think you mean oui Klaus: Ouiouiouiouiouiuoioiouoioiooooooooooo Allison: je maple Allison: aLLisoNe Sloane: M’appelle Dave: 🍁 Klaus: FRENCH KIDS ARE BETTER THAN EV E R Y O NE EL S E Diego: Hold up ✋🤨 Lila: Where did you get this information is what I wanna know Luther: como e stash Ben: You’re SO close Diego: yet so far Lila: 😔✊ Luther: Yo hablow espanol Ben: Yo hablo español* Use the aCCENTS Klaus: EW SPANISH KIDS Sloane: FRENCH KIDS UNITE 🇫🇷 Five: You know that none of us are actually Spanish/French, right? Those are just the language classes we had to choose from. Diego: >:O dude IM spanish do I not count?? Lila: The way Diego is literally mexican 💀 Five: …That’s...that's what I meant. Dave: Klaus is still right French kids are just better \_(ツ)_/¯ Sloane: Yeah no offense @Diego @Lila @Luther @Ben but French is just better 🦐 Sloane: oops meant to use 🤷 Luther: Sloane Five did nothing wrong there is no need to use his emoji unnecessarily Five: I am going to use your arm bone to stir my coffee tomorrow. Lila: We know three things 1. Five is short and thus a shrimp 🦐 Five: VIKTOR IS LITERALLY SHORTER. Viktor: Five you need to eat your veggies istg 🤦 Lila: 2. Luther and Viktor throwing shade is hilarious and the best Lila: and 3. Klaus: french kids are the best? Lila: Spanish kids are the best Five: French kids* Capatilize languages, Klaus. Klaus: fIVE UR SUPPOSED TO BE ON OUR TEAM UR A FUCKINg FRENCH KID LIKE US Five: I’M. NOT. FRENCH. AND NEITHER ARE YOU. Klaus: 😭😭😭 betrayal stings 😔 Sloane: LE GASP BETRAYAL FROM NUMBER FIVE!!! Dave: Execute him! Sloane: that’s very french of you Dave Dave: I do try my best Diego: Spain is better just a fact Lila: If not for Spain we wouldn’t have churros!! Diego: Or Paella, or Pisto, or tortillas, etc. Klaus: but France gave us so many great things too?? So jus saying Dave: Like french fries :D Luther: French toast? Allison: Berets 🎩 Five: The guillotine. Lila: oof that is a good one Dave: welp :/ Viktor: uh WELL WOULD YA LOOK AT THAT IT’S TIME FOR CLASS Viktor: Later people (unless you’re French and then I’ll see you soon) Five: We’re. Not. French. Klaus: ou i Dave: See you soon! Sloane: Don’t get crushed by the hoards of kids in the hallway! Viktor: I’ll try my besds.d Luther: ich bin gut Diego: no Lila: ,,that's German my dude Klaus: SCREENSHOTTED ROFL Lila: Luther you are a disgrace to the spanish kids Allison: Luther the french kids don’t want you either Luther: ich habe keinen familie Ben: Nein The Fam 1:56 PM Klaus: guyssssss ;) Klaus sent a photo. Klaus: Vikky talking to a girl in the hallway instead of going to class 🥸 Dave: How about you get to class instead of photographing your brother in the hall?? Just a thought Sloane: Thats it Dave roast them alive Allison: I have some q u es ti o n s for Viktor ;) Klaus: I'll ask him them for you I wanna know the tea first DAVE SAVE ME AND VIKTOR A SEAT NEXT TO YOU IN FRENCH CLASS Slaone: bold of you to assume he's here Dave: Don't out me like that I don't deserve this hate :( Klaus: And you were literally yapping about ME getting to class?? >:( Five: How about: Both of you get your asses here so our teachers head doesn't spontaneously combust? Dave: Good idea Klaus: Great plan Fivey Five: Don't call me that The Fam 3:04 PM Allison: Hey D where are you @Diego Diego: im indteention but phones arent allowed ook so bye lilas mom will drive me hom Allison: …Okay then Luther: Why is Diego in detention? Ben: Knives in his bag remember? Luther: oh yeah Luther: So why is Lila in detention too? Lila: I threw a fruit cup at my teacher's head because Diego said he didn’t want to be alone in detention Luther: aw :) Klaus: we should write a rom-com about this Ben: “Fruit Cup Friendship” Klaus: they’re literally dating how is that friendship Ben: ??You can date and still be friends?? In fact you SHOULD be friends Lila: HENRY KID IS HERE BY THE WAY Lila: HE HAS DETENTION TOOOOOOO Five: NO. Kluas: Diego I’m telling mom you got detention first day Diego: dONTaghhk Lila: The teacher took his phone away he was so conspicuous Klaus: hehehe Lila: He just said he would hire a mafia boss to get you Klaus: bitch I am the mafia Viktor and Helen 3:08 PM Viktor: Hey just sending this to start the conversation and make sure it’s Helen Viktor: It’s Viktor! Helen: Yeah, it’s me. Syou still want to be in the music club, right? Viktor: Yeah! Helen: Okay, send me some audio tracks sometime this week if you’re able to like I mentioned and I can send them to my mom so she can approve you to join the band, but I think you’ll get in, she seemed to like you. Viktor: When’s the first meeting? Helen: Uh, it should be Thursday in two weeks, but I’ll get back to you if it changes. Viktor: Cool :) Helen: I hope I’ll see you there. Viktor: I hope I'll be there! Viktor: s ee you tomorrow! Helen: See you then. The Fam 3:43 PM Diego: We’re outta detention and Lila just punched Henry 🫡 Diego sent a photo. Allison: Five will be very pissed now that you have revealed this information Luther: Holy crap he actually has a black eye Allison: I love Lila just standing over his with he middle finger Diego: She said "STAY AWAY FROM FIVE" and then kicked him in the balls Ben: This picture feels like evidence of a murder I mean I don’t know if I can add this to my camera roll but I really want to Diego: We’re in Lila’s car we’re coming back Allison: hurry we wanna play Just dance and Lila Sloane and Dave can’t stay for that late tonight Diego: Oh yeah sure I guess I’ll just SPEED UP THE CAR THEN makes sense Allison: Okay okay I get it jeez 🙄 Klaus and Five 10:49 PM Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Klaus: hey Five: What do you want? Klaus: are you up? Five: No, I’m sleep-texting. Klaus: okay jeez no need to get so sarcastic 🙄 Klaus: So did you hear that Lila actually punched that kid Five: Yes. Klaus: okkkkkkk just seeing if you knew Klaus: Because Diego sent a picture to the groupchat but you didn’t respond so Klaus sent a photo. Klaus: He has a black eye :3 Five: I can see that. Klaus: damn snappy alright Klaus: hey are you ok? You were kinda quiet on the bus home and at dinner Five: Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay? Klaus: idk maybe it was the fact u literally got bullied today Five: I’m in my sixties, I don’t get “bullied”. Klaus: someone said you were an attention seeker and made you feel like you had to kick them in the shins and then run away Five: I didn’t “run away”. Klaus: you sure you're okay? Five: I’m fine. Klaus: ok bud Klaus: wanna stay up until 1am and sneak choco ice cream from the freezer Five: We have school tomorrow. Klaus: i dont. Care?? Five: … Five: Okay. Sure. Klaus: and perhanps we can also talk?? About ur life?? And how u are most definetly not fine??? Five: That won't be happening. Klaus: sure it wont Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Oh,” Ventress purred. “Could it be? The Jedi doesn’t know?” She laughed, and Luke forced himself to take a deep breath. The world around him seemed to sharpen, coming into crystal focus as he reached for the Force. Ventress was before him in an instant, the glowing red blade of her ‘saber a hair’s breadth from his neck. “Try it,” she sneered. “My Master will understand if I tell him you were killed trying to escape. It wouldn’t even be a falsehood.” Slowly, Luke raised his hands, showing clearly his lack of weapon, but he did not breathe until Ventress stepped back, lowering her ‘saber from his neck to point down the hall, back the way they came. Luke had no weapon; he could likely grab Ventress’s second saber with ease, but he had used Sith ‘sabers in the past and found the experience...unpleasant, to say the least. Assuming, also, that Ventress wasn’t strong enough to stop him. He could try for the ship, but even if he managed to reach the ship unharmed, there was no telling what sort of traps were waiting for him, and that was not something he wished to attempt in a ship designed to be piloted by more than one with the enemy alert to his attempts to escape. (It wasn’t the first time he’d been in that situation, mind, but they had all been unavoidable). Besides, if he ran, he’d never find out who this “other” was. Was it another Jedi? Another here, who did not belong? “Well,” Luke said. “When you put it like that.” * Anakin sat in the pilot’s seat, staring out into the streaking vortex of hyperspace. Seven hours into a thirty-seven hour flight and he should have been sleeping, but he couldn’t sleep. There wasn’t enough room on the ship for a moving meditation, and he never had gotten the hang of sitting still. Staring out into the void is like meditation, he thought to himself, and the voice in his head that sounded the most like Obi-Wan just snickered. Figured; Obi-Wan wasn’t even there, and Anakin was getting a lecture. He flexed his hand, listening to the servos whirring as he first extended his fingers and then clenched his fist. They were near-whisper quiet, and muffled further by the glove he wore, but they still echoed loudly in his ears; Healer Che had said it was because it was attached to him, that the vibrations were echoing through his own body. It actually was louder to him. Maybe he should let that problem rest for now: it never seemed to bother Padme. Padme. Stars , he missed his wife; he missed the smell of her hair like spring flowers, the softness of her skin like warm silk. He missed the way she laughed and everyone laughed with her, and the way her smile brightened the room. What would she think of Luke? She married a man with no family, after all, what would she think about him gaining a--an uncle? Who was he kidding, Padme would love Luke. Anakin hadn’t spent much time with him, but Luke seemed to have the same kind heart, the same patience and warm humor. They would, get him back. Anakin was still there, circling in thoughts of his wife, when the door behind him opened and Ahsoka walked in, yawning and sitting heavily in the passenger seat. “You’re up late, Snips,” Anakin said, keeping his face towards the view screen. Still, out of the corner of his eye he saw Ahsoka stick out her tongue at him, the gesture playful, and he turned to look at her. Togruta didn’t show tiredness the same way humans did--there were no dark circles under her eyes, her face didn’t have that tell-tale pallor, but her posture was slumped and she rested heavily against the seat back as she looked out at something only she could see with her eyes only halfway open. “You look exhausted.” “That’s because I am exhausted,” Ahsoka said. “I couldn’t sleep in my fighter on the way back; too much to do.” Anakin winced, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Ahsoka smiled at him, but it was interrupted by another jaw-cracking yawn. “Go to bed, Snips,” Anakin said. “You’re going to need to be well rested.” “I will, I will,” Ahsoka protested. “But I heard Master Obi-Wan talking to Master Plo, and he said we’re going after another Jedi named Skywalker?” “And you wanted the details,” Anakin said. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Ahsoka said, and Anakin turned to her in surprise. “Family’s a touchy subject for you, Skyguy, and I thought this one might hit a little close to home.” Anakin continued to stare, incredulous, and Ahsoka shifted in her seat. “And I wanted the details,” she added in a rush. There it is, Anakin thought, Ahsoka’s youthful exuberance giving him a foothold to regain his balance. It always threw him when he was confronted by Ahsoka’s compassion; it was humbling, and Anakin wasn’t convinced she had learned it from him. “We found him in our last refugee evacuation,” Anakin began. “When Obi-Wan saw him catch a crashing clanker ship like it was pushfeather.” Ahsoka’s eyes went wide, all signs of exhaustion fading. “That’s not easy.” Anakin shook his head, and told her the rest; finding him on board, the revelation of his name, and his relation to Anakin, his status as a Jedi Master, no matter what he called himself. “He says he knows Yoda, and learned from him directly,” Anakin said. Ahsoka frowned. “I thought Yoda’s last Padawan was Dooku,” she said. Anakin shrugged. “So did we, but there must be something to it--it would certainly explain why Dooku came for him, how he knows Luke exists.” Ahsoka bit her lip as she thought--it was a tell Anakin was still trying to rid her of, but before he could say anything, she shook her head. “I don’t think we have all the pieces. Something’s not adding up right, and I don’t know what it is.” Anakin looked at her in surprise; it seemed straightforward enough to him. But, then again, seeing the bigger picture from the details had never been his strength unless he was looking at technical readouts. People had always been Obi-Wan’s strength. In fact, “You sound like Obi-Wan,” he said. Ahsoka preened, “Thank you,” she said, and was caught off guard by another yawn, and left blinking sleep away, vaguely stunned. “Go to bed, Ahsoka,” Anakin said, gently this time. “I don’t want you emulating Obi-Wan in your sleep habits, too.” Ahsoka giggled, a sign of just how tired she was. Normally, Obi-Wan’s short nights were a cause for concern, but with Rex on board to play Cody for the night, Anakin was sure Obi-Wan would get some sort of rest. “Your questions will still be there in the morning.” “Fine,” Ahsoka said though a sigh, and heaved herself to her feet. “But only if you get some rest, too.” “Wolfe’s relieving me in twenty,” Anakin said. “I’ll be fine.” Ahsoka pointed two fingers at him. “You better,” she said, and walked from the cockpit still yawning. When the door closed, Anakin covered his mouth with his metal hand as he yawned so wide his jaw ached. “Damnit, Snips.” * Luke was in a new cell, this time, one with restraints bolted to the floor. Ventress had secured him, ankles and wrists, while Luke stood as still as he could. The Darkness rolled off Ventress in waves, but there was something different about it, something less like Palpatine and more like Vader. It was enough to give Luke an idea. He had let Ventress finish securing him, certain that, if he concentrated, he could free himself once more. If anything, the bonds were overkill, and Luke was pretty sure Ventress at least suspected as much. Still, Luke was also sure that this Dooku wouldn’t be kind to Ventress if she let Luke escape again. He shouldn’t care, whispered the old bitter voice that had been his companion all his life. She was of the dark, and whatever punishment she got would be her just rewards. Yet--yet, she paced outside of his cage, like a wild predator confined and anxious rather than collected and hunting. She would not leave until Dooku called for her or Luke or both, and it was the opening Luke needed. “Why the Dark, Ventress?” Luke asked. From across the room, Luke saw Qui-Gon lift his head from where it had been bent in thought or meditation, and met his eyes when Qui-Gon watched him, inscrutable. Ventress’s footsteps didn’t break pace, but Luke heard her snort. “Why does anyone?” Ventress said. “For power.” Luke titled his head, considering her words. “So everyone says,” he began slowly, talking to Qui-Gon as much as to Ventress. “But it never made much sense to me: if you desire power, why enslave yourself to the Dark.” Ventress spun, her lightsaber out and lit, crackling against the force field, sending sparks big enough that Luke leaned back. “Silence!” Ventress cried. Luke raised his eyebrow, not saying anything, and Ventress growled, nearly feral, and slashed at the door one, twice, three more times. Each pass sent a rain of sparks, but Luke did not flinch from them again. Ventress stood, chest heaving, breath heavily through her nose, and after a moment she grit out: “I will not listen to your lies.” Luke shrugged, as if it meant nothing to him. “If you’re certain I’m lying,” he said, as if they had been discussing nothing more than the weather. “It’s just...” he trailed off, and Ventress leaned in, her ‘saber humming dangerously over the steady whine from the door. “Just. What.” “I am from Tatooine, Ventress,” Luke said, finally looking up to meet her eyes. They burned like binary suns. “I recognize slavery when I see it.” Ventress snarled, and jerked like she would slash with her ‘saber again, but the strike never came. “I am no one’s slave!” Luke stared back, placid. “Yet, you must obey your master.” Now, Ventress did let loose, with a howl of fury like an omen of death, and Luke watched the storm and felt his heart ache. “You know nothing!” Ventress spat. “You know nothing of power, and nothing of the Dark.” She spun, her skirts flaring, and disappeared down the hallway. Luke allowed himself to slump, covering his face with his hands. His metal hand was cold, it usually was and the castle had no heating system that Luke could fathom. More worrying, his flesh hand was cold, white and waxy looking, and Luke shivered as he pressed it inside the neck of his tunics as best he could. Luke had spent twice as long in space as on Tatooine, and still he had yet to adjust to non-desert temperatures. “Why antagonize her,” Qui-Gon asked, and Luke looked up at him. “I told her nothing that was not true,” Luke said. “There are truths and there are truths,” Qui-Gon said, and Luke sighed, rolling his eyes. “Lies of omission are still lies,” Luke said. “And twisting the truth to suit one’s needs has never sat well with me.” Luke closed his eyes and focused on the cuffs. They were far sturdier than the ones before, and with four of them, it would take Luke quite some time to free himself. He held his chagrin inside--perhaps he shouldn’t have been so complacent when Ventress locked him up. Still, Luke opened his eyes to Qui-Gon’s frankly disapproving look. “What?” Qui-Gon shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that you’re Obi-Wan’s padawan. You’d be a terrible negotiator, with an attitude like that.” Luke snorted. “Leia’s the diplomat,” he said. “I’m just a pilot.” Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile, and Luke frowned. “What is it?” he asked. “I see it now,” Qui-Gon said. “The resemblance to your father. You’re much more like your mother.” Luke blinked at him, startled. Even in his own time, nobody ever compared him to Padmé--Leia, the senator with a passion for Justice, she was often compared to their mother, to Leia’s pleasure. (“She was a friend of my father’s” she had said, meaning Bail as she always did, “and I based many of my early forays into politics on her. She was my inspiration. To learn that she was my mother ...” She had trailed off in wonder. Luke had slid his arm around her shoulder, knowing why it was easier for her to accept Padmé as her mother, but not Anakin as her father, and feeling the sting of it, regardless). “You knew her?” he asked, settling back to the floor, and Qui-Gon nodded. “When she was a young queen, no more than fourteen,” he said. “I was the Jedi sent to manage negotiations with the Trade Federation, along with Obi-Wan, my Padawan still. She impressed me as a quite capable leader, despite her youth, and cunning--it took me longer than usual to realize that ‘handmaiden Padmé’ was, in truth, the Queen Amidala.” Qui-Gon’s gaze turned distant. “She’s a good match for Anakin,” he said. “She keeps him even.” Like Han for Leia, Luke though, and wondered, sadly, if that was still true. It had been years since he’d spoken with either of them, stuck as he was on Ahch-to, and things had been deeply troubled when he had left. Luke missed them both dearly, his ache for his twin’s presence twisting his heart for a deep moment, before he could breathe again. * Obi-Wan knelt in his rooms, the lights dimmed to fifty percent, and tried yet again to reach a state of meditative peace--and again, he failed to do so. It happened, from time to time--more in his youth, less as he had aged--but sometimes Obi-Wan’s mind refused to quiet, his anchor in the Force rocked and hard to reach. It had frustrated him to anger as an Initiate, and had frustrated Qui-Gon just as much when Obi-Wan was a Padawan, until they fell on a solution: Obi-Wan never had trouble after lightsaber practice. So, when his mind wouldn’t still, Obi-Wan would work his body until it would still his mind for him, and he could sink into a tired peace. It helped a great deal when Anakin was young, as well, and to this day, Obi-Wan was sure Anakin couldn’t meditate without movement. But the ship was too small to spar, especially as full as it was, and so here Obi-Wan was, still unable to meditate and musing on his former Padawan instead of getting some well-deserved rest. Obi-Wan sighed, and tried once more--slowing his breathing and humming the mantra they used to train the younglings... It was the blasted paternity test Kix had shown him that was throwing him off--Luke Skywalker son of Anakin Skywalker--and Obi-Wan was the only one on board who knew. Luke must have known--to not know the name of one’s father was not unknown to those in the Jedi Order, but Luke had looked at Anakin with a depth of pain that came not only from knowledge, but the danger that knowledge entailed. No, Luke knew who Anakin was, and for reasons of his own, was keeping that secret. (And yet, Luke never outright lied, of that Obi-Wan was sure. He was less sure that Luke wouldn’t simply tell the truth if asked outright). Thoughts of Anakin rolled through his head once more, and Obi-Wan sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. The question of telling Anakin had been pressing on him since he learned the truth, and he was still no closer to an answer. He was sure he could work it through, if only he could meditate--but he couldn’t meditate until he had resolved on a path of action. It was a frustrating cycle, and Obi-Wan scrubbed both hands through his hair, a tell of stress that he hadn’t indulged since his hair was still padawan-short. Should Anakin know they were going to rescue his son, as impossible as that seemed? Or should Obi-Wan allow him to continue thinking of Luke as simply a more distant relation? Obi-Wan simply didn’t know. When his com beeped the proximity alarm, Obi-Wan stood and tried to set the whole issue aside. With no decision, it was best to carry on as he had--if he was to tell Anakin, the opportunity would present itself as the Force willed it. Obi-Wan would simply have to have faith in the Force. Resolved, Obi-Wan brushed a hand over his tunics and went to join the others. They were coming up on Dooku’s stronghold--he would need all of his focus if they were to survive the next few hours. * Luke had barely worked through half of the first cuff when Ventress returned, her anger banked to embers. She opened the cell door and stepped through, pinning Luke with a superior sneer. “My Master has returned, and has...requested your presence.” She gestured, and a team of battle droids stepped forward to undo his restraints. Once he was standing free, Ventress leaned in, her sharp teeth stopping mere centimeters from the end of Luke’s nose. “I will enjoy watching you lose, Jedi, ” she said, and Luke wondered if maybe he hadn't miscalculated. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text BATMAN TRIUMPHANT EXTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-EARLY MORNING EARTHQUAKE! Birds scatter into the air. Everything not bolted down is rattling and/or falling over. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-MASTER BEDROOM-EARLY MORNING The shadows from the birds outside rush across BRUCE WAYNE. His room, shaking. His house, shaking. The man struggles to his feet. Years of assorted training have him prepared for unstable ground. His belongings, however, have not had such training. CLANG! BASH! Bruce makes it to his window. He looks on his property. Then beyond to Gotham City. The earthquake finally subsides. BRUCE Guess I can sleep tomorrow. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-TV ROOM-DAY All sorts of belongings have fallen over. The manor is in general disarray. TIM DRAKE comes around a corner, confused, to find ALFRED PENNYWORTH just now starting to pick everything up. TIM What the hell happened? BARBARA Earthquake. BARBARA WILSON comes walking past Tim from behind. She heads for the couch. TIM On the east coast? ALFRED New York had an earthquake back in 1944. Barbara plops down on the couch and turns the news on. TIM I guess we were over do for one then. BRUCE No, we were not. Everyone looks at the stairs to see Bruce making his way down to the first floor. BRUCE Gotham City isn’t anywhere near any known fault lines. And that felt like damn near a 7.6 so I doubt we weren’t in the middle of it. The TV is on mute, but the bottom is showing information as someone talks. Barbara sees “7.8” run across the screen. BARBARA It was 7.8, actually. (she looks back at him) It was still a good guess. Bruce, Tim, and Alfred pay attention to the news. Barbara spins back around to watch. The TV is on mute. The news cuts to live footage from the streets of Gotham. Fires have started. One bit of footage shows a small shop with a broken display window in the front. It the suddenly pans over to a much taller corporate building in the distance as it starts to collapse. ALFRED (covering his mouth with his hand) Oh dear. Everyone watches this occur. Bruce appears almost hurt. TIM Are you still going into work, Bruce? EXTERIOR: ABOVE GOTHAM-DAY A Wayne Enterprises helicopter heads above the wrecked city. Bruce is looking at the city as he talks into his headset. BRUCE Every Wayne Enterprises building should be well above seismic code. I don’t want anyone working, but if their worksite is safer than their homes, we will absolutely become accommodating. Bruce is quiet while he listens to the person over the headset. BRUCE No. I’ll be in in just a few more minutes. Keep the board members there. He listens again. BRUCE Wayne tower is the safest place in the city! A weird screech comes over the headset. Bruce yanks it from his head as the noise is unbearable. BRUCE What the hell? HELICOPTER PILOT You lost the signal. (he taps his own headset) I can’t get ground control either. (pointing down at Gotham) It’s happening again. Bruce looks back down at his hurting city. Some apartment blocks are on fire. Emergency lights are dancing all around. Another large building collapses. Bruce is forced to watch. INTERIOR: WAYNE TOWER-BOARD ROOM Bruce Wayne hasn’t even bothered to sit. He stands as he addresses the seated board members. BRUCE I could see from the air that the northern part of the city seems to have taken the brunt of the damage from these quakes. The apartments along Wilshire Park were already on their way to charred memories. We can have state relief forces stationed in our automotive factories in Old York Town. And hope the southern areas remain untouched. BOARD MEMBER What kind of financial loses are we facing if we close down our factories? The other board members give this one a knowing and worried look. Bruce Wayne looks to this person. BRUCE If you would like to withdraw every red cent of your money from my company and go invest in someone else’s, you can feel free. I’m sure you’ll find most other Gotham businesses currently crumbling to the ground. Literally. I don’t put profit above human lives. If you do, there’s the door. Bruce points to the door. The man does not get up. The board members shuffle their paperwork awkwardly. BRUCE Okay then. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-DAY ARKHAM ASYLUM sits on the cliff edge of an island resting in the middle of Gotham Bay. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-CORRIDOR-DAY Workers are putting the finishing touches on straightening up. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-THERAPISTS OFFICE-DAY DR. HARLEEN QUINZEL sits in her chair, looking over the notes of the patient sitting across from her. Most everything in her office has been taken off of shelves and placed on the floor. Her desk is almost completely barren with the exception of a closed laptop and two photos that are lying face-down. DR. QUINZEL Now, I don’t want to waste too much time talking about the earthquake. I feel like in our last session we made some real headway. (she looks to the person across from her) Do you remember what we talked about toward the end of our last session? Sitting across from her is PAMELA ISLEY, shoulders slouched, legs crossed, relaxed. She wears the standard ARKHAM orange jumpsuit. PAMELA Yes. We got into my obsession with plants prior to my incident. DR. QUINZEL “Traumatic life event”, Pamela. You don’t have to downplay it. You almost died. Pamela shows appreciation at that acknowledgement. PAMELA Thank you. But my obsession … I’m coming to terms with the fact that I really started concerning myself with plants as early as Sophomore year in high school. I would befriend plants to avoid human interaction. DR. QUINZEL And that’s where we left off. Off the cuff, anything to add or do you want me to fire some questions your way? PAMELA I think I would prefer it if you never use the phrase “fire some questions” around me again. Is that how you talk to your other “high profile” clients? Harleen releases a brief chuckle. She swallows the rest. PAMELA I’m not changing the subject to avoid talking about my problems, by the way. DR. QUINZEL I’m sorry, Pamela. Two earthquakes in one morning were a bit much for me. Pamela looks to Harleen’s desk. PAMELA You have your gymnast photos down. Harleen looks back at her desk. She rolls her eyes at herself and sets the pictures back up. Pamela looks around the room as Harleen has her back turned to her. PAMELA You haven’t set anything back up. Harleen turns back around to look to Pamela. Pamela turns her gaze to Harleen. DR. QUINZEL You said you weren’t avoiding talking about something. Prove it. PAMELA (through a grin) It’s pretty obvious that my love of plants and my disdain for people didn’t stem from environmental reasons. I was just awkward as an adolescent and I became obsessed. Harleen seems pleased that Pamela is finally coming to terms with everything that has led her to her current lot in life. PAMELA The question now is … does realizing this change anything? Pamela looks to Harleen with a look of genuine worry and concern. DR. QUINZEL That’s really up to you, Pamela. Pamela sits there in quiet contemplation. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-CHOW HALL-DAY The patients travel through the chow line before filtering into the seating area. Armed guards watch from overhead. JONATHAN CRANE is seated at one of the circular dining tables, alone. He pokes at his food with his utensils. He scans the room. He used to treat these people; he does not want to socialize with them. A body sits at his table. This brings an enjoyable expression to Crane’s face. JERVIS TETCH takes his seat and lays his tray of food down. TETCH Ah. My friend in science. CRANE I was worried you’d ended up in confinement again. TETCH Oh no. Being alone with my own thoughts doesn’t worry me. Missing tea time, though. With you. Never. CRANE It’s just lunch, Jervis. You gotta drop the schtick. TETCH Schtick? No, my field-post bound friend. As a matter of fact, if I ever got a chance to do it all again… Tetch gets cut off by Crane. CRANE Again? TETCH You wouldn’t want another go at it? Going after that city and those people living in it. (he lifts an eyebrow) The people of Gotham locked us away in here? Because they’re AFRAID of us. This gets Crane’s attention. TETCH You know I’m right. CRANE (coming back to his senses) And for good reason. INTERIOR: WAYNE ENTERPRISES-BRUCE WAYNE’S PRIVATE OFFICE-LATE DAY Bruce is at his desk, in solitude. Doors shut. Outside his office windows, the sun is working its way toward the horizon. Bruce looks over information concerning the earthquake on a 3D rendering of Gotham. It shows a spike of something underneath the city, approaching the surface. The Billionaire leans back in his chair. He’s waiting; waiting for the night. The phone rings. Bruce hits the answer button built into his desk, then stands to walk to the window. The voice of DICK GRAYSON is heard through the room sound system. DICK (over the pa) Bruce. You must be chomping at the bit. BRUCE (looking out at his city) I am, Dick. A brief sparkle of reflected light is seen from a building a few blocks away and shorter than Wayne Tower. Bruce notices, but doesn’t look just yet. BRUCE I saw Bludhaven barely got anything at all. I’m thankful for that. Bruce reaches down for a control pad and hits a button. DICK We were lucky. EXTERIOR: WAYNE TOWER-LATE DAY The windows for Bruce Wayne’s office go from heavily tinted, to completely black. INTERIOR: WAYNE ENTERPRISES-BRUCE WAYNE’S PRIVATE OFFICE-LATE DAY Bruce is now looking toward where he saw that brief glimmer of light. He spots no movement. DICK (over the pa) I’ll be in Gotham tonight, Bruce. Just so you know. BRUCE Good. I have something I’d like to discuss in person. DICK (over the pa) …Okay. Should I be worried? EXTERIOR: WAYNE TOWER-THROUGH BINOCULARS Binoculars are trained on the now blackened windows of Bruce Wayne’s private office. INTERIOR: WAYNE ENTERPRISES-BRUCE WAYNE’S PRIVATE OFFICE-LATE DAY Bruce stands there, hoping to see something. BRUCE You should always be worried. DICK Right, Bruce. But is it serious? BRUCE Yeah, I think it’s serious. DICK (over the pa) You alright? You rarely seem elsewhere when we talk. … Okay, that’s a lie. You’re often focused on several things at once. BRUCE Honestly, I think I’m being watched. DICK (over the pa) As Bruce Wayne? BRUCE Yeah. Bruce still sees no movement. DICK You got any input on that? BRUCE No. Not yet. (waits a beat) I’ll see you tonight, Dick. Bruce turns off the call and heads for the door. EXTERIOR: WAYNE TOWER-THROUGH BINOCULARS The binoculars are on a different setting. They stay trained on the building. Bruce’s heat signature is barely present through the wall as it drifts further and then disappears completely. EXTERIOR: ROOF TOP-LATE DAY The binoculars lower revealing the mask of the RED HOOD. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREETS-NIGHT A metal barrel rests on the sidewalk. The insides are aflame. Fire is reaching toward the night sky. Sirens can be heard all around. The BAT SIGNAL shines into the sky. A vandal wearing gloves suddenly picks the barrel up. The vandal tosses it into the front window of a business. Looting is carrying on all over. People are grabbing and going. The vandal reaches into the shop and starts grabbing any small electronics that they can hold. This person turns around and finds Robin standing right beside them. The rest of the looters are making a run for it. The vandal smiles, places all the stuff back down inside the store front, and then runs off. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREETS-NIGHT Fire trucks race by them. An older couple gets surrounded by neon paint covered gang members. Batgirl drops own. She starts taking out the gang members. Robin jumps in to assist. The older couple goes from scared to impressed. The villains run off. Noise gets louder. Batgirl and Robin look to see fire trucks desperately trying to put out the fire in the lower levels of a five-story apartment building. A man has his top half hanging out the window on the top story. An aftershock shakes the ground. The man gets incredibly worried and pulls himself back inside his apartment. Robin and Batgirl struggle to keep their balance on the sidewalk. The building façade begins to crumble as the aftershock ceases. Robin and Batgirl both go wide-eyed as the whole building begins to collapse. EXTERIOR: COLLAPSING APARTMENT BUILDING-ROOFTOP-NIGHT A series of small explosions happens on the roof. INTERIOR: COLLAPSING APARTMENT-NIGHT The ceiling explodes. Batman drops in. The man inside is already beyond frightened. Batman grabs him and causes them to both run for the nearest window. Batman pulls up his grapnel gun. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREETS-NIGHT Batman and the man come leaping from the window. Batman fires his grapple line and him and the man comes down to the streets of Gotham safely as the building collapses behind them leaving nothing but support posts and rubble. The man looks to Batman. MAN Thank you. I’m gonna go have a heart attack. First responders take the man from Batman, give him some oxygen, then put him in the back of an ambulance. The ground shakes again. Batgirl and Robin come over to Batman. ROBIN Are these just aftershocks? BATMAN Yes. The main quakes should be over by now. Should be. BATGIRL Well, don’t sound so sure. An explosion is heard way off in the distance. The three heroes turn in its general direction to listen, but the noise of the city is preventing them from zeroing in. A voice comes across a nearby police officer’s radio. VOICE (over radio) Reports of a 10-80 on Arkham Island. ROBIN Explosion was at Arkham. BATMAN Let’s move. A large black helicopter comes hovering above the three vigilantes. Batgirl looks up at the flying vehicle. BATGIRL The Batcopter. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The back corner of Arkham Asylum has been completely blown apart. Flames reach into the night sky. Tons of inmates are making a run for the bridge as the crazier inmates just sort of mill around the area like zombies. The Batcopter comes flying overhead. It begins to circle the perimeter of the island. INTERIOR: BATCOPTER-COCKPIT The three heroes look down at the madness carrying on down below. BATMAN We’ve got to keep as many of the quicker ones on the island as we can until Gotham P.D. gets here. Robin is looking at the asylum itself and the massive gaping hole. ROBIN What the hell happened to the Asylum? BATMAN I’m going to assume it’s related to the quake until I see proof leading elsewhere. We ready? BATGIRL Yep! Batman pulls a lever. EXTERIOR: SKY ABOVE ARKHAM-BATCOPTER-NIGHT The three heroes eject from the bottom of the helicopter and glide downward using their capes. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-CORRIDOR-NIGHT A group of inmates are struggling to get into Harleen Quinzel’s office as excited yelling and all other kinds of noise echoes throughout the asylum. The door gives in. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-THERAPISTS OFFICE-NIGHT The men rush into the room. They start smashing and breaking everything that they can get their hands on. INMATE 1 The blonde ain’t in here! INMATE 2 It’s nighttime, asshole. She’s at home! INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-CORRIDOR-NIGHT Harleen peaks from around a corner, looking at her office. She can hear things getting smashed. This does not please her. DR. QUINZEL I should be at home. Of all the goddamn days to stay late. She makes her way down the corridor, moving away from her office as quickly and as quietly as possible. She suddenly hears a scream coming from an intersecting corridor. Harleen crouches down against the wall as an inmate screams out and goes running into the open area. RED HOOD calmly raises one of his two pistols and guns the inmate down before it has a chance to attack him. Harleen keeps her eyes on the fallen inmate as she gets nearer to the intersection of corridors. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-LARGER CORRIDOR-NIGHT Harleen watches as Red Hood nonchalantly walks down the corridor, spinning his pistols on both trigger fingers. Another inmate goes running at him, Red Hood guns that one down too and then disappears around the corner. Harleen gets to her feet and looks around for her best means of escape. A female hand goes over her mouth, startling her. Harleen turns her head to find Pamela Isley. Pamela signals for Dr. Quinzel to calm down. PAMELA We need to get out of here. Harleen Quinzel is clearly out of her element. PAMELA I can get us out if you have a place to go. Do you trust me? Harleen Quinzel doesn’t look like she is sure about the answer to that question. Down the corridor, she sees a box of her belongings get thrown out of her room. She is reminded of the crazed people in her office. Harleen looks to Pamela. DR. QUINZEL Yeah, I have a place to go. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT Jonathan Crane makes his way out of the asylum near where the explosion took place. Raging flames are behind him. The bat signal is in the air. The scientist looks out toward the bridge and sees Batman, Robin, and Batgirl fighting off the more physical patients. Near him, Jervis Tetch is making his way to the small boars near the docks. He spots Crane. TETCH Dr. Crane?! Dr. Crane??!! Jonathan Crane looks to see Tetch. TETCH (waving his arms) Jonathan!! Tetch points toward the small row boats. Crane appears unsure. TETCH You gonna stay here? Tetch points toward where the heroes are pummeling those trying to fight them off. The Gotham police are beginning to arrive on the island. Crane seems frozen. TETCH Come on, friend! Tetch reaches his hand out to Crane. Crane heads off with Tetch toward the boats. INTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-PRIVATE CELL The door opens, letting light into the room. A very scrawny man squints at the bright light. Red Hood stands in the entry. He tosses a weird suit with tubing onto the cell floor. The scrawny guy gives this weird contraption a weird look. RED HOOD That was in the “Criminal Property Locker”. Red Hood tosses in a vial of off-green liquid. RED HOOD That’s something special that I brought from home. The scrawny man’s eyes go wide. RED HOOD You’ll need this. Red Hood tosses the luchador mask onto the floor, then walks away. The scrawny man rushes to what has been left for him. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The cops are now assisting. Robin and a group of police officers help tackle a crazed inmate to the ground. Batgirl is assisting the Arkham staff to get to safety. Batman stands in front of a cop car, speaking with Gordon. GORDON Any super criminals? BATMAN Not yet. Just the normal riff-raff. GORDON (looking at the damaged asylum) Any ideas? Batman looks to the flaming building. BATMAN With the quakes, not sure. GORDON Gas leak? BATMAN I won’t be able to know for sure until the fire department gets here to put all of this out. GORDON You can’t do anything with that helicopter of yours? Batman thinks on that for a moment. BATMAN That’s not a bad idea, Jim. An area of the asylum begins to collapse near where the fire is. Batman and Gordon look toward the damage. GORDON That wasn’t another quake. Structural damage? The section of Arkham comes to rest on the ground. It then begins to waver up and down for a moment. Batman pays notice to this. A large section of the now collapsed section of the asylum begins to raise up. Loud growling and grunting are heard as BANE lifts up a massive section of the building and drops it down behind him. Gordon goes wide-eyed. Batgirl and Robin can both be seen freezing in their tracks. BATGIRL (loudly to Batman) Him again? ROBIN Again?? Bane yells out as he lumbers toward where everyone has congregated near the bridge. As Bane works his way toward them, he yells out in pain as his body just keeps growing and growing. GORDON Why the hell were they even keeping him here? BATMAN Nowhere else would take him. Batgirl and Robin get near Batman, waiting for his cue. Bane gets nearer and nearer. He eventually ends up about twice the size he usually is as Bane. Gordon is now also waiting impatiently for Batman to attack. Bane reaches the open area and turns two cop cars over, struggling a bit toward the end of his move. Batman has now seen him struggle with a certain weight limit. BATMAN Now! The three vigilantes rush Bane. Robin reaches the goliath and kicks at his right knee, Batgirl the left. Bane loses his footing slightly. Batman jumps from the hood of a parked car and punches Bane in the face. The brute loses his balance. Robin grabs a metal rod that has a “No parking” sign barely attached to it. Robin pulls off the sign and goes at Bane with the rod. Bane is not as shaken up as Robin thought. The brute grabs Robin with his left hand, spins around, and slams the Boy Wonder into the ground. Batgirls on her feet. She runs at Bane and tosses a bolo around his legs. Bane spreads his legs apart, snapping through the line, surprising Batgirl. He backhands the woman away. She flies back a few feet, then hits the ground and rolls for a few feet more. Bane spins around to face Batman, but finds nothing. He jerks his head from one direction to another, trying to spot The Dark Knight. Away from them a few cops go to aim at Bane. Gordon motions for them to stand down. Batman comes up onto one of the cop cars that is now turned on its side as Bane continues his brutish search a few meters away. Batman leaps down and sprints toward Bane; he pulls out a batarang. Bane hears The Batman rushing him. The Caped Crusader leaps up onto another parked car. Bane turns to face him. Batman leaps into the air doing a front flip over Bane. He throws his batarang into the back of Bane’s venom tube, right where it meets the back of his head. With lightning speed, Bane grabs hold of Batman before he can make his landing. The Venom is spraying out from the back of Banes head. The massive villain is still yelling out. Without warning, Bane manages to lift Batman into the air; the Dark Knight finds himself facing the night sky. Bane manages to somehow bellow out even louder than before and brings Batman down toward his now raised knee. Small explosions abruptly occur all across the right side of Bane’s body. Batman gets dropped to the ground. He catches a glimpse of Nightwing coming through the haze of the explosions to land a punch on Bane’s jaw. Bane roars out in pain. Robin and Batgirl are back on their feet as the four heroes surround Bane. NIGHTWING (to Batgirl) Him again? Robin hears this and again gives an inquisitive look. Batman can see Bane getting angrier and angrier. He is still motioning for everyone to keep their distance. The last of the venom starts to spittle out from the back of his head tubing. Bane yells toward the heavens. The yell morphs into an almost whining noise as he shrinks back down into a scrawny man in an oversized luchador mask. He falls silent, laying there alone. Robin is VERY CONFUSED by pretty much all of what he just witnessed. He looks to Nightwing. ROBIN Again? NIGHTWING Yeah, I mean … (he motions to Batman) We fought him before. (he motions to Batgirl) … We fought him before too … Batman approaches the now unconscious villain. Barbara watches this occur. NIGHTWING … But he was like … I mean, he was like body builder big … but he was a normal sized guy. (motions at the fallen villain) Not like this. I don’t know what this was. Batman pulls the luchador mask off of the unconscious man. He motions to get Robin’s attention. BATMAN Antonio Diego. He got done up like this down in South America by some weirdo employed by Wayne Enterprises. Batman crouches down to collect some of the venom into a small vial. BATMAN This growth steroid is pumped through his circulatory system. Batman puts the vial away on his toolbelt. BATMAN And directly into his cranium. Batman reaches down and yanks his batarang out from the back of Bane’s head nozzle. NIGHTWING Yeah, you don’t want to leave any evidence, Bruce. Batman shoots Nightwing a droll expression. The sirens of fire trucks are finally heard. The Bat Family all turns to see the GCPD waving the fire trucks through. Batman seems anxious. He looks to Jim Gordon. BATMAN Jim?! You got this?! GORDON (with confidence) We got this! BATMAN (to his team) We need to get back to the cave. The Batcopter can be heard hovering overhead. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE The Batcave is monstrously huge. The Batcopter comes hovering in through a tunnel that enters the Batcave. As the vehicle rotates to land on its landing platform Batman, Robin, and Batgirl all eject from the bottom and go gliding toward the center area of the cave. INTERIOR: BATCOPTER-COCKPIT Nightwing, without cape, sits in the Batcopter with a less than pleased look as he patiently waits for the craft to land. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-LANDING PLATFORM As Nightwing climbs out of the vehicle’s cockpit the entire Bat cave can be seen. From left to right there is an entry area where the costume chambers are located, a massive three-story training area, a main central computer area, the trophy platform where Bruce’s trinkets are kept, and then finally the forensics’ lab. Right in the middle of all this is the BATMOBILE, on a spinning platform, parked near the computer, poised for adventure. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-BATMOBILE PLATFORM Nightwing checks out the trophy area, seeing mostly the brachiosaurus and giant penny. He smiles to himself. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA Batman and Batgirl are at the computer monitors with Robin and Alfred standing beside them. The computer has one large monitor and then three more along each side. Nightwing approaches Robin, Robin smirks. NIGHTWING You all suck. BATGIRL You need a cape. NIGHTWING I got the underarm things. Nightwing moves his arms in a certain way and flaps appear between his arms and torso. NIGHTWING Just can’t glide from that height, really. I’m not wearing a cape. That’s a Gotham thing. ALFRED But you are in Gotham, Master Grayson. Nightwing thinks about that for a second. The graph from Bruce’s office computer appears on the large monitor. BATMAN This is the cause of the earthquakes this morning. It’s a spike of pressure coming from where the Earth’s crust meets the mantle. A display shows the layers of the earth. NIGHTWING Cool graph. What’s it a pressure spike of? BATMAN It is a liquid commonly referred to as Lazarus. Alfred’s eyes go a bit wide. Bruce and him share a look of pain. BATMAN And without getting into the science of it, this fluid can be used for its healing properties if bathed in. NIGHTWING Just gonna skip the science, huh? BATMAN It’s been used secretly in certain parts of the world as a way to retain youth. And it is working its way up to the surface of Gotham. It will most likely breach under the bay. BATGIRL And if that happens? BATMAN I’m less worried about the effect the Lazarus will have and more concerned with who will most likely come for it once it breaches. I only know of Lazarus because a past nemesis of mine had been using it to stay alive for … for a long damn time. His name was Ra’s Al Ghul, “The Demon’s Head” and he was the one who killed Jason. This hits everyone, especially Alfred. BATMAN His daughter now runs Ra’s organization, the League of Shadows. Lazarus exists in seven different locations on the globe. Taus, where the League is. Mozambique in Africa. Bolivia. Belize. Nepal. Romania, and Switzerland. … And now we’ll have another under Gotham City. ROBIN When did you figure this out? BRUCE Today when I was at work. Robin is impressed. BATGIRL I’m in. ALFRED In? BATMAN Arkham security footage. I want to know what the hell happened. Multiple camera feeds are pulled up on the monitors. The explosion happens and most of the cameras go to static. BATGIRL There are only a few cameras still recording after the blast. Batman does a pass of all the remaining feeds, quickly looking across the monitors. He spots movement. BATMAN (pointing) That one. Batgirl enlarges the camera feed that Batman is motioning at. On the monitor is Red Hood, making his way down the hallways, firing at a few security guards that try to stop him. The Red Hood is calculated in his firing and demeaner. Batman picks up on this immediately. He hits a button. The video pauses. ALFRED Who is that, sir? BATMAN If I had to guess, I would say it is a member of the League of Shadows. I doubt it’s Talia. That looks more like a man. Not that that means anything. ALFRED (with concern) Could it be her father? BATMAN (cold) Ra’s Al Ghul is dead, along with Jason. A message from Jim Gordon suddenly pops up on one of the monitors as well. Batman clicks on it. NIGHTWING Good thing he’s got so many monitors. Batman reads the message. BATMAN Jim managed to round most everybody up. No sign of Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, or Scarecrow. ROBIN What does this Red Hood have planned for them? BATMAN I’m not certain yet. ALFRED But the earthquakes just happened this morning. How could the League of Shadows have acted so quickly? BATMAN Seismology didn’t exist until 1857. There’s no data available to me about what occurred the last time a Lazarus pit formed. Talia may have information passed down from her father that isn’t known to the rest of the world. (he looks at Red Hood) Talia may have gotten the jump on me. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-CITY STREET-NIGHT A fire truck wails as it passes by, lights streaking across the darkened buildings. Most of the street lights are out. Jervis Tetch peaks out from an alleyway as the lights from the firetruck disappear. He sees that the coast is clear and signals to move. Jervis Tetch runs across the street followed by Jonathan Crane. They reach a brick wall that separates the sidewalk from a parking lot and proceed to climb over it. Crane finally spots the name of the building, “ALL HALLLOW’S EVE COSTUMING”. EXTERIOR: PARKING LOT-NIGHT Jervis gets back down to the ground as Crane follows. CRANE (motioning to the costume shop) Why, Tetch? TETCH Phase One. We need a base of operations. Tetch nears on the building. Crane is on his heels. CRANE How do we get in? Tetch picks up a big rock from the ground and aims for the glass entry doors. Crane prevents him from doing this. Tetch gives him a confused look. Crane points to a small window on the building that is ajar. TETCH Your way’s probably quieter. INTERIOR: COSTUME SHOP-RETAIL AREA Tetch and Crane are walking through the rows upon rows of costuming and accessories. CRANE It’s nowhere near Halloween, but isn’t this place open year-round? TETCH (reassuring) Not during a natural disaster. No one’s gonna be coming in to sell pirate accessories when the city is falling apart. CRANE Why a costume shop? TETCH Because we need costumes. (Tetch motions to something) There’s one for you. Crane turns to see that Tetch is pointing toward a farm scarecrow costume on display being worn by a mannequin. Crane looks for a moment; it seems inviting. INTERIOR: BATCAVE-LAB AREA Bruce Wayne is doing lab work in his Batman outfit, but with no cowl. Tim Drake approaches him. Bruce stays quiet for a while, then he looks to Tim. BRUCE You’re always more patient with me than Dick ever was. He’d have shot a million questions at me by now. TIM (with understanding) You’re working. BRUCE I was already concerned with what Bane was pumping through his system since he’d never grown that powerful before. Then I found more footage of our red hooded friend getting into the property lockup. I’m pretty sure Red Hood gave him something he hadn’t had before. I am trying to figure out what that is. TIM It’s not Venom? BRUCE It seems to be Venom with something else. Bruce looks through a microscope to see what is inside the Venom. BRUCE Dionesium. TIM You’re gonna have to run that one by me. Bruce looks up from the microscope, to Tim. BRUCE It’s a rare metal. Not the rarest; but rare. Liquid at room temp. Consistency of mercury, but not dangerous. It’s found underground. Bruce looks to Tim. Tim looks back. TIM Lot of weird shit underground. BRUCE The Earth is like anything else. You dig deep enough and you’ll start to find all sorts of interesting things. INTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-LIVING ROOM-MORNING The sound of a phone ringing is heard. Pamela Isley awakens on the couch in the living room. She is still in her Arkham fatigues. The phone is answered. Pamela starts to take in her surroundings. The apartment is very bright. It is also filled with tons of dead plants and all of her decorations in boxes on the floor. PAMELA Oh, I did not see all of this when we got here last night in the dark. INTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-HALLWAY-MORNING Harleen walks down her hallway to the living room. She turns to her left and is faced with beautiful green plants. Pamela sees Harleen so she quickly stands in the midst of the living room with her hands to her side; showing that she is not a threat. PAMELA Had you been giving them tap water? DR. QUINZEL Yeah. PAMELA Filtered is better. Thanks for bringing me here last night. DR. QUINZEL Why don’t you have a seat back on the couch. Pamela sits on the couch. Harleen pulls over an office chair and sits near her. Pamela instinctively lays back on the couch. They are in therapy configuration. DR. QUINZEL First. The plants. Thank you. They and I appreciate it. PAMELA No problem. DR. QUINZEL Two. That was work that called. They said don’t bother comin’ in ‘cause there’s a hole in the building the size of Wyoming. PAMELA That makes sense. DR. QUINZEL So, three, who in the hell was going down the hallways with a red mask on, shooting everybody all expertly, just after the explosion? PAMELA Probably whoever blew up the building. DR. QUINZEL (worried) You think he saw us? Pamela sits back up to look at Harleen face-to-face. PAMELA No. If he had, we’d probably be dead. DR. QUINZEL (still worried) Okay. I don’t want to tell anyone I saw him. PAMELA (almost giddy) Then we won’t. Who would we tell anyway? DR. QUINZEL The cops? PAMELA No need to get them involved. DR. QUINZEL Okay. What do we do? PAMELA That kind of depends on you. Harleen shows that she needs Pamela to explain her meaning. PAMELA Namely … do you plan on taking me back to the asylum? Because my first thought is that we hunker down right here. DR. QUINZEL Okay. Four. What do we do with you? (a brief pause) Do you plan on hurting anybody? PAMELA … No. DR. QUINZEL As your mental health provider, I don’t think it is safe for you back at Arkham. Harleen ends up leaning back in her office chair, almost like she is laying down. Pamela remains seated upright. DR. QUINZEL Don’t make me regret letting you stay here, Pamela. PAMELA I won’t. Do you want me to help you put your stuff back up? DR. QUINZEL I’ll make coffee first. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-STUDY-DAY Bruce Wayne is working from home in his massive study. There is a grandiose fireplace to one side, sprawling windows on the other. Bruce speaks with a headset on while he paces, scrolling through his tablet. BRUCE Yes, Louise. Pass that onto Spellman in Atlantic City. (he waits) The National Guard is moving in tonight. We’ll be restocked for food and clean water well before then. (he waits) Yes, it will definitely alleviate things and calm the city down. I know a lot of us haven’t been getting any sleep. Bruce walks nearer the windows. He appears exhausted. He looks back to his tablet and sees an article entitled “Midnight Science Crash”. Bruce hyper focuses for a second as he scrolls through the article. BRUCE Sorry, I was distracted. What was that last part again? (he waits) Yes, of course, we will give the asylum the appropriate funds to start repairs ASAP. (Bruce thinks a moment) Louise, have YOU been okay? (he waits) You like working from home? Bruce listens while she answers. He then looks to his surroundings. BRUCE Me too. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA Bruce is seated at the Batcomputer, asleep in his chair. The screen is cycling through information. It stops and shows a readout containing scientific components. The computer beeps out three times. Bruce begins to wake up; groggy. BRUCE Computer, how long was I… Bruce is cutoff by Alfred. ALFRED Twenty-Eight minutes, sir. This startles Bruce. He looks to see Alfred standing behind him. BRUCE Not a lot of people can sneak up on me. ALFRED I know. Bruce looks back to the computer. ALFRED I am assuming these are the materials that Hatter and Scarecrow need to return to their old habits. BRUCE All of this came from the same lab, too. Meaning they’re together. Still no sign of Isley though. I can’t picture her working comfortably with Tetch. ALFRED You should get more rest, sir. BRUCE I know. ALFRED (waiting a moment) Master Bruce, do you wish to discuss miss Al Ghul? Bruce closes his eyes for a moment. He reopens them and then pulls up a freeze frame of Red Hood up on the monitors. BRUCE All I have to say about Talia is that this is a sign of what’s to come. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREETS AND ROOFTOPS-FROM ABOVE-NIGHT Two light weight military troop transports and several members of the national guard are working their way toward an intersection in the middle of the city. Robin and Batgirl make their way on the rooftop of the corner building. They look down at the military vehicles. They then make their way to the corner to look down the intersecting street and there are gang members smashing into abandoned apartments; Homes. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREETS The national guard forces come around the corner. The gang members throw a few empty bottles. One of the sergeants lifts a megaphone. NATIONAL GUARD SERGEANT (through the megaphone) DISPURSE! Two gas canisters are fired into the air. The gang members run off with what little they can carry. The military people move forward. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Both Batgirl and the Boy Wonder look on this. ROBIN I’m glad the national guard’s here. Knuckles were getting tired. BATGIRL You don’t have to hit them so hard. ROBIN Look who’s talking. Batgirl dips her head to laugh. Robin looks to the lit bat Signal in the sky, then to where the light is coming from. ROBIN What’d’ya think they’re talking about? BATGIRL Nunya. Robin gives a displeased look at that answer. Batgirl heads off. BATGIRL Come on. We’ve got patrols. EXTERIOR: GCPD-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Gordon stands in the light being given off from the signal. Batman remains in shadow. GORDON Forensics had a look at that lab. Nothing of note. You’re saying it’s Tetch and Crane? BATMAN Yeah. GORDON I got nothing on either one of them. Or Isley. Or your mystery player. BATMAN Red Hood. I got nothing either. GORDON I know you don’t like that. BATMAN No, I don’t. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-CITY STREET-NIGHT There is a light fog. A single horse drawn carriage wagon makes its way down the street. The horse is jet black, covered in tattered leathers. Both sides of the street are comprised of abandoned buildings. Scarecrow and Mad Hatter sit at the front of the carriage wagon. SCARECROW Have we got everything? MAD HATTER Oh yes, indeed. Oh yes, indeed. Come winter, fall, summer, spring. Prepared we are. Prepared we’ll be. Scarecrow gives his partner in crime an inquisitive glance. He then redirects his focus at his surroundings. Scarecrow sees that some of these buildings have collapsed. Above them, a shape is seen jumping between the space between two buildings as it follows the two costumed villains. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Red Hood is silently keeping tabs on them. He reaches the edge of a building and stops. He looks down at them with binoculars. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-CITY STREET-THROUGH BINOCULARS Three crates of science equipment and two gas canisters are seen in the back of the carriage wagon. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Red Hood lowers the binoculars and carries on elsewhere. INTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-LIVING ROOM-NIGHT Harleen’s apartment has its decorations up again. The plant life is thriving. Pamela stands in the living room, wearing green pj’s, watching a news report on the television. REPORTER It’s a shame to see. The city center already lost a high rise today and now a controlled demolition will be carrying out on the neighboring office building. Stand by now. The reporter steps to the side. The camera zooms in. The base of the building explodes and starts to collapse. The sound is unexpectedly hear off in the distance and it startles Pamela. Harleen steps into the living room from the kitchen, also in pj’s, holding two cups of tea. DR. QUINZEL It’s unreal. A lot of buildings just weren’t up to code. Harleen gives Pamela one of the teas. Dr. Quinzel then takes a seat on one end of the couch as Pamela stands there, sipping. Pam then looks to Harleen. PAMELA Thank you for the night time clothes. Not that I can’t make orange work, but dark green is more my shade. DR. QUINZEL You can sit down, Pam. Pamela Isley sits on the opposite side of the couch. Sirens are head outside. Pamela looks out the window cautiously. Harleen rotates on the couch to face Pam as she turns the tv off. DR. QUINZEL You’re anxious. Pamela thinks on that for a moment. PAMELA Doctor… Pam gets cut off by Dr. Quinzel. DR. QUINZEL Harleen. PAMELA Harleen, I’m scared. DR. QUINZEL Me too. I’m harboring like, a fugitive. I can’t just take you back and be like, oh, I had to borrow the plant lady. (motions to her thriving plants) All my shit was dead. What was I supposed to do? The both of them share a laugh. Both of them curl up into themselves on opposite ends of the couch, enjoying their tea. PAMELA What do you do with all your feelings, Harleen? DR. QUINZEL Cardio. Sparring. Try not to let myself get too worked up about much. Breathing exercises. You know the classics. I like to read. (lifts her tea cup) Sip my tea. PAMELA So … trying to freeze the planet, kill everyone, and letting pant-animal hybrids become the dominant species … that probably wasn’t the best way to go? DR. QUINZEL I would have steered more toward yoga. At least at first. PAMELA What are we doing? Harleen shrugs. DR. QUINZEL Living our best lives. The two of them tap their tea cups together. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-RADIO TOWER-NIGHT Batman clings to the side of the tower near the top. He is watching the construction crews setting up at Arkham Asylum from across the bay. NIGHTWING (over earpiece) Bru-uce? BATMAN I’m listening, Dick. NIGHTWING (over earpiece) We’ve still gotten no word on Isley so I’ve been checking in on Arkham employees. BATMAN Good thinking. NIGHTWING (over earpiece) I’ll let Alfred know my results. BATMAN I copy. Dick, it’s none of my business, but ... what came of you and Selina? NIGHTWING (not dour) Selina and I had our time together. And it was good. After that last time in Gotham though … I never saw her again. BATMAN I’m sorry, Dick. NIGHTWING (somewhat jovial) Wanna know what the last thing she ever said to me was? “This won’t be the last you see of me.” BATMAN (laughing at Dick’s comment) Yeah. That sounds like Selina. She comes and goes as she pleases. NIGHTWING (over earpiece) Yeah, you know, like a cat. BATMAN (still laughing) Be careful tonight. NIGHTWING (over earpiece) You too. Batman takes one last look at Arkham Asylum, then releases his grip from the tower. The Dark Knight glides into the night. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Nightwing does acrobatics and gymnastics across the top of the building before coming to a handstand on the ledge. He then plops down and pulls up binoculars. NIGHTWING Alright, lucky number whatever on my mental list for the night is … Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Nightwing looks through his binoculars. EXTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-NIGHT Nightwing looks around her building and then lands on Harleen’s place on the top floor. He spots all the lively plant life. He spots Harleen on the couch, tense. Suddenly Pamela Isley pops up from a seated position and appears threatening. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOP-NIGHT Nightwing lowers the binoculars and then sets off. Behind him in the distance, Red Hood lays crouched on a gargoyle on another building, watching. INTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-LIVING ROOM-NIGHT Pamela is standing up in a frightening pose. PAMELA I saw in the news he got out briefly after the explosion. Bane used to work with me. Never too bright. Nightwing comes crashing through the skylight into the midst of the apartment. Both Harleen and Pamela through themselves to the floor in fright. Harleen goes into hysterics. Pamela and Nightwing both look to her and then to each other. Before any of the three can act, Red Hood comes the window behind the couch. Him and Nightwing immediately start trading blows. Harleen goes into hysterics for a moment. Her place starts to get wrecked. Pamela grabs a vine that she summons from a nearby planter and uses it as a whip to keep distance between the two men. Pam grabs Harleen. PAMELA Come on, Harl’s! The two women dart for the door. ANOTHER EARTHQUAKE!! Everyone loses their footing, but Nightwing. Years of training give Nightwing an advantage over Red Hood on shaky flooring. Harleen gives a look of absolute shock as what little the earthquake isn’t destroying is getting demolished by the fight carrying on in the cramped space. They get the door open as the earthquake finishes. PAMELA Out! Out! The two women flee as Red Hood again gains an edge over Nightwing. He knocks the former Boy Wonder to the floor. NIGHTWING No. You’re not gonna… Nightwing trails off as Red Hood beats him into unconsciousness. RED HOOD I’m not gonna what? EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-STREET-NIGHT A car peels out and heads down the darkened streets of the city. INTERIR: CAR-NIGHT Dr. Quinzel drives the car with Pamela Isley seated beside her. Harleen is really worked up about everything that just occurred. DR. QUINZEL Did you see that? All my stuff! PAMELA I saw. DR. QUINZEL We spent all day… Harleen is trying to calm her breathing. She keeps making a wide, yet nervous smile. PAMELA I know. That’s what they do. They bust in. They put a damper on your plans. DR. QUINZEL (attempting to be calm) And break all your belongings. PAMELA This is Gotham. DR. QUINZEL (a sudden outburst) Gotham! Gotham? Did you see what they did to my FUCKING APARTMENT?! Pamela goes a little wide-eyed. Harleen keeps her foot on the gas. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE The Batcopter enters the cave. Batman ejects from the bottom. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA The Batcompter lands in the appropriate spot. Batman glides down toward the edge for a stern landing. Alfred stands near the Batcomputer as Batman approaches. ALFRED Any luck tonight, sir? BATMAN National Guard is handling the streets. Arkham’s renovation is underway. ALFRED And the bad news? There’s always bad news. BATMAN There was a third quake. ALFRED Yes, I noticed. BATMAN There shouldn’t have been a third. As Batman reaches the computer, Bruce Wayne pulls off his cowl. BRUCE All my research pointed towards one day of serious quakes and then a breach of Lazarus under the bay. Now … I don’t know. Alfred appears sympathetic. BRUCE I’ve also got four criminals in this city to worry about and not one single lead on what any of them are planning on doing. (typing) Did Tim and Barbara leave their notes for the evening? ALFRED Yes, they did, sir. BRUCE Where are Dick’s? ALFRED Master Grayson has not yet returned. Bruce turns to Alfred. BRUCE He told me he was going to be reaching out to you, about him checking on Arkham employees. ALFRED (with regret) I never got that report, sir. Bruce gets back to typing. A call screen appears on the monitors. Alfred is concerned. Gordon answers the call. GORDON (over the computer) This is Gordon. BRUCE It’s me, Jim. A moment of silence is shared. GORDON (over the computer, quieter) I can talk. BRUCE Did you get any disturbances last night in relation to any addresses held by employees from Arkham? GORDON (over the computer) Yes, actually. We did. Alfred darts his eyes at Bruce, waiting for his response. BRUCE What was the address? Has a crime scene processed through yet? GORDON (over the computer) Yeah, we got a call about 3am. Door was left open. Reported that the inside was a real wreck. I never got over there. BRUCE Jim. The address. GORDON (over the computer) Uh, yeah. Nine-Fifty-Seven on Morocco. Top Floor. BRUCE Call your men out. I’m on my way. Bruce spins on his heel. He runs to the edge of the central area, throwing his cowl back on. Alfred watches as Batman jumps off the edge and uses his grapnel gun to pull himself back toward the helicopter. GORDON (over the computer) Hey, what’s this about? Huh? Batman? Batman? EXTERIOR: ABOVE GOTHAM CITY-MORNING The Batcopter heads over the edge of the city as the sun breaks over the horizon. INTERIOR: BATCOPTER-COCKPIT Batman keeps his eyes on his instruments. They show that he is near his destination on Morroco Street. Batman ejects. ETERIOR: ABOVE GOTHAM-FOGGY-MORNING Batman comes gliding down into the morning fog of the city. Suddenly, Harleen Quinzel’s apartment building appears. Batman aims for the broken skylight. INTERIOR: DR. QUINZEL’S APARTMENT-LIVING ROOM-DAY Cops have already been here. Everything is roped off. Batman lands calmly in the midst of where the fight took place just a few hours prior. You can smell sweat and fingerprinting chalk. Batman begins to investigate his surroundings. He uses a few puffs of dust for prints in areas where the cops didn’t look. He pulls out some sort of laser scanning device on the floor that comes back with nothing. Batman suddenly becomes aware of how lively all the plant life is. He looks down to the floor again and finds two broken tea cups. Batman stands back up, deep in thought. He spots something outside the broken window above the couch. In the distance, Red Hood jumps up and runs off. Batman reaches out and fires his grapple gun. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM ROOFTOPS-FOGGY-MORNING Red Hood leaps from one building to another, rushing through the dense fog of the city. Behind him, Batman swings down and begins to chase. Red Hood notices that the Bat is on his tail. He throws down smoke bombs that flash with bright light. Batman squints. The smoke left behind makes the fog even harder to see through. He spots Red Hood jump down into an alleyway between two buildings. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ALLEY-FOGGY-MORNING Batman drops into the alleyway, never dropping stride. On the ground, Batman nears on Red Hood. He tosses a bolo at Red Hoods ankles. Red Hood uses a grapple-like device to escape the bolo and get pulled back upward. Batman follows. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-ROOFTOPS-FOGGY-MORNING Batman reaches the corner of the rooftop and finds himself being shot at by Red Hood with dual pistols. He tosses a batarang and then jumps behind air conditioner units on the roof. Red Hood dodges the batarang. He keeps one gun pointed toward where Batman is located while he fires on the Batarang as it circles back. Batman pops out from behind the air conditioner to throw a second, but it too gets shot down. He jumps back behind cover. RED HOOD It didn’t work the first time so you’re gonna try and do it again? Your tricks are getting old! You’re getting old! Batman stays behind cover, attaching one tool off of his belt onto his grapnel gun. RED HOOD You think you can outpace me? I’d like to see you try. Batman hears Red Hood begin to run again. Batman again gives chase. Batman is breathing hard as he starts to catch up to this mystery villain. Red Hood jumps off of this building into the fog. Batman fires his grapnel gun. Two bursts of gas spray out. The line wraps around Red Hood’s ankle as a tracking device attaches to the back of his boot. Red Hood slashes down at the line with a very sharp knife and cuts the line before Batman can pull it taut. Batman stands there, having just jerked back on nothing. He walks to the edge and looks out. He can’t see anything in this fog. INTERIOR: BATCOPTER-COCKPIT Batman is piloting the craft over Gotham. He is following the tracker with the onboard computer. The red dot that he is following stops moving. EXTERIOR: CEMETARY-FOGGY-MORNING Batman comes down hard on a gravel walking path. He stands up. The eerie fog reveals a few larger trees and a couple of headstones. Everything else is out of view. Batman looks around the area, but spots nothing. Something much closer and on the ground catches his eye. He takes a few steps forward and picks up the discarded tracking device from the gravel. Batman takes another look at the area. An unnerving wind cuts through the cemetery. Batman sees two groundskeepers off in the distance who can see him too. Batman feels uncomfortable here. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA Batman sits at the computer. He has a picture of Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane next to each other. He has pictures of Harleen Quinzel and Pamela Isley next to each other. There’s a freeze frame of Red Hood and a picture of Dick Grayson. Batman sits there struggling to find a connection. Alfred comes over to him with a tray of food and a glass of water. BATMAN Thank you. ALFRED (as a hint) Tim and Barbara are both getting their rest. BATMAN (ignoring the hint) Good. They’ll need it. Alfred can sense Batman’s anger. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-TV ROOM-DAY Bruce sits on the couch in his robe and sleep pants, shoulders slumped, as he watches the news. TALKING HEAD There is sorrow today as many face not having homes to return to. Deemed no longer fit for habitation, several apartment blocks have been scheduled for demolition. The news cuts to footage of apartment buildings collapsing from controlled explosions. TALKING HEAD (V.O.) This is footage from yesterday’s demolition. Seven more buildings are schedules for today. Bruce watches the buildings collapse. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-STAIRCASE-DAY Bruce mopes his way up to the second floor. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-CORRIDOR-DAY Bruce makes his way down the dimly lit corridor toward large double doors made of beautiful darkened oak. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-THOMAS WAYNE’S AT HOME OFFICE-DAY Bruce enters his father’s home office. Everything is tidy. Bruce looks to the portrait on the wall of his parents. Alfred can be heard approaching from down the corridor. He finally reaches the doorway and stops. BRUCE Alfred. Have I done enough for this city? ALFRED I believe you have, sir. And I believe you have more still yet to give. BRUCE (staring at his parents) It’s just that I saw this before. I watched Gotham City collapse courtesy of one of Dr. Jonathan Crane’s fear toxins. And now that I’m actually seeing it happen in real time, I realize that I was powerless to stop it. Alfred nears on Bruce. ALFRED You can’t protect Gotham from everything, Master Bruce. BRUCE (still staring at his parents) Did I let them down? Concerning Dick? ALFRED Heavens, no! Bruce looks to Alfred with sadness in his eyes. ALFRED Master Grayson will be fine. BRUCE (struggling to keep it together) I already lost Jason. ALFRED I know. The two men hug. BRUCE I keep losing people. Alfred comforts him the only way that really works. ALFRED It will be night soon. The two men stay like this. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-BANK FAÇADE-NIGHT A man comes running at the bank. He makes his way up the steps and runs up to the front glass door with a bomb. He attaches the bomb to the door and then books it back across the street. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-STREET-NIGHT The man is crouched down on the side of his car, taking cover. He covers his ears. Nothing happens. The man looks at his watch. The bomb is dropped in front of him; timer stopped with 5 seconds still on it. BOMBER What the hell? The bomber is then picked up off his feet by Batman. He lets out a scared scream. Batman throws him headfirst into the hood of the car. Batman jumps down and just starts wailing on the guy in anger. Batman reaches up and fires his grapnel gun. He is tugged upward by the device. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-ARCHITECTURE-NIGHT Batman stands on top of a massive architectural art structure as he looks out at the city. The South part of the city seems mostly normal as does Arkham island. Everywhere else is dark with the exception of all the fires. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-SKYWALK-NIGHT Most of this section of the city is dark. There is sporadic electricity, but a lot of windows appear to be lit by candlelight. Batgirl and Robin come gliding down and land on a skywalk between two large buildings. The two of them look downward toward a pawn shop. Outside the pawn shop is a horse drawn carriage wagon, unmanned, and four heavier set men standing two by two on the sidewalk. BATGIRL I know this one, except it was a jewelry store last time. Robin gives an inquisitive look. BATGIRL This is Mad Hatter’s work. ROBIN Crane hit a pawn shop last time. Batgirl makes her fingers interlocked. BATGIRL They merged the ideas. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-PAWN SHOP-NIGHT Hatters runs out of the shop with a crate of loot. He tosses it in the back of the carriage wagon. He then climbs up into the seat to take the reigns as Scarecrows comes out of the shop carrying two large bags of jewels and other assorted goodies. Scarecrow looks to the four brainwashed men standing in formation as he makes his way to the carriage. SCARECROW They just stand there and keep guard? MAD HATTER (looking back at Scarecrow) No need to recruit muscle. Without warning, Robin lands on the storage section of the carriage. Hatter and Scarecrow are both surprised. Batgirl lands near the four brainwashed men. Scarecrow drops his two bags of goodies as Batgirl takes on all four combatants at once. Scarecrow reaches up to Robin and hits him with a spray of fear gas. To get out of the way, Mad Hatter throws himself from the wagon and into the street on the opposite side of the carriage from Scarecrow. Batgirl expertly handles the group she is fighting. They are not brawlers. Robin hops down to the street in front of Scarecrow, unaffected by the fear gas. Scarecrow has little time to react before Robin pummels him back and then finally onto the ground. Robin pulls two things from his nostrils and throws them on the ground. ROBIN Nose filters, asshole. Robin hears a gun being cocked behind him. He turns carefully to find Mad hatter poised to gun him down. A gunshot then echoes out. A puff of material pops from the right side of Hatter’s hat. The horse runs off, taking the wagon carriage with it. Mad Hatter then exhales smoke and crumples over. Robin watches this occur. He looks to where the shot must have come from only to be surprised by Red Hood. Robin takes a few unexpected punches and is then out. Red Hood pulls up dual pistols and shoots down the four men that Batgirl was fighting. She pulls out a net launcher and fires it at Red Hood. He sidesteps the net and engages in a fight with her. She realizes she cannot just bare knuckle fight this guy. Batgirl gives herself some distance from Red Hood and tosses a batarang his way. He catches it in midair and throws it on the ground. She tosses flash bangs at the ground. The three of them go off and leave a cloud of smoke. Batgirl leaps over Red Hood and throws two magnetic bombs at his guns. They zero in to the pistols on his hips. Red Hood immediately grabs his pistols. Batgirl lands. Red Hood takes his two pistols and puts them together. He twists them around each other with the magnetic bombs attached to themselves. This demagnetizes them from his guns and causes them to magnetize to each other. She sees him do this as he turns to face her, putting his guns back in their holsters and letting the bombs drop to the street. She looks on in awe as the bombs go off behind him. This jolts Scarecrow awake. Red Hood gets in a few more punches before Batgirl finally backs up, exhausted. She tries getting distance by launching a barrage of batarangs. Red Hood blocks most, but one manages to nick the side of his head. Red Hood makes a pained grunt as he reaches up for it. He then grabs a grapnel device from his back and fires it into Batgirl’s chest. It knocks the wind out of her and throws her back on the ground. She hits her head hard. Red Hood walks over to her as she loses consciousness. Red Hood glances to the timid Scarecrow still milling near the pawn shop. RED HOOD Run. Scarecrow runs off, away from this incident. Red Hood picks up Batgirl from off the street. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-PAWN SHOP-NIGHT-LATER Robin slowly makes his way back to consciousness as the sound of Batman’s cape is heard fluttering. BATMAN Robin! Robin! Robin’s eyes come open. Batman pulls his protégé to a seated position as his mind comes back to him. BATMAN What happened? Where’s Barbara? Robin gets his ducks in a row as he looks around at the scene. He sees five corpses, including Mad Hatter. ROBIN Red Hood. He ambushed us when we swooped in to handle Scarecrow and … Robin trails off as he points to the Mad Hatter. Batman goes over to inspect the four dead men in a group; the innocents. BATMAN Were the three of them together? Robin climbs to his feet. ROBIN If they were, it didn’t stop him from plugging Hatter. BATMAN And Barbara? ROBIN I think it’s safe to assume that he took her. Just like Dick. Batman’s facial expression becomes more angered. He investigates one of the men’s necks. He finds one of Hatter’s patches. BATMAN Hatter had time to put these together again. (to Robin) Did Crane have his toxin? ROBIN He did. Robin begins helping to look for clues. ROBIN I found something. Batman stands to find Robin crouched down in the street. Batman covers the distance. He crouches down beside Robin. There seems to be blood in the street, but it appears to be reflective. ROBIN That is blood, right? Batman pulls out a vial and a swab. BATMAN We will be finding out soon enough. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-GAS STATION-NIGHT Pamela Isley sis in the car, watching Harleen inside paying. Harleen finishes and then exits the store. INTERIOR: CAR-NIGHT Pamela remains seated as Dr. Quinzel walks back out to her car and gets in the driver’s seat. They pull away. PAMELA We’re wasting a lot of gas. DR. QUINZEL I’m afraid of going to a hotel. PAMELA Afraid they’ll see me? DR. QUINZEL A little, yeah. PAMELA We don’t have to stay together. DR. QUINZEL Hey, I’m not going to abandon you. I’m the one who took you in. PAMELA Do you want to get out of the city? We could just go. DR. QUINZEL Any ideas? PAMELA Some place without costumed super heroes preferably. DR. QUINZEL I second that. Abruptly, a metal rod is launched through the middle of the windshield and lodges itself in the center of the back seat. Both of the women yell out in surprise. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-STREET-NIGHT The car swerves across the empty lanes before screeching to a halt. INTERIOR: CAR-NIGHT Both Dr. Quinzel and Pamela have stopped screaming, but they’re both still breathing pretty hard. Harleen looks to the rod, upset about the state of her vehicle. Pam looks to the windshield that only has a small hole and some major cracking. PAMELA At least the windshield didn’t shatter. DR. QUINZEL (sarcastic) Yah! Automotive standards! Harleen pulls a piece of paper off the rod that had been wrapped around it. Pamela gives an inquisitive expression as Harleen unrolls it. DR. QUINZEL It’s just an address. And it’s signed. Harleen holds the note for Pamela to see. It is signed “Red Hood” at the bottom. PAMELA He’s trailing us. DR. QUINZEL He wrecks my place! He wrecks my car! She is getting upset again. She goes to start her car. It makes an awful grinding noise. PAMELA It’s already running, Harl’s. Harleen puts her head down for a moment. Pam seems worried that Harleen might be about to cry. She leans in to comfort Dr. Quinzel. She stops as Harleen starts laughing. Harleen laughs more and more. It is morphing into hysterics. She throws the car into drive. Pam is unsure of what is occurring. PAMELA Where we headed, Harl’s? DR. QUINZEL Where the little shit wants us to go. Pamela keeps her mouth shut. EXTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-MORNING The clouds part somewhat. The manor sits under the soft glow of the morning sun. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-ENTRY AREA Alfred stands near where the changing chambers are kept. Batman approaches him as Robin stands back. Batman tells Alfred information about Barbara. Alfred Pennyworth lowers his head. Batman takes a step forward to touch his trusted butler on the shoulder. The two men look to one another. BATMAN What do you need? ALFRED I need to help. Batman gives the elderly man a sorrowful smirk. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-TROPHY PLATFORM The dinosaur and giant penny stand tall as movement can be seen beyond in the forensics lab. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, and Tim Drake are all in proper lab wear as they carry out multiple experiments in volving all sorts of equipment. Eventually Bruce is checking out their sample under a microscope as Tim and Alfred wait. The billionaire lifts his head; deep in thought. He thinks he knows something. BRUCE This IS blood, but there’s something in it. Something that’s … something that has altered it. (he looks to Tim and Alfred) I can’t tell blood type or group. I can barely tell that it’s human. It’s also showing no sign of decay. Bruce steps away from the microscope for a moment. Tim and Alfred wait. BRUCE I’m going to piece through my father’s old medical library upstairs. (looking to Tim and Alfred) I need you two to work on separating the blood from whatever else is in it. I’d like to know what is mixed with this blood sample and I’d also like to know what happens with either of them once they’re split apart. TIM We can do that, Bruce. BRUCE Good. I’ll be back in a few hours. Bruce heads out of the room. Tim knows there’s more, but gives Bruce his space. Alfred sees this between them. ALFRED Where shall we start, Master Drake? Tim looks to Alfred; thinking of what step to take next. TIM Right. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-LIBRARY-DAY Bruce Wayne sits on the floor with half open books all around him. The World’s Greatest Detective is taking down many notes from his various readings. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-ENTRY AREA Bruce walks past the changing chambers. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB Bruce comes stepping into the forensics lab as Tim and Alfred both look downtrodden. Bruce gives a questioning glance. ALFRED I must apologize, sir. Unfortunately, once we were able to separate the unknown substance from the blood sample, there was barely any left. Tim points to a vial standing upright on one of the tables. Bruce looks at it. It is off green, mostly gray, and glowing slightly. Bruce leans down and looks at the vial without moving it. TIM Of note … the blood we have still hasn’t begun to decay. Bruce is not speaking. His mind is racing as he looks to the vial of mystery liquid. Alfred can see that Tim is being as patient as possible. TIM Bruce. Bruce. Bruce stands upright and looks to Tim. TIM You’re clamming up on me. Talk to me, man. BRUCE (motioning to the vial) This is Lazarus. It’s only a few drops worth, but that’s what it is. Bruce Wayne makes his way around the interior of the room. BRUCE I read through multiple medical entries concerning people living in areas where Lazarus exists and cross referenced it with persons living to venerable ages. The scientific community chalks them all up as unexplained phenomenon. But all their blood samples look like what we have. Blood that’s been altered so much it barely appears to be from a human being. Bruce sits at this point. He dips his head. BRUCE This Red Hood is a man though. He’s not some otherworldly creature. It means he can be defeated. It also means he can be reasoned with. This catches Tim and Alfred off guard. Bruce looks to Alfred and Tim, then back to the floor. BRUCE I know who he is. ALFRED (in disbelief) No. Bruce looks to Alfred and gives him a reassuring glance. Tim is left out of the loop. TIM Okay, who? BRUCE It’s Jason. If I had to guess, I would say Talia found a way of revitalizing him after I had departed. She said it was impossible. (with a pained expression) I shouldn’t have trusted her. Tim seems a little out of the loop at this point. TIM You’ve never really talked about him much. And I’ve never had a reason to pry. Until now. Bruce? Who or what are we going up against here? Bruce again picks up the vial of Lazarus to inspect it. BRUCE When Ra’s Al Ghul used Lazarus, he submerged himself in a pool of the stuff. TIM And he wasn’t dead either, right? BRUCE No. Not like Jason would have been. (Bruce thinks for a moment) When Ra’s came out of the Lazarus, after centuries of overuse, he was crazed. His men had to hold him down. Talia had to snap him out of it. (looking to both Tim and Alfred) If this junk is in his system, then I have to hope that Jason is not being himself. He’s being used. The Lazarus has driven him mad. TIM (slightly skeptical) Is that how we’re looking at this? I’m not saying I’m against it, but I need you to make sure this is how WE want to handle this? Are we going to try and save Jason Todd? Bruce looks to Alfred and then to Tim. BRUCE I have to. TIM Then that means we have to. EXTERIOR: BACK PARKING LOT-DAY Dr. Quinzel and Pamela pull into the back parking area behind the costume shop. They stop the car near the dock entrance. INTERIOR: CAR-DAY Pamela and Harleen get their first look at the name of this place. PAMELA Wut? EXTERIOR: BACK PARKING LOT-DAY Harleen and Pamela exit the vehicle and walk toward the back of the vehicle toward the trunk. Dr. Quinzel pops the trunk. They both look in. DR. QUINZEL Shit! I thought I had a baseball bat back here. PAMELA There’s a baseball GLOVE and two tennis rackets. DR. QUINZEL Can’t do much with that. Dr. Quinzel closes the trunk. She heads off toward the rear entry near the dock, followed by Pamela Isley. PAMELA Should we have some sort of plan? DR. QUINZEL Go in there and start swinging. Pam grabs onto Dr. Quinzel’s arm to stop her. PAMELA Hey. You’re losing it. DR. QUINZEL (after a second) Yeah? Is this what it looks like? Pamela looks her over. PAMELA Here. Get a slightly crazier look in your eyes. Harleen makes a face; a weird one. PAMELA Oh, I don’t know what you’re going for, but that ain’t it. Here. Let me give you a scenario. Your shitty boyfriend just cheated on you with one of your friends. Now, good riddance to both, but she had borrowed your favorite top and now you know you’re never getting it back. Dr. Quinzel makes an actual crazed face. PAMELA (reassuring) There you go. INTERIOR: COSTUME SHOP-BACK AREA The small door next to the dock is opened. Dr. Quinzel and Pamela enter the building. Dust lingers in the air. Pamela spots something against the wall to their side. PAMELA Hey! She motions. Harleen looks. Her eyes light up. Dr. Quinzel walks toward what Pamela is pointing at. DR. QUINZEL No way. Is it real? Harleen picks up something with weight. Pamela gives a delighted smile. Harleen Quinzel stands there holding a giant mallet. DR. QUINZEL It’s real. What are you gonna use? PAMELA Don’t worry. I got this. INTERIOR: COSTUME SHOP-FARM DISPLAY The two women walk through a circus display as they enter an area that resembles an old-timey farm. As they pass through, the scarecrow behind them turns its head, following them with its gaze. The scarecrow takes a step forward. Pamela senses movement. SCARECROW Dr. Quinzel? Pamela swings around as she lifts her arms. A massive tree root bursts through the concrete floor. Scarecrow loses his footing. Pamela causes the tree root to slap Scarecrow down onto the floor. It pins him there. PAMELA (to Dr. Quinzel) You two know each other? Scarecrow pulls off his hat and mask. CRANE She’s my shrink. PAMELA (to Dr. Quinzel) You making any headway? CRANE She is. I just got roped into working with Tetch. (looks to Dr. Quinzel) Who did fall back on his old ways immediately. As did I, I guess. It’s just, when the asylum went up … I really didn’t want to miss the opportunity to … to not be trapped in the place I used to work. PAMELA You used to work there? CRANE That I did. (he motions to the tree root) Can you? Pamela removes the root from on top of him. Crane climbs back to his feet. CRANE Neat trick. What are you both doing here? INTERIOR: COSTUME SHOP-ALICE IN WONDERLAND DISPLAY Crane is packing his scant belongings into a small backpack. CRANE If he knows we’re here then we need to go. Pamela and Harleen are still checking out this weird area of the store. Alice in Wonderland themed stuff is everywhere. Harleen looks to Jonathan. DR. QUINZEL Was this display already here? Crane looks to Harleen. The man silently shakes his head no. PAMELA Where is Tetch? Crane lifts his fingers to his right temple. CRANE Took one right here from Red Hood. He solemnly throws his bag over his shoulder. Pamela and Dr. Quinzel lead the way out. INTERIOR: COSTUME SHOP-CIRCUS DISPLAY The three of them pass back through the farm display and back into the circus area. CRANE Dr. Quinzel. I gotta let you know something. I broke the law again. Harleen stops. The group stops with her. Dr. Quinzel looks to Jonathan Crane; her former patient. DR. QUINZEL Jonathan. It doesn’t matter anymore. Something to their side catches her eye. She looks to her right. Pam looks in concern and question. PAMELA Whatcha see, Harl’s? DR. QUINZEL Do you know what this is? What Harleen Quinzel is looking at is revealed to be a mannequin wearing a harlequin costume. Both Crane and Pamela shake their heads no. DR. QUINZEL It’s a harlequin. Harleen looks to her two cohorts. DR. QUINZEL We’re not running. PAMELA No? CRANE Huh? DR. QUINZEL We’re going after him. Dr. Quinzel then strikes the same weird comical pose that the mannequin is still in behind her. DR. QUINZEL I’m tired of being in the middle of this crap as some bystander. We’re gonna get involved, Ivy. Pamela gets an expression of uncertainty across her face. PAMELA Are you sure, Harl’s? DR. QUINZEL (shaking her head “no” while motioning to herself) It’s Harley Quinn now, Ivy. Harley Quinn. (she gets a devilish smile) I think I’m ready to stop taking myself so goddamn serious. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-STREETS-NIGHT The Batmobile roars through the streets of Gotham as it enters the area of the city most affected by the earthquakes. Minimal electricity and lighting are in this section of the city. Streets are practically bare. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE Batman operates the car. Robin sits in the passenger seat. ROBIN When is the power going to be restored? BATMAN Not until their done with the demolitions this week. ROBIN Is that a conversation you’re going to be having with the mayor soon? Who’s gonna be fitting the bill to put up new apartment blocks? BATMAN He knows he basically has a blank check waiting for him. ROBIN And what about this Lazarus breach? BATMAN Tim. Are you inquiring about whether our focus is in the right spot? ROBIN We’ve got an earthquake and goop coming up to deal with. We have a lot on our plate is all. BATMAN Once I get Jason’s head clear, I will find out what the League of Shadows has planned. Trust me. We’ll handle this one step at a time. ROBIN (reassured) Are you sure you know where he is? BATMAN I’m sure. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-STREETS-NIGHT The Batmobile roars through the darker and much quieter section of the city. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-NATIONAL GUARD STATION The military personnel can all hear the roaring of the Batmobile engine somewhere off in the distance. Then, in a flash, they see the car several blocks away, quickly pass through an intersection. Most of them seem pleased at the chance to spot The Batman. INTERIOR: CAR Harley is seated in the driver’s seat in full getup. Ivy is seated next to her in what appears to be some sort of green fairy getup that’s been cut to look like leaves. Crane is seated in the backseat. They all become aware of the engine noise off in the distance. It gets louder and louder. CRANE It’s like, I’ve never heard that particular noise before … but I know what that is. Harley fires up the car. IVY Harl’s? HARLEY We follow him, we get that red hooded bastard. They pull away. EXTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-NIGHT The old automotive repair shop still stands in this darkened area of the city. Batman and Robin approach the fence line of the property. Batman motions to a building across the street. BATMAN You’ll have a good vantage point up there. I’m going to be making my entrance through the side door. He’ll know I’m coming. ROBIN I’ll have my eyes open. EXTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-THROUGH BINOCULARS The Dynamic Duo splits up, headed in opposing directions. INTERIOR: CAR Harley Quinn lowers her binoculars. She looks to her two cohorts. HARLEY They’re headed into some automotive shop. IVY You sure they’re here for Red Hood? HARLEY Who else would they be after? The rest of us are in here. CRANE That’s a fair point. Crane places his scarecrow mask over his head and then pops his hat on top of that. INTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-MAIN AREA Nightwing and Batgirl are both tied up to chairs that are only a few meters apart. They have their hands behind their backs. Their eyes are covered and their mouths are taped shut. Red Hood comes walking up to them. He is holding a bucket of fried chicken. RED HOOD I know you both can hear me. I’ve met both of you before, but I have no grievance with either one of you. I’m in Gotham for one person; the Batman. So, I don’t want either of you dying on me so I brough you both something to eat. I’m going to uncover both of your mouths. I don’t want any screaming or sass from either of you. Red Hood pulls Nightwings’ mouth tape off first. Nightwing stifles his sounds of pain as the tape is ripped away. Red Hood does the same to Batgirl. Red Hood then looks to both of them and then down to what he brought them to eat. RED HOOD I’m not undoing your hands so I’m gonna have to be the one who feeds you. Red Hood holds a piece of chicken out in front of Batgirls mouth. She can’t see exactly where it’s at so he aims for her gullet. RED HOOD It’s fried chicken. Batgirl takes a bite. A big piece of the skin ends up on her chin, then slides off. RED HOOD Oh, this is a mess. I didn’t think this through. A metallic noise is heard outside the back door of the shop. EXTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-NIGHT Batman comes sliding down a line launcher toward the back door. INTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-MAIN AREA The thump of Batman’s boots is heard as he makes contact with the building to stop himself. Red Hood stands poised to attack, but waits. The lock mechanism inside the door is heard being fiddled with. The door creaks open. Nightwing and Batgirl both express little motions of tenseness. Red Hood can eventually see the outline of Batman. The Dark Knight enters the doorway. BATMAN I know who you are. RED HOOD I know who you are too, Bruce. BATMAN Jason, why are you doing this? Both Nightwing and Batgirl pick up on that bit of information. Red Hood seems unsure of himself all of a sudden. INTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-MAIN AREA-THROUGH BINOCULARS Batman is seen having a casual conversation with Red Hood. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-ALLEY-NIGHT Harley lowers the binoculars. Ivy and Scarecrow are beside her. HARLEY They’re just having a mundane conversation. Probably about wrecking other people’s shit. We ready? INTERIOR: TODD MOTORS-MAIN AREA BATMAN You can stop. RED HOOD (looking to Batman) No, I can’t. Batman takes another step closer to him. Red Hood steps back from Bruce. His boot comes into contact with a crack in the concrete flooring. Red Hood begins to look like he is unsure of what he is doing and why he is doing it. RED HOOD She sent me to deal with you. BATMAN To kill me? RED HOOD No. Two thin vines come up through the crack in the floor. They begin to reach upward, careful to stay behind Red Hoods legs, as they go for the man’s dual pistols. BATMAN I can help you. RED HOOD No, you can’t. You’re the one who left me for dead. BATMAN Jason, you were dead. Red Hood stays silent. The vines wrap around his guns. BATMAN I watched you die. … But I can help you now. Red Hood looks up at Batman. His guns suddenly get swiped from him. He spins to see his guns, wrapped in vines, getting brought away from him. He looks back to Batman. BATMAN That’s not me. Harley Quinn abruptly comes smashing through the glass entry door with her giant mallet in her hands. HARLEY QUINN (to Red Hood) Yeah. Sucks getting your place destroyed, doesn’t it! Bigger vines suddenly burst through the floor and go after Red Hood as Harley starts swinging her mallet at Batman. Red Hood gets grabbed and lifted from the floor by the big vines. Poison Ivy enters behind Harley, mentally controlling the plants. Red Hood does his best to hold off the plant life as Batman does his best to avoid Harley’s inexperienced, yet oddly powerful attacks. BATMAN What the hell are you?! Harley manages to thrust her mallet straight at Batman’s gut and knock the wind from him for half a second. HARLEY Harley Quinn! Robin comes smashing in through the skylight of the repair shop. HARLEY Yeah! Let’s smash this place up! Harley Quinn just starts swinging away at everything in the shop. This distracts Poison Ivy and Robin for half a second. Enough time for Red Hood to pull a large knife from his boot and start hacking away at the vines holding him. Ivy winces in pain at Red Hood’s damage to the plants as the man lands back on the floor. Robin goes to stop Harley as she takes a swing at him. He jumps backward. Batman again goes at Harley. She keeps Batman and Robin at bay. NIGHTWING (calmly) What’s happening? Ivy goes at Red Hood with another vine. He cuts that one down. He turns to go back for his guns. His guns get brought out through the hole where Ivy and Harley entered through. Red Hood barely takes a step outside when Scarecrow comes out of the shadows of the night and hits him with a dose of fear gas. Red Hood yells out and punches Scarecrow in the head. Red Hood tries to shake off the effects as Poison Ivy goes at him with another vine. Red Hood cuts that vine down and then throws his knife at Poison ivy. The woman quickly throws a vine up to block the blade. It still cuts through the vine and manages to stick in Ivy’s gut about half an inch. Ivy yells out in pain. HARLEY Ivy?! Batman and Robin finally manage to tackle Harley to the ground. She manages to look over at Poison Ivy as she is manhandled into submission. HARLEY (worried) You okay, Ivy? BATMAN (loudly to the room) Where’d he go? Scarecrow pulls off his hat and mask. He points off to where Red Hood ran to; outside and into the night. CRANE (pained) He went that way! BATMAN Crane? (looking to Poison Ivy) Poison Ivy? (looking to Harley Quinn) Harleen Quinzel? HARLEY Hey, how’d you know it was me? Batman and Robin get themselves and Harley to her feet. BATMAN I’ve been in your apartment. Batman keeps hold of Harley’s arm as he and Robin quickly walk her over to Poison Ivy. BATMAN What are the three of you doing here? HARLEY We came for him! She points off in the direction that Red Hood ran to. Batman looks to Robin. BATMAN I’m going after him. (he motions to Ivy) Make sure she’s okay. (he motions to Nightwing and Batgirl) And untie them! BATGIRL Thank you. Batman goes running out of the repair shop as Crane enters, hobbled. Robin goes to check on Poison Ivy. HARLEY You’re gonna be okay, Ivy. It ain’t that deep. NIGHTWING (calmly) So, it was Jason? EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-PARKING LOT-NIGHT Red Hood, still trying to shake away the effects of the fear gas, runs over to his parked sports bike and fires up the engine. A much louder and deeper noise is heard. This gets Red Hood’s attention. He looks behind him and spots a soft orange glow. A jet turbine is heard as the soft orange turns bright. The Batmobile comes screeching out of the darkness. Red hood hits the throttle of the bike. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE Batman goes chasing after Red Hood as he pulls into the street behind him. Alfred comes up on the video screen on the dash. ALFRED I take it you weren’t quite persuasive enough, sir? BATMAN My initial attempt was not a success. (beat) Barbara’s okay. ALFRED Thank God for that. BATMAN I am now going to try a little tough love. … Just gotta catch up to him first. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET INTERSECTION-NIGHT Red Hood rounds a corner, the Batmobile is nearing. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE BATMAN Are the apartments on Seventeenth and Beaumont scheduled for demolition? ALFRED I believe they are, sir. BATMAN Then let’s save the mayor some money. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET-NIGHT As Red Hood races down the street on his sports bike, an entire apartment block begins to collapse behind him. EXTERIOR: RED HOOD’S CYCLE A second apartment block can be seen collapsing in the right sideview mirror. Red Hood turns his head to look back. RED HOOD’S POV This all takes place in a blackened chrome and hellish orange landscape. A third hellish apartment block begins to come down as the Batmobile comes bursting out like a demon. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET-NIGHT Red Hood turns back to face where he’s headed and guns the throttle. Behind him, the Batmobile races away from the collapsing tenements. The car nears on Red Hood’s cycle. Eventually the Batmobile is right on Red Hood’s rear tire. EXTERIOR: RED HOOD’S CYCLE Red Hood flips a switch on his cycle. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET-NIGHT Oil sprays out the back of his cycle in all directions. The Batmobile begins to lose traction and slow down. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE Batman flips a few switches. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET-NIGHT As the Batmobile slides in the oil, smaller spokes extend from the rubber tires, causing the car to have much better grip. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE The Batmobile rights itself. Batman allows himself to smile. BATMAN (to himself) What else you got, Jason? Unexpectedly, a bunch of flash grenades go off in front of the Batmobile. Batman drives through the smoke only to find that Red Hood veered off to the left and is now headed onto a draw bridge. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DRAW BRIDGE-NIGHT Red Hood races across the bridge above a concrete riverbed running through the city, separating the darkened section of the city from the section that still has electricity. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DARKENED STREET-NIGHT The Batmobile takes a sharp left-hand turn and begins to cross the concrete riverbed on an older, smaller bridge. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE ALFRED Your plan, sir? BATMAN Box him in. He’s doing pretty well against Batman. Now let’s see how he does against Bruce Wayne. Batman messes with the car’s controls. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DRAW BRIDGE-NIGHT Red Hood races across the bridge. The section of the bridge opposite him begins to lift up, cutting him off. There is a massive “W” on the underside. RED HOOD’S POV The bridge appears to be the maw of some creature composed of nightmarish metal and flames. Hellish bats come out of the maw in waves of darkness. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-DRAW BRIDGE-NIGHT Red Hood looks back to see the Batmobile on the other bridge. Batman has not given up pursuit. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-RIVERBED-NIGHT Red Hood comes riding off the edge of the open bridge. He fires off four small thrusters to slow his descent before hitting the ground. He gets in the water and initially has trouble accelerating. He gets in much shallower water and speeds off. The dark section of the city rests on his right, the bright on his left. Red Hood checks his rear and sees nothing. The Batmobile suddenly bursts through the concrete barrier that comprised the side of the bridge. RED HOOD’S POV A Demonic hell-car bursts though the flames of eternal damnation as it comes crashing down behind him. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-RIVERBED-NIGHT The Batmobile lands hard on the riverbed, but doesn’t miss a beat. The car roars impossibly loud! Nearing on Red Hood. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE BATMOBILE It’s mostly dry down here, Alfred. ALFRED No rising flood waters, sir? That’s unfortunate. BATMAN It’s still a good night to test out the retaining walls. This side of the river still has power. Batman begins flipping toggles in the car. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-RIVERBED-NIGHT Massive sections of metal retaining wall begin to lift up from where the concrete riverbed meets the street level barriers. All of them have the “W” symbol for Wayne. They come up in big twenty feet long sections and are just as high. He sees them popping up sporadically, but most of the ones up ahead are still down. Red Hood guns the throttle. He finally turns and veers up the slanted concrete shore. Retaining wall begins to appear in front of him. Red Hood pushes he bike to its absolute limit, but the wall is now too high. He abandons the bike; pushing off with all his strength. He manages to get over the wall. The bike does not. The bike makes contact with the flood wall. It becomes mangled and catches on fire. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-THREEWAY INTERSECTION-NIGHT Red Hood comes into contact with the ground, rolls a few times, and then skids to a stop in the intersection. This part of the city has electricity. A handful of people are here to witness. He barely lifts his head as the Batmobile comes flying overhead. The car comes into contact with the street and skids to a halt perpendicular to Red Hood. He finishes standing up, spots that the canopy to the car is open, and immediately spins on his heel. Batman is on him. The two men trade blows right in the city street, with a small but still very invested audience. Batman manages to push Red Hood back toward the brick corner of a building. BATMAN You still think you can take on the old man? Huh? The Batman? Red Hood pulls out his grapnel gun and fires it upward in attempt to escape. Batman tosses a batarang that snips the line. Red Hood throws the grapnel device to the ground and tosses several smoke pellets into the air to explode in puffs of dense smoke. Batman quickly reaches into the smoke, grabs Red Hood so he can’t evade, and then throws him back and out of the smoke. Batman is still on him. RED HOOD’S POV Batman is a demon from Hell; unstoppable. NIGHTMARE BATMAN You wanted me. You’ve got me. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM-SIDEWALK-NIGHT There’s no time to think. The Caped Crusader hits Red Hood with an uppercut. Batman then punches Red Hood so hard in the head that his skull bounces off the brick wall behind him. Batman punches him again and again his head bounces off the wall. Batman gives him a second as he falls to the ground; weakened, but conscious. BATMAN (quietly) Jason. Are you there? Stop this! Everyone near them is keeping a distance, but watching intently. Batman waits as Red Hood releases a moan. RED HOOD She’s coming for you. Batman stands above the man. He listens. Red Hood doesn’t look up from the asphalt. RED HOOD And when she does, all of Gotham’s going to be destroyed. BATMAN Who, Jason? Talia? You mean Talia? RED HOOD (almost as an afterthought) Yeah. Red Hood LEAPS at Batman with what remaining energy he has. Batman coldcocks him and knocks him right back down where he came from. BATMAN (quietly) Jason? (louder) Robin? Batman crouches down next to the poor guy. BATMAN I hope you’re okay, son. EXTERIOR: TODD MOTORS The Batmobile returns to Todd Motors. The canopy slides open. The unmasked Jason Todd sits in the car. Batman gives him a caring look, then hops out and heads toward the repair shop. Crane, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Robin, Nightwing, and Batgirl are all standing or crouched outside, waiting. Batman reaches them. Crane looks timid. Harley and ivy look worn out. BATMAN Nobody kept swinging after I left? Both Nightwing and Harley laugh at this joke. ROBIN (motioning to Jason in the car) Is he gonna be okay? BATMAN We need to get back. HARLEY Hey! Hold on! Crane and Ivy both look like they’d rather Harley keep her mouth shut. IVY (cautiously) Harl’s? HARLEY No! What is going on with all of this? (Harley makes a general motion at everything) I want answers! She gets right up in Batman’s face. BATMAN Dr. Quinzel… He gets cutoff by Harley. HARLEY It’s HARLEY!! BATMAN Okay … Harley. (motioning back to Jason in the car) He’s a friend of mine and he’s gone down a path. You know that path? You got any friends like that? Harley looks back to Ivy and Crane. She shares a smile with Ivy. She then turns back to Batman. HARLEY Alright, bats. Heartstrings have been pulled. But that doesn’t change the fact that that one… (points to Nightwing) …wrecked my place with… (motions to Jason) …your buddy in the car. Batman motions to Todd Motors behind Harley. BATMAN Are you gonna tell me you didn’t help to do that? Harley to the demolished interior of Todd Motors. She then looks back to Batman. HARLEY An eye for an eye! Batman leans down into her face. BATMAN Exactly! We’re even. HARLEY Oh. Harley thinks on this for a moment and then grows a smile. HARLEY Yeah! CRANE So, what now? BATMAN Something bad is coming. Red Hood was the first wave. Like I said. (looking at the Batfamily) We need to get back to the cave. (looking at the villains) You three … you three need to stop doing what you’re doing first off. And second, I’d think about establishing residence somewhere outside the city limits. (to everyone) There’s doom coming to Gotham. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE Bats fly around the darkened cave. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB Bruce, still in most of his Batman suit, places Jason Todd into the medical seat. Him and Dick attach an I.V. and other devices to Jason and then hook him up to a filtration machine. Tim, Barbara, and Alfred wait. Blood from Jason’s body gets fed into the machine before going back into Jason. Bruce looks to everyone. BRUCE Pray if that’s your thing. EXTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-SUNRISE The morning sun comes over the horizon and shines on the beautiful home of Bruce Wayne. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB The Batfamily sits all around the laboratory. The blood filtering equipment quietly does its work. There is a clear canister sitting on the table of the Lazarus that has been pulled from Jason’s body. BRUCE I’ve filtered roughly 90% of the Lazarus out of his body, but it’s still in his system. There wasn’t enough Lazarus in the blood sample that Tim and I found to really do a real study. (reaching for the Lazarus canister) Now I’ve had the opportunity to figure out what it is comprised of. It’s the same compound that Jason gave to Bane. (to Tim) There is dionesium in Lazarus. And it’s the same compound keeping Jason alive. Without it, Jason will live the next two to three years perfectly fine … and then he will rapidly deteriorate. BARBARA We can get more. Right? BRUCE It’s a rare metal, but I will be able to procure some. I’ve got some here though. Bruce picks up the canister of Lazarus. BRUCE This junk is still in his system. I need to find a way to break the Lazarus down so that only the Dionesium remains and everything else can pass through him safely. (looking to Dick) I’ll need help. DICK On it! EXTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-NIGHT The massive home rests under the moonlight. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA Tim Drake is seated at the Bat Computer looking over recent crime reports. He investigates anything concerning Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, and Scarecrow first. He then looks up bigger reports from the east coast. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-KITCHEN-NIGHT Barbara is seated at the counter, eating a vegetable plate. Alfred comes over to her. ALFRED It still frightens me when you go out and do what you do. BARBARA It still frightens me too. ALFRED Child. You don’t HAVE to keep doing this night after night. BARBARA I know. Trust me, Uncle Alfred. I know. When I first came here, I wanted to get YOU away from all this. Have the tables turned? Alfred shares a smile with his niece. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB Dick finishes putting together a liquid compound. He holds up a beaker of pink liquid for Bruce to see. DICK This is it. Dick lays the beaker back down and picks up a pipette dropper. He pulls some of the liquid into the dropper. Bruce gets three smaller containers of Lazarus and lays them out on the table. Dick stands poised to drop some of the pin liquid into the Lazarus containers. Bruce stands on the opposite side of the table. DICK If this works, it’s gonna look cool. BRUCE I’m ready. Dick releases one single drop of the pink liquid into the first container of Lazarus. It gets immediately broken down into Dionesium. Dick does it on the next two and they do the same. BRUCE One drop of this should clear out Jason. DICK I’m gonna let you be the one to inject him with this stuff. Bruce smirks at this comment. He then gives a worried look to Jason. Bruce begins to ponder something. BRUCE How much do you think it would take to break down roughly Twenty gallons of this Lazarus. DICK I’d have to run tests to get an exact ratio, but certainly not a lot BRUCE With the equipment we have here, how much of that could we synthesize? And how quickly? DICK With what you have here … I could make gallons of this stuff. What to call it though? BRUCE Well, it’s primarily composed of… Bruce gets cut off by Dick. DICK AMOXIVILLAIN! Bruce just puts his head down. Dick smiles bigger than he has ever smiled before. Bruce then stands up and fills a needle with the pink liquid. He walks to Jason. Bruce thinks for a moment. Dick looks concerned. Bruce finally gives Jason the shot in the arm. FADE TO BLACK INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-FORENSICS LAB-LATER Jason Todd slowly works his way back to consciousness. He looks around and cannot really tell where he is at. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-TROPHY PLATFORM Jason steps out of the laboratory and walks toward the trophy area. He brings the IV bag and everything on a portable medical stand. Jason sees the massive brachiosaurus, the big copper penny, the 200th Anniversary float and the duck mobile. In glass cases Jason finds Riddler’s old question mark cane and Harvey Dent’s coin. He finds White Rabbit’s bunny ears, Killer Croc’s tooth, and Mad hatter’s 10/6 hat with a bullet hole in the side. Jason gives that an “oops” face. Jason also spots Bane’s luchador mask alongside the batarang that took the behemoth down. Like a cold hand beckoning him, Jason gives an eerie look to the doorway that leads into the cave wall behind the dinosaur display. Jason walks toward it. He reaches the door and activates it. The door slides to the side revealing a darkened room. Jason waits for a moment and then steps inside. The lights come on. INTERIOR: JASON TODD MEMORIAL In the center of the circular room rests the display of Jason Todd’s Robin suit. Jason steps to the display and looks at the costume. His reflection in the glass makes it appear as though he is wearing it. Bruce Wayne comes stepping into the room. Jason looks to him. BRUCE Jason. I’m sorry. About everything. Jason looks confused and emotionally pained. JASON What happened? Trying to remember is like …it’s like trying to recall a dream you’re not even certain of having had. BRUCE You died. Jason seems very concerned by this. BRUCE And Talia apparently brought you back. This rings true for Jason. JASON I remember being angry. With you. (Jasons shows that he does not recall why) She lost someone. She’s been continuously upset. BRUCE Her father. She lost her father. Jason attempts to remember. This brings him pain. Bruce steps toward the man. BRUCE Jason. It’s alright. We’ve got time. Don’t overexert yourself. Jason looks to Bruce and sees the caring look that the philanthropist has on his face. Jason is still shaken up, but thankful. BRUCE Had I known what she would be capable of doing, I would have brought the body back with me. JASON Then I’d still be dead though. BRUCE That is true. JASON (slightly jovial) Maybe let’s not think about this too hard then. BRUCE I missed you. Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne share a hug. A good hug. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-TROPHY PLATFORM Bruce and Jason walk out of the memorial to find Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Barbara Wilson, and Time Drake. Jason gives a smile to Alfred. JASON Hey. ALFRED Master Todd. Jason looks to the other three. JASON I’m sorry. (to Barbara and Dick) For the kidnapping. (to Tim) And the sucker punch. That was you, right? Tim holds his hand out as a greeting. TIM Tim Drake. Tim and Jason shake. TIM And there’s no hard feelings. It’s not the first time someone’s punched me in the face. I’m sure it won’t be the last. JASON I um … This is all a bit much. ALFRED I’ve prepared a bed for you, sir. BRUCE That’d be great, Alfred. Can you take Jason upstairs so he can eat first and then get some rest? ALFRED Of course. Right this way. Jason is hesitant. He looks to Bruce. BRUCE (to Jason) We’ll concern ourselves with the League when you awaken. Alfred leads the young man away. Bruce seems happy that normalcy has returned for Jason. Tim and Dick seem indifferent. Barbara does seem to be slightly concerned. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-KITCHEN-DAWN Jason sits in the kitchen, alone. He enjoys a small, very well put together little sandwich. The light from the morning sun just begins to peak over the horizon to shine on the manor. EXTERIOR: COUNTRYSIDE-ROAD-DAWN Harley Quinn’s car drives through the empty country roads. INTERIOR: CAR-DAWN Harley starts to get the sun hitting her in the face from her rearview mirror. She flips it down abruptly. Ivy takes notice. Harley can tell that Ivy is concerned with her. HARLEY Did you grow up in Gotham? IVY Nope. I was born and raised in Seattle until I took that Wayne Enterprises job and got sent to South America. HARLEY Well, I did. Bat’s said DOOM was coming to the city. IVY Doom comes to that city every couple of years, Harley. Crane leans up into a seated position in the backseat. CRANE She’s got a point. I also did not grow up there. I grew up in Georgia. Both Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn both make detestable noises at the mention of Georgia. CRANE Yeah, my thoughts also. Why the hell do you think I moved to Gotham? Harley waits a moment. HARLEY Why did either of you move to Gotham? POISON IVY I went there to try and get Bruce Wayne to wave a magic pen and get rid of pollution. Both Harley and Crane look to her. POISON IVY It was not the most thought out of plans. HARLEY (with a pleasant smile) But you’ve gotten better though. IVY (smiling) Thanks to you. The two women share a moment. Crane sits in the back, alone. He sees an actual scarecrow in a field as they drive by. CRANE I moved to Gotham in the hopes of making friends. I thought I might have better luck in a big city as opposed to my po’ dunk hometown. Harley slams on the brakes. EXTERIOR: COUNTRYSIDE-ROAD-DAWN The car comes to a halt in the midst of the road. INTERIOR: CAR POISON IVY What are we doing, Harl’s? Harley moves her rearview mirror so she can connect eyes with Crane sitting in the back. Harley then looks to Ivy. HARLEY Where’s home? Neither of the other two say anything. HARLEY Come on. (to Ivy) You must have left Seattle for a reason. (to Crane) You clearly weren’t happy where you came from either. (to both) So, where’s home? The three of them sit in the car. Thinking. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-BEDROOM-DAY Jason wakes up in the king-sized bed. The sunlight can be seen through the darkened curtains. Jason sits up in bed and stretches his arms and back. He sits there for a moment. He gets a distressed expression and stands. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA The Batcomputer is still cycling through information, searching for signs of villainy on the east coast. Tim sits in front of the machine, asleep, as Jason Todd comes up to him. As if feeling the presence of someone else, Tim wakes back up. Tim looks to the computer for a moment, then to the person next to him. TIM Hey. JASON Hey. What is this? TIM I’m looking for any signs of the League making landfall on the coast. JASON (as if trying to remember a distant memory) I think you can stick to searching local. TIM (looking to Jason) Yeah? JASON Yeah. Jason goes deep in thought again. TIM Jason. Are you alright? JASON Where’s Bruce? BRUCE I’m here. Tim and Jason both turn to see Bruce approaching from the shadows of the cave. JASON It’s Arkham. BRUCE Say again. JASON Arkham Asylum. That was the only part of my instructions that involved anything specific. BRUCE Jason. What were you sent here to do? Jason thinks about this for a hard moment. JASON Distract you. Talia sent me here to release the prisoners from Arkham just after the quakes would hit. Then I came up with this whole convoluted thing where I’d get all of them in one spot and then start ordering them to attack in certain… Doesn’t matter; whole thing fell through. BRUCE Is it Talia? And not Ra’s? JASON Ra’s stayed dead. She still misses him though. (to Batman) She’s got issues. Jason shrugs to both Bruce and Tim. Bruce goes into deep thought. BRUCE (motioning to Tim) Long before you were a member of the team, Talia’s father paid a visit to Gotham. (to both Tim and Jason) Ra’s convinced Jason and myself to leave town and he attacked while we were… Bruce trails off. TIM Preoccupied? Bruce motions that that is a good way to pit it. BRUCE He devised his attack to occur while I was busy, off fighting something else. (to Jason) Talia is using his tactics. (to Tim) I want eyes on Arkham as quick as possible. Talia’s most likely already here. Tim gets to work on the computer. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CENTRAL AREA-LATER Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Barbara, Jason and Tim are all gathered before the Batcomputer. Birdseye views of Arkham Asylum are up on the monitors. BRUCE I was fully expecting for Talia Al Ghul and her League of Shadows to be arriving in Gotham soon; within weeks of the quake. I underestimated her. The League is already here. They’ve been here since soon after the asylum was attacked. Barbara looks to Jason. JASON (making light) Sorry. Bruce pulls up a specific picture showing the section of Arkham Asylum that Jason has destroyed a few nights prior. BRUCE Images from Waynetech military satellites has revealed this … Bruce trails off so that everyone has time to study the image. The interior of the asylum structure has been removed. A steel structure now exists inside that is holding the structure up. A fissure has formed in the below ground area where a pool of Lazarus now rests. BRUCE This is where the Lazarus breached. Talia already knew. This section of Arkham has been essentially hollowed out. The steel framework has been constructed to keep everything in place from the outside. Alfred points to a black shape near the Lazarus pool. ALFRED What is that? BRUCE Educated guess; some sort of explosive. DICK Your ex’s pack a punch, Bruce. BARBARA (motioning to the image) This is happening right now? TIM These images are from just a couple of hours ago. BARBARA How many are there? What’s our opposition? Tim gets on the computer and pulls up a thermal scan. TIM Fiftyish. Roughly. A lot. JASON That’s only ten apiece. Roughly. (makes a worried face) I am invited, right? Batgirl looks like she could go either way. Everyone else waits for Bruce to answer. BRUCE Do you want to get out from underneath your past? JASON I do. BRUCE Then all you’ve got to do is put your best foot forward. Alfred and I even put something together for you while you slept. Alfred walks over and pulls a reinforced briefcase up from the floor near the Batcomputer. Alfred opens the case and presents what is inside to Jason. Jason reaches in and pulls out two pistol-like weapons. BRUCE That’s projectile weaponry. You’ve got a grapple line, stun rounds, incendiary rounds … you’ll figure them out. There’s a lot to play with there. Jason takes the weapons in his hands to look them over. BRUCE Are you ready to get back at it? JASON I am. BRUCE Then let’s suit up. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-COSTUME CHAMBERS All five heroes suit up, grab their various tools and weaponry, and then put on their domino masks, red hood, and bat cowl. EXTERIOR: GOTHAM CITY-STREET-NIGHT The Batmobile blasts through the still powerless city, followed by Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl on Batcycle’s. The streets remain dark as the echo of the Batmobile is heard throughout this abandoned part of the city. INTERIOR: BATMOBILE Batman drives the car with Red Hood in the passenger seat. Batman reaches down and kills the afterburner. The car becomes much quieter. RED HOOD I was wondering what the theme of tonight was. Batman looks to Red Hood in question. RED HOOD Because I was assuming we’re trying to be sneaky, but the Batmobile is loud as shit. BATMAN I like to make my presence known when I’m on patrol. And if the League spots us, I want them to assume that’s what I’m doing; patrolling. Batman triggers his screen readout. Jim Gordon appears. BATMAN Jim? GORDON I got you, Batman. BATMAN I need you to form up the national guard. I’m heading to Arkham Island. I need them at the bridge. GORDON Do you need assistance? BATMAN I’m going to need them to clean up afterwards if everything goes to plan. GORDON You worry me, man. BATMAN Just get them there, Jim. And wait for my signal. GORDON Which will be. BATMAN You’ll know. Batman turns the screen off. RED HOOD You’re getting the national guard ready for a fight? BATMAN No. We’re doing the fighting. I just want to make sure I know where the guard is at so I don’t end up with any mystery players. RED HOOD How are we getting in? BATMAN You’re going to walk me in. Talia doesn’t know you’re no longer under her thumb. RED HOOD You trust me to do that? BATMAN If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have suggested it. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT A few men are seen moving around the grounds in the dark. Guard towers are manned as well. Looking down reveals the League of Shadows working in the area of the asylum that has been carved out of a building. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The members of the League work around the area. One of them walks to Talia’s back with a small readout. He hands it to her as she looks up to the large black bomb that they have, being positioned into a quick-release device. Talia looks to her follower. TALIA (slightly surprised) He has him? LEAGUE MEMBER Yes. And he’ll be here any second. Behind them, on the first floor of what remains of the building, the double doors are kicked open. Talia and the League member turn to see Red Hood, with Batman tossed over his shoulder, using his grapple line to lower himself and Batman to the floor of the lair. Talia appears surprised, but pleased by this. Red Hood walks up to them and lays Batman on the ground before Talia. TALIA Thank you, son. Once Talia is no longer looking at him, Red Hood gives a strange expression to Talia’s use of the word “son”. TALIA It’s a shame we keep having to meet like this. Bruce puts on a pained expression as he opens his eyes to look up at her. BRUCE Talia. Why are you in Gotham City? TALIA You know why, Bruce. Talia motions to the bubbling Lazarus in the fissure that has recently formed. TALIA My League controls every Lazarus well. Father knew there’d be another. He said it would be the “Eighth Wonder of the World”. But not even father had the guts to do what I’m planning. BATMAN What are you planning, Talia? I know you’re here to destroy the city! Talia smiles. She motions to Red Hood. TALIA Do you know who brought you in, Bruce? World’s Greatest Detective. I didn’t expect him to. I figured you’d both just keep fighting until it’s over. BATMAN What are you planning here, Talia? TALIA Who is it, Bruce? BATMAN (stern and angry) It’s Jason! Red Hood is Jason! I know that, Talia. But why? Why bring him back? Why do any of this? (Batman is able to get himself in a crouched down position) What is your plan, Talia? (Batman motions up at the large black bomb) Is that nuclear? TALIA No, my love. It’s a bomb comprised of both prelax and orlate. The two fluids inside will be mixed, causing a chemical explosion that will ignite the Lazarus, leaving the majority of the city a flaming remnant of what it once was. I’m sure you of all people know. Roughly twenty-seven percent of all deforestation equipment is owned by companies operating right here out of Gotham City. Do you realize how much worldly good the League will accomplish by completely removing Gotham from the equation? Batman is realizing how much more dire this situation is becoming. BATMAN Where are your escape vehicles? TALIA Escape? There’s no escape from this, Bruce. (she motions to herself, Batman, and Red Hood) My father was a great man, but he never conquered his fear of death. I have no such fear. Not anymore. BATMAN (seeing that she is emotionally pained) Talia? TALIA Now we get to perish as a family. The family we should have been. Batman doesn’t really know how to respond to this. Talia’s walkie makes a staticky noise. He begins to look around. He spots a control booth for the bomb. LEAGUE MEMBER (over walkie) Ravin! This is Outlook Two. Talia lifts the walkie up. TALIA Go ahead, Outlook two. Batman stands up. LEAGUE MEMBER (over walkie) We’ve got eyes on the car. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The Batmobile charges through the barricades on the bridge and reaches the island. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT TALIA Open fire! EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The Batmobile starts getting shot from the League members station in various locations around the island. It crashes through a few parked cars, undeterred. The car finally comes to a quick halt on top of a bluff on the grounds of the Asylum. Tons of League members are shooting at the car. All of them are equipped with a sword, but also body armor and several automatic weapons. These men get slightly closer to the car as they keep firing, not allowing an opening for whoever is inside. INTERIOR: GUARD TOWER One of the League members pulls up a rocket launcher and goes to aim at the Batmobile. Someone taps him on the shoulder. He looks to see who it is. Nightwing punches the man’s lights out. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The Batmobile launches flash grenades and smoke bombs. The League members on the ground get distracted and start coughing. Above them, Batgirl and Robin swoop down to two different guard towers and take out the men posted in them. The League members on the ground take notice. One of the men yells out in their native tongue. Others follow and begin firing upward at the two of them. Three bodies jump down from three different guard towers into the smoke left from the Batmobile. The League Members fire sporadically as they give chase. NIGHTWING They’re just hoping to get lucky. This way! Nightwing leads the other two off into the night. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The League’s native tongue is heard coming across Talia’s walkie talkie. It is frantic. TALIA I see your friends are here. BATMAN (motioning to Jason) How’d you get him to hate me? TALIA Told him the truth. That you left him behind with me when you departed Taus. That you came back to Gotham and replaced him. (she appears crazed) It wasn’t hard. RED HOOD Wasn’t hard to lie. You left out certain details. Like how I happened to be deceased at the time. This catches Talia off guard. INTERIOR: STORAGE HOUSE-NIGHT The shadows of men fall on the windows of the old storage house. Both doors on opposite sides are kicked in. The men from the League of Shadows fill the room. They are frantically searching, shouting out in their native tongue to one another. Above them, in the shadows of the rafters, are Nightwing, Batgirl, and Robin. Batgirl reaches out while holding a detonator. She presses the trigger. Several small, but well-placed explosives go off all over the floor. The entire bottom gives out in a flash and all the men who chased them into the warehouse suddenly find themselves amongst rubble in the basement. They all moan out in pain. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT RED HOOD He brought me back, Talia. BATMAN Why’d you do it? Why? Talia does not answer; she instead draws her sword. In a flash, Batman punches the League member next to her. BATMAN Jason. The Bomb! RED HOOD On it! Red Hood uses his weapon to grapple upward. Batman and Talia engage in a sword fight. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-COMPUTER PLATFORM-NIGHT Red Hood comes swinging up in a loop. He fires two beanbag rounds at the two League members sitting at the station, knocking them to the floor unconscious. Three more come running toward Red Hood as he lands on the platform. Red Hood brings his guns up to quickly cycle through his options. RED HOOD Alright Bruce, let’s see what we got. Red Hood aims and fires three bursts of electricity that bring all three of them men to the floor. Someone up above begins firing on Red Hood. He changes his settings again and then fires off an incendiary round. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The red-hot incendiary round immediately burns through all that it touches causing an entire section of the steel structure to collapse onto the lower level, bringing the gunman down with it. High above, Batgirl, Robin, and Nightwing all descend into the madness. The three of them begin fighting off Talia’s men. On the floor, near the bright green Lazarus well, Talia and Bruce battle each other. He uses his gauntlets to block a handful of attacks. She notices his cohorts have joined the fight. She cusses in her native tongue, then pushes Batman away. She raises her walkie talkie. TALIA I need reinforcements at CENTER! Batman opens a small hatch on his left gauntlet and a small keypad unfolds. He types in a quick code, then closes it up. Him and Talia look to each other simultaneously. TALIA How many of you are there now? BATMAN Five, last I counted. TALIA About to be one less. Talia pulls up her pistol and aims for Red Hood up at the computer platform. She opens fire. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-COMPUTER PLATFORM-NIGHT Bullets start to rip through the computer terminals. Red Hood throws himself down behind cover. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The gun is knocked from Talia’s hands by a Batarang. Batman comes swinging at her with the sword again. They again engage in a duel. Above them Batgirl and Nightwing are both taking out members of the League by knocking them unconscious. One of the League Members opens fire from across the expanse of the lair. Batgirl immediately launches herself across the expanse and takes the man out with a gliding kick to the head. The device that the bomb is attached to begins to extend as the bomb is spun around a half dozen times in either direction. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-COMPUTER PLATFORM-NIGHT Red Hood struggles with the damaged computer. It shows that the bomb is about to be released. He sees the release device stretching out over the Lazarus well. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT On the steel structure near the bomb, Robin spots that it is about to be released as well. The device suddenly stops spinning. Robin leaps at the bomb. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-BOMB RELEASE-NIGHT Robin fired a grapple line at the bomb, through the gaps on the bomb release. Robin “catches” the bomb on the line and then the young man comes down and grabs the bomb to hold himself steady. Both Robin and the bomb are hanging from the same wire line, only held by each other’s weight from the release device. Robin can see on a timer that the bomb will go off in five minutes. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT Nightwing and Batgirl continue to fight separately as more League members begin to fire at them. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-COMPUTER PLATFORM-NIGHT Red Hood starts firing freezing rounds. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT Three of Talia’s men get hit and their entire torso areas become engulfed in ice. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-COMPUTER PLATFORM-NIGHT Red Hood then fires off another incendiary round. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The incendiary round causes another massive section of the internal steel framework to collapse. Several members of the League fall to their deaths. Batgirl sees this. So does Batman. Talia comes at the Caped Crusader. He blocks a few attacks, but finally gets hit across his back and gets his cape sliced off. Batman gives this repeat of history a concerned look. TALIA I am my father’s daughter. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-BOMB RELEASE-NIGHT Hanging upside down, Robin manages to get a hatch on the bomb open with one of his pry tools. Before he can even get at the internal wiring, his line makes a screeching noise. Robin looks to see his line is going thin. The Timer says there is four minutes and twelve seconds left. The line snaps! Robin and the bomb both fall toward the Lazarus. Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl all look, but are all currently engaged in a fight. Robin is caught by Red Hood, swinging across the expanse on a grapple line. Batman sees Robin get caught, followed right after by the bomb splashing into the Lazarus pool. Talia uses this opportunity to knock Batman to the ground. Talia yells into her walkie. TALIA Where are my reinforcements? She looks to see Batman studying his surroundings. TALIA Did you really think you could stop us, Bruce? The League has operated for centuries. It only ends when I say it ends. BATMAN You’re going to kill all of your people and the innocent people of Gotham just because you hate your father? TALIA I loved him! Batman gets back up onto one knee. BATMAN You killed him! Is that what you do to the people you love? And now you’re purposely killing off his legacy in the most useless display of insecurity I have ever seen. Don’t do this! Talia stands for just a moment before kicking Batman back to the ground. She lifts her walkie back up. TALIA Reinforcements NOW! Talia does not hear a reply. TALIA Come in! Come in! Batman looks to Red Hood checking on Robin. He looks up to see Nightwing fighting. Then to Batgirl. He then sees Harley Quinn coming down onto the steel structure from a doorway that leads into the asylum. She has her giant mallet and begins swinging at the members of the League. Batman cannot mask the fact that he is in utter shock at this display. Suddenly the whole room shakes. TALIA What the hell is happening?! Giant vines burst in through a wall of rock. Poison Ivy gets lifted into the area by her massive green vines. Everyone looks in shock. Suddenly, maddening screaming starts coming across the walkie. Her and Batman give this noise an odd expression. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The members of the League are on the grounds of the asylum, on their sides, screaming as a giant fog of fear gas heads over them. Scarecrow stands on a park bench, above the fog, watching this all occur with his arms spread wide. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT Harley, Nightwing and Barbara attack the League of Shadows with fisticuffs. Poison ivy is obliterating them with an endless barrage of giant vine attacks. She knocks some from the support structure. Others she just smashes. Talia looks to all of this in disbelief. BATMAN This is Gotham. Talia shows displeasure at this comment. Batman speaks down into his gauntlet communicator. BATMAN Everyone out! Nightwing and Batgirl look to one another, then head out. Red Hood helps Robin to his feet so he can do the same. Red Hood gives a worried look to Batman as he sees the Dark Knight stand back up on his two feet. Harley and Ivy spot Batman staying while everyone else departs. Batman gently approaches Talia. BATMAN This is madness, Talia. This isn’t you. You do not have to do any of this. I’m not going to think less of you. Your father certainly won’t either because he’s no longer with us, Talia. He’s not judging you anymore. Poison Ivy and Harley both near on Batman and Talia. Red Hood comes waling over as well. The area around them has become unstable due to Ivy’s boisterous attacks. TALIA Because I killed him! Harley and Ivy give inquisitive expressions. TALIA Everything I love, dies. That’s why I wanted Jason. To make up for the life we lost. BATMAN Don’t mourn for the life we never got to have with each other, Talia. TALIA Not our relationship. The life we made. (she looks to Batman) I was with child after we had our time in the desert. Our child. And I lost it in a miscarriage. It was one of the few times I ever remember seeing my father smile. Harley makes an uncomfortable cringe face at this revelation. HARLEY Jesus. This gets Talia’s attention. She shoots Harley an angry look, then looks to Poison ivy. The sound of a helicopter can be heard. TALIA You. Poison Ivy motions to herself in question. TALIA Do you have any idea what I am trying to accomplish? Ivy shakes her head no. TALIA I’m trying to save the earth. Our Mother Earth. Helicopter noise gets louder. TALIA By ridding the world of Gotham City. I just want to make a difference. Poison Ivy takes all this in as the helicopter noise gets louder and louder. POISON IVY I think you’re grasping at straws, lady. I think you’ve been messed up for a while. Either way, destroying a whole city. That’s crazy! Harley gets a pleasant smile. HARLEY Ivy! You’re cured! Red Hood gives a look like he is not so sure. The helicopter noise is right on top of them now. POISON IVY What the hell is that? EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The Batcopter comes flying above the area where the Lazarus well is located. ETERIOR: ARKHAM BRIDGE-NIGHT Gordon, the cops, and the national guard personnel are waiting behind barricades as the Batcopter gets into place. The bottom of the helicopter opens up and GALLONS of Amoxivillain pours out. This brings a smile to Gordons’s face. INTERIOR: TALIA’S LAIR-NIGHT The pink liquid pours down into the Lazarus. The bubbling Lazarus instantly starts to get eaten away. Talia is in disbelief. Batman reaches back to her. BATMAN Talia. Red Hood doesn’t like this. He finally cracks Batman in the back of the head with the butt of one of the League Members rifles. Harley and Ivy give this action a worried look. Talia turns to this in confusion. Red Hood uses the rifle to shoot Talia just above her left kneecap. The woman falls to the ground. RED HOOD I’m not letting you back out of your “sacrifice yourself” plan. Red Hood picks up Batman and hoists him over his shoulder. RED HOOD If he wants to be mad at me about it, I can live with that. Red Hood gives a glance to Harley and Ivy and then starts for the exit. Harley and Ivy follow him. TALIA You were the son we never had!! No one listens. They all depart. Talia is left surrounded by ruin. She crawls over to inspect the Lazarus well. Down amongst the rocks are various puddles of Dionesium and the black bomb that Talia dropped only a moment prior. She watches the last few seconds click away on the bomb. Her face is then bathed in bright yellow light. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT A regular sized explosion occurs from inside the hollowed-out building. This then causes the building to collapse onto everything the League had built. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-BRIDGE-NIGHT GORDON That’s our signal! Move in! EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-NIGHT The cops and national guard move in. They approach the members of the League of Shadows as they are almost completely incapacitated. Scarecrow slinks away in the night, toward the boats that him and Tetch had escaped with prior. EXTERIOR: ARKHAM ASYLUM-BRIDGE-UNDERNEATH AREA-NIGHT As the police forces and everyone else filter onto the island, our band of heroes hangs out underneath where the bridge meets the island. Batman is still unconscious. HARLEY (worried) I left my car up there. NIGHTWING Me too. POISON IVY Where do you think Crane ran off to? HARLEY I don’t know, but he went off alone. I’m proud of him. Batgirl shakes her head no. Harley looks to Batman. HARLEY Is he gonna be okay? RED HOOD He’ll wake up with a headache, but he’s fine. ROBIN Let’s get home. (to Harley and Ivy) Or wherever. And stay there. Harley and Ivy show that they understand. BATGIRL (motioning to Batman) Who knocked him out? RED HOOD I did. He wouldn’t have left otherwise. An awkwardness is shared by the group. RED HOOD I’ll deal with the aftermath. Batman lays there unconscious. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-CHANGING CHAMBER Bruce is seated, dirty, as he just thinks to himself. He finally stands. INTERIOR: BAT CAVE-ENTRY AREA Bruce steps out of the chamber to see his four cohorts. Jason, Dick, and Tim are like brothers. Barbara appears as the older sibling, trying to keep everyone from getting too rowdy. They look back to Bruce, but can see he does not share their sense of victory. DICK Come on. Dick guides everyone away for Bruce’s sake. Bruce doesn’t notice, but Alfred stands behind him a few meters away, giving the man a saddened look. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-STAIRCASE- EARLY MORNING Bruce makes his way up to the second floor. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-CORRIDOR- EARLY MORNING Down the hallway, Bruce can be seen standing in his father’s old office. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-THOMAS WAYNE’S AT HOME OFFICE- EARLY MORNING Bruce stands in front of the portrait of his parents. He feels good about saving Gotham, but there is a clear sadness. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-MASTER BATHROOM- EARLY MORNING Bruce is trying to wash off the night. He can barely be seen through the steamed-up glass of his standing shower. INTERIOR: WAYNE MANOR-MASTER BEDROOM-EARLY MORNING Bruce enters his dark bedroom and doesn’t turn on the lights. Only tiny slivers of light can be seen reaching through his darkened curtains. Bruce opens one of the drawers on his dresser. He then hears a noise shuffling behind him. His back tenses up. He spins on his heel to look behind him. BRUCE (stern) Not a lot of people can sneak up on me. SELINA I know. Bruce walks over to his bed. Selina, in a pair of yoga pants and a big comfy dress shirt, works her way to the edge of the bed. Bruce sits facing away from her. She gets behind the big lug, putting her chest against his back, and pulls herself close to him, laying her head on his shoulder. Her arms wrap around his chest. Her legs end up on top of his. SELINA Tell me what happened. Bruce Wayne lifts his head forward, looking for the words. FADE OUT THE END Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text EXCERPTS FROM THE CITADEL. I have devoted my life to the gathering and preservation of knowledge. Yet even in the most careful records of kings and queens, there exist silences—gaping absences that reek not of mere error, but of deliberate omission. Such is the case of Maela Targaryen . No birth records confirm her. No portraits hang in the Red Keep to mark her presence. No songs are sung of her beauty or her deeds. And yet whispers cling to the stones of the Citadel, like cobwebs in forgotten corners. Whispers of a daughter born to King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower , twin to Prince Daeron the Daring , though she is nowhere to be found in the rolls of the royal household. I have scoured ledgers, letters, even the private journals of septons and courtiers. Each time I arrive at the same chilling discovery: there is no proof she ever lived. And yet, the absence feels... too precise. Too clean. It is as though someone, or something, wished her very memory to be scrubbed from existence. Some accounts, usually dismissed as tavern tales, speak of a shadow at court—a young girl with silver-white hair and two different color eyes, always standing at the edge of gatherings, always ignored when noticed. Others claim that the maids whispered her name in fear, for her temper was known to lash like wildfire and her affections to cling with a hunger unnatural. But these fragments are dangerous to repeat. Already I have been warned by my superiors to abandon this line of study. "There was no Maela," they insist. "You are chasing ghosts." Yet I cannot let this ghost go. For if she did exist, then she was a princess of royal blood, hidden, erased, and abandoned to history's silence. And I must ask myself—what sin, what darkness, what terrible truth could have demanded such a complete obliteration? This record shall remain sealed within the Citadel's vaults, where only the most trusted eyes may read. Perhaps in a hundred years, or a thousand, when tempers cool and dragons are dust, some will dare to seek her story again. Until then, Maela Targaryen is a phantom, a name not meant to be spoken. And yet, I write it still. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text (Start The Ikari Harem House) The Ikari Household, as Misato had elegantly dubbed it, had been seeing a great deal of life even if the environment was artificial in nature. However, the denizens had made themselves quiet comfortable in this home. Its been well over a week since they officially moved in, and a few things had changed amongst them. When the AI had stated that the entire facility was automated it truly was an automated wonder. Their meals were handled by the AI program considering each of their dietary needs as well as was as cooking foods to promote reproduction. Things had been somewhat difficult for everyone even if it could have been worse. Asuka for her part had taken to ripping apart the sheets and drapes to construct makeshift clothing for them. It was basically rags tied together to cover the important bits but Asuka refuses to spend any more time naked. Of course, the bossy girl had gotten Rei to dressed as such, but it normally followed by regular yelling reminders for Rei to put something on. Asuka should be lucky that most if not all of her magazines made it onto the vessel but consider what happened they didn’t have anything useful for her. But hey she has TV at least and free cable to go with it all. Rei wasn’t much to start conflict so spent most of the time watching whatever Asuka was watching at the given moment. This is normally followed with Rei asking random questions about the shows and its purpose which leads to Asuka being left annoyed by her. Shinji and Misato had hardly done much in terms of cooking leaving the AI to do all of it. Even then they did not show up at the table most of the time and when they do its either Misato picking up the food or getting drinks. Judging by her hair being messed up it was clear to see what had been happening in there. The other sign they were still alive was the banging Asuka had heard from the bedroom Misato and Shinji had claimed. Every night Asuka found herself sleeping in the living room masturbating at night because those two horn dogs have been at it like rabbits from sunup to sundown. It was moaning the slapping of flesh upon flesh it was driving Asuka up the wall. Rei on the other hand was a different story. She found herself with the mission of repopulation and despite this Shinji seemed to focus on Misato. In a sense they were all Shinji’s wives even if Asuka refused to admit it. But here she was sitting in the living room on Saturday the end of the week. It was night and Asuka was trying to focus on the TV dressed in only torn fabrics to act as clothing much like Rei was. The sounds coming from the master bedroom was hard to ignore. “Jesus those horny perverts have been at it none stop!” Asuka snapped as she could not enjoy the TV anymore. “They are carrying out their duty, the only way for repopulation to be feasible is.” Rei began but Asuka cut her off right there. “I get that but at this point if Misato isn’t pregnant by now then something must be wrong with the two of them!” Asuka snapped as she was tired of hearing the same thing for the past week. When will it be her turn dammit… where did that come from? “I will admit spreading his time between the each of us would be more practical to ensure larger numbers of conception then focusing on one.” Rei said causing Asuka to roll her eyes in frustration. “You don’t get it.” Asuka said as she knew that Rei was being to logical. But Rei was having other issues with being left out of Shinji’s bed in favor of Misato. ‘Am I… not attractive enough?’ Rei asked groping her breasts wondering why Shinji had not taken her to bed. Rei wanted to be with Shinji as well she wanted to share his bed as much as Misato did and she felt left out. She recalled the other night seeing Shinji and Misato together, Rei was the silent observer of it as it made her feel wet and most jealous. Misato had been crying out in pleasure as she shared that pleasure with Shinji. Rei saw how Misato’s toes had curled up with the pleasure given to her by Shinji. At the same time, she was showing Shinji a few tricks some of which Rei wanted to experience as well. “I want to become one with Shinji.” Rei said to herself as her pussy lips were soaking wet with desire. (Meanwhile in the master bedroom) Misato laid on the bed with Shinji and sighed in content. "This is the life isn't it Shinji?" Misato said as she and Shinji were relaxing in the bed they had been sharing for the past week. Things had been improving greatly between them since they arrived at this place and that’s not just the sex either. "It sure is.” Shinji said comfortable in Misato’s arms. “I liked seeing you… all of you.” Shinji said as he laid against Misato do to his smaller body able to fit perfectly into her more mature body. “Sorry for not being good enough." Shinji apologized as he was still inexperience when it came to sex and pleasuring others. "Don't be.” Misato said before kissing the top of the boys head. “I enjoyed teaching my favorite student." Misato said as she smiled sensually to Shinji. She never been much of a Shotacon, but it seems Shinji made her one just for him. Shinji blushed a bit as he found himself stuttering now. “Well, it was nice to hear that from my favorite teacher." Shinji said which got a laugh out of Misato in response. "Oh, you're so precious!” Misato gushed as she bumped her nose against Shinji's own. They smiled at each other, content to just lay in bed, the two of them in their own bubble hidden from the world. For the past week they had been doing nothing but having sex and experimenting as they did so. Everything they did both parties had consented to it. Just the feeling of her fingers on his cock felt better than any time he touched it on his own. In turn, he got to make her moan by sucking on her nipples. One time, he even fell asleep sipping on her left breast, much to his embarrassment when he woke up. Misato of course noticed and laughed it off stating it was practice when she has their child. Time flew fast as they made each other cum each day. They ignored calls and knocks on the door to be one. They could not resist the pull for another round for long. So soon after finishing, Shinji kissed Misato again, rubbing his head between her breasts. He felt so happy, and he could tell unlike before, Misato was happy too. She brushed his hair and kissed his forehead once more. "I'm so glad we got to do this.” Shinji admitted as he hugged close to Misato. “I've never felt safer than I was with you." He said as this got Misato to smile at Shinji. "I feel the same way." Misato said before they ended up kissing again enjoying the blissful peace they had. They kissed again, comfortable in their blissful ignorance. “So, Misato what should we name the baby?” Shinji asked curious as to what name Misato had already planned. “Hey, getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” Misato asked teasingly causing the both of them to giggle a bit. “Honestly, it’s kind of scary thinking that we need to…” Misato said trailing off a bit wondering if this week had left her pregnant. “Honestly… I should be scared but I’m strangely excited.” Shinji said surprising Misato when he said that. “I know… my father had issues… but I wanted to be better than him for any and all of my children.” Shinji said and thus Misato was reminded of Shinji’s struggles. “You want a big family, and this place gives you the chance.” Misato said seeing that Shinji wanted a big family. “I guess… sorry I just.” Shinji said only for Misato to put a finger against Shinji’s lips. “Don’t it’s a wonderful desire as long as you take full responsibility for each child.” Misato said seeing that Shinji had many desires within. “Of course.” Shinji said as he wanted kids and he was happy that Misato was willing. “But what about Rei… and Asuka?” Shinji asked as Misato sighed to this before smiling. “Rei… I don’t think she’ll be much of an issue.” Misato said as she knew that they had a couple of peeping toms on them. “Asuka… well give her some time.” Misato said as she already had a plan in the works to get Asuka to take part willingly. “I swear those girls are on opposing sides of the spectrum.” Misaot mused as this left Shinji confused before he saw Misato sit up to stretch. “Though I could use a bit of a stretch and.” Misato began but then felt Shinji move close to her with his cock rearing to go once more. “Geez you don’t quit.” Misato joked before they shared a kiss with Misato resting her hand on Shinji’s cock. They broke the kiss eventually to breath as Shinji wanted more. “Misato.” Shinji said and thus Misato giggled to this. “Ok another round.” Misato said knowing she’ll have to tire out Shinji. (The next day with Rei) Rei was out and about once more as she roamed the house a bit. It was mid afternoon on Saturday as her bare feet tapped against the hardwood floor with wet slaps. Meanwhile Asuka had gone out to work on a tan since she knew she would less likely get the chance after this. Rei walked through the house until she passed by a mirror in the hall. When she did, she saw her nude form there causing Rei to look at it bitterly. ‘Does Shinji desire older woman… am I too undesirable for him?’ Rei wondered as she looked at her body. She envied Misato she was physically attractive and had known Ikari longer then Rei ever did. Rei felt bitter especially since she’s at the peak of her fertility. However, Rei was soon caught off guard when Misato stepped out from behind. “Morning Rei.” Misato said with a smile on her face as she came from behind Rei. Rei almost jumped not seeing Misato there before turning to face her. “Major Katsuragi good morning.” Rei greeted as Misato sighed to this. “Rei we’ve been over this I’m not NERV anymore so its just Misato.” Misato said as Rei just stood there for a bit. “Of course… was there something you needed?” Rei asked as she looked to Misato. “Yeah, I was wondering if you or Asuka had the time to explore the dome while Shinji and I were… indisposed.” Misato said as Rei stood there and turned her head a bit. “No, I assume the AI program would give us a detail map and the area would be safe of any possible predators.” Rei said as Misato had to give it to Rei. “Yeah, but I was also looking for a possible hiking path we can take.” Misato said as she looked to the albino girl. “I was wondering if you or Asuka could take a chance to do some exploring around the dome just see what we have other then the beach and the house.” Misato said as she wanted to know exactly what they had available. “I shall scout as soon as possible.” Rei said as she needed something to get her mind off her doubts. “Alright.” Misato said as she then walked on by intent on getting a few things or so it would seem. Rei stood there for a moment before she took her leave of the woman. She was also curious as to what they might find here. (Later at the Breakfast table) Shinji, Misato, Rei, and Asuka were gathered in the dining area eating another bout of breakfast. The AI program had provided them a large amount of food all of which was likely to promote fertility and conception. Despite this Misato was enjoying it all as she leaned back on her chair with one leg over the other and a drink in hand. “This is the life to think all this time SEELE was playing a game they already lost!” Misato cheered as she held her can in hand likely fresh from the bedroom again. “Yeah, great and all we have to do is fuck like rabbits and be fucking brood mares.” Asuka said showing she did not like being relegated to a baby factory. “I do not think that is the AI’s intention it had not attempted to drug us in anyway since we had lived here.” Rei said as she found it odd Asuka felt the AI was out to get them. “Yeah, but it won’t let us leave this dome until we each got a bun in the oven.” Asuka countered glaring at Rei for defending the AI. “I mean its not that bad.” Shinji said as he quietly ate his food. “And the food is ok if a bit odd.” Shinji said as Misato then looked over at Shinji. “Hey, don’t be picky with your food Shinji!” Misato yelled as she stood up and leered over Shinji much like when Shinji had moved into her apartment. “Misato tits hanging over the food here!” Asuka snapped as she glared at Misato for this. “Eat all your food and then we can put that cock of yours to work again.” Misato said reminding Shinji that he was the only one who can knock them up assuming they had not been impregnated yet. “Oh, us yeah sure Misato.” Shinji said a bit nervous, but he let it be for now. “Damn perverts.” Asuka growled but one of her hands was currently in her folds trying to stifle the heat between her legs. “Anyway, you two can clean the table I’m going sunbathing.” Asuka said making it clear that she was not going to be in here should those two get down and dirty. “Take your time.” Misato said with a smirk on her face towards Asuka. (Scene Break Later that afternoon) It was lunch time by the time Rei eventually returned. She had invited Asuka along for her trip, but Asuka turned her down. She basically said she wanted to be alone. Rei suspected Asuka had been spying on Misato and Shinji much like Rei had done and that was why she was alone. When she came back, she found Asuka laying naked on a beach chair with sunglasses over her eyes. Nearby was the sound of calming music as Asuka was likely sunbathing. Next to the music device was a timer likely to alert Asuka when she needed to turn over or move. Rei walked over and saw Asuka had fallen asleep likely why she had the timer on. Leaving it be Rei entered the house to report her findings to Misato. From what Rei had found there was in fact a hot spring within walking distance of the house. It was isolated and did not provide separate bathing option much to Asuka’s likely annoyance. When Rei found it a part of her found it to be oddly romantic if one were to prepare it prior to using it. However, as Rei entered, she saw the house was messy. This was recent as she looked around the scene. From what Rei found as she investigated there were fluids left behind painting a picture as to what happened. Walking around she saw that it started in the kitchen where food had been set up for the group. Climbing the stairs Rei went over to the master bedroom and was surprised to find it unlocked. What Rei found inside however left her in shock at the scene. Shinji was holding Misato’s legs open as he came deep inside her as Misato cried out in pleasure over what was happening. “YES! YES! YES!” Misato cried out as Shinji came deep inside Misato’s folds. Shinji then roared out and came directly into Misato’s uterus filling her with his seed. Rei was wide eyed at the scene she came upon knowing that if Misato wasn’t pregnant before she was certainly pregnant now. The fact that they were in front of the door meant when Rei opened the door, she got a full view of the orgasm. Shinji fell over as he and Misato were catching their breath. “That was great Shinji… fuck that had to have gotten me knocked up.” Misato said as she felt Shinji’s cock slide out of her. “Shouldn’t you have taken a pregnancy test first?” Shinji asked looking to Misato. “I haven’t found any around here, plus it takes longer for any signs to confirm it.” Misato said looking to Shinji with a smile. “Oh…” Shinji said before Misato felt something hard between her thighs and then smiled. “Well looks like someone is still rearing to go.” Misato said before lifting her head and smiling towards Rei. “Hey Rei, how about you tag out with me?” Misato offered causing Shinji to go wide eyed and see Rei standing there. “Wait… REI!?” Shinji asked as Misato rolled off of Shinji to give Rei some room. “Uh wait I uh.” Shinji stuttered but Rei began to approach regardless. “Don’t worry Shinji let it happen.” Misato whispered into Shinji’s ear as Rei joined them on the bed. Misato moved aside to give them as much room as possible. The way Rei walked over to Shinji he was reminded of the day he first visited her apartment only this time she was smiling her face was red with desire. “Shinji… I want to become one with you.” Rei admitted as she kneeled down at the edge of the bed where Shinji was sitting and went between his legs. She saw his hard cock was there slick with Misato’s juices and his balls swollen with his seeds. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” Rei breathed her breath haggard unable to resist anymore. “You heard her Shinji; you better take responsibility for this.” Misato eased as she took a breathed to watch the show. Soon enough Rei took Shinji’s mass into her mouth and began to pleasure it. The way she moved was shy showing she lacked experience, yet it oddly suited her as Shinji enjoyed it. “Rei.” Shinji moaned but Rei let go of him. “I have… no prior experience with this… I simply acted on instinct.” Rei said as she looked up to Shinji. “I apologize in advance if I cause any unsatisfaction for you.” Rei said before taking him back into her mouth and pumping his cock for a bit. Shinji cried out enjoying the feeling of his cock inside Rei’s mouth. Rei then let go of Shinji's rock-hard cock and began to tend to his balls. From what she understood this act helped with the production of semen which is needed for Rei to conceive Shinji's child. Rei wondered if the part of her that came from Lilith would play a role but for the time being she tended to her husband-to-be's needs as the submissive wife she was. Misato for her part just laid on her side smiling at the scene as she began to rub one out at her personal porno. After all Rei snuck so many peaks at them its only fair Misato did the same. Rei continued her ministration to Shinji as she looked up towards him with her eyes with his cock inside her mouth, a Fellatio. Misato was impressed as Shinji could not help but stare at her crimson red eyes. “Rei.” Shinji moaned out as he was about to lose control. “I can’t… I want I need.” Shinji said but Rei cut him off. “Go ahead.” Rei said as she looked to Shinji. “You are Adam, and I am his first wife Lilith.” Rei said taking notes from the story of Adam. Without hesitation Shinji took Rei roughly pulled her up. Rei submissively allowed for Shinji to do so before she found herself thrown onto the bed and pinned by Shinji. Rei laid there staring up at Shinji the scene much like the one when she was first seen naked by him. Shinji gulped also recalling it before he roughly took her breast in his hands causing Rei to moan a bit at how he handled it. Shinji then moved forward on Rei as she took his head with her right hand and spread her legs. At the same time Shinji took Rei’s waist before they took a pause. The rough handling was pleasurable but now Rei wanted something more. Shinji sensed it and agreed with that desire between them. The pair started deeply into each other’s eyes both of them were unsure on what they should do next. “Shinji… I will gladly carry your children.” Rei said calmly to Rei. “As a female it is my duty if we are to secure the human race’s future.” Rei said as she looked to Shinji with desire. “Rei…” Shinji began but Rei cut him off. “However, I want to stay with you for more then duty… I… felt something towards you before I was the third and even after.” Rei admitted surprising Shinji. “I want to feel more of it and…” Rei began only for Shinji to cut her off by smashing his lips against hers. Rei was caught off guard by this but eased into the kiss and wrapped her arms around Shinji. They rolled to the side a bit and in turn it was clear they were ready for what came next. Shinji laid on his back with Misato using her lap as a pillow for Shinji. Misato was not going to intervene and was just an observer and if need be, an instructor. Rei straddled Shinji ready to give to him her virgin folds. Rei looked down at Shinji aiming his cock for her wet lips as she was shaking with fear. “Rei… if you can’t then I.” Shinji began but then was shocked when Rei slammed herself down on Shinji’s cock. Rei went wide eyed as she felt her hymen tear as Shinji invaded her deepest parts. She cried out as Shinji was shocked by this and was worried. “Rei!” Shinji called out but Misato cut him off. “It’s ok Shinji, you just tore through her hymen… she’s given you, her virginity.” Misato said smiling at Shinji as Rei nodded. “I will start moving now.” Rei said and thus she began to slowly move up and down Shinji’s length. As she moved Shinji had a vague memory of instrumentality, but it was vague almost like an illusion. The reality before him was real and he was enduring it. Rei was enjoying every moment of it, she had never felt like this before in her life. Misato being the observant teacher she was saw that Rei was experiencing sex for the first time in her existence. It was sweet in a strange sort of way. Misato stayed there ready to jump in should the need arrive. Misato was wondering if Rei would end up knocked up after the first shot. that would be a fun ride synchronized pregnancies for the Ikari-clan. Rei kept riding Shinji her voice showing a new emotion on it, pleasure. It looked good on Rei strangely enough. yet Shinji wanted more. Rei also wanted more she wanted Shinji’s cum to go deep inside her and fertilize her. She wanted it all and soon enough she gave Shinji a look a submissive look of desire. Understanding the message Shinji pushed and in turn Rei was on her back but now she was being pile drive into the bed. Misato smiled as she taught Shinji that one as Rei cried out from it. “Shinji this is intense!” Rei cried out as she was wide eyed. “I know… but I want you to get knocked up.” Shinji said as Rei nodded to this. “Of course, my womb is to carry your offspring as one of the designated eve’s of this group I will carry your child within.” Rei said as she felt Shinji deep inside her. Soon enough Shinji’s grip slipped, and they soon found themselves back on the bed with Shinji changing position on a dime. Rei cried out as she felt Shinji deep inside her. Misato was silently cheering them on as she saw the event play out. “Rei I’m going to cum…” Shinji said alerting Rei of what was to come. “Yes, I will fulfil this task and I will be yours even when it is complete.” Rei said and in turn both were ready. Shinji released his seed inside Rei and Rei cried out as she squirted from her pussy folds. The two were trying to catch their breath for a second once they high came down. Eventually Shinji slid out and fell back as Misato caught him with ease. “That was… sex?” Rei asked curious about it. “Yes, it was Rei, and Shinji is my star student.” Misato said with a smirk on her face. “Teach me!” Rei alerted and thus Shinji was wide eyed. “All you had to do was ask.” Misato said as she looked to Shinji. “For starters… lets me show you how to get a cock hard again.” Misato said as Shinji’s flaccid cock looked in need of a boost. Needless to say, Shinji would not be getting any rest going forward from these two. (Later that day with Asuka) Asuka yawned as her sunbathing had been interrupted when that dumb AI woke her up alerting her that if Asuka kept sleeping the UV Rays would harm her skin. Asuka was grateful to avoid that and after making sure her tan was getting even; she saw the day for it was done. Entering the house, she noticed the emptiness of it all. “Misato!” Asuka called out but got nothing. “Wonder Girl!” She called and again she was met with silence. “Shinji are you making dinner?” Asuka asked and in turn noticed something amiss. Walking up the stairs Asuka went to the master bedroom hoping to find it empty of anything. Asuka would not get her wish as when she entered, she was wide eyed at the perverse scene before her. Inside the room was Shinji between Misato and Rei as they were covered in a sheen of sweat with Rei and Asuka covered in cum and juices. Asuka was wide eyed her mouth agape as she saw Rei was absolutely glowing. It did not take Asuka long to figure out that Rei was no longer a virgin meaning Asuka is the last maiden around here. “OH, COME ON!” Asuka snapped as she bolted out of the room hoping to hunker down somewhere before babies start to pop out and undue the locks of the nursery. Rei stirred a bit and saw Asuka run off before smiling a bit and snuggled into Shinji. “Still the second.” Rei said almost smug as she returned to sleep. (TBC) Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Percy didn’t mean to start a revolution against the gods. It just, sort of … happened. He supposed it all started one summer, a couple of years after the Giant War (as it had been dubbed by the year-round occupants of Camp Half-Blood) when he had noticed a new camper hesitating by the fire. This wasn’t an unusual sight, and he was just wondering whether or not one of the camp counsellors would help him out, when-- Oh . He was a camp counsellor now, so he should probably be doing his job. Right . Picking up his barely picked at food, Percy made his way over to the fire and tried to look as non-threatening as possible -- something that had become a lot harder since his little detour through Tartarus. “Hi,” Percy looked over at the other demigod, “I’m Percy Jackson. You alright over here?” "Oh, I’m, uh, James. James Silver. I … I don't get what I’m meant to do. I just throw my food into the fire and ... talk?" James, a son of Hermes, asked -- Percy could recognise those blue eyes and elfish facial features anywhere. Percy grinned, "Yeah, that's pretty much it." James hesitated before looking down at his feet, "But ... Hermes has a lot of children more powerful and more popular than me. What would I even ask him for? It's not like he cares." Maybe it was because of the way James resembled Percy's little sister, Estelle, at that moment as he looked down in shame, or maybe it was because Percy was reminded of that promise he wrangled from the gods at age sixteen, but one moment he was looking at the younger camper, and the next he was throwing some of his food into the fire and asking Poseidon for two Disneyland tickets (so he could take Annabeth on a date there) very, very loudly. But even though he wasn't quite sure how it happened, the small, shocked laugh that James let out made it worth it. ------------------------------ Still smiling happily at the thought of being a good influence on the younger kids, Percy made his way back to Cabin 3 where he was greeted by the sight of a small envelope lying innocently on his bed with his name written on it in an easily recognisable scrawl. “...Dad?” he called out, hesitantly, not really expecting a reply. He made his way over to his bed and picked it up, dimly recognising the scent of the ocean that his dad managed to infuse into everything he touched. Slowly, he opened it up and watched as two Disneyland tickets fell out of the envelope and onto his bed. Wait. Disneyland tickets? Why would his dad give him-- Huh. He did ask for some, but he did so in an effort to make James realise that there really weren’t any stupid requests, not out of any particular need for them. Cautiously, as if expecting another few tickets to fall out, Percy opened the letter and read it once. Then read it again. Then another time just to make sure that he wasn’t reading it wrong. But, no. There in his hands, written in blue ink (of course) read: Perseus, As much as I approve of you annoying my relatives, I do hope you have nothing to do with the fact that one of Hermes’ 10-year-old sons just requested a motorcycle. While I, as your father, have a brilliant sense of humour and am just generally awesome, others may not appreciate this in the same way. Your father. ...Ok, so maybe he wasn’t as much of a good influence as he thought he was. On the bright side, no god had struck him down yet and he was still very much alive and unharmed. So maybe Hermes saw the humour in it too? That was kind of his thing, playing pranks and practical jokes -- or it was his children’s thing, at least. He also couldn’t deny that the thought of little James Silver requesting a motorcycle of all things was more than a little bit funny. He wondered for a moment if Hermes would grant his request or not, then immediately decided that no self-respecting parent would ever give their 10-year-old a motorcycle and, say what you will about Hermes, he did genuinely care for his children ever since … well, ever since Luke. Maybe it would make the gods more involved in the lives of their kids. They would have to acknowledge some of the more outrageous requests, wouldn’t they? Well, there was only one way to find out. Being a good influence was overrated, anyways. ------------------------------ “You want me to do what ?” “Oh, come on, Wise Girl! For the good of the new campers, we have to … to encourage them to not put their godly parents on a … on a pedestal so they feel comfortable with requesting stuff! And how better than seeing the Architect of Olympus doing it!” Annabeth sighed and started to rub at her temples, she could feel a migraine incoming, “So why don’t I just request something smaller than a mansion ?” “Well… you could , but we need the campers to feel comfortable with asking for things they may think are too big. I mean, what’s bigger than a mansion ?” Annabeth smiled softly, “I can … admit that maybe I would’ve started making bigger requests of Athena if I had watched some of the older campers do it as well.” “So….” “So, yes, Seaweed Brain. But I refuse to ask for a mansion. We should also try to get some of the other older campers involved, maybe. I’m sure Clarisse would jump at any chance to antagonise the gods, and Travis and Connor definitely would. And don’t pull that face, just because she tried to push your head down a toilet on your first day at camp, doesn’t mean Clarisse is a bad person.” Percy smirked, “Yeah, I got her back though, didn’t I? Bet she wasn’t expecting that, huh?” Annabeth laughed, “And then you broke her favourite spear before being claimed by Poseidon, of all gods. And you wonder why she didn’t like you.” He gasped in mock-offence and held a hand to cover his heart, or where he thought his heart was, “You wound me. Truly.” “Oh, shut up, Seaweed Brain.” “Nah. You love me really.” ------------------------------ “ HELLO, MUM, YES HI, HOW ARE YOU? TODAY I WOULD LIKE TO ASK YOU FOR THE PROTECTION OF EVERY SINGLE BLADE OF GRASS IN AMERICA. WHY? BECAUSE I FEEL BAD FOR THEM. THEY ARE SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS AND YET THEY MUST SIT IN SILENCE THEIR WHOLE LIFE. ANYWAY, THANK YOU, HOPE YOU ENJOY THE OFFERING AND GRANT MY REQUEST.” Zeus was mad, Poseidon noticed with not a small bit of glee. Actually, that was not entirely correct. Zeus wasn’t mad, he was absolutely pissed . This was the fifth time this week that a council meeting had been interrupted by a request from a demigod, requests which had been getting more and more outlandish each time. Luckily for Percy (because, despite what Poseidon wrote in the letter, he just knew that Percy was behind all this), Zeus had yet to connect him to anything. He suspected, sure, but he couldn’t prove anything. Not that Poseidon would let him do anything to his favourite son, but it was always funny to see his brother so worked up over a mere demigod. “POSEIDON,” the god in question bellowed, “Tell your son to stop annoying me or I will smite him with my lightning bolt.” “Now, brother,” he replied, “I do believe that the request was made by a Ms Katie Gardner. Not my son. Whyever would you think that?” Athena snorted from her throne and glared at Poseidon, “Perhaps, Poseidon , you would know why my daughter asked me for the happiness and wellbeing of every baby sea turtle in the Atlantic Ocean?” Poseidon hummed noncommittedly, “Oh, she did? That was nice of her.” “That was nice-- Poseidon! It is your son who is filling my daughter’s head with these … these senseless thoughts of rebellion!” Aphrodite sighed, “My dear,” Athena’s left eye twitched at being addressed as such by the goddess of love, much to Poseidon’s fascination. “Maybe it is to be expected. After all, love can make people do foolish things,” Aphrodite sighed again, winking at Ares on the throne next to her and resolutely ignoring Hephaestus’ scowl. Deciding to interfere before any thoughts of golden nets appeared, Hermes spoke up on the subject, “I, for one, think this is hilarious. Why, just the other day one of my children asked if I could get them a sugar daddy! I am man enough to admit that I did not know what that was, nor how to go about acquiring one, but rest assured I am making good progress on it.” The heavy silence that followed the proud exclamation was broken by Aphrodite’s laughter. The Olympians turned to the goddess who was practically falling out of her chair in laughter and made the collective decision to pretend it wasn’t happening -- as was the tradition on something they didn’t understand. Finally, Hades spoke up, startling some of the other gods as they had still to get used to his place on the council, “I believe it would be best if we were to--” “ HI, FATHER. UM, I AM REQUESTING A -- GODS, PERCY, I’M NOT SAYING THAT … NO, I DON’T HAVE TO … YES, I CARE ABOUT THE YOUNGER CAMPERS … THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH-- FINE. FATHER, I AM REQUESTING AN … AN ARMY OF DISCO SKELETONS THAT CAN PLAY JAZZ SO THEY CAN BE THE ENTERTAINMENT AT THE END OF SUMMER PARTY. THANKS … ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, PERC--” “...POSEIDON.” ------------------------------ Perseus, It may or may not have come to my attention that Athena, in particular, does not seem to be fond of any ocean, or ocean creature, based requests. Do with this what you will. Definitely not your father. Though if I were, I would be telling you about how proud I am of you for annoying both of my brothers. Do try not to get killed, though. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The body on Ethan's front porch did not die peacefully. A slimy layer of familiar black goo covers its face and upper body, thinning to irregular streaks below the chest, but the mould does little to disguise the grimace of misery still twisting the poor man's features. Vague dark streaks lead away from it toward the garden gate, as i it might've been dragged into position from some distance away. Ethan's more familiar than he should be with the mess left when a body gets dragged through damp ground—he's been that body himself—but he doesn't know what he's seeing here. He can't even guess how long it's been there. What time did they leave yesterday? He can barely remember. At least the body doesn't move when they approach, doesn't make any attempt to get up when he nudges it with a foot. Ethan's had more than his share of experience with bodies that do that, too. Even now, he feels uneasy turning his back on the thing. A sweep of the house, performed with gun drawn and Heisenberg at his back, reveals no other anomalies. Nothing is missing or damaged, nothing obviously moved. The front door hasn't even been tampered with. If anyone—anything—tried to get in, it left no sign. So what happened here? Did a dying man drag himself to the Winters' front porch before breathing his last? Did some monster kill a man right on his doorstep, and drag itself away? But it's hard to look at the gruesome spectacle and see anything short of the metaphorical horse's head waiting on his pillow, to see it as a message. A threat . Well, it's official: the universe has officially backed him into the corner and made him give in. There's nothing to do but the last resort Ethan's been avoiding all day. It's time to call Chris Redfield. (Heisenberg is definitely about to object to that plan, but a look from Ethan shuts him up. God, he must look horrific if he's capable of shutting Heisenberg down that fast, but Ethan has his lines in the sand, and letting a mad scientist do his own fucking autopsy in Ethan's own fucking house is not up for debate.) By the time he's done with the call, Ethan is just so done with this shitshow of a day, he's running on fumes. There must be a dozen things he should be doing, and he can't even think what they are. Fortunately, this is where Mia takes charge. It's Mia who thanks the Duke and assures him he doesn't need to stick around. It's Mia who makes Heisenberg understand that he does not get to mess with the body before the authorities arrive (no, not even a little). It's also Mia who points out that Heisenberg might want to make himself scarce before Chris and his goons arrive, because they're absolutely going to want to look inside the house, no matter what the Winters tell them. ("But whatever did this might still be out there!" Ethan protests, automatically, which only makes Heisenberg grin with glee, rumbling, "All the more reason to take a little walk!" He vanishes off beyond the tree line with his hammer slung over a shoulder, and Ethan doesn't worry about him, not even a little.) It's Mia who greets Chris when he arrives and fields his initial questions ( no , they didn't see or hear anything, no , they don't know how long it's been there, no , they don't have the first idea who, or how, or why), while his people photograph the body and manoeuvre it into a body bag. Part of Ethan is still waiting for it to get up again, or something, but it keeps him in suspense. At least he's spared from having to turn his back on it, or having to explain himself to Chris in his exhausted state. No need to remember not to mention their new houseguest, or where they've really been tonight, or the real reason he hasn't slept properly in well over 24 hours, let alone what he really thinks about Chris and his whole fucking outfit and their idea of a need-to-know-basis when it involves the safety of Ethan's fucking family. Oh, and not having to worry about the small chance he could start actively leaking black mould again while Chris is looking him in the eye—that's probably a bonus too. So Ethan sits on the faded lawn chair, watching as Chris' people take their samples and photographs and all the rest of that song-and-dance, hugging Rose to his chest, and trying not to feel like a useless fucking coward for letting his wife handle something for once, like he hasn't gone right back to trying to hide from all his problems. Who the fuck leaves a body on a family's front porch? If whoever did this wants them scared, well, they've got their wish. The hell are they supposed to do now? They can't stay in this house, that much goes without saying. Is this the universe's twisted way of granting Ethan's wish for a way out of the country? But if his infection isn't stable anymore, is it safe for him to move? And if Heisenberg is- "Ethan?" Mia's voice pulls him sharply out of his reverie. "Whu?" Ethan manages, startled back to the present. Mia gives him an apologetic smile. "Chris wants to talk to you." "Jesus, really?" "He just wants to clarify a few details." Mia shrugs. "We're both witnesses here." "Alright, alright." Slouching to his feet, Ethan passes Rose to her and trudges over to Chris. "What do you need from me?" he sighs. It takes somewhat longer than it probably ought for Chris to turn to look at him properly. Close up, the man doesn't look like he's had much more sleep than Ethan has. There's a weariness in his eyes that actually makes Ethan regret the attitude he came into this with; it reminds him of some of the other questions he should probably be asking, like, that guy, was he wearing fatigues? He wasn't one of yours, was he? To Ethan, it might be some small relief if he was—at least the poor dude had some idea what he was signing up for. But he can't expect Chris to see it that way. Ethan's heard things about how Chris handles losing people in the field. Things that strip away all veneer that this is just another day on the job for anyone. At least until Chris opens his mouth. "Ethan. There's a dead body on your porch." Conversationally accusatory, the Chris Redfield special. Ethan bristles immediately. "I noticed." "And you have no idea how it got there?" It's hard to say whether Chris means to sound suspicious, or if this is just his base level of world-weary antipathy, but it wears on Ethan all the same. "He didn't ring the bell, Chris. He sure wasn't there yesterday." Chris nods, maybe. He's still looking more at the clipboard in his hand than he is at Ethan. "You don't know the victim? You've never seen him before?" Ethan hesitates. "I don't think so? I don't know if I'd recognise him now even if I did." Chris seems to allow that this might not be unreasonable. "And nothing else has happened since we spoke last that you might want to mention? Your friend Heisenberg still hasn't made contact?" "You think he did this?" Pretty unlikely, given that he was with Ethan the whole time. "It's not really his style." There's not a single drill bit attached to the body, just for one. The look Chris gives Ethan offers no reassurance that Chris believes him about the Heisenberg situation. "And you still want me to believe you didn't hear anything suspicious? See anything?" "We weren't even home!" What good does it do to tell the truth when Chris won't believe him anyway? "We got home late last night, and there it was." "Are you sure , Ethan?" The look in Chris' eyes could make a lesser man unsure about his own birthday. "We both know your car hasn't moved all night." Ethan opens his mouth to tell Chris of course he's sure, but instead he says, "How would you know about our car?" "Just answer the question, Ethan." Ethan does not answer the question. "Are you tracking our car? Chris, what the hell!" The noise Chris makes is a grunt of pure frustration. " Yes , Ethan, we're tracking your car! It's for your own protection." "You didn't think that was worth mentioning to me? Where did you think we were going to go?" Breaking into some lab overnight with a wanted criminal? Thank god they took the Duke's offer of transport. "Have you bugged anything else around here I should know about?" "I do not have time to argue with you about this, Ethan." The impatient growl of Chris' voice is less a threat than a promise. "Miranda may be out of the picture, but there may still be threats to your family out there that we don't even know about yet. You should count yourself lucky you've been allowed to return to your own home at all." Ethan scoffs, even as his heartbeat hammers in his chest. "Well, it was nice while it lasted! I guess it's your lucky day. You want an excuse to take us all back into 'protective' custody? Well, you've got it!" He's probably tempting fate by even saying it aloud, and he's almost too far gone to care. But Chris has gone back to frowning at his clipboard. "That won't be necessary at this time." "What?" "We're not moving you or your family. Not yet." Ethan gapes at him. What the hell is Chris smoking? "Why the hell not?" Eye contact from Chris is rarely pleasant, but a Chris who won't make eye contact is somehow worse. "All our intel points to you being safest where you are at this time." " Safe? Chris, someone just left a dead body at my front door!" Is Ethan not hearing this right? What the hell is Chris playing at? What is he not telling Ethan? "Did you know this could happen? Are we bait? " "Ethan," Chris growls, " stand down. " Ethan does not stand down. "Are you scared of me, Chris? Is that what's really going on here? Is that why you're keeping us in the dark?" That's when it happens: the faint sensation of something warm and damp, trickling from his left ear. Ethan studiously ignores it, almost daring Chris to notice what Ethan can't risk drawing attention to. At least being mad can only help with the poker face. Chris gives a short sigh, mostly down at his clipboard. "I'm not scared of you, Ethan." "Well maybe you should be!" The awareness that he's playing with fire flickers around the edges of Ethan's mind, some mad instinct that almost wants Chris to throw the first punch. Chris just gives him a long, unreadable look. "Get some rest, Ethan," he says, turning to go. "We'll let you know when we know anything more." Ethan doesn't believe that for a second. He watches Chris bark directions at one of his men, the last still waiting for him outside the van, who salutes and climbs into the vehicle. Somehow, Ethan manages to wait until the van has pulled out past the gate and off over the hill before gingerly touching his ear with a finger. Seems like that whole stress theory has some merit to it after all. It's surprising, then, that Ethan doesn't see anything on his fingers when he brings them back to his face. Did he imagine it? Did he somehow will his body to reabsorb the stuff again? Even wondering about it is giving him a headache. It's starting to occur to Ethan, now Chris is gone, that he may have just handled that really fucking badly. Did he just threaten Chris Redfield? What does he, have a death wish? The only silver lining is that at least Heisenberg isn't around to laugh at him for it. Actually, maybe it's a shame he's not around, at least he's someone Ethan could punch in the face without feeling too bad about it. He could really use someone to punch right now. Or at least something to empty a few rounds into. God, he's a mess. Mia's waiting for him on the porch, Rose still in her arms. She looks apprehensive, and it's hard to blame her for that. Ethan rubs his face as he reaches her. "I think I may have handled that badly," he admits, and it's no good sign that Mia's response doesn't involve reassuring him otherwise. "You think?" she says—not angry, just disturbed. "Ethan, what the hell was that?" Ethan can only shrug his shoulders. "I don't know. There's so much going wrong and I don't know how to fix any of it..." He's sharing dreams with a madman, he's infected with a whole new strain of bio-agent, he could be on the verge of mutating into god-knows-what, his family is trapped in the middle of nowhere, and now some unknown monster wants him scared. Well, mission fucking accomplished! " Shit ." He hears his own voice break around the same time he feels the moisture seeping out of his eyes. Ashamed, he looks away. "Oh, Ethan..." Mia murmurs, and then there's an arm wrapped around him, drawing him close. "I'm sorry. You're really hanging by a thread, huh?" There's a part of him that wants to push her away, swear he's okay, but Ethan's never really been that guy. With both arms, he draws her close—her and Rose, the three of them—and lets himself be comforted that at least he hasn't lost what matters. Not yet, not ever. "Chris said he isn't moving us," he murmurs to her, once he's got some kind of hold on himself again, swallowing around the lump in his throat and a voice that wants to break. "He thinks we're safer here." "I heard. I don't know, Ethan. He must have his reasons." "Be nice if he let us in on them once in a while." Mia doesn't seem to disagree. Pulling back a little, she looks him over. "You really need some sleep, huh?" "I'm fine," Ethan tells her, though it's a bald-faced lie. "This is nothing. I lasted longer than this back in the village." "And I'll bet you didn't make a single bad call the whole time?" Ethan laughs soundlessly for a minute. "Okay, you got me there." "Come on. You need rest. You look like you're just about ready to pass out where you stand." The possibility of some future lecture on why we don't sass the paramilitary police is still hanging in the air between them, but Ethan's not sure he's in any position to object. All the same, he shakes his head—he doesn't get to sleep, not when whatever did this could be back any time—but he lets himself be led into the living room and deposited on the sofa with Rose in his arms, while Mia goes to make him a hot drink or something. Sneaky of her, leaving him with his little girl; it's damn hard to stay on edge with that little bundle of warmth and joy making him feel all warm and fuzzy. Shit, is it really fair to blame Chris for keeping them in the dark when Ethan's lying to him about so much? Heisenberg, this new infection, where they really were last night, the list is only getting longer. But what does Chris expect? Ethan would never have had to turn to a creep like Heisenberg for help if Chris had only trusted him enough to tell him the truth about Mia from the start, and it's pretty clear that, for all his assurances, Chris doesn't trust Ethan any further now. Ethan's still just a civilian in his eyes, and always will be. But what if it was one of Chris' men who was found dead today? Ethan's not ready to bet that was the only reason Chris looked like such a wreck either. God knows what else he's been dealing with. Hell, what if the message in that body wasn't meant for Ethan at all—what if it was for Chris? It's not like it's a secret that Chris has basically appointed himself the official protector of the Winters family, or that Chris would be the first person they'd call... Still, he can't seriously expect them to stay here, can he? But then, where else are they going to go? Back to civilisation, with civilian bystanders for all their neighbours? Some miserable basement with bars on all the windows and padlocks on all the doors? Call up the Duke again, and ask how he'd feel about having several new permanent roommates? How the fuck are they safe here? Like they were safe from Miranda? They weren't even safe from fucking Chris . Would it be so wrong to call the Duke and take him up on his offer to get them out of here? Why does that feel so much like it'd just be running away from his problems? God, he's so tired . He's actually missing when his latest sexuality crisis was his biggest problem. Nothing like a mystery body on your doorstep to really put all your problems into perspective. Sleep feels impossible right now anyway. God knows what's out there, waiting for them to let their guard down again. How's anyone supposed to sleep at a time like this? Maybe if he just rests his eyes for a bit... Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Chapter 51 John woke to Oliver crying. In the few seconds it took him to wake up fully—and he used to be better at that, he was clearly getting old—he heard Sherlock’s feet on the stairs, jogging up to Oliver. And then John braced himself, holding his breath. Maybe Oliver would be absolutely fine and Sherlock would soothe him and put him back to sleep. Sherlock’s footfalls descending the stairs were like thunder. No such luck, thought John. The bedroom door was flung open and Sherlock said, urgently, “John.” “Yeah,” said John, leaning over to turn the light on. Oliver was in Sherlock’s arms, wailing miserably, his hair sweat-matted all over his head. “Oliver’s sick ,” Sherlock said. “He’s really, really sick. I mean, truly, honestly, it isn’t in my head, feel how hot he is.” Sherlock practically shoved Oliver toward John. Oliver cried harder in reaction. John laid his hand against Oliver’s damp, tear-streaked cheek. He was warm. Warmer than John had felt him so far. “Okay,” John said, shifting into calmness. He was almost relieved that Sherlock was practically bouncing out of his skin. Sherlock’s hysteria always triggered an unnatural tranquility in John in reaction. “Come here,” he said, taking Oliver fully into his arms as he got out of bed. “‘ Come here ’?” Sherlock echoed, in outrage, trailing behind John as he carried Oliver into the bathroom, jiggling him soothingly in his arms. “That’s what you have to say? ‘ Come here ’?” “We’re going to take his temperature,” said John, evenly, retrieving the thermometer. “Why?” demanded Sherlock. John looked at him and said, “Data, Sherlock,” as he stuck the thermometer in Oliver’s ear. It beeped, and John glanced at the reading. 39. Warmer than John would have liked. “Okay,” he said, kissing the side of Oliver’s head, determined not to overreact. “Let’s take some medicine.” John opened the medicine cabinet. “What did the thermometer say?” “He has a fever.” “I told you that. We should do something, shouldn’t we?” “We are. We’re giving him medicine. Here you go, Ollie.” Oliver cried and shook his head. “He doesn’t want the medicine,” Sherlock pointed out. “Well, he has to take the medicine. That’s how we get the fever down and that’s how he starts feeling better. Explain it to him,” John commanded Sherlock. “What makes you think I can explain that to him?” “He’s your clone!” “You think I listen to myself? The only person I ever listen to is you .” John sighed in frustration and turned back to Oliver. “Come on, love. You did this earlier, remember?” “Earlier?” said Sherlock. “ Earlier ? Did you give him medicine earlier?” “Help,” John said, handing Oliver over to him. “Hold his hands for me and keep his head still.” “Is there anything about this that isn’t a terrible idea?” Sherlock snapped. “Yoo-hoo!” called Mrs. Hudson. “Terrific,” said Sherlock. “Just what we need. More chaos .” “There was such a commotion,” said Mrs. Hudson, standing in the doorway to peer into their very crowded bathroom. “Is everything alright?” “No. Oliver’s sick and John’s giving him medicine .” Sherlock said it in disgust. “And Oliver’s not taking the medicine,” John added, “because he is the clone of the most stubborn human being on the planet.” Sherlock glared at him. Oliver cried. Mrs. Hudson said, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you weren’t all stuffed into the bathroom on top of each other?” There was a moment in which they absorbed this, and then Sherlock carried Oliver out of the bathroom as if that had been his plan all along. “What can I do?” Mrs. Hudson asked John, anxiously. “Anything?” “No. Thank you, though. He’ll be fine. Some of us are just panicking.” “I can hear you!” shouted Sherlock from the kitchen. “We’ll be fine,” John told Mrs. Hudson again, and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting on the table, in amongst of all his science equipment, trying to keep hold of a squirming Oliver, who clearly wished to make a break from all of the insanity. “I’m not panicking ,” Sherlock said. “I don’t panic . I never panic .” “Tell your clone that,” said John. To John’s surprise, Sherlock held Oliver out so that they were facing each other and said, firmly, “Oliver. Stop it. This is irrational and inefficient.” Whether because he understood or he was surprised by the tone of voice, Oliver’s protests ended in an abrupt hiccup. “I know you don’t feel well,” Sherlock said, a bit more gently. “And I know it’s horrible. But Papa’s the very best doctor and he says you’ll feel better if you take the medicine and Papa is generally right a higher proportion of the time than other people are.” High praise, thought John, sardonically, but he was willing to take it. And then Sherlock went on. “Plus, when Papa says that things are going to be alright, what Papa really means is that he will make them alright, and you should trust that, always. He will always make everything alright.” John stared at Sherlock, trying not to look like he was so touched by that sentiment that he was going to forgive every other irritating thing he’d done that evening. Sherlock looked at Oliver, who looked back at him and uttered another little hiccup of breath. Sherlock’s expression softened. “Okay,” he said, almost under his breath, and pulled Oliver in and kissed the side of his head. “See? You’re okay. Papa will make it better, it’s what he does.” Sherlock turned Oliver so he was facing John and said to John, “There you go,” as if he had not said anything extraordinary at all. John tore his gaze away from Sherlock and looked at Oliver and cleared his throat to shake himself out of it. “It’s just a little bit of medicine. You didn’t mind it before.” Oliver gave him a look that said, Yes, I did, it’s just that I didn’t know I did until after I took it. “Okay,” John conceded. “But was it really so bad? And didn’t you feel better afterwards?” Oliver looked skeptical, but Sherlock was holding him firmly enough that John managed to get the medicine into him. Oliver coughed dramatically as if he had never tasted anything as terrible in his entire life. “Stupid,” he told Sherlock, firmly, an assessment of the medicine. “Sodding stupid,” Sherlock agreed, because it was Sherlock’s quest to apparently make their child’s vocabulary composed of nothing but words other parents didn’t want their children to know. “Don’t act like it was so horrible,” said John, “I’ve watched you eat dust.” “For science ,” said Sherlock. John rolled his eyes and put the kettle on. “That should get his fever down.” “What if it doesn’t?” “We’ll take him to hospital.” “We shouldn’t take him now?” “No. It’ll upset him and frighten him needlessly. His fever will come down the same way your fever came down, and he’ll be fine. You know why? Because he’s you.” Sherlock didn’t really acknowledge that. He looked at the kettle and said, “You’re making tea?” “I doubt I’ll go back to sleep now.” Sherlock smiled. It surprised John. But that was definitely a smile. He ducked his head down to be near Oliver’s and said, conspiratorially, “This is what Papa does: he makes things better, and he also makes tea.” John shook his head, amused, and turned to the cupboard to get the mugs down. When the tea was made, he found Sherlock on the sofa with Oliver curled up on his chest. The television was on, although it was muted, and they were both watching it raptly. A cooking program, John saw. He put Sherlock’s tea down on the coffee table and then sat in his armchair and picked up the mystery novel he was reading despite all of Sherlock’s snide comments about it. After a little while, Sherlock said, his voice low, “You knew he was sick earlier.” John glanced over at him. Oliver was sound asleep, one hand clutching at the expensive fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “He was a little warm when I gave him his bath.” “You didn’t say anything,” Sherlock accused. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought maybe it might be nothing.” “And now it’s something?” “It’s a little more stubborn than nothing is. How is he? Still warm?” Sherlock placed a hand against Oliver’s head and shook his head. “No. Not the way he was.” “Good. That’s good. See? Nothing we can really do for it. He just needs to work it through. We’ll let him rest and make sure he drinks plenty of fluids. He’ll be fine.” “You can go back to bed if you want,” Sherlock offered. “I’ve got him.” John looked at Sherlock on the sofa, cradling their child. “I’m fine,” he said. * In the morning Oliver still did not have a fever. John was relieved, even if it was clear that he was also still sick. His eyes were glassy and dull and he continued to look miserable. John said they were staying inside all day and Sherlock didn’t argue. He sat with Oliver and put together molecules for him and patiently wiped his nose whenever it ran and John was privately a little amazed by how well Sherlock was dealing with the whole thing. Oliver napped in the afternoon, which was unlike him, but John took advantage of it to nap himself, curling onto the sofa. It seemed very cozy and self-indulgent, despite the fact that it was the result of his son’s illness, and John tried not to feel guilty for enjoying it. But it was raining outside, and the light filtering into the flat was dreamy and silver, and Sherlock was picking out an absent melody on his violin, and John slept. When he woke Sherlock was still playing and the light in the flat was noticeably dimmer. John refused to open his eyes, preferring to linger in the vestiges of the nap. He listened to what Sherlock was playing, which was very pretty. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard him play it before. Eventually his curiosity got the better of him. Yawning, he stretched and sat up. Sherlock was walking through the room as he played, his steps keeping the rhythm of the music. “What is that?” John asked. Sherlock glanced at him, but didn’t pause in his playing. “It’s Oliver’s.” John smiled. “You wrote him a song?” “Yes.” Sherlock’s tone dared John to mock him. As if John was ever going to mock him for that. What had been wrong with everyone in Sherlock’s life before John had arrived in it? Sometimes it boggled John’s mind. “Well, it’s lovely,” he said. “Ollie’s still sleeping?” “Mmm,” Sherlock said, leaving off his playing abruptly. “I checked on him a few minutes ago and he was fine.” “You can keep playing,” John said. “In case you were stopping on my account.” Not that Sherlock ever did, so that didn’t make much sense. “No, that’s the end of the song,” Sherlock said. “It’s unfinished. He’s unfinished.” Sherlock shifted into the song John recognized as his, and John smiled and settled back onto the sofa. * The following morning Oliver’s nose was better but he’d developed a nasty cough. Sherlock hated the cough. Whenever Oliver coughed, Sherlock stopped whatever he was doing and just stared at him until he was done. John found it unsettling, so he couldn’t imagine how Oliver felt about it. “It’s a cough,” John told him. “That’s all.” “It could be pneumonia,” Sherlock said. “It’s not pneumonia.” “Oh, you’re an expert on pneumonia?” said Sherlock. “Yes,” answered John. “It’s called ‘being a doctor.’” “Well, I’ve had pneumonia.” “Doesn’t make you an expert on it. And he’s just got a cough. It’s not pneumonia. I’ll get him some cough medicine.” At the word medicine , Oliver looked up from his puzzle. “Sodding stupid,” he said, and made a face. “I don’t think he’s going to be a doctor anymore,” remarked John. “Oh, no, he’d love being a doctor. Doctors just get to give the medicine to everyone else.” “Definitely a good motivation for being a doctor.” “And he’s working on a puzzle right now of the thoracic vertebrae.” Oliver coughed, and Sherlock did that staring thing at him again. “Stop,” John said, and deposited himself directly on Sherlock’s lap, which startled Sherlock, because it wasn’t like John made a habit of that. “Stop staring at him like that. It’s creepy.” Point made, John vacated Sherlock’s lap, pleased when Sherlock blinked after him and not at Oliver, who started coughing again. * The following morning, John got out of bed and found Sherlock in the nursery, sitting on the floor by Oliver’s cot, doing something on his laptop. “Okay,” John said, sternly. “This is not necessary. He can sleep without you in the room.” “He was having a hard time sleeping,” said Sherlock. “He kept coughing. It was better when I was in here.” John peeked in at Oliver, who was snoring through clogged nasal passages. Then he leaned down and took Sherlock’s laptop out of his hand and closed it. “Come downstairs,” he said. “I’ll make you breakfast.” Not that Sherlock was going to eat breakfast, but he did follow John downstairs, complaining the whole way about how rude it had been of John to take his laptop away. He sat at the table and looked over his experiments. John glanced at him, thinking he looked listless, and wondering if he was catching Oliver’s cold. “When’s the last time you checked on those?” John asked him. “I know,” Sherlock said, ruefully. “They’ve mostly been ruined now. It was a busy few days.” “Mmm,” said John in agreement, cracking eggs into a pan. And then he paused, thinking. And then he turned to Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he said, sharply. Sherlock looked up at him from his experiments. “When is the last time you slept?” John demanded. Normally he kept much better track of that. Sherlock opened his mouth and John swept his arm toward their bedroom and cut him off by saying, “To bed.” “John—” “You thought you could fly under the radar just because I was busy dealing with the other one of you, didn’t you?” Sherlock shook his head. “I didn’t need to sleep. Oliver needed me to—” John reached out and turned the stove off and said, “Come on. Bed.” “I’m not tired,” Sherlock protested, as John pulled him out of his chair and prodded him down the hallway. “Yes, you are. You’re overtired. You’re exhausted.” John pulled Sherlock’s pajamas out and handed them to him. “Here.” "You're being ridiculous," complained Sherlock. “As if I don’t know when I’m tired.” “You definitely don’t know when you’re tired,” said John, and began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock brightened a bit. “Oh, are we going to—” “Absolutely not. You need sleep.” John pushed Sherlock shirt off him and pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was remarkably like dressing Oliver. “I’m not tired,” Sherlock said again. “Fine. Just humor me then.” John pushed him onto the bed. Sherlock went with a huff, and John untied his shoes and pulled them off and then followed with his trousers. By the time John was finished manhandling him to get his pajama bottoms on, Sherlock had somehow managed to fall fast asleep. “Git,” John said, fondly. Then considered his abandoned breakfast and decided instead to crawl into bed with Sherlock, who rolled toward him automatically and dropped a heavy arm over him and snuffled into his shoulder, and John kissed his head and closed his eyes. * John didn’t sleep. He dozed a bit, enjoying having Sherlock sleeping next to him, and then he rolled out of bed and went back to his breakfast. As soon as he cracked fresh eggs, Oliver sounded a cry from upstairs, with his inimitable sense of perfect timing. John went upstairs to retrieve him, finding him standing in his cot, a sniffling mess. “Papa,” he said, in anguish, trying to communicate how terrible being sick was, and reached for him. “I know,” said John, and picked him up and cuddled him. “You still feel terrible, don’t you?” Oliver turned his face into John’s neck and coughed wetly. Lovely, thought John, and changed him and went over every doctorly thought he had in his head. It was a cold, he thought. There was nothing he could do for a cold. And it was Oliver’s first cold. His little immune system was doing the best it could to address such an unusual occurrence. He hadn’t had a fever since the first night and his symptoms did seem to be progressing. But all of the reasonable things John would have told a panicked parent didn’t help when he was the panicked parent. And he didn’t have Sherlock there panicking in order to force him to be calm in response. John debated silently, not reaching a conclusion, and went downstairs and made breakfast. Oliver sat in his highchair and banged his skull again it as he repeated, “Sodding sodding sodding.” John considered how he was going to break him of the habit of saying that, then considered how he was going to trick Oliver into drinking something, since Oliver was turning up his nose at milk—and John didn’t blame him, because John didn’t like milk when he was sick, either—and was uninterested in any type of juice John had given him. John looked at the kettle and had a brilliant idea. He walked around to be in front of Oliver and said, “What about tea? Would you like some tea?” Oliver recognized the word, of course. Oliver recognized all words that they had ever used even once, never mind a word they used as often as they used tea . His eyes lit up, showing interest in something for the first time in days. “Tea!” he exclaimed, as if wondering why he had never thought to demand tea before. John picked him up out of his highchair and set him on the edge of the counter, holding him in place firmly with one hand while he set about making tea with the other. “Let’s pretend that tea is a perfectly healthy and acceptable thing to give a baby,” John said. “Yes,” Oliver said, gravely, watching the tea-making process raptly. John gave him tea that was watered down, heavily sugared and ridiculously milked. John wasn’t sure giving Oliver sugary, caffeinated tea was the best idea, but he decided it was better than nothing, if Oliver would consent to drink it. When John presented Oliver with the tea, Oliver sucked it down immediately and then held his sippy cup out to John and said, simply, “More.” John laughed and kissed the top of his head. Because it was just so lovely to see Oliver interested in something. He made him another cup and then tried to interest him in toast. Oliver demanded jam and then spent the entirety of breakfast making complicated hieroglyphics with the jam and explaining what they meant to his skull. He sneezed and coughed and made a general mess of himself, but he seemed mostly content, and John left him to it while he ate his own breakfast and drank his own cup of tea—black, with a bit of sugar, which was a respectable, grown-up way to take his tea, he thought. John cleaned up after Oliver, and then, listening to his labored breaths, said, “I wish you were old enough to properly blow your nose. I feel like you’d feel much better.” Oliver said, “Skull,” and held it up to show John. John didn’t know what he meant by that, but looking at him, he did have an idea, and John supposed it was worth a try. So he carried Oliver, skull, and a couple of medical books into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as he could get it, sitting on the floor with the baby as the small room filled with steam. “There you go,” he said, handing Oliver one of the books, and Oliver sat and traced the veins in the leg and breathed easier than John had heard him breathe in days. The door leading into the bedroom opened and Sherlock looked down at them curiously. “Is there something wrong with the sitting room?” he asked. “Daddy!” Oliver exclaimed at him. “Tea!” Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at the baby and said, “I am not where tea comes from, Ollie.” And then he said to John, “Oliver wants tea.” “Yes, I heard him,” said John, amused. “He takes tea like you, you know. It’s all milk and sugar. The ruination of tea must be genetic.” “His good taste is genetic,” said Sherlock. And then, “Why are you in the bathroom, though?” “The steam helps him breathe.” Sherlock looked alarmed. “Is he having trouble breathing?” “He’s all clogged up and can’t blow his nose. We might have to suction him.” Sherlock blinked. Oliver looked up from his medical textbook in alarm. “ Suction him?” said Sherlock. John didn’t understand the reaction to this. “Yes. You know. Suction his nose.” “That sounds horrible!” exclaimed Sherlock, shocked. “You’ve got jars of other people’s saliva in your fridge right now,” John pointed out, “and you think this is disgusting?” “Not disgusting. It sounds like medieval torture! Where is your modern medicine?” Oliver whimpered melodramatically and Sherlock picked him up and said, “I will not let Papa come near you with any sort of suction monstrosity.” John rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.” Sherlock was ignoring him in favor of studying Oliver’s face closely. “How are you feeling, love?” “Papa tea,” Oliver told him, because clearly that had been the most important thing to happen in his day. “Did Papa really make you tea?” Sherlock asked. “Yes,” said Oliver. “And did you like it?” “Yes.” “Good. I’m glad.” Sherlock put him back on the floor and sat on the toilet and said to John, as Oliver started coughing, “He doesn’t seem better.” “I think he is. He’s certainly got a bit more energy. He won’t drink anything, though, and that worries me.” “You just said he had tea.” “Only a bit. And tea is a diuretic. A minor one, but still. I’d rather he drink some juice. And a lot more of it than he has been.” Sherlock made a sound of disgust. “You’re always so worried about things like eating and drinking .” “Because they are surprisingly important to continued life,” remarked John. “Speaking of requirements of human life, you slept, like, an hour.” “I didn’t need to sleep in the first place.” “You were so exhausted you fell asleep before I could even get your trousers off.” “Well, you weren’t taking them off for a good reason, so I got bored and nodded off.” John shook his head and looked at Oliver and said, “I need him to start drinking more. If he doesn’t, we have to take him to the surgery. I don’t want him getting dehydrated.” Sherlock steepled his fingers together and tapped them against his lips and looked at Oliver, who said to John, “Papa, that?” and pointed at his diagram. “That’s the popliteal vein,” John told him. “Will there be competent people at this surgery?” Sherlock asked. “No, I’m planning on taking him to a surgery entirely staffed by unlicensed idiots using the practice as a front for a prostitution ring,” said John. “Ah, I was wondering if you were referring to your surgery,” remarked Sherlock, mildly. John gave him a look and answered Oliver’s urgent, “That? That?” with, “The superficial femoral vein. You were the one who wanted to take him to the hospital days ago.” “I hadn’t thought it through. It was a moment of panic.” “I thought you didn’t panic.” “I don’t,” said Sherlock, firmly. He took a deep breath. “How many tests will they run on him?” “Sherlock, the fact that he’s a clone isn’t going to show up in his blood tests.” “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about subjecting him to all of that if we don’t have to. Look, he’s quite content right now.” John looked down at Oliver, who was leaning happily against him, still looking closely at the veins of the leg. John sighed and kissed the top of his head and said, “Why did you have to be the clone of an impossible person? Why couldn’t you be the clone of someone very cooperative?” Oliver looked up at him and said, clearly, firmly, “Dull.” John laughed. “Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed. “Do you think he’s not getting better?” Sherlock asked, anxiously. John decided he wasn’t going to mince words. “I think he needs to drink more. Reason with him about that.” Sherlock nodded. But no matter how persuasive he tried to be over the course of the day, Oliver continued to be stubborn about drinking. In fact, John couldn’t even convince him to take any more tea. He simply stopped drinking at all. “Come on,” Sherlock pleaded with him, and John would have been distracted by the novelty of Sherlock pleading—outside of bed—if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was getting concerned. And Oliver’s refusal to drink was making him sicker. He grew more listless as the day wore on, more upset about everything. “If you don’t drink just a little bit, Papa’s going to make us go to a scary place with needles.” “Don’t terrify him,” John said. “I don’t understand it,” said Sherlock, as Oliver batted him out of the way. “It would make him feel better.” “You didn’t want to drink when you were sick, either. I had to force you to choke down half a cup of tea.” “Because it was terrible tea.” “Because you were sick. Come here, Ollie.” John took him from Sherlock, held him close, and Oliver made distressed sounds of annoyance. “His throat’s probably bothering him,” said John, listening to how congested he sounded. “Probably a post-nasal drip irritating his throat and he doesn’t want anything else against the rawness.” John glanced at Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor, surrounded by every toy he’d used to try to distract Oliver that day. Sherlock looked anguished, like he was about to collapse from concern. “Hey,” John said. “Listen to me. This is okay.” “No, it’s not,” Sherlock snapped. “He had a little cold and he was getting better and now we’ve failed him.” “No, we haven’t. Sherlock, he’s sick. This isn’t our fault.” “I took him out in the rain.” John blinked. “What?” “I took him out in the rain.” Sherlock ruffled his hair in agitation. “I kept getting him wet.” “Sherlock. You know water doesn’t transmit cold germs.” Sherlock gave him his don’t-pretend-I’m-an-idiot look. “It weakened his immune system. And I kept doing it to him, kept taking him out in the rain, kept getting him wet. You would have thought I was trying to get him sick.” “You weren’t. Oliver, tell your dad he’s being an idiot.” Oliver rested his head against the curve of John’s shoulder and looked at Sherlock. “Sodding stupid,” he said, and sneezed. Sherlock looked at him, newly appalled at the ill-timed sneeze. John said, “This wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. Except to the extent that he’s got your genes and so as a consequence he’s stubborn and doesn’t listen to anyone.” “He should listen to you,” Sherlock said. “You don’t listen to me all the time. You should , but you don’t. Like now, for instance. This is not your fault. You didn’t do this. I’m going to take him to the surgery and get him checked out and make sure he’s not dehydrated.” Sherlock stood immediately. “Well, I’m going to with you, of course.” “You don’t have to,” John said. “You’re taking our child to possibly have a needle stuck into him. I’m definitely going.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text He felt Miller at the back of his mind, prodding and persistent, and that was what jerked him awake. It was still bright out and the world hummed with insect droning. The lake stretched out before Holden, green-blue and completely still save for the head of a turtle that kept poking up above the surface. He felt warm all over. Content, sleepy. He basked in the feeling for a minute, sinking down into it like a warm bath. When his bleary mind finally made connection with his nervous system, he was suddenly aware of the heavy weight on his leg. Looking down, he promptly remembered that he was still naked from swimming. And then he remembered that the weight on his leg was Amos. And then he remembered that the mechanic’s head was resting in his lap. That realization sent a white-hot jolt of adrenaline through Holden and chased the last wisps of sleepiness from his head. He physically jerked when he found the mechanic’s hard eyes open and watching him. “Hiya, Cap.” Amos had the first pink hints of a sunburn across his cheeks. He had his hands folded across his belly, just covering the wicked scar that bit through his abdomen. One of his bare legs was drawn up, the other still stretched out, the muscles of his thigh taut. Right, Holden thought. Skinny-dipping. Just a captain and his mechanic, nude and warm and intimate. He jerked his gaze away from the dark hair between Amos’ legs before his mind got any ideas. “Hey,” he replied dumbly. “You okay, Cap? You look a little out of it.” Amos had a knowing look in his eyes, but his face was a mask of innocence. Holden took a moment to gather his thoughts. Oh, I’m fine Amos. Definitely not processing the fact that we are basically at first base. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I was dreaming about Miller and it woke me up.” Amos hummed in reply. He kept his steady, cool gaze fixed on Holden, almost expectant. Holden was struck with the thought that if it had been Naomi’s head in his lap, he would have bent down to kiss her. When Holden didn’t say anything, Amos let his eyes slide shut again and mumbled, “Shore leave, Cap. You’ve gotta tell him you’re on shore leave.” “I don’t think the Protomolecule takes vacations,” Holden said wryly. Amos just grunted in response. They spent a few moments in companionable silence before Holden couldn’t bear it any longer. “Hey, Amos?” The mechanic looked up at him. “My leg is falling asleep.” Amos laughed and Holden ignored the feeling that his shaking shoulders stirred in his chest. “Sorry, Cap.” He stood up with a contented animal groan, stretching in a way that made the ridges of his lats bulge obscenely beneath his skin. It may have been Holden’s imagination, but he could have sworn that Amos took his sweet time sliding his pants back on. Certainly, there could be no other reason why Holden couldn’t keep his eyes off of the flexing muscle of Amos’ glutes. He watched Amos’ chug the last of one of their water bottles before refilling it from the lake and dropping one of the black purifying tablets inside. Amos seemed pleased as the tablet fizzled and bubbled away in the dirty water, breaking up the impurities and turning the liquid from vaguely green to clear. Amos watched until the tablet stopped fizzling, and then his eyes, bright and receptive as they always were, turned to Holden, “Well, where to next? Or are we gonna camp here? Sun’s comin’ down.” Holden almost asked him what he preferred, then bit the words back. I’m really not your decision guy, Cap. “Let’s walk into the trees a bit. It won’t be so buggy there.” Amos just nodded and began to pack up their things. Holden was envious of him in that moment. Everything ran off Amos’ like water off of a duck’s back. It didn’t matter to Amos that they had just been dozing together, that Holden’s goddamn cock had been centimeters from Amos’ face. Everything proceeded as usual for Amos on the same trajectory as it always had. Just a captain and his mechanic, nude and warm and intimate. “Let’s come back tomorrow, though.” Amos said. “Waters’ real nice and I bet it’s going to be hot.” “Sure,” Holden said, almost choking on the cocktail of emotions that bubbled in his throat. “We’ll go for another swim before we head out. It’s the only good swim spot for a few miles, anyways.” Amos grunted in reply, his eyes fixed on the bleeding horizon. He gave no other confirmation or acknowledgement. Reluctantly, Holden stood and dressed. The two set off to find a spot deeper in the copse of pines. By the time the sun was almost set and limning the trees with golden light, the pair had made a small fire and were finishing the last of their dinner. Amos had pulled out the bottle of whiskey and they had already exchanged it a few times. Holden felt good, loose and warm. He pulled his hand terminal from his backpack. There was a message from Naomi and a dozen others from reporters looking for interviews, but he swiped those away and opened the one from Naomi. There were a few pictures attached, and a short message. He opened the first picture; Naomi was standing on a stage, her mouth open as she belted out a song. He swiped to the next. Alex, sitting at the bar with an over-the-top tropical drink, his face bright with laughter. Next, Alex sitting at the poker table, smiling wolfishly. Naomi downing a shot, her face determined. Alex downing a shot, his face twisted with disgust. Finally, just a candid picture of Naomi, her fingers dancing on a martini glass, her face gentle, relaxed, and happy. He flipped through them again, lingering on the last one. It filled him with a bone-deep warmth to see two of his favorite people so happy, so relaxed. Especially after all they had been through, it was good to see them safe. Safe. The word clanged in his head like a warning bell, and suddenly that bright warmth was doused as if he had poured ice water over himself. He flipped through the pictures again, not really seeing them. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “Everything alright, Cap?” Amos asked, putting the whiskey bottle down. When Holden didn’t immediately answer, he trundled over to sit next to him and peer at the hand terminal. Holden was still frantically switching between pictures. Alex and Naomi, Naomi and Alex. Amos, warm with sunlight. His friends. His family. Tethers he held onto like a drowning man clasping a lifeline. The three people in the galaxy who he couldn’t let anything happen to. He could feel Amos’ confusion like a tangible presence. He felt his hand begin to shake. “Holy shit,” he repeated. “I’m going to get you all killed.” Gently, Amos took the hand terminal from Holden’s hand and placed it on his own knee. Holden had stopped on the picture of Naomi singing karaoke. “Did that…just occur to you?” Amos asked, puzzled. Holden stared into the core of the fire. Suddenly the alcohol buzz didn’t feel light and warm; it felt crushing and woozy, and the whiskey was sitting heavy in his stomach. He thought of the Ring station. Of Miller. Of blue firefly glows and killing slow-zones and of Naomi and Alex ands Amos trapped on Eros, melted into the machine that the protomolecule had made, dying and yet not dying and yet dying all at the same time. He thought of the Martian marine on the Ring station, how the odd and foreign machines had ripped him apart for fuel, how there was no trace of the man left to serve as his legacy. He thought of the Ring, the Rings. He could not stop thinking about the Rings. He could not stop thinking of Alex and Naomi and Amos and how happy they made him. He could not stop thinking about the Rings devouring his little family just like they had devoured that Martian marine. “I’m going to drag you all through one of those Ring gates, and I’m going to get you all killed.” “Cap—” “I’m going to get you all killed, or added to whatever fucking network Eros is on. Jesus, how many times have you all risked your lives for me already? Because of that god-damn distress call on the Cant —” “ Cap —" His whole body was wracked with deep tremors. The deep, lizard part of his mind was telling him to flee or bite or scream or die. You’re having a panic attack , the last shred of his rationality said. Everything is bad and wrong and dying , the rest of his mind yelled. “We should just retire. You should all just retire. You all have the money, we can keep the Roci , we can ship tourists back and forth from Ceres to Titan, we can run cargo for Fred Johnson—” “ Cap! ” “You are all going to die,” Holden despaired, turning his wide, frightened eyes on Amos now, “And it’s going to be my fault.” “God fucking damnit, Jim,” Amos growled. And then the big mechanic was lunging toward him and the primal part of Holden’s mind told him to expect violence and pain and— He was not expecting the rough press of Amos’ lips to his own, the beard tickling his cheeks. He was not expecting Amos hand wrapped around his upper arm, holding it in a vice grip, yanking him close. He was not expecting the way his body tensed and relaxed as Amos kissed him. He was not expecting to kiss the big man back with as much fervor as he did. They pulled apart, Amos hand still tight on his arm, his eyes hard as stone and his lips shining faintly with saliva. Holden just blinked at him. His cheek felt wet, and he didn’t know when he had started crying. “I didn’t know how else to get you to shut the fuck up,” Amos said, a little bit of panic leaking into his voice. “Amos—” “Jim, if this is about getting us all killed then really, shut the fuck up . We’re all here because we want to be. You don’t own that. We do.” Holden was shaking his head. The tears were still coming. When was the last time he had cried? Now that it had started, it felt like he couldn’t shut it off. “I just love you all so much.” “Yeah, Cap. We know. We love you too. None of us would be here if it were any other way. Trust me.” Holden leaned in and kissed Amos again. It was not like how he kissed Naomi or any of his previous lovers, he realized. It was rough and demanding and had a tinge of blistering anger, two black holes crashing together, ripping each other apart tooth and nail. Amos didn’t seem to mind; the grip on Holden’s arm became slightly painful and Amos tongue pushed past his lips to graze over his teeth. Holden yielded to him, letting his body melt into Amos’ touch, his lips parting willingly. The hand on his arm moved to the nape of his neck. Amos pulled back suddenly. His gaze was fierce. “You don’t get to own us, or this. We own it. All of us. And god damnit Jim, if I want to throw myself in front of a nuclear missile for you, then that’s what I fucking want to do.” And then he was pulling his captain back in for another fevered kiss. Naomi’s words echoed faintly in Holden’s head. I know that he loves you. And I know that love is…complicated for him. He caught Amos’ lower lip between his teeth. Amos grunted in satisfaction, and then he wrapped his arms around Jim’s thighs and hoisted him onto his lap. The hand terminal resting on his knee fell to the ground. One calloused hand slid to the small his back; the other reached up to grip Holden’s hair. Amos kissed like he was starving, like Holden was the only thing that would keep him alive. It was consuming and intoxicating and Holden both couldn’t get enough of it and was completely overwhelmed by it at the same time. He had to pull away to catch his breath. Amos didn’t relent; he buried his face in Holdens’ neck, using his grip on his dark hair to tilt his head back. He pressed a series of bruising, fiery kisses to his skin. It was possessive and sloppy and wonderful, and Holden couldn’t help but groan, flushing when he felt Amos chuckle against his pulse point. “Thought I read you right,” the mechanic laughed, running his coarse beard along Holden’s jaw as he lifted his face to look at him. They paused, limbs intertwined. Holden was very aware of Amos’ erection pressing against his leg and realized that he was hard too. The mechanic’s eyes were dark with arousal. His face was more relaxed than Holden had ever seen it before. His stare was as unnerving as ever though, calm and cold and seeming to read every thought going through Holden’s head. This is the tipping point , Holden thought. The transition from friend and crewmate to friend and…something. Partners? Lovers? He couldn’t find the right word, but the feeling was threatening to burst from his chest. This was the moment of change, the shedding of old skins. Things would no longer be the same between them. A poor-will bird cried somewhere above them. Poor-will, poor-will, poor-will… Amos blinked, and again Holden was struck with the unnerving sensation that the mechanic could hear his thoughts. “Ball’s in your court, Cap.” It should have been a harder decision. Holden kept willing himself to make it a harder decision. “Let’s set the tent up first.” Amos grinned. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Two weeks. It seemed strange to think of that as a long time. There had been other instances in Bo’s life when a couple of weeks meant nothing—especially when it came to not hearing from someone. Missions, or life in general, could keep people apart for weeks, months, even years. But this was different. This was a full two weeks of silence from someone she was used to talking to every few days—if she wasn’t seeing him in person daily while he was on Mandalore. This was a full two weeks of not hearing from the man who had saved her life just before he disappeared without a word. This was a full two weeks of no communication from her best friend—who may or may not have been ordered to leave his clan by his matriarch. As Mand’alor, Bo hoped she would be informed by the Armorer of any significant decisions involving one of her people, including something as serious as excommunication. But she also knew she had no jurisdiction over the Children of the Watch—not when it came to matters of their Creed and how it was enforced. She did have the right to ask, but at some point during the weeks following Din’s abrupt departure to Nevarro—just a day after her near-drowning—she decided she didn’t want to hear about it from anyone but Din himself. If the unthinkable had happened, she wanted the news to come from him. Because if he told her he’d lost his clan—again—she planned to offer him a place among her Nite Owls right then and there. And he could keep the kriffing helmet on all the time if he wanted to, she didn’t care. She just wanted him back on Mandalore. Din deserved to be there. He was the one who had brought the clans back together, after all. The thought of him being left out in the cold—with no people, no homeworld—after all he’d gone through? It hurt in a way she hadn’t expected—sharp and personal. She wasn’t about to sit back and let that happen. Not to him. Not without a fight. In the end, it was that decision which had pushed her to finally board her ship and come to Nevarro to talk to Din herself. And as for the fact that she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it? Well, that was something she forced to the back of her mind. That couldn’t be why she was doing this. She was simply a shepherd who’d lost a member of her flock. As Mand’alor, she liked having her people close—or at least knowing where they were. That’s all this was. Bo nodded to herself, as if answering her own question, just as the Gauntlet broke through the atmosphere on the volcanic planet. She landed near the small cabin, relieved to see the N-1 parked beside it. They were home. Her brow furrowed at the thought. Home. For some reason, she didn’t like thinking of Nevarro that way anymore—not for them. When she pictured Din and his son at home now, it was on their true homeworld. On Mandalore. When did that change? she wondered, stepping off the ship and heading toward the cabin. “Din?” Bo called out at his front door, frowning when there was no response. She had signaled her arrival on the keypad and heard the chime inside, so she knew it was working. But there were no squeaks of excitement. No sound of boots treading quietly toward the door. Bo walked briefly around the property but saw no sign of them. It wasn’t as if they would miss her arrival. The sound of her ship would’ve carried for quite a distance—far enough to reach Din’s private training grounds, or even to the freshwater pond where Grogu liked to swim and play with the frogs. Thinking of the pond, Bo couldn’t help but wonder if Din ever swam there himself. Though she supposed that wasn’t possible. Unless he did so at night, when Grogu was asleep. Daytime would be too risky. Even if Grogu were at school, there was still too much of a chance that someone could see Din without his helmet—which would trouble the other Mandalorian far more than the idea of anyone seeing him without his clothes. Unbidden, her mind drifted to that same place again—Din, stripped of armor and helmet, swimming in the moonlit water in nothing but what the Maker gave him. Just as it had on the cliffs of Kalevala, before their world had been upended in more ways than one. Sighing, Bo shook her head to clear the wayward thoughts. So NOT the time, Kryze, she chastised herself. As she started to walk back to her ship, her shoulders drooping in disappointment, she heard something—a happy little warble that made her smile. She walked closer to the N-1 and noticed R5 underneath. The droid was humming to himself as he did some maintenance, his tools flashing in various colors as he fine-tuned what looked to be a part of the hyperdrive. “Hey R5, do you know where they went?” He rolled out partially from under the belly of the ship, beeping a cheerful greeting at her. Using one of his tools, he spun toward the cabin and pointed. “No, buddy, they’re not there. I just checked.” He let out a squeaky protest, spinning his dome in a back-and-forth motion that clearly meant “no.” Bo frowned, watching as he pointed again toward the cabin and beeped more insistently. She followed his gesture and grinned when she spotted the single speeder bike parked near the back side of the cabin. But that one wasn’t Din’s—it was hers. She’d bought it the night she’d shown up on Din’s doorstep scattered and raw after a few very bad days. Too upset to fly her own ship and feeling the need to be unreachable for a while, she’d taken public transport to Nevarro. The bike had gotten her from the transport terminal to Din’s cabin. After Din had helped her get her head on straight the next morning, he’d told her to leave the bike in case she ever needed it. It wasn’t like she could use it on Mandalore at the moment anyway, not with everyone still living underground in the narrow rock corridors. “They went on the speeder bike?” she asked R5. More affirmative beeps. Bo strode toward it, flipping on the bike’s basic navigation system. Rudimentary, but still helpful in situations like this. “Any chance you can give me the coordinates of the other bike?” Still humming to himself, R5 followed her. Smooth stones had been set into the sand around the cabin, forming a path to different parts of the property. Clearly, they’d been installed by Din to help the droid navigate the area. It made her smile, especially knowing their Master Beroya had once harbored a strong dislike for droids. Not that she blamed him, after what he’d been through as a child. But it warmed her heart to see that he had forged a friendship of sorts with the astromech. R5 opened a hatch and extended his scomp link, plugging it into the speeder bike’s nav system. Within seconds, a green dot appeared on the small screen, blinking steadily. It wasn’t moving, which told Bo that, wherever Din was, he’d stopped. Thanking the droid, Bo hopped on the bike and took off after her target. The tracker pulsed steadily on Bo’s display, guiding her across the dark earth of Nevarro’s volcanic sands. As she traveled, the terrain changed—weathered ridges and outcrops jutting like bones from the earth. Patches of scrub clung to life between the rocks, and heat shimmered in waves ahead of her, turning the horizon into a blur. She rode for a while before spotting a narrow bluff rising from the darker slopes. It wasn’t the highest formation in the area, but it had a commanding view of everything below. In other words, it was perfect for a man who undoubtedly longed for space to think but still wanted to see the world around him. A solitary figure stood near the edge of the bluff, unmoving, framed against the pale sky. Even from this distance, even without the beskar glinting in the bright sun, she would’ve known it was Din. Bo throttled back as she approached, letting the vehicle drift in quietly. The engine softened to a hum as she coasted to a stop next to Din’s bike, which was parked a short distance behind him. She dismounted, noting that he still hadn’t moved. The only motion was his cloak fluttering in the breeze, as though he might suddenly take off into the sky. She didn’t call out, but he’d heard her. She could tell by the slight tilt of his head, the way one hand flexed at his side. Still, he didn’t turn. He just stood there, staring out over the edge. The wind slid through the rocks with a low, whispering sound, and for a moment, it almost seemed to her that he was listening—as if the wind might carry him an answer he hadn’t yet found on his own. Bo hesitated, suddenly unsure if Din wanted company. He’d stayed away from Mandalore for weeks without a word. That alone had been troubling, but what gnawed at her most was knowing even Med hadn’t heard from him. The medic hadn’t seemed concerned, but that only deepened her unease. She’d told herself it should have been reassuring. If Din had truly been cast out, wouldn’t his own brother have been informed? But the thought wouldn’t leave her. If the Armorer had decided to punish Din for breaking their Creed, maybe isolation was the point. Maybe cutting him off from the people he loved most wasn’t just a consequence—it was part of the punishment itself. The idea of him and his son being out here alone tightened something in her chest. Din didn’t deserve that. Not after everything he’d done for them. For her. Taking a deep breath to steel herself against what she might learn, Bo walked up beside Din and stood quietly, taking in the view as well. The blackened ridges and cracked earth stretched out in layers below, scorched and ancient, yet oddly peaceful in the fading afternoon light. “It’s beautiful up here,” she said softly after a while. “It is,” he replied, his voice low and distant, his gaze still fixed on the wide stretch of sky and stone below. “Where’s Grogu?” “At school.” She nodded, keeping her own eyes on the view. The minutes stretched into another one of their comfortable silences—steady, quiet, and familiar. Din could feel her beside him—calm and patient, offering him space. He hadn’t expected her to come. Hadn’t even known how badly he needed her there until she showed up. And somehow, it didn’t surprise him either. This was who she was. And maybe, without realizing it, he’d been waiting for her. Because if he was going to make sense of everything that had happened, he needed to talk about it. Din turned his head slightly toward her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.” She shifted to face him as well, finally removing her helmet and tucking it under her arm. “Don’t apologize. I understand you might have needed time after… everything.” “I did.” Unable to hold back any longer, Bo asked the question she’d been wanting to ask for weeks. “So… what did she say?” Din didn’t ask who she meant. There was only one person on both their minds—and one question that needed to be answered, no matter what that answer would be. “I’m not excommunicated,” he said after a pause. Bo’s heart thudded hard once before the wave of relief broke over her. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been bracing for the worst until the words finally came. It was like being allowed to breathe again. “The Armorer didn’t give much detail,” he continued. “Just that I won’t face a tribunal. She and the Advisors agreed to let it go this time due to… mitigating circumstances.” “Mitigating circumstances, like saving a life?” Bo’s words came out sharper than she meant them to, but it was hard not to flinch at the implication that saving someone—saving her —was still considered a violation of their rules. Din let out a sigh and gave a slight shrug, his armor creaking with the movement. “Doesn’t change the fact that I broke the Creed. Whether you were conscious or not, I removed my helmet. An act like that can put our entire clan at risk. If you’d woken up and seen me… the consequences would’ve rippled far beyond myself.” Bo crossed her arms loosely over her chest, the tension simmering just beneath her skin. She hadn’t meant to do it when she’d come to Nevarro, or even when she tracked him down to this barren location. But suddenly the words were coming out, ones she’d been holding back for too long. “How is never showing your face supposed to make you safer?” “Anonymity,” he answered without hesitation. Though she noted the word was flat, almost automatic. Like it was something he’d said many times before. Bo could also feel the edge of something beneath the surface, something he wasn’t saying—doubt, maybe. Fatigue. A weariness in having to defend something he no longer felt entirely sure of. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to believe. Either way, she was ready to have this conversation with him. Not just with mocking words—as she had in the caves near the Living Waters, when she’d snippily called his beliefs “adorable.” That had been before she understood what the Creed truly meant to him and the other Children of the Watch. Before she realized that any one of them would be willing to die for it. She wasn’t going to belittle him now. But she was going to question him—not to challenge, but to understand. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “It’s not. Not really.” He turned his head to glance at her out of the corner of his visor. “What do you mean?” “Think about it, Din,” she said, her voice quieter now. Gentle, not argumentative. She wanted to get the words out, but she didn’t want him to feel cornered. “If you changed out of your armor, took off your helmet, and walked into a crowded outpost… who would recognize you?” He stiffened at the mere mention of removing his helmet. She saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders squared, the faint hitch in his breath—just barely audible through the vocoder. Bo’s hand started to lift, an instinct to offer comfort, to place it on his arm as she’d done only a few times before. But she stopped herself, hesitating for a breath before letting it fall back to her side. She didn’t want to push too far or risk shutting him down. Not now. So instead, she pressed on, determined to get all of her thoughts out while she still had the chance. “If you never show your face in public—if the only time someone sees it is in an emergency, or behind closed doors with people you trust—then you're still anonymous, Din. It’s not the helmet that protects you. It’s the rarity of removing it. I understand your people wanting to be safe, but … at what cost?” He stiffened again, just slightly this time, though she still caught it. But he wasn’t doing it out of offense—she knew the difference now. She felt like he was remembering something. Din was remembering something. Going into an Imp base, wearing the smelly uniform of an enemy soldier. It hadn’t just been the other man’s stink that made Din’s stomach roil that day, but he’d been desperate, ready to do anything to get Grogu back. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Bo was right. When he’d removed his helmet in that officer’s mess hall, no one had given him a second glance. Even when he and Mayfeld opened fire, the shock in the room had nothing to do with his face—everyone had been too focused on the blasters. Before they wiped them out, he was certain the Imps had assumed he was just another member of the Rebel Alliance. Not one of them had realized they were in the presence of a Mandalorian. Remembering that moment also triggered another memory—one that lodged deeper in his chest. But this one had nothing to do with a battlefield. It was being on the Gauntlet, after Bo had nearly drowned on Kalevala. When he’d pulled off his helmet to give her his own breath to keep her alive. And then, after she’d been breathing on her own for a while, when he’d looked down and realized—too late—that his face was bare. It didn’t surprise him that his mind returned to it now. Those long minutes had played on a near-constant loop in the weeks since. Sometimes in his imagination, Bo woke up before he got his helmet back on. Opened her eyes and saw him. Actually saw him. And in those imagined moments, it didn’t frighten him the way it should have. It unsettled him—but not because it broke a rule. Because it made him want to break it again. But he couldn’t tell her any of that—not now. He was still bound by duty, sworn to a Creed he’d pledged himself to decades ago. He needed to remember what it meant to him—and why it mattered that he hadn’t been declared an apostate once again. Bo waited patiently for Din to respond to her last question, understanding he might need time. The wind brushed past as the heat of the day slowly gave way to cooler air. She wondered what he was thinking—if he was remembering when he’d saved her life on the Gauntlet. When he’d removed his helmet in her presence, though she hadn’t been conscious to see it. She had found herself imagining it over the past couple of weeks, her cheeks burning with shame each time. As if even picturing him without his helmet was tantamount to forcing it off his head. In the versions her mind conjured, she would open her eyes and find him staring down at her. But he wouldn’t be frightened. He wouldn’t scramble for his helmet in panic. He would just look at her, and she would look at him. Bo had never let herself imagine him—not fully—so even in her most private thoughts, Din remained faceless. And that’s when she realized: it wasn’t about knowing what he looked like. Not really. It was about reaching him. About the barrier between them, the one they hadn’t yet found a way to cross. She’d never had a friend this close—and never one whose face she couldn’t see. That distance, however small, sometimes felt vast. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because she longed for something more tangible—expressions to match the voice, eyes she could read, hold onto. She tried not to want that. Tried to be better than the ache that crept in when she least expected it. But it was there, no matter how often she pushed it down. And sometimes, she missed that connection. Missed him —even while standing right next to him—in a way that felt selfish, even wrong. Because the only way she’d ever see him… was if he broke something sacred. Bo’s attention returned to Din when he spoke again, his tone soft and almost distant. It had taken him a bit to control his own warring thoughts and figure out what he wanted to say to her. “A lot of people think the Creed is about control—about restrictions. But to us, it’s about commitment. Like other faiths, other cultures. Some people cover their heads, avoid certain foods, or abstain from things others see as normal. It might seem strange to outsiders—but it’s belief. And discipline. Holding to something bigger than yourself, even when it’s hard. It’s not supposed to be easy. That’s not the point.” As he spoke, Din felt his resolve strengthening again. His own words reminded him of the promises he’d made and why they mattered. Even with the doubts still circling in his mind, he knew he had no desire to ever abandon his vows. They were a part of who he was. Of who had raised him, shaped him, and given him purpose after his entire world had been destroyed. There was also the fact that, in his work as a bounty hunter, a helmet had its practical uses too—concealment, focus, protection. Still, he couldn’t ignore the thoughts that had crept in lately. Moments that made him wonder if there wasn’t another way—one that could preserve the Creed and protect lives. One that also allowed families to remain closer. It was all part of the confusion for him—those errant thoughts clashing with deeply held beliefs. Neither side entirely wrong. Neither side entirely right. Bo stayed quiet, allowing him the space to say what he needed. “You make a promise,” he continued. “Not because it’s convenient. But because it means something. You follow the Creed not to impress anyone, but to build something. A foundation. A community. A life… after the one you had was torn from you when you were still a child.” Bo swallowed at the pain she heard behind those words. Din turned his head toward her again, voice even softer now. “And when the galaxy fell apart… when we were hunted, scattered, nearly wiped out… the Creed kept us hidden. It kept us alive.” Bo exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping to the dark volcanic valley below. “I get it,” she said after a while, her voice gentler than before. “I really do. But I also think… rules like that are supposed to protect people. Not put them in danger. Don’t forget, your clan is under my rule now, under my protection. And I…” She stopped, jaw clenched, her chin trembling despite her effort to keep steady. Under his helmet, Din frowned at her distress. “What is it?” “I just dread the day that I know will come at some point in the future.” “What day?” “The day I get the news that one of your clan has died…because their helmet mattered more to them than their life.” Din didn’t argue. He understood how unsettling it could be for someone who hadn’t lived with that reality for most of their life. Like Din’s own conflict, neither of them was entirely right. Nor entirely wrong. And because of that, there was no need to keep making their case. No need to say anything more—for now. A sharp ping broke through the stillness. Din looked down at the blinking light on his vambrace and let out a quiet sigh. He hesitated for just a breath, then angled his body slightly toward Bo—subtle, but enough to feel like an opening. His voice was a shade gentler when he spoke. “Time to pick up Grogu. Do you…uh… want to come along? I’m sure he’d love to see you.” Bo let a soft smile tug at her lips, grateful for the shift in focus—for the chance to set the heavier thoughts aside, at least for a little while. “Of course. Good thing I brought a second vehicle.” Din gave a faint nod and turned away from the cliff’s edge, boots crunching over the brittle ground. Bo fell in beside him without another word, and together they walked toward the bikes—still silent, but walking forward. Together. The ride into town was quiet, except for the rush of wind and the soft roar of their engines. They arrived just as Grogu ran outside with the other children. Bo felt her heart melt at the sight of him chattering and waving goodbye to his friends. Some of them were signing to him, and he signed back, squeaking enthusiastically. Grogu caught sight of his father and came scampering over—then squealed in delight when he saw Bo leaning against the second speeder bike. Before she could say a word, he launched into one of his spectacular leaps, landing on the bike’s seat in front of her, then sprang again—straight into her arms. Bo laughed out loud, hugging him close. It was amazing to her how quickly anything serious or upsetting could be forgotten with one of those little hugs—especially when it came with the sound of a happy purr against her neck. Din shook his head at his son’s antics, chuckling lightly. After a bit of protest—because Grogu wanted to ride with Bo, but his father insisted on safety—they reached a compromise. Bo drove Din’s bike back so the boy could have his way and still ride in the special seat Din had designed just for him. They cruised slowly through the middle of town, then picked up speed once they reached the open desert again. Bo laughed at the child’s happy screams as they tore across the dark terrain, the familiar silhouette of Din’s home slowly rising from the rocky horizon. Once inside, they slipped into the comfort of routine—so natural it caught Bo off guard. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this until she was back in it: Din moving easily around the kitchen, his son trailing behind, and that quiet rhythm the three of them had fallen into without even trying. Bo offered to help, but Din waved her off gently—so she sat instead, watching the way his hands moved, the way the child offered “help” by pointing at ingredients or sneaking tastes when his father wasn’t looking. After they all finished the meal Din had prepared, the child began yawning between animated gestures and slow blinks. It was getting late. Bo had barely settled onto the small couch in the living area before Grogu climbed into her lap with his blanket and a determined look on his face. He signed something toward Din, his little hands moving with sleepy insistence. Din shook his head slightly. “Buddy,” he said, voice dry, “how about you just go to sleep?” The boy gave a pitiful little whine. Bo laughed, cuddling him closer. “What does he want?” she asked, brushing her fingers over Grogu’s fuzzy head, watching as the little one’s eyes grew heavier with each pass. She’d picked up more of the child’s signing over the past few months, but it seemed he always learned faster than she could keep up. Din gave a resigned sigh, dropping into the chair across from her. “He wants me to tell you about the big lizard I blew up.” Bo arched a brow. “Big lizard?” “He means Krayt dragon. Grogu, that was a …” he paused to make the sign slowly, “Krayt dragon.” Yes! Krayt dragon! Story. Please Dad? Bo chuckled. “What was that other sign?” “‘Story.’ He’s got me telling him tales about my… adventures.” Her gaze softened. “Let me guess—edited versions.” Din nodded once. “He hears enough about the rough parts just by being near the action now. I try to keep the stories about my past light. I think he likes this particular story because he was there—but also gets to hear about the parts he didn’t witness when it happened.” Bo imagined it—this towering warrior sitting on the edge of a bunk, recounting old missions in softened tones while a small child drifted off against his chest. It was almost too much. Too tender. And yet she could see it, because she had seen glimpses of it in Din before. “You know,” he added after a moment, eyes still on the boy, who was now holding Bo’s hand, playing with the lights on her vambrace, “he’s been alive longer than me. Technically. I don’t know how much of his past he remembers, but… I look forward to the day he can tell me some of his stories.” Bo’s heart tightened at the father’s soft admission. “Okay, kid,” Din said quietly, giving one of the child’s long ears an affectionate pull. “You win. But after this—you’re going to sleep. Deal?” The boy nodded eagerly, pulling the blanket higher as he snuggled deeper into Bo’s lap, eyes wide with anticipation. So, Din told the story. Of the desert, and the town, and the people who needed help. Of a borrowed jetpack and a desperate plan. He kept the harsher details vague, but Bo could tell where the danger had been. Where he had stepped in because no one else could. Or would. By the time he was done, Grogu was sound asleep, breathing softly against her chest. Bo cradled him gently, voice a whisper. “Wait—you blew up a Krayt dragon? From the inside? Maker, Din, how did you even…?” Din shrugged, keeping his voice low as well. “I came up with the idea at the last second. I didn’t even know what I was going to do when I kicked Vanth’s jetpack. I just knew it had to be me. He’s a good fighter but not trained like us. And he was wearing borrowed armor. What I did was… reckless. I knew the odds weren’t great.” He paused, looking away briefly. “But it had to be done. That thing was terrorizing the town. And someone had to stop it.” Bo studied him for a moment before shaking her head with a small smile. “You always do that,” she said, not unkindly. “What?” “Downplay everything. Like any other warrior could’ve done the same. But not just anyone thinks like you do. Or acts that fast. Like I said before… it’s talent.” Din huffed a quiet laugh, his gaze dropping to the child asleep in her arms. “I guess so.” He shrugged. It had taken time, but they had returned to where they’d been before that day on Kalevala—back to quiet conversation, soft laughter, easy company. Back to just being friends. It was almost as if that day hadn’t happened. As if Bo hadn’t nearly died, and Din hadn’t nearly been excommunicated for saving her life. Almost. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text He has a habit when he touches her. Not a bad habit, just... a habit. A habit of tracing lines. His sheathed claws slowly ghosting in swirling, concentric waves like the easy turbulence of water. Always in intent, set patterns, tracing a path along her skin that only he could see. =<>= "I've always wondered." Steven turns away from the communication panel. "Why are Gem panels only, like, one color?" "What do you mean?" "You know." She gestures vaguely at his monochrome pink panel. "Just one color. I mean, look at yours. It's just pink." "What? No. There's plenty of colors." He points at different, seemingly pink spots on the panel. "There's ̷͈̑̿̃̇̽̇̽͒̕͝ ̴̨̡̨̨̠̞̲̪̞̣̖̳͕͒̊͂̃̊͐̅̊͂͘ ̸̢̞̻̗͈̗̦͐̉̓͋̃̒̒̿̅ ̴̧̨̡̟̯̫̞̉̈̒ ̴̧̛̲͕͉͚̠̥̹̼͔̖̮̺̠̿ ̴̨̧̛̣͖͈̞͙͈̲̪͈̮̻̤̂̽̏̈̐̄̊̇̋̈́̕͝ͅ ̷̡̫̟̺͙̣͉͇̲͙̻̯̿̉̎͑͗͊́̿̾̕͠ ̸̧̳̼̦̓̈́͑͛ ̵͈̠͙͕͍͖̭͕̻̫̫͖̩͐̂̎̑̍̌͌̄͌ ̷͙̘͙̪̫̥͉̓͒͆̂͛̾́̊̌̾̒͌̽̒͝ ̵̛͍͐̉͗̿ͅ ̴͙̹̬̦͙̩͚̖͗̈́̋͌́̇̉͆̿͌̚ ̷̨̡̤̟̼͎͍̘̄͂͂̂̏̐͝͝ ̸̡̗̖͉̲͌͌͌̑̈́̿̅͘̕͜͠ͅ ̸̮̰̙̦̜̗̻̲̿͌̌̿̈́̒̈́́͑͆̒̂͠ ̷̖͙̟̬̳̃͋̆͋̈́͆̚ ̶̛̼̰͙̞̫͔̲̼͙̻̤̖͓͆͊̍̆͗̏̐̃̃̀͝ ̵̣̹̐̄̿̈́͊̀̕͘͝ ̶̛̺̑̅ ̶͕̳̳͉͈̠̱̣͋͊̓̇̈́̏̊͂̈̿̀̃̏̚ and some ̴̪͓͖̲͒̋̽̀͒́̓ ̶͚̼̂͋̒̈́̒ ̵̢̱͔̯̰̰̑̐̊͜ ̸͓̰̼̝̗͎͚̗̱̞̬̞̰͚̙̔̄̈́̈́̕͝ ̴̨̨̟̰̙͗͒̂̽̈́͒͐͒̕ ̶̧̨̧̪̙̮̩̞̯͔̼̟̹͔̒͋̍͋̈́͜ ̶̧͔̜̣̘̯̞̬̏͐͊̀̔̎̽̄̃̎̕ ̵̡̦̆̏̅̓̅̏̌̕ ̶̙̭͉̗̦͔̳͓̱̗̣̙̓̄̍͊̆͆͑̐̆͂̔͜ ̴͚̋ ̷̻̘͒ - oh, and a bit of ̷͍̊ ̸̗ ̸̡͌ ̷͕̀ ̷̪̐ ̸̘̔ ̴͓͝ ̵̘̔ ̵̘͗ ̷͔̅ right along here." "Steven. Sweetie. My Biscuit. What, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, the fuck." "..." He turns his own words back over in his mind, trying to find where he went wrong. "The colors. You don't have those words?" "All I got was arcade noises out of you, honey. Adorable and entirely unhelpful." "Uhhhhhh..." His pupils shutter mechanically like camera lenses trying to sift through his thoughts. "...I think y'all call it ultraviolet?" Ultraviolet. Ultra-fucking-violet. "Steven I can't see ultraviolet." "Oh, you're colorblind? Wild." "Steven, I'm-" she drags a hand across her face. "I'm not colorblind. Humans can't see ultraviolet." "You can't?" He stops his fiddling at the panel, looking out into space. "Nope." "But- all the science papers..." "Machines were developed so that we could approximate it. Steven, why did you think human electronic displays only use RGB?" "Technological limitations?" He flushes a bit at her flat stare. "Y'know, like the old black and white pictures." Okay, that's actually a good reason. "The displays look like that because that's the visual range of a normal human eye." "But-" He holds a hand to his head like his entire worldview just got built and shattered in an instant. "Stevonnie, you- Stevonnie has my eyes. You never said anything." "It's natural for you , so it's natural for Stevonnie. Also, we're talking about senses that my human brain physically cannot comprehend. Can't hold on to a sense memory I have no way to possess. It's like how people who become blind can forget what seeing is like." "Huh." "So," she stage-whispers, "got any wacky color secrets to tell me?" He laughs shyly. "Come on. Tell me. I am your humble vassal. I beseech you, my lord, give me the secret knowledge of the forbidden shrimp gods." Okay, okay," he giggles. "Humans... have stripes." "No, I want a real secret!" "It is real! Y'all got stripes! I got stripes too, on Sten's side. Everyone's stripes are, different? I don't know how to explain it." There's a bit of a smiling blush on his face. "I, uh, like your stripes. It's you , y'know?" "That is almost the weirdest and sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me." She coyly leans forward. "Is that why you always trace patterns on me?" " I don't know it's just kind of cathartic but in retrospect that's probably kind of creepy since you can't see it I am so sorry- " "No! It's nice!" "I can't believe this whole time you were just letting it happen-" "It's cute!" "No!" " Let me be your emotional support zebra- " Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text It wasn’t a long trip to Rubeck, less than three days since they had shot straight and didn’t hop island to island looking for a hopeless cure. Rosinante didn’t want to do that to Law this time around, and burning those hospitals would just be a trail for Doffy to follow, even if Rosi could remember the exact hospitals that deserved their destruction. The memories were fractured at best and just blurbs of pain or emotion at worst, but in the last day or so, Rosi had managed to piece together a vague game plan and timeline based on them. Shyarly had been very helpful, pointing out flaws and new later points in the timeline that Rosi was pretty sure he wasn’t alive for. Law was still keeping his distance from the both of them, but that’s to be expected at this point, and Rosinante wouldn’t force the kid to participate if he was uncomfortable. Gods Rosi missed his kid. He wanted nothing more than to smother the kid in a bear hug, but he also didn’t want to scare him. At this point, Rosinante was still a strange adult that had thrown Law out of a window, not his Cora-san. But that’s okay. As long as they find the Ope Ope no Mi and Law lives, that will be just fine. Just as long as Law stays safe and alive, Rosi would be happy to stay a strange adult. Just.. It would be fine. Rosinante forced a deep calming breath into his bubble of silence, connecting a line of ink across the timeline he’d pinned up in the kitchen area. It wasn’t coded like Rosi would usually write something like this in, like he had been habitually writing in since he was first learning his skills in stealth ops and infiltration, but since Shyarly was involved too, it had to be at least somewhat legible to other people. It was written in shorthand, and the words would make little sense as a timeline to an outsider until after each event had happened for how vague each date was labeled. All that to say, Law probably had no clue what was going on. And that was okay for now. As much as Rosinante loved his kid and wanted to tell him everything, to ease his fears and give the world to the boy, this was… An odd situation to say the least. Law was still, at least at the moment, likely loyal to Doffy. Not to mention actively dying with nothing to lose. Before, when he’d taken the kid to get a cure, they both had technically been under Doffy’s flag still, so the kid had no real reason to run behind Rosinante’s back and call Doflamingo. As much as Rosi wanted to trust his kid, it would be a dumb move to tell their course or plans to him in case he might try rat Rosinante out for taking Shyarly. Or him. Or talking. Not like Doffy didn’t already know who was missing from Spider Miles by now, but they had maybe a good week before all Doffy’s contacts were alerted and watching out for them. So the first order of business. Keep Law away from Doffy or transponder snails until after he’s cured and hidden safely away, hopefully with a better understanding of what Doffy really is and a better life to live for away from the family. Then, after that, take Shyarly home without getting shot. Or outed as a pirate. Or a marine. Or a Celestial Dragon. Yup. Totally doable. Gods shoot him in the face. Or.. Actually not. Too many bad memories. Rosinante hadn’t been sleeping, really at all, since having the memories of his other life dumped on him. And Shyarly was clearly starting to take notice, no matter how much makeup he used to cover the dark circles. Anyway. Rosinante took one last look at the timeline they had figured out so far, pressing hard at his temple to ward off the headache. It would only get worse scoping out the island with Observation. With a snap of fingers, the bubble of silence covering Rosi’s mutterings dispelled and he turned to look at Law and Shyarly. Law was, as usual, pressed into the far wall by the door, keeping as much distance as he could from Rosinante. Shyarly was at the table, placidly watching Rosi in return, probably having been observing him bustling silently at the timeline and checklist the whole time. Rosinante exhaled all the tension and stress audibly, massaging his head. “Okay. We’ll be at Rubeck within the hour. I’ve got some errands, and as much as I’d like you to stay on the boat, I won’t delude myself into believing you’d stay put if I say so.” Law just glared, and yeah, this was directed primarily at him. Shyarly might be a problem once they get to warmer waters, but as for now, she’s secluded to the boat by necessity. “Rubeck isn’t the safest place.” Rosinante continued, looking pointedly at Shyarly, who had been sold into slavery once already. “It’s a pirate hub, kind of like Spider Miles, so if anyone sees a mermaid alone on a ship, we’re bound to be attacked or raided.” “So,” Shyarly spoke, holding her face in her hand. “I’m stuck in the cabin.” “Sorry kid.” Rosinante nodded, running a hand through his rumpled hair. “It’ll get better once we get to warmer waters.” “And what about me.” Rosi’s actual kid groused, glaring venomously up at him from the corner. “Where do I fit into all-” he waved haphazardly to the wall strewn with papers and marks and timelines. “That.” Rosinante just sighed deeply. Gods he wanted to kneel down and soothe the kid. Wanted to make him stop acting like a cornered animal. But telling him they were going to look for a cure would be dumb. Because Doffy isn’t stupid, and if he gets wind of it from the kid, there are only so many islands with legendary doctors or devil fruits that could achieve that. The one they needed also just happened to be one that Doffy had been drooling over for years. Shyarly slowly raised one hand, a motion she had done before when the tension ramped up, in offering. Offering to try and make Law see as well. Rosinante waved her off just like before, tiredly. They didn’t even know if she could drop memories on people accurately, or if it was just him. She had said his future was set in a way she had never seen before, so Rosinante might just be an outlier anyway. And he knew for a fact that Law had been there when he died, and would never ask the kid to see that again, even if he could. Eventually Rosi settled for sighing heavily and turning to the door without answering Law. “Just be safe and don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be back soon.” Law glared at the man’s retreating back. Corazon was... Weird. That’s the only word that Law had to describe the man. Fucking weird. He wasn’t… Acting normal. Since being kidnapped from the family, Law hadn’t seen the man slip over himself once. He was focused and intense and talking and it was fucking weird. Corazon was supposed to be a loser, a moron and a clutz. But this guy was... Smart. He was smart. Law glared from the door to the papers and what Law could only call a timeline pinned to the wall. The man was capable and smart, and the mermaid knew something Law didn’t. He could tell by the way she would point things out to Corazon and correct him, and the man would just nod and mutter to himself before marking something on the mess of papers. Something was going on. And Law didn’t know what he had to do with it. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. Aside from the clear intelligence that Corazon clearly had, despite the family treating him like he was stupid, the man was also eerily quiet. It wasn’t the normal quiet either, Law knew. The man had bumped into the counter at one point yesterday, knocking a glass off the edge, but the sound of shattering never came, even when Law could clearly see the shards scatter. The man had jumped too, like he had heard what Law hadn’t, and the way the man’s mouth had moved in the silence made Law think of the foulest curses he knew spilling from Corazon’s lips. The man had to have a Devil Fruit like Doflamingo or something. But that brings up the question. If Corazon really wasn’t slow or stupid like the family and Doffy thought him to be, and he had a Devil Fruit without telling anyone... What did the man really want. If he hadn’t even told his brother he could actually talk or had powers too.. What was Corazon really after with the family or Law. “You can go out, you know.” The mermaid girl spoke matter of factly, drawing a scowl from Law. To which the older girl just shrugged and moved to pick up the newspaper that Corazon had left on the table. “You’re angry. That’s understandable.” “And what do you understand.” Law snapped back. “You’re in on all this.” The tall mermaid girl just rolled her eyes and flipped the paper open, the calmness in her actions doing nothing to quell the burning anger in Law’s chest. “Rosinante is paranoid. He isn’t very good at sharing, but I do understand that he’s doing all of this for you.” Law blinked, anger pushed back for a moment at the unfamiliar name, but the shark girl continued like she hadn’t said anything wrong. “Go for a walk on the beach. Get some air. And please stop antagonizing the man trying to help you.” Law scowled harder, turning around and stomping out of the cabin, but his mind was spinning. What the fuck is that supposed to mean. It wasn’t here. That wasn’t too much of a surprise, but the nosebleed that Rosinante gave himself from overstretching his Observation haki was. Gods, was he really so out of practice? When he had been training with Dragon they both were able to survey an entire island without breaking a sweat, and here Rosi was, breaking blood vessels instead. Rosinante wiped the blood off on the back of his hand, mentally noting that haki strengthening will also need to be on the agenda before he takes Shyarly home through the Grandline. He’d gotten lazy, allowing himself to slack on Observation while with the family and fall back into bad habits without it. The inherent lack of balance or self awareness that he’d taken back on to be Corazon worked wonders, but if Rosinante is going to be on the run from Doffy, he’ll have to break those bad habits again and get used to long term use of Observation. It had been his foster father’s introduction of Garp and the man’s hell training that had trained his haki the first time, but Rosinante would never willingly subject himself to anything like that again, no matter how effective. Which means that on top of running from Doffy, and probably the marines when they figure out he deserted, Rosinante will have to figure out a training regiment that doesn’t involve dodging cannonballs or damaging their little boat. Wonderful. Okay. That’s fine. Biggest thing is that the Ope Ope no Mi isn’t here on Rubeck. Next order of business, new outfit. Because nothing screams ‘in hiding’ like going around looking like Doffy’s personal jester. The lipstick was kinda growing on Rosi a bit, and the feather coat was actually really nice, but the rest of the outfit and face makeup was too.. Loud. Rosinante was trained as a sniper and stealth operative, and bright pink and white were not the most inconspicuous of colors. A wardrobe change and a few berry later, Rosinante was dressed in simple brown cargo pants with plenty of pockets, a black button up, and his usual black feathered coat, along with a few bags of spares and some things that Law and Shyarly might like. Rosinante had made it a point to wipe the pink and blue makeup from his face in the dressing room, only leaving the barest hint of lipstick on. The old clothes were tucked into the bottom of the bags, along with his hat, to be used on the boat for patches or rags. Clothes taken care of, Rosinante felt more like himself than he had in almost a full year since joining the family. He still stood out, being almost 9 foot with a fluffy feather coat, but it was still more inconspicuous than looking like he’d escaped a circus. Next order of business. Law kicked a rock watching it splash into the sea. This fucking sucked. Apparently even the mermaid knew more about the blond moron than Law, and she had only been around him for less than a week. She had called him Rosina- something. Law didn’t even know the guy's real name. He hadn’t even thought that Corazon wasn’t his actual name. And apparently he’s trying to help. Right. Help. Law is beyond help. Whatever these two think they’re going to do to help, they can fuck all the way off. Especially the fucking giant. The man was just so fucking weird. First he throws Law out a window, then when Law stabs him and tries to kill him, the guy doesn’t even tell anyone, despite being the younger brother of the boss of the family. And then Law finds out that the guy isn’t actually mute, isn’t actually dense, and it’s when the guy kidnaps him. And even then, the man hasn’t asked anything except for Law to eat and stop glaring. That’s it. When he’d been grabbed, Law had expected the worst, expected his mothers warnings of what evil pirates will do to wandering little kids to come true, been terrified of the possibilities, but the man was so fucking docile. Law had bit him, kicked him, tried to jump overboard, tried to get away, and the guy did nothing more than stop him, give Law a sideways glance, and leave him be. No retribution. No punishment. No anger. Nothing. It was fucking weird. Buffalo and Baby 5 said that Corazon hated kids, that Law wasn’t the first that he’d thrown out when Doffy would introduce Corazon to a new kid joining the family. But the guy now was like a fucking pushover. The mermaid girl had been all but hovering by the man, as much as she could, needing to be seated all the time, and the man had been all too happy to just... Let her. She was still a kid too, or was it that Law looked younger than he was because of the poisoning? Gods it was so- Why was the man so fucking confusing! Why couldn’t he be like Doffy! Law knew exactly what Doffy wanted of him, to use him and let Law cause as much destruction as possible on his way out. But Rosi-whatever the man’s name really was? Law was coming to realize he knew nothing about the man. Not really. And that.. That was scarier than anyone in the family ever had been. Law didn’t like not knowing. “Tch.” He needed to get out of here. This was.. Law didn’t like this. Corazon, the mermaid, they were hiding things, and Law wanted nothing to do with it. He turned on his heel, heading into the winter woods of the island. Fuck this. The giant was in town “running an errand”, and the mermaid girl was stuck on the boat. Law needed to get away. He’d grown up on a winter island with plenty of forests. Even if these forests were different in color, Law could still lose the clumsy man easily in his own element. And once the idiot left town to look for him, Law would go find a snail to call Doffy for help. The man that walked into the bar was eye catching, but only for a moment. Big name pirates or those trying to be, tend to wear bright colors or patterns and their jolly rogers, and for as tall as the man was, he was dressed rather blandly in comparison to the pirates that frequented these islands. He took a seat at the bar, and by the time he had, everyone's attention had gone back to their own business. The man gestured to the barkeep, his voice as soft as it was low, and his words were lost to anyone else in the murmur of the bar. “A Dark ‘n Stormy. Hold the lime and add dragonfruit.” Anyone watching closer would have noticed the barkeeper’s hand twitch and almost drop his glass, but he smoothed the motion out, nodding silently and turning his back to the tall blond man. When he turned back, he passed the man a drink, notably not a Dark ‘n Stormy, with a napkin placed under it. Regardless of the drink being wrong, the tall blond downed it in one go, grabbing the napkin and standing up with a nod. He left the bar just as suddenly as he had come. Rosinante cursed under his breath reading the note. Minion island. Fuck. They’d have to go there anyway. He’d hoped to stop by a few islands and find the Ope Ope no Mi on one of them and maybe even avoid the island that was his grave. But of course the nearest Rev post was on Minion. Of course. Just his luck. Rosinante exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the breath to calm him. This is fine. This is just fine. That’s.. Still a very long ways away in comparison to how quickly Rosinante needed to get this information to someone that can do something. Going through Dragon to get his father would be preferable, because the alternative is finding a white den den in some island’s black market and contacting Sengoku, and one of those is harder and less concrete than the other. And for as corrupt as the marines are, going through the official channels to get the intel to where it needs to be instead of just to Garp would be asking for a mole to ‘accidentally’ dispose of it. Which means. Fuck. Fuck . It was already going to be a risk to stop in Flevance for a quick check of the island, but to have to swing up to Minion too would leave them traveling the North Blue and Doffy’s territory for far too long to be comfortable. Seas, Rosi needs another drink. And a nap. He could really use a nap. Rosinante tucked the napkin with the place and code into the inner pocket of his feathered coat, picking up the shopping bags he had stashed around the corner with a sigh. He let his Observation stretch out to figure out the best way back to the boat without running into fights or gangs. And then Rosinante took off into a dead sprint. Why the hell are there that many people surrounding his kid! Law snarled at the man before him. How the fuck could he have known the woods would have bandits or whatever these assholes were. The biggest man, probably the leader, stalked forward farther, his gaunt face stretched into a sneer. “Well. What do we have here, boys.” Law backed himself up into the tree behind him, glaring darkly. He should have jumped Corazon for his knife back. He should have taken his fucking knife back. The bandit scoffed, tapping the pistol against his thigh mockingly. “I’m not one to bully kids, but no one walks into our territory without paying the toll. That’s how shit works around here, brat.” “Sucks. Because I’m broke.” Law grit out, but the man just sneered, looking him up and down. “Is that so. Well I’ve never seen you around here, kid, so maybe whoever you came here with will be more inclined to pay up instead.” The bandit barked out with a laugh, and Law felt rage simmer. Prick.. The men around them all joined in the laughter, and the gaunt man reached out, grasping Law by the back of the collar with the hand not holding his pistol. Law jerked, kicking out, but the bandit just tightened his grip. The bandit moved to tuck his pistol into the waist with a snort, but a sharp bang rang out through the forest, silencing all the men and making Law stiffen in shock. In that split second, the gaunt man jerked his hand back from his waist, the gun falling to the ground with a clatter. Law was confused and his mind was stalling. He could see smoke rising from the pistol, but not from the barrel like it had been fired as much as it had been hit by something. Law then found himself being dropped, and he himself fell to the ground with a startled yelp. The shuffling of the bandits drew his attention back, and Law looked back up in time to see a giant of a man stalking through the trees. Law blinked, wide eyed and mind stalling, at the man he almost didn’t recognize as Corazon. He was dressed in darker, more mature colors than what he wore with the family, and his hat and makeup was gone except for a little coloring of his lips. It was only the feathered coat and deep scowl that made him recognizable as Corazon and not another random giant. Finally, Law’s eyes were drawn to the gun in the man’s hand, raised and smoking like the dropped one in the dirt. And Law realized with a sudden shock.. Corazon just shot the bandit guy’s gun from his hand. Without hitting him or Law. Since when could the man do that?! The bandit also fumbled, stepping back as the other men surrounding Law all raised their guns as well. The leader was stopped in his retreating tracks though, as a bullet zipped past his ear and embedded itself into the tree that Law had pressed back into. Corazon’s deep baritone seemed to fill the entire woods, and maybe it did somehow, for how it reverberated deep in Law’s chest. “Give the kid, and you can keep your neck. The next shot goes down your throat.” The bandits all seemed to pale, a ripple of murmurs and unease passing over each of them. The leader eventually nodded, seeming to realize that no matter if one of his men could shoot Corazon, his life would be forfeit with that order. Law felt the bandit’s foot nudge him forward from his place dropped in the dirt, and it sent a pang of irritation through him. He was about to snap at the man for kicking him, but the sound of Corazon cocking the hammer of his pistol back for the next shot seemed to do the trick. Law brushed the dirt off himself, grumbling and glaring daggers at all the men around him as he stalked forward to Corazon. The blond man didn’t even look down at Law as he sidled up, and Law found himself suddenly feeling much more at ease with the blond now than he ever had before. He felt his stomach drop into the soles of his feet, though, when Corazon scooped him up to sit in the crook of his elbow. A startled glance showed that the man hadn’t even let his gun waver from pointing at the bandit across the clearing to pull off that maneuver, and the gun hand still didn’t even stray as Corazon backed them away without turning. Law fully expected the usually clumsy man to slip over a rock or tree branch or himself and send them sprawling and vulnerable to the bandits, but he never did, and didn't turn his back to the woods until they were out of sight through the trees. Then Corazon carefully released the hammer of the gun, unloading the bullet he’d had in the chamber one handed as he turned and took long strides to get them out of the forest. Law blinked, bewildered, up at the blond man. He never once in a thousand years would have guessed Corazon would be the one to come for him. Or how he knew where to find him. Law had actively been hiding from the blond. What confused Law more, though, was the sight of the dark bruised circles and frown lines on the man’s face. Had he always had those? Is this how he always looked without makeup? He looked.. Normal. Human. And tired. Very tired. The giant blond’s deep voice drew Law’s attention back, and sent a much more familiar pang of annoyance through him. “Didn’t I tell you to not do anything stupid.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text she had no heart so hardened all under the boughs unbowed Peeta is not surprised when Gale Hawthorne is reaped for the 74th games. Gale's 18 years old, the eldest sibling of four, a Seam boy - his name coming out of that bowl is almost an inevitability. A thousand eyes watch in silence as Gale walks up to the stage, jerking his arm away from the Peacekeeper tasked to herd him up the steps. But Peeta looks across the way, to his right, where Katniss Everdeen stands with the other sixteen-year-old girls. She's standing stone-faced and still, her gaze straight ahead, unblinking. The Gamemakers score Gale a 10. For a District 12 tribute, it's pretty incredible. He must have shown them his hunting skills, Peeta thinks. A bow and arrow could catch him squirrels, rabbits, deer... It could catch him a child. Gale's handsome, fast, strong - he could be the next Finnick Odair. But his interview is a disaster. Caesar Flickerman tries his best, but the young man's words are contemptuous, careless, flippant. He doesn't want the crowd to love him, and he wants them to know it. In the very last few seconds, though, his eyes soften and he says: Katniss, I love you. I'm coming back to you, I swear. Peeta feels sick in that moment, because he knows how this story will go. Gale will return a Victor, sweep Katniss off her feet and carry her away to his beautiful house in the village. He'll kiss her, make love to her, marry her. They'll have children who will never feel hunger. Gale will do all the things that Peeta wants to do, the things he wishes desperately for, and Gale will deserve each and every one of them - because he grew up with her, because he is a good man, because he survived against the odds. Because Katniss loves him. That's not how the story goes. Gale Hawthorne comes in third place in the 74th annual Hunger Games. A bolt of lightning strikes him in the middle of a rainstorm as he's running for shelter, and it's so perfectly random that it can only have been a deliberate move by the Capital. A warning. Peeta can feel his brothers' eyes on him as the sound of a cannon's blast rings out tinny from the television. They know about Katniss. That night, in the bedroom they share, they'll say to him: Maybe you've got a shot now, Peeta. He'll curl away from them, pretend not to hear, to be asleep. He didn't want this. He only wanted her. Peeta doesn't attend the funeral. He and Gale weren't friends, weren't even acquaintances, really, and it would be strange. Instead he sneaks a loaf of bread when his mother isn't looking and carries it to the Seam, knowing it will be empty during the memorial service. He leaves it on the front step of the Hawthornes' house. He's embarrassed by how little it looks, how little it will do for a family of four, but his mother would have noticed two loaves missing, and then he'd never be able to do this again. By some miracle, his mother doesn't notice, and Peeta develops a routine: steal the bread on Saturday, hide it beneath his bed, rise early on Sunday mornings and leave the loaf on the doorstep. He does this for weeks, summer fading into fall, until one morning a voice behind him demands: "What are you doing?" Peeta drops the bread clumsily and stumbles back away from the house. It's Katniss. "Hi," he says. "Um, I was just leaving them some bread." She's clearly come from the forest, her boots caked with mud, a piece of dead leaf caught in the end of her braid. Her game bag is slung over her shoulder. There's a thin brown rope running through the belt loops of her pants, tightly knotted at the front. She looks thin. "Why?" It's a question Peeta's asked himself many, many times. Why? He'd eventually settled on the reasonable answer: The Hawthornes are not only a poor family, but a big family. Their primary breadwinner is gone. Peeta's family is big, too, but they can spare a loaf of bread each week. (There is another reason, of course, one that isn't sensible, one that hums along in the back of his mind every step of the way.) "I want to help," he says simply. "Do you help every tribute's family?" "No," he admits, his heart jumping into his throat as she steps closer. "Have you been doing this all along?" "No." He swallows. "I've been bringing it since...you know." Katniss frowns, staring down at the crumpled brown bag that sits on the front step. "Hazelle didn't tell me someone was leaving bread." She shakes her head. "He...he wouldn't have wanted this. He didn't want charity." Peeta doesn't know what to say. Gale is dead; his family isn't. "What are you doing here?" he blurts out. "It's so early." Katniss' hand drifts absently to her game bag. "I had to go hunting early this morning." "So you're bringing them food." Katniss nods silently. "So why is it charity when I do it, but not when you do?" He regrets it immediately; she looks away, jaw clenched, and he wants to apologize. He almost does. "Because I made a promise. Because you don't know them," she says finally, and her gray eyes meet his, and he knows now that they're not just talking about a loaf of bread for the Hawthornes anymore. "Maybe I want to know them," he says softly, and he can see that she knows it, too, because her eyes widen just the slightest bit, and a hint of color returns to her cool, dark cheeks. "Don't do this again," Katniss says stiffly. She bends down and picks up the loaf of bread, cradling it in her arms. "This is the last one." She disappears inside the house. It's not the last one. The next time she sees him outside the house, three weeks later, she shakes her head. "You don't listen, do you," she says, dark eyes slightly narrowed. "Nope," Peeta replies. He'd thought about it: what kind of person would he be if he stopped helping a family survive, just because a girl rejected him? A terrible person. Not himself - not the person his father would want him to be. And so he kept bringing the bread. Katniss sighs heavily and swings her game bag off of her shoulder, digging through it aggressively. "Fine. Take this," she says, thrusting something at him. In the dim light he can just barely make out the form of a rabbit, blood matted into its fur. He feels queasy at the sight of it. He's never been good with blood, with dead things. "I don't need it," he says firmly. "I don't want anything from you." And it's not true, there are things he wants from Katniss; her smile, her laugh, her warm breath on his neck, her body moving beneath his in the dark. But he doesn't want them as part of an exchange. He wants them because she wants him to have them. She steps closer, the rabbit dangling by its ears from her shaky hand. "You have to," she insists, her voice catching. "Please, just take it." He weakens at the desperation in her voice. He doesn't understand why this is so important to her - only that it is. "I can't carry a dead rabbit through town with me," he says, licking his dry lips. She knows he's right, and she glances at the house behind them, still dark and quiet in the early morning. "Wait here," she says. "I'll walk with you." Katniss seems surprised when he's still there twenty minutes later, waiting patiently by the front door. "Sorry," she mutters, and he thinks she means for keeping you waiting , but it's hard to tell with her. "S'okay," he shrugs. She shakes the game bag a little, and he can see there's something in there - the rabbit. He nods, and they set off for town. After a few minutes of silence Peeta realizes that the things he knows about Katniss Everdeen - that she sings like an angel, that their parents dated in their youth, that Gale Hawthorne loved her - are not things he can discuss with her. Not now, anyway. So he asks, "How's your sister?" Katniss looks at him suspiciously. "How do you know my sister?" "I don't." Peeta pauses. "I've seen you with her. I've seen you bring her by the bakery, to look at the cakes." She nods, looking down at the ground. "She's fine." "How come...how come you two never come inside?" he asks hesitantly. A frown creases her forehead. "We can't afford anything," she says finally. "Your mother made it clear we're not welcome." Peeta snorts. "My mother..." He shakes his head. "She's not always there. If you look in the window and it's me, you should come in." "Sure," she says, in the way that means no, never. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon when they reach the bakery. Katniss follows Peeta to the back entrance, by the pig pens, and pulls the rabbit once more from her bag. He takes it gingerly, holding it far away from his body, and he thinks he sees her suppress a smile at his squeamishness. "Are you sure I can't give you something for this?" he asks quietly, nodding towards the door. "One more loaf of bread?" "No," she says simply, turning away, and he knows not to argue. Peeta sighs. "Okay. Bye, Katniss." She glances over her shoulder, as if she'd already forgotten he was there. "Bye." "What is this?" Peeta's mother demands, dropping a package on the table before him. It's Katniss' rabbit. He'd carefully wrapped it in paper and tucked it away in a corner of the kitchen that morning, intending to give it to his father, but she'd found it first. "A rabbit," he says carefully. His mother hasn't hit him in two or three years - not since he grew taller and stronger than her - but her words can be just as bad as her fists. "Where did you get a rabbit?" "I traded it," he says. Sometimes it disturbs Peeta himself, how easily he lies to his own family. "The girl from the Seam started coming around again." Katniss had stopped showing up with her squirrels after the last reaping. "I didn't tell you you could trade with her," his mother snaps. "How much did you give her for this?" "One loaf of the sourdough." It's close enough to the truth. She stares at him for a long moment, clearly having some kind of internal debate. One loaf of bread for an entire rabbit is an excellent trade. But Peeta doesn't do excellent things; only foolish, clumsy things. "She's a stupid girl," she mutters, walking away. "A rabbit's worth at least three." Somehow, slowly, Peeta's Sunday routine becomes their Sunday routine. Katniss meets him in the early morning on the Hawthornes' front step, slips inside to do - something, he's never quite sure what, and he's never invited - and walks with him to the back of the bakery. She gives him a rabbit, or a few squirrels, occasionally a bird, and he offers her bread or sweets. She always refuses them. And then she leaves. They have a few classes together in school, and they eat lunch at the same time, but they never speak. He would - he wants to - but he doesn't want to jeopardize the tentative companionship that blooms between them in the early morning light each week. So instead he averts his eyes when they pass one another in the hallway or enter a classroom together. And she's always there on Sunday. "You should really get your own game bag," she tells him one morning, but there's a hint of teasing to her tone. He smiles, and she smiles back. He thinks, this could happen, someday. Peeta's good at getting people to talk - and though it's harder with Katniss, he wears her down. Mostly she talks about Prim. He likes to listen to her talk about her younger sister, to experience the kind of love and pride that only siblings can feel for one another, even if it's secondhand. Katniss tells him funny stories about Prim's pet cat and goat, about the old man who visits her mother at least three times a week seeking help for ailments that don't even exist, about Gale's family, who think it's the baker himself and not his youngest son who leaves them bread every week. "You never tell me about yourself," he says one day, keeping his voice light. "There's not much to say," she replies, looking away. "I don't know. I bet you're a lot more interesting than you think." "Can we walk a little faster?" she says. "I have things to do today." Fall turns to winter and the mornings grow colder, much colder. Peeta notices that Katniss' bag grows lighter with the passing weeks; she still brings him a squirrel or two on Sundays, but they're smaller, skinnier. Her thin winter coat isn't enough to keep her warm and when he tucks his arm around her on their walk to town she leans into him for one brief, delicious moment before pulling away. "Someone might see," she explains, and he nods, though he'll never understand why that would be such a terrible thing. The week before the New Year he finally gathers his courage. She hands him a squirrel as usual, and he bends down, placing it gently on the ground. She frowns, confused. "What are you -" He places his warm hands on her cold, hollow cheeks and presses his lips to hers. Katniss makes a sound of alarm in the back of her throat and Peeta breaks the kiss, but she doesn't pull away. Her eyes are wide and frightened, like an animal who's just realized it's caught in a snare. He drops his hands from her face, taking one of her gloved hands in his own. Hers is trembling. Peeta looks at her steadily, willing her to be calm. Their breaths mingle in the air between them, little white clouds of warmth in the winter chill. He leans in again, and this time she kisses back. "I really like you," he breathes, their foreheads pressed together. "I know," Katniss whispers. "But...we can't." Peeta drops a soft kiss on her forehead, then her cold, red-tipped nose. "Why not?" She doesn't answer, and he shuffles forward, the toes of their shoes bumping together awkwardly. He backs her up until she's pressed against the side of the bakery, and he moves in for a deeper kiss, touching his tongue just slightly to the crease between her lips. She parts them in response, her hands settling on the middle of his back, pulling him closer. Peeta thinks he might die, thinks he might want to, because surely life can't get better than this. By early February it's slipped into their routine more naturally than either could have imagined: meet at the Hawthornes', walk to the bakery, kiss, say goodbye. "I want to see you more. Outside of this," Peeta tells her one morning as they walk towards the bakery, hands brushing together but never clasped. Katniss looks down at her feet, chewing on her lip. "I don't know," she says finally. "Where would we even go?" It's a good question - he can't bring her into the apartment over the bakery, because then his mother will know. She'd bristle at any suggestion involving school. It's too cold outside to spend time together in the town square, or the meadow in the Seam, or even - he swallows - the slag heap. "Your house?" he says, knowing she'll never agree. But she's quiet, thoughtful, for a long moment. "Maybe," she says, and he turns his head so she can't see the ridiculous grin stretched across his face. Two weeks later they're in their usual spot by the bakery's back door, kissing breathlessly, when Katniss pulls away abruptly. "Our neighbor's having a baby," she says. "Her contractions started this morning but my mother said it's going to be a long labor. She and Prim might be gone all night." It takes him a while to understand why she's babbling about babies and contractions, and then realization washes over him. "Oh." They'll be gone all night . His groin stirs at the thought, and he's glad his cheeks are already flushed, or she'd see him blushing. "So...do you want to...hang out?" She nods, and he kisses her again softly. "When?" Katniss shrugs. "After dinner?" "Okay." He smiles down at her. "I'll be there." She gives him directions to her home, using the Hawthornes' as a reference point, and she's so flustered she almost forgets to give him his squirrel before leaving. "I don't need this, you know," he reminds her, but she only shakes her head and waves as she walks away. Peeta can't keep the smile off his face all day, and when his brothers and father take a break for lunch he settles at a table in the corner of the kitchen and pipes frosting onto a little stack of sugar cookies. He makes a lily, a primrose, a dandelion; he wishes he knew what a katniss flower looked like, but if he asked anyone he'd give himself away. He rushes through dinner - a hearty stew - and tells his family he's off to a friend's to study. About an hour after sundown, he's knocking on her front door. Katniss answers the door after the longest ten seconds of his life, and she smiles at him nervously. She's dressed in pants and a long-sleeved shirt, something that she'd wear on a regular day at school, but her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, ending just above her waist. He thinks she looks beautiful. "I brought these," he says, handing her the package of cookies, and she takes them to the kitchen table, where they sit. She spreads the cookies out on a plate and studies each one carefully, her mouth curving up into a smile as she recognizes each flower. "I'll have to save this one for Prim," she says of the primrose cookie, but her face goes slack when she sees the dandelion. She looks at him, eyes wide. "How did you know?" "Know what?" "Nevermind," she says quickly. "Thank you, Peeta. These are beautiful." "Thanks." He smiles crookedly. "Not too beautiful to eat, I hope." Katniss laughs. "No, not too beautiful for that." She breaks the sunflower cookie in two and hands him one half, and they eat together quietly, contently. When they've finished, Peeta clears his throat. "So your mother and Prim...they deliver babies?" Katniss nods. "Prim mostly watches, hands her supplies, things like that. So she can learn to do it herself one day." "You're not interested?" She wrinkles her nose. "No, I don't like to see people in pain...I don't like blood." At his incredulous look, she smiles. " Human blood." Peeta laughs. "I was gonna say." He edges his chair a little closer. "So what do you want to do after we're done with school?" "I don't know..." Katniss presses her fingertip to the cookie plate and lifts it to her mouth, licking the crumbs off. Desire floods through him at the glimpse of her soft, pink tongue. "I hadn't really thought about it. I might get reaped before then." "You won't get reaped," he says automatically, though he has nothing to back it up. He knows she takes out tesserae; not as many as Gale Hawthorne had, but still. They add up. "What about you?" she asks. "Do you want to run the bakery?" "I do." Peeta nods. "But I don't know. Ned and Brody get first dibs since they're older, so I might have to find something else." "Oh. That's too bad." They're quiet for a moment, and then she says abruptly, "Do you want to play a card game?" Peeta shrugs. "Um, sure." "We don't have to," she says. "I just - I'm not sure what to do. I haven't spent time with...a friend...since..." Is that how she thinks of him? A friend? Peeta isn't sure how he'd label his relationship with Katniss, but he doesn't kiss his friends. He doesn't ignore them at school, and bring them home only when his family is gone. If he's a friend, he wonders what Gale had been. "No, I like card games," he assures her, determined to steer away from those avenues of thought. "I'm just surprised. You don't seem like the type." "I like to play," she says with a smile, and he knows that she said it with nothing but innocent intentions, but it sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin nonetheless. "Alright," he says. "Let's play." They settle onto the couch and she teaches him a game called gin rummy. Peeta keeps mixing up the rules, and she thinks it's funny, but he wonders what she'd think if she knew it was because all he can concentrate on is the curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts. Eventually, he gives up fighting it. Instead of taking his turn, he sets his cards down, scoots closer and captures her mouth in a kiss, running his hands around her waist. Her own cards flutter to the floor. Peeta leans her back, her dark hair fanning over the pillow at the end of the couch. They kiss for a while, but the tension never leaves her limbs, and he realizes her feet are still planted on the floor beneath them. She's twisted at the waist, and it can't be comfortable. "Put your feet up," he says gently, and she does, shifting them onto the cushions. He settles between her legs, his pelvis resting against hers, and he holds back a groan. Every other time they've kissed there were so many layers between them, boots and sweaters and coats and gloves, and now there's just the thin fabric of their shirts and their pants. Now he can feel the heat of her body, the rise and fall of her chest, her heartbeat pounding beneath her ribcage. Peeta kisses her deeply, his tongue edging into her hot mouth, and he shivers slightly as her cool hands run over his lower back, beneath his shirt. He whispers kisses across her jawline, her earlobe, before he settles on her neck, sucking gently at the soft skin. "Oh," Katniss gasps lightly, stretching her head back, and he sucks harder, breathing roughly against her neck. He's so lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, that he doesn't realize his hips are moving at all until she grips them in her hands, pausing their steady motion. He's hard. He freezes, embarrassed, certain that she'll kick him out now, never look at him again. But she doesn't. Tentatively, she lifts her own hips up into his, his erection pressing against the heat between her legs. He moans her name into her neck and she squeezes her legs around him tighter. Peeta kisses her again, a long kiss, and he pulls back to look her in the eyes. "I'm not...I don't...I didn't come here just to do this," he stammers. "I don't only want..." "I know," she says, and he can't read her expression; it could be fear, excitement, lust, anything. Not for the first time he thinks that no matter how close he gets to Katniss Everdeen, he'll never know her. But for the first time, it scares him. "Okay," he says, and he dips his head to her collarbone. Somewhere along the way, Peeta's shirt ends up on the floor. He pulls back, fingering the hem of hers nervously. He's seen a girl's breasts before, but this is different. This is the girl. He brushes her hair back from her face with his other hand. "Can I?" Katniss sucks in a breath, then slowly nods. She sits forward and he pulls the fabric over her head; it feels like unwrapping a gift. But his face falls when he sees what he's uncovered. "Oh, Katniss," he says without thinking, flooded with concern. "You're so thin. " She looks startled, then scowls, wrapping her arms around her middle, attempting to cover herself. "I'm fine," she says, but he can see the faint ridge of her ribcage peeking between her fingers. "I didn't know," he whispers, thinking of her game bag, how it grew lighter and lighter with the passing weeks, of the rope he'd seen knotted around her hips until she'd started buttoning her coat all the way against the winter chill. She'd been giving her food away - to her family, to Gale's family, to him. And he'd taken it, every time. "I'm fine," she repeats, voice trembling, and she reaches for her shirt. "Give it back. You don't -" Then the front door opens. "Katniss?" Prim makes it halfway to the darkened living room before she realizes there's another person in the room with them - a half-naked person. "Oh! Oh no! I'm sorry!" Katniss scrambles away from Peeta, clutching a pillow over her chest. "Prim," she gasps out, "What are you doing here?" "Mom needed more ointment!" the younger girl calls, already in another room. "I swear I'll be gone in thirty seconds!" Katniss grabs her shirt from the floor, her entire body shaking. Peeta finds his own discarded shirt and pulls it over his head. "See? I'm gone. Bye!" Blocking her view of the living room with her hand, Prim makes a beeline for the door. "Bye," Katniss answers half-heartedly. Peeta tries to meet her eyes, but she avoids him determinedly. "Should I...go?" he finally asks. Long seconds pass. “I think so, yeah." He nods, but doesn't move. "I don't want to," he admits. She stares at her hands, then bends down and begins to pick up the playing cards they'd knocked to the floor. "You should," she says quietly. He does. Katniss doesn't meet him next Sunday. Or the next, or the next, or the next. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The "yes" is out of Jim's mouth before he can think about it. With so many Starfleet personnel away for the holidays, Jim's apartment building is still enough that Jim can hear Spock swallow from across the room. He allows his eyes to flutter closed momentarily at the sound, imagines the bob of Spock's adam's apple just above the neckline of his uniform. Spock doesn't move from where he stands near the door, so Jim works up the nerve to look at him. Spock's lips are parted as if he intended to reply, probably prepared to accept Jim's rejection and depart. He appears genuinely shocked that Jim has just answered in the affirmative, eyebrows furrowed and hands clasped low behind his back as he does when he's thinking. Jim sits on the edge of his couch, hands folded together and dropped between his knees. He stares at the carpet and wets his lips nervously. He really needs to clean the apartment before Bones starts harping on him again. He hopes that Spock doesn't notice the obvious boot prints leading from the door to the couch. The few times Spock has invited him for dinner, Jim grudgingly observed that Spock's place is as neat as the line of his bangs. Did he really just agree to help Spock with database entry for two weeks on New Vulcan over Christmas? He's pretty sure Spock calculated Jim's likelihood to accept an invitation as a zero percent possibility, but Jim derives a certain satisfaction from doing the opposite of what Spock expects. His heart is pounding with adrenaline, because what is he doing ? His schedule is filled with mandatory evaluations and meetings with the admiralty about the refit and crew assignments, but he imagines a few days away from that: burying himself beneath a mound of blankets, steam rising from a mug of fresh-brewed coffee, maybe catching up on a book. And ample time alone with Spock, even if Jim is reluctant to admit what that means. "If you're serious," he casually adds, giving Spock a chance to retract his offer. He shoots him a full-wattage grin, the one he flashes at the cameras when his heroism is compared with his father's, a visual check . They lock eyes. Spock merely raises an eyebrow, immune. "You are aware I do not kid." His smile falters but he keeps in in place. He looks down at his bare legs and boxers and can't recall the last time he did laundry. He should have put on pants. He wonders why it matters; Spock has seen him look worse. "Yeah, I know," he says lamely and flicks a speck of imaginary dust from the couch. "So, New Vulcan, huh? What should I bring?" "I would advise clothing in lightweight fabrics," Spock replies. "Okay." Jim slaps his thighs and stands. "Just give me a few minutes to pack?" "There is no hurry," Spock assures him. "The shuttle does not depart for another three hours." Jim keeps the smile plastered on his lips until he shuts the bedroom door behind him and slumps against it, frowning. Maybe he should call Spock's bluff, walk back into the living room laughing, and tell him to have a good trip. Except Jim really has no one to visit over the holidays. He knows; he's asked everyone. Winona is stuck on the Tereshkova , and Sam hasn't been planetside in over a decade. Scotty and Uhura are going...somewhere. Chekov is staying with family in Russia, and Sulu is speaking at a botany convention. Bones looked apologetic leaving Jim in San Francisco by himself, but this will be the first Christmas he'll have with Jo since she was four. Jim knew Bones would end up inviting him along to Georgia out of a misplaced sense of guilt, so he'd slapped Bones on the shoulder and said, "Give Jo a hug for me." He kept the smile on his face until he could no longer hear Bones's footsteps in the hall. He probably should have sent a gift for Jo; he's crap at this "honorary uncle" thing. Jim hadn't even considered asking what Spock was doing for the holidays, because this isn't Spock's holiday. Besides, even if Spock wasn't planning on Jim's acceptance when he asked, and even if he did so only to placate McCoy (because Jim knows full well that Bones instructed the crew to be careful with him post-superblood, thinking he might crack up at any minute), Spock would never admit to that. It's got to be illogical to issue an invitation simply out of social obligation. But Spock wouldn't do that, anyway. He'd simply say "Farewell" and be on his way. No, for some reason, Spock actually wants him to come along to New Vulcan, and a part of Jim wants to go. Okay, he can deal with that. If Spock isn't backing down, neither is Jim Kirk. He goes to his closet and pulls out his dress boots and street shoes. He knows he's got a duffel bag in here somewhere. What the heck should he pack? Spock said light fabrics. What does that mean, t-shirts? Is he allowed to have bare arms on New Vulcan? He's never seen a Vulcan with skin exposed below the neck. Maybe he can just borrow a set of robes from Spock when they get there. They're about the same size, and it's not like those robes are fitted. He grabs his toothbrush, toothpaste, a few pairs of boxers, a handful of his favorite t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of slacks, a dress shirt and a tie (you never know, Winona always told him, and a tie dresses up any outfit). Clothed in loose jeans which sit low on his waist and a worn black t-shirt, he slings the bag over his shoulder and slips on his sunglasses. "Okay," he says, nodding to the door and punching Spock in the shoulder as he passes him in the hallway. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." * It dawns on Jim, just as Spock presses his thumb to a scanner on the humble front door and the light glows red, that the last time he and Sarek breathed the same air was when Spock was throttling him on the bridge. If Sarek is anything like Winona, he probably asked Spock what Jim did to make him so pissed off. And if Spock is anything like Jim, he probably spit out the story. That means Sarek's first impression of Jim was him accusing Spock of never loving his mother, just hours after her death. Great , he thinks and fidgets with his t-shirt, which reveals a sliver of skin at his waist because of the way he's got his arm arranged to lug the tote bag. He feels half naked and drops the bag at his feet, tugging the hem into place as Sarek appears in the small entry and extends the ta'al. "Captain Kirk." Sarek addresses him in a perfectly polite tone, but his face might as well be carved out of the same rock that makes up half the structures on this planet. Jim can't read it, and he swallows through the shiver which passes through him. "Ambassador Sarek, thanks for the invitation," he says brightly, attempting to mask his unease, and does a decent approximation of the greeting in return. Sarek inclines his head politely and looks at Spock, who lowers his eyes. Jim's eyes widen as he considers that maybe Spock hadn't asked Sarek's permission at all, that it's possible Sarek didn't even know that Jim was coming, that he could be standing in the middle of an aphonic father/son showdown. Awesome second impression , he congratulates himself, hyper-aware of the burning sensation in his too-rounded ears. But all Sarek says is "You must be thirsty," and shows them through to the common room where he has laid out water and a tray of biscuits. Jim settles next to Spock on the low couch without thinking about it, slinging an arm behind him. It's only when Sarek meets his eyes and lifts an eyebrow that Jim realizes his mistake and plants both arms at his sides. Right , he thinks. No touching on New Vulcan . This trip keeps getting better. * When Sarek said that Jim would be bunking with Spock, Jim imagined a room with a couple pallets, maybe a bed and a portable mattress on the floor. He didn't expect a single sleeping alcove—granted, the mattress looks to be a decent size—in a modest two-bedroom cottage. "It would not be practical," Spock explains hurriedly, when he notes Jim's no-doubt pained expression, "for a larger house to be allocated to my father. He is unmarried, with no children at home. As it is, I am unsure why he was given a two-bedroom structure. I presume it is due to his status as an ambassador." "I guess we'll manage," Jim says, shifting in his jeans. He saved his entire crew from a eugenics experiment gone wrong; he can sleep next to Spock for a few nights and control himself. After all, he managed on the shuttle when he woke to find Spock asleep on his shoulder. "If it will make you uncomfortable to share a bed," Spock says, "I will sleep in the common room." "No!" Jim says a little too loudly. He lowers his voice and clears his throat, glancing to the door in case his tone caused Sarek to check on them. "But isn't this going to affect your telepathy or something?" Spock quirks an eyebrow. "In what way?" he asks calmly. "Well," Jim begins. He cups a hand around the back of his neck. "I have pretty vivid dreams. What if you roll into me and...tap into them?" The left corner of Spock's mouth lifts minutely, the tease of a smile, and Jim stares at him expectantly. He squeezes the back of his own neck for support. "I will resist the temptation," Spock says in a sort-of purr Jim has never heard him use before. It's a little scary and hot as hell. Jim really, really has to get out of this room before he does something stupid, like push Spock on the bed and say, "Do you understand why I saved you now ?" He recalls the look in Spock's eyes the moment Jim thought he understood, when their fingers all but touched, when Jim tried to mouth, "Yes?" and Spock—gasped, like Jim's emotions had somehow transferred through the glass. Spock's lips formed the word in return, and Jim died in peace at the sight of their joined hands. He remembers the sensation of warmth in his mind before it all slipped away. In the hospital, Spock approached the bed and smiled at him, even stroked Jim's palm as he was falling asleep, but they never talked about it. After his release from the hospital, Spock was still with Uhura, and their touches became accidental: fingertips grazing over a chess piece, arms brushing in a doorway. Three months later, when Jim met Scotty for drinks only to find Uhura with him instead of Keenser, he got his hopes up again, but nothing changed between them. It left him wondering if Spock had understood what Jim had tried to say at all. He wanted to ask, brainstormed the right conversation ad nauseum, but it turns out that soul-bearing confessions are a lot easier to blurt when he's dying . It didn't matter if what he felt was returned, because all that mattered was that Spock knew. But Jim is alive. They'll be serving together for the next five years, and he can't bring himself to say anything. Spock is staring at him, his expression curious. Jim scrubs the back of his hand over his forehead, presses a knuckle into the wrinkle he can see forming over his right eye, and tries to remember what they were talking about. "Resist me?" he says flippantly. "You'd be the first." Spock's eyebrows lift higher. "I have it on good authority that Lieutenant Uhura was unaffected." "Yeah, yeah," Jim says. He slaps Spock's shoulder in a way that is totally manly and absolutely platonic, then yanks his hand back. This is going to be one tough habit to break. "Sorry," he says and shoves his hands into his back pockets. "Let's get something to eat." * On the transport to New Vulcan, Jim imagined multiple awkward scenarios involving Spock's dad: walking in on Sarek while he's trying to meditate; Sarek lecturing Jim that wearing boxers into the kitchen was offensive, even though the planet's a desert and Jim's likely to overheat; Sarek demanding to know what Jim's intentions are toward his son. "You're not exactly subtle," Bones told him just before he was released from the hospital. "Either tone it down or fess up." "I have no idea what you're talking about," Jim said. Bones rolled his eyes and signed the release form and hasn't mentioned it since. But it turns out that Sarek isn't home most of the first day on planet, and Spock lets Jim sleep in. He wakes up early, while it's still dark. Jim feels the bed bounce and the left side of the mattress come up to hug him as Spock rises and leaves the room. He opens his eyes to see Spock's bare legs silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, a strangely intimate portrait. Jim hears the sonic shower and fights the image of Spock naked in the next room, though it occurs to Jim that they're no closer than he was on the ship when they shared a bathroom. Of course, Spock never left the door cracked open on the ship like he's doing now, but he's at home, Jim reminds himself. The rules are different at home, even for Vulcans, apparently. Spock thinks Jim is sleeping, which he is. Mostly. When he reenters the room and quietly dresses, Spock leaves the curtains drawn, and Jim falls back asleep for a few hours, only waking up when he's got to take a leak and can't hold it any more. He pads into the bathroom, yawning. His mouth tastes foul, but he remembers his toothbrush is buried in his bag. He can't remember where Spock put it. He'll just clean his mouth in the shower and find his toothbrush later, he thinks as he yawns again and spots his toothbrush in a glass on the bathroom counter. He blinks until his eyes water and he can open them more than a sliver. It's definitely his toothbrush. He recognizes the neon-yellow handle. It's impossible to miss, even with a hangover. There's no way that toothbrush belongs to Spock. The toothpaste lies on the counter beside the cup, on top of a folded washcloth "Thoughtful," he mumbles through a half-formed smile and gratefully brushes his teeth. Fresh from the sonic shower, he sniffs the air, conscious of the aroma of coffee wafting under the door. He made sure to close it, but he cracks it open and peers into the bedroom. Spock is seated at a desk under the window, reading. He wears black robes and sips from a mug. His hair is neat but slightly tousled, probably from the sonic waves. Jim has never seen Spock look so...casual. It makes Jim's heart beat faster just to look at him. He grins involuntarily but forces it off his face and wraps a towel around his waist. "Morning," he calls evenly and crosses the room. He flops back on the bed, which he notes is made. Steam rises from a mug of coffee on the nightstand. "Double cream, triple sugar?" he asks, lifting his head. "A single of each," Spock replies. "Would you care for a tri-ox compound?" "Let me see how I feel today," Jim says, scratching his stomach and letting his hand linger on the edge of the towel. He distantly wonders what Spock's hands would feel like on his skin. Probably cool and smooth, methodical, like Jim was a science experiment. He shouldn't be thinking about this, he chastises himself, rolling onto his side to hide the evidence. He fakes a yawn and stretches all the way to his toes. "I would not advise any strenuous activity," Spock says. Though Jim isn't looking at him, he can tell that Spock has turned in his chair to face him. "Chief Science Officer's recommendation?" Jim asks, nosing a pillow. "If you wish." "What time is it?" "It is afternoon," Spock replies. "Not going to give me the exact minute and second?" Jim teases. "That's pretty imprecise, for you." "The time would be irrelevant without a point of reference," Spock explains, "But if you insist, it is forty-four minutes past eleven." "You're right," Jims says, flinging an arm over his eyes. "That makes no sense. How many hours are in a day here, twenty?" "Yes," Spock says, "though each hour is shorter than one of Vulcan's." "You guys should just adopt the Standard system." "Perhaps Terrans should adopt the Vulcan system," Spock suggests, and Jim laughs. "Touche," he says and falls quiet. He listens to Spock breathing and closes his eyes, his own breaths becoming heavier. Even in the temperature-controlled house, the planet's heat is sleep inducing, and Jim finds himself just on this side of consciousness within a few minutes. "I should visit the ambassador while I'm on planet," Jim mutters into the covers. "Does he live far?" "His dwelling is a short distance," Spock informs him in a clipped tone. "No more than five standard minutes." "Do you have a problem with me seeing him?" Jim asks, wondering at the change in Spock's voice. He barely manages to lift his head. "No," Spock says. "Well, good," Jim says and stifles a yawn. Forcing himself to sit up, he gathers the towel at his waist, which has become loose and fallen away. He notes that Spock is averting his gaze and deflates a little. "I think I'll give him a call. What's on the menu for lunch?" "It is mostly Vulcan," Spock says with a shade of apology, turning back to his reading, which makes Jim suppose he was only imagining the sharpness to Spock's voice just a few seconds ago. "Eh," Jim says. "I'll experiment." * "So when are we working on this database?" Jim asks, fumbling with the skewer he holds awkwardly in his right hand. He tries to spear something about the size of a cherry tomato but dark purple in color. It rolls to the other side of his plate. He sighs and wonders if Spock would really be that offended if he just ate with his fingers. After all, on Earth, no one makes fun of Spock for eating with chopsticks. Surely Jim's entitled to a little cultural sensitivity. He aims the skewer again and manages to pierce the skin before the whatever-it-is rolls to its escape. "I will begin work tomorrow," Spock says, elegantly lifting the same vegetable or whatever to his lips in a practiced manner. Jim screws up his face as he studies the configuration of Spock's hand and tries to copy it. "How do you even hold these things?" he asks, certain his pinkie can't bend like that. "Would you prefer a fork?" Spock offers. "Yes!" Jim says immediately. Spock retrieves one from a drawer and sets it in front of Jim, who waits for Spock to move his hand before he reaches to pick it up. "Thanks," he says. "Didn't think you'd have these here." "My father is accustomed to Terran utensils," Spock explains. Jim stills as the implication of what Spock just said sinks in. Jim has never told Spock how sorry he is about his mom. At first, it was because they weren't friends, but after a while it was just awkward. Had so much time passed that saying something was too little, too late? With Spock being Vulcan, sometimes Jim has a hard time figuring out what will set him off. But he looks melancholy, sitting across the table from Jim, in a kitchen on a planet his mother will never see. Something in Jim's throat feels tight, and he feels like he has to say something, but he can't figure out what. "Makes sense," is what he goes with, which is so far from what he should say that he could kick himself. Instead, he forces a brilliant smile and holds Spock's gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes back to his plate. "You said you're going to start work tomorrow. What about me?" Spock sets down his skewer and folds his hands on the edge of the table. "Captain," he begins, but Jim cuts him off. "Do we really have to go over this again?" Inclining his head, Spock lets out a breath and starts again. "Jim," he says, and Jim gives a satisfied nod. "I was perhaps...unclear in my reason for inviting you to New Vulcan." "You said you needed help with the database," Jim says. "Ah," Spock says. "If you recall, I said that the New Vulcan Science Academy required assistance, which I am going to provide. You inferred that accompanying me was contingent on helping the academy, but your assumption was incorrect." "So you don't actually need my help," Jim deduces. "No," Spock says. Jim frowns and actually spears the stupid brown thing with the fork. It tastes like a combination of a grape and a cucumber, light and watery. He swallows it before he has chewed it thoroughly and feels the uncomfortable pressure of it slide down his throat. "Why'd you invite me, then?" he asks a little snappishly. Spock dips his head further, though Jim can see the tips of his ears are flushed green. "I presumed you would be alone," Spock says to his lap. "I knew that I would be alone much of the time on New Vulcan. Logically, it made sense that we spend this time together." The anger Jim felt abates, and he stares at Spock with his mouth just hanging open. "You invited me to keep you company?" he asks incredulously. "We provide adequate company for one another, do we not?" Spock asks. More than adequate , Jim thinks, and he can feel his face slick into a grin. "I knew you liked me," his brain hears his mouth say, and he immediately wishes the words hadn't left his tongue. But Spock appears to relax, lifting his eyes, and he straightens his shoulders and resumes eating. Jim does the same, pausing between mouthfuls. "Seriously, I'm happy to help. Otherwise I'll probably get bored sitting around here." "The records are written in Vulcan," Spock says. "I speak Vulcan, you know," Jim tells him. "I was treasurer of the academy's xeno club, or did Uhura conveniently leave that one out?" "I am aware of your proficiency with the language." "Then why won't you let me help?" Spock is doing that frustrating thing where he doesn't lie, but he purposefully dances around a question to avoid answering it directly. An awful thought occurs to Jim. "Is it because I'm human?" he asks, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone. Spock doesn't respond, merely places another skewer of food in his mouth and chews. Jim bites at the inside of his lip, tearing away little bits until the skin feels ragged. "Do I embarrass you or something?" he asks. "No," Spock says. "I do," Jim says, slumping in his chair. "You're ashamed that we're friends. You're cool about it back on Earth, but now that we're out here with your dad, and you're around your own people, you regret inviting me." "Jim," Spock says, and his voice is possibly the quietest Jim has ever heard him speak outside the warp core. He leans forward; instinctually, Jim mirrors his movements. "While it is true that the concept of friendship is not valued among Vulcans as it is among humans, I am proud to have yours." His statement causes a plume of something in Jim's chest that he simultaneously resents and cherishes. He grins despite the lump in his throat. "Then why can't I come with you?" he asks. Spock's eyes drop to his plate. He sets down his skewer and inhales audibly, his nostrils flaring as he does so. Jim dreads the words forming on Spock's tongue. "Take me with you tomorrow," he says before Spock can say no. Spock is quiet. His mouth forms a tight line, the way it always does when he's pondering something, and the crease between his eyebrows is pronounced. Jim wants to reach out and smooth it, but he keeps one hand wrapped around the fork and the other on the edge of his plate. "Either take me with you..." He aims the tines at Spock. "...or I'll have to follow you." "I could deliver a nerve pinch and render you incapable of doing so," Spock reminds him. "You could," Jim says, "but I don't think you will. That causes one hell of a headache, by the way." "It is pointless for me to continue expressing regret over a past event." "Too bad the pinch didn't work on Harrison," Jim adds flippantly. The name causes a change in Spock's demeanor. He tenses, pulling up into his shoulders. "Indeed," he says. "Think you could teach me how to do it?" Jim asks. Spock looks encouraged by Jim's words. The smile is faint, but it hovers at his lips. Jim licks his own and smiles back. * The prospect of a five-minute walk sounded easy enough, but now that they're out in the New Vulcan heat, Jim regrets setting foot out of the front door. Though New Vulcan has a more oxygen-rich atmosphere than Vulcan did, the concentration is still lower than Earth's. One minute in, Jim is sweating. He's glad for the traditional Vulcan robes, which (despite appearances) are surprisingly breathable. The farther they walk, his legs grow heavier, like he's dragging them. He stops to suck in a breath of air, feeling dizzy. Spock is at his side. "I brought a tri-ox compound with me," Spock says, stepping closer and reaching into his pocket. "If I deliver it to you now, you will feel better by the time we reach the ambassador's dwelling." "That's okay," Jim says, wheezing. He rounds his back and bends over his knees, a hand on each thigh. "I've had enough hypos in the last year to last the rest of my life. I'm just...a little out of breath." He glances around them. The housing is modest. Jim has seen holos and vids of what architecture looked like on Vulcan, though the city's circular layout is the same. Based on the materials alone, he'd never guess that this is the same culture. The smallest houses are mud structures. Many of them are only temporary, hastily constructed to house the colony residents and volunteers while their society is being built. Spock explained that eventually, much of this housing development will be demolished and its residents relocated to permanent dwellings. It will be years, if not decades, before work on the city is completed. The queasy feeling passes, so they keep walking. Spock offers Jim his arm, but Jim refuses. He's not about to embarrass Spock in public, so he maintains a polite distance. The ambassador's home is similar in appearance to Sarek's, made of stone and timber and mud. Jim knocks on the front door and stands back with a grin when he hears footsteps on the other side. The door creaks open, and Ambassador Spock reaches to clasp Jim's hand. "Jim," he says. "I am pleased to see you are well, old friend." "Jim is overheated," Spock informs him. "Come inside," the elder Spock says, still holding Jim's hand gently, and ushers them both through the front door. He leads them to a small common room with a fireplace and low bench seats. He deposits Jim on one, then goes to fetch water. With his elder self out of the room, Spock sits next to Jim and looks him over. "Are you certain that I cannot—" "No meds," Jim insists, scooting away an inch when Spock's sleeve brushes his wrist. He turns his head and beams at Spock. "I'm fine. Stop worrying." "You are my captain," Spock insists. "It is my duty to ensure your health." "I'm not here as your captain," Jim says fondly. "I'm on leave of an indeterminate length, if you recall, until they decide I'm psychologically fit to resume active duty." "You will be given the ship," Spock says, "and you will resume command." "That sure about me, huh?" The ambassador returns with a pitcher and glasses before Spock has a chance to answer. "How've you been?" Jim asks the elder Spock, who settles into his seat across from them. "I am well," Spock answers, pouring three glasses and motioning that they should each take one. Jim is careful not to touch hands with either Spock when he takes his glass. "And you?" "Alive," Jim replies, draining half of the water in two gulps. His throat still feels like sandpaper, but it's better. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "How're your memoirs coming along?" "Satisfactorily," Spock replies and drinks himself. He appears relaxed despite his upright posture, one hand on the arm of the chair, the other loosely curled around his glass. Beside Jim, the younger Spock sits more rigidly. They stare at each other in silence for a few minutes before Jim decides he'd better break the ice or die a slow death from Vulcan stoicism. "So are you going to show me around?" he asks. The elder Spock nods and rises, and Jim does the same, still unsteady on his feet. He offers Jim his arm, and though Jim is surprised by the action, they are indoors. Sarek isn't here to see him. He's still dizzy, so he gratefully takes it. Jim looks back at Spock, who is still seated and stares at him with narrowed eyes. "You okay for a minute?" Jim asks with a slight frown. "Why would you presume I would not be?" Spock asks crisply and looks away. "Well, excuse me ," Jim chides and lets the elder Spock lead him into the next room. It's a small den, from the looks of it, about ten feet square, with a table underneath a window and a bookcase along the wall. It holds only a few books, a handful of artifacts, and a small but detailed sketch on a scrap of paper. It's a minute before Jim recognizes his own face: older, slightly rounded, his hair wavy. He's in his fifties, maybe? He's wearing a dress uniform, with the front flap open, and he's smiling over his shoulder. Jim's mouth goes dry as he looks at it. He reaches out a hand but doesn't touch. The muscles in Spock's forearms tighten under Jim's grasp. Jim drops his head to his chest, inhales, and looks up at him. "So," he says. "You and me, huh?" Spock simply nods once in affirmation. He glances to the hallway which leads back to the common room and raises an eyebrow. Jim lets out a breath through his nose and huffs a laugh. "No," he answers quietly. "At least, not yet. I'm not...I'm not even sure he's interested." "Give it time," Spock says. "If he is, you will know." "How?" Jim whispers. "I mean, he's been a lot friendlier ever since I..." "Died," Spock supplies helpfully. "Yeah," Jim says, raking a hand through his hair. "He comes over for chess a lot, makes me get out for air. And then he invited me to come with him here. We're having to share a bed at his dad's." "Indeed?" Spock says and appears thoughtful. "Is that good?" Jim asks and chews his lip. "It is encouraging," Spock says finally. "Sharing a bed with someone other than one's bondmate or intended is uncommon, though not unheard of." "He did offer to take the couch," Jim says glumly. "But he did not," Spock stresses and pats Jim's hand. Jim nods to the drawing. "How old were you when we got together?" "I was forty," Spock replies. "I hope he does not wait as long as we did." "Man," Jim says. "You two took your sweet time." "Our friendship began quite differently," Spock says. "I was assigned as your science officer and later promoted. There was always the problem of rank." "We have the same issue." "My Jim was stringent regarding relationships," Spock says. "He would not have risked his career for one, at your age." "Oh." "And you were my first friend. It took many years for me to accept what I felt for you. My younger self possesses a great deal more experience with his emotions at this age than I." "Do you think you'll ever find someone else?" Jim asks. "It is a possibility," Spock answers after a pause. "It will become necessary, at a point." "Oh," Jim says, "because of your telepathy?" "Among other reasons," Spock says, which isn't really an answer, but Jim accepts it. He allows Spock to show him the kitchen, the bedroom, the small garden off the back of the house. Two chairs sit side-by-side with a clear view of the sky over the garden wall. "Spend a lot of time stargazing?" Jim asks. "Yes," Spock says, and his eyes linger on the reddish-orange clouds. As they turn to walk back to the common room where Spock waits, Jim wonders if anyone has ever sat in the second chair. * "Do you find that you are adjusting to our atmosphere?" Sarek asks, holding out a dish of lirs , which reminds Jim a little of the barley salad his mom used to make around the holidays. He spoons a decent portion onto his plate and passes the bowl to Spock, who declines it. Jim sets it between them. "So far, so good," Jim replies. "I'm a little tired." "It will pass in a day or two," Sarek tells him. "The human body is less adaptable to climate changes than a Vulcan's." Jim keeps his face neutral and wonders if that was a dig at his humanity or just an observation. He takes the opportunity to drink from his glass. Holding the water in his mouth for a few seconds, he tries to think up a witty response, but Sarek continues. "My wife suffered similarly. The change in oxygen concentration did not bother me when I was younger, but as I age, I find myself affected by it." Oh , Jim thinks. It wasn't an insult. Okay. "Do you travel a lot, Ambassador?" Jim asks, using the title because he's Jim Kirk, dammit, and he's going to make Sarek like him if it's the last thing he does. He takes up the fork Spock made sure to provide him and eats as politely as he can manage. "Since Vulcan's destruction, it has become essential for me to do so," Sarek answers. "It is critical to visit worlds on which we had established Vulcan colonies, to garner support for New Vulcan, to catalog what remains of our culture." "Spock told me you've been able to locate a lot of artifacts," Jim says knowingly. "Any luck with the animals?" "Many species were exhibited off-world, in zoological preserves," Sarek continues. "It is possible that we will be able to repopulate many species, though we must take care not to disturb those which already exist here." "True," Jim says, stirring his soup. "Well, I hope you can bring back some of them." "It is my hope as well," Sarek says. "And what are your plans, Captain? Do you intend to resume command of your ship?" "As soon as they clear me for duty." Jim grins and nods to Spock. "This one actually turned down another offer, because he's set on being my XO." "You are aware of the offer?" Spock says, the first he's spoken in minutes. Jim turns to face him. Spock looks at him owlishly. "Nogura told me. When one of my senior officers is being courted by another captain," Jim says, "I like to know about it." "I have no desire to be courted by another captain," Spock says with a fondness in his voice. His words make Jim's heart stutter, his breathing quicken for a moment. Does Spock even realize what just came out of his mouth? Could he be that lucky? Jim shakes off the blatant physical reaction to Spock's declaration and licks his lips, laughing. "Well, good," he says, aiming for light, "because you're mine." He goes to elbow Spock but keeps his arm tucked tightly against his side. He glances across to Sarek, who regards them, his eyes flicking back and forth between their faces. "Um, professionally speaking," Jim adds and digs back into his food. "You are unmarried, Captain," Sarek observes after a minute. It sounds like an accusation. "Yeah," Jim says and feels his cheeks grow warm. "I'm only twenty-seven. There's plenty of time for that once the mission ends." "Indeed," Sarek says and looks at his son. * "You guys wake up way too early," Jim complains to himself when Spock is out of bed at 0500 New Vulcan time, already in the shower. The bathroom door is ajar once again, so Jim takes the opportunity to fling it open. He's got to piss, and it's Spock's fault for leaving the door unlocked if he wants total privacy. He's peed in front of Spock before on away missions, when they were in the woods somewhere and there wasn't anything like civilization. Spock always said it was a non-issue, so this is obviously not a big deal. "Hey," he yawns as he walks in. "If you don't want me to see you naked, stay in there." "You have seen me without clothing," is Spock's reply. Jim stops walking and blinks as the words set in. It's true. After sparring, sometimes they both change in the locker room. Hell, they've even showered together, but lots of crewmembers do that. That's why the communal shower is there. It doesn't mean anything, even if Jim and Spock are the only two there, and even if Jim wishes it did mean something. Jim considers this, repeats what Spock just said. It's too early to analyze. Jim hasn't had coffee, and he couldn't tell the difference between Vulcan honesty and flirting right now if his career depended on it. "Okay," he concedes and takes care of business. It's when he's washing his hands under the sonic tap, moving them through the vibrating air, that he chances a look in the mirror. The shower door is partly transparent. Spock has one hand in his hair and the other at his side. Jim takes in the muscles in his back and shoulders, the curve of his ass, his thighs. He drops his eyes immediately but can't quell the blush that rises in his cheeks. He tries to hide it by yawning and reaching for his toothbrush. Seconds later, he hears the shower stop, hears the slide of the door opening. And then Spock is next to him at the sink, naked, clean smelling and flushed a little green. "I did not expect you to be awake at this hour," he says. He reaches for his own toothbrush, and their wrists touch. Jim's eyes shoot wide at the funny sensation the contact causes, like a split-second of intense warmth in his brain, and then it passes. Spock brushes his teeth while Jim tries not to look at him, even though he can see his dick clearly out of the corner of his eye: about the length of his but a little wider, green like the rest of him. He feels his own start to perk up and wills it down. Jim is careful not to touch Spock when he puts his toothbrush back. He pretends to stretch his back, pressing the heels of both hands into the counter and rolling his neck from shoulder to shoulder, arching until his spine cracks. When he looks up, Spock is staring at him with an expression he can't read. "Is it okay if I borrow another set of your robes?" Jim asks. "I think I'll overheat if I wear pants today." "You may use anything of mine that you wish," Spock says and places his hand on the counter, just inches from where Jim's rests. Spock doesn't move closer, so Jim doesn't move closer. They stand motionless, as if in stasis. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Jim's ears begin to buzz like he's underwater. "I'm gonna make some coffee," Jim blurts, walking backwards toward the door. "You want anything?" "I will come with you," Spock says, slipping his arms into a robe and taking a moment before he closes it around himself and ties the belt. * Spock's playful attitude, if Jim can call it playful, is gone by the time they arrive at the New Vulcan Science Academy. Even though he does a good job of concealing it, Jim can tell Spock is anxious from the way he rolls the edge of his sleeve between two fingers as they approach the door. He expects the academy to be a patchwork building, like many of the residences and the commercial structures that make up the center of town. It's located outside the city limits, a fifteen-minute walk from Sarek's house, close to the shuttle dock station. He pants most of the way but refuses the hypo Spock carries with him. (He's had enough of Bones's frequent injections and mother-hen behavior since getting out of the hospital.) When they enter the academy's front door, Jim is struck with the knowledge that this is what Vulcan must have looked like. The building isn't temporary by any definition. It is beautifully constructed, the hallway before them tall and open, though the architecture itself is not ornate. The ceiling comes to a point, as do the windows. Everything is made up of straight, clean lines, and Spock looks appropriate standing beneath the vaulted ceiling. He pushes a button to signal their arrival and waits. A Vulcan man shows them to a room down a long corridor, which is brightly lit, with the same tall ceilings. Ten pairs of eyes regard them as they enter. Jim can't get over how quiet everything is, how loud his boots sound, how the robes swish around his legs as he walks. It's weird to be dressed in robes. He's only got a pair of boxers underneath, so it's kind of like wearing a dress, oddly freeing. They sit side-by-side at twin computer stations, and Jim switches on the PADD Spock hands him, scanning over the first document. "We are compiling data from a variety of resources," Spock says quietly, "and a variety of different cultures. While it is possible for the computer to simply import data from other sources, such imports must be supervised. There is always a limit with computers." "So you're not on board with computer-controlled starship development?" Jim whispers. "Full control is not logical," Spock says. "A computer is a machine, while a captain..." He furrows his brow and motions to the PADD. "Some information will be factually incorrect. Some will contain misspellings. Some might be outdated and not necessary to include. Some might be duplicate information. It is our job to determine if this is the case, to make notations in the entry so it can be checked." "Isn't this...intern-level stuff?" "It is," Spock agrees, "but the academy lacks the staff for this amount of work." Jim pushes a hand into his hair and imagines what he'd be doing if he were back on Earth, pictures himself stretched out on the couch with a beer and a large cheese pizza. Spock holds out a data disk. "Since you expressed an interest in Vulcan animals," Spock says quietly, "I thought you would prefer to begin with this," he says. He lays it in Jim's hand, their skin connecting briefly. Jim memorizes the constellation Spock's fingertips form in his palm. "What is it?" he manages. "It is a list of all Vulcan mammals, as compiled by one of the Vulcan elders," Spock explains, leaning to speak close to Jim's ear. "You will import the data, have the computer scan for duplicate entries, and merge with existing information and images where appropriate. If anything appears to be incomplete, ask the computer to leave an annotation. If you are uncertain, it is better to make a note than not." "Okay," Jim says. Spock sits back and pauses, looking down. "I appreciate your willingness to assist," he says. "Though I am satisfied to be with you on the Enterprise , Vulcan was my home." Everything goes a little hazy. Jim swallows, focuses on the fringe of Spock's eyelashes splayed across his cheeks. He wants to reach out and take Spock's arm, clasp his shoulder, throw an arm around him—hell, kiss him—but he can't, not here. Not on this planet, not where they are right now, with so many people watching them. Spock was nervous enough about coming here today; the last thing Jim wants to do is humiliate him. He's going to be the perfect human guest while he's on New Vulcan. He sits straighter in his chair and nods. "Absolutely," he says, deciding that a small smile is okay. He's surprised when Spock smiles back, just barely. They work for four standard hours. Jim keeps his comm on the desk in front of him and glances at it occasionally. He hasn't had a message from Bones since he arrived, but he figures that means he's having a good time with Jo. Maybe Jim can get her something from New Vulcan. He finds his mind wandering more and more, until he comes to the entry about the Le-Matya and watches a vid of it killing prey. He tells the computer to pause the vid—his Vulcan accent is getting better with each syllable—and sits back in the chair, stifling a yawn. He needs to stand up. The back of his legs are numb. Inhaling deeply, he picks up his comm and goes to touch Spock on the arm like he would if they were on Earth, but thinks better of it. "I need some air," he whispers. Spock looks at him, presses his lips together, and nods. Jim starts. "Do you want to come with me?" he asks. Turning his head back to the screen, Spock speaks once to switch it off and rises. "You know," Jim says when they're out in the hallway, "I've never heard you speak Vulcan before today." "Your accent is quite good," Spock says. Jim bites his lip at the compliment. "I'm starving," he says. "What about you?" "There are replicators," Spock says, motioning toward an adjoining corridor. "Or we could check out one of the restaurants I saw on our walk over," Jim says, raising both eyebrows. "My treat." "We are not required to be here for any specific length of time," Spock says, considering. "It's a date," Jim says and motions to the door. * In the end, they choose a street vendor near the academy serving cabbage soup, some type of grilled vegetable wrap, and which claims to make a Terran-style cheeseburger. Jim is suspicious and sticks to vegetables, which Spock concludes to be native and safe for consumption. Jim supposes it would be absurd to eat something hot in all this heat anyway, and a veggie wrap won't sit too heavily in his stomach. They eat in a nearby square, on a stone bench under a sail of fabric which casts a triangle of shade over them. Jim can feel the sweat drip down his back. Spock actually looks warm for the first time since they met. He has a healthy green flush in his cheeks, and his eyes are bright. For once, he isn't wearing a thermal layer. Even his fingers, which are usually so pale and white, have color in them, a greenish hue to each fingernail abutting the white moon. Jim wonders how uncomfortable Spock is on board the ship, what adjustments they could make to the environmental controls before the next mission leaves. It has to be possible to allow for individual temperature control at a work station. He casts his eyes across the square, sees a mix of Vulcans and humans ambling about. He spots an Andorian and what might be an Orion or a sunburnt Vulcan. The soil, the sky, they're all varying shades of red, but it's peaceful. He could get used to this planet. A part of him wants to. "It's kind of pretty here," Jim comments, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Spock murmurs something. Jim leans closer and asks him to repeat it, but he's careful not to allow their arms to touch. "It is not Vulcan," Spock says again after a minute, loud enough this time that Jim can hear him, quiet enough that Jim understands what it cost him to admit that. He wants to say so many things right now, like I'm so fucking sorry and I wish we could have saved it , but they die on his tongue. "No," he says as a hot breeze stirs the sand at their feet. He looks at Spock's arm, imagines squeezing it, and closes his eyes. "I guess not." * Jim is glad he opted for a light lunch, because it's so warm in the room when they get back to the NVSA, he immediately feels his eyelids start to droop. They work an additional two hours, Spock speaking quietly in Vulcan beside him. It's hard to concentrate; Jim finds he'd rather translate everything coming out of Spock's mouth than look at another picture of a lanka-gar . He's sorting through statistics on attacks on Vulcans when all around them, the other Vulcans rise and leave the room. Spock says another few words, shuts off his computer, and stands as well. "Vulcans possess an innate sense of time," Spock explains, smoothing his robes. Jim powers his computer off and follows Spock out of the room. They walk quietly down the hallway and into the sunlight. Though the suns are lower in the sky, it's still hotter than Jim finds comfortable. He can't walk at full speed, but he keeps up with Spock, who seems to be walking significantly slower than he typically does. "That wasn't so bad, right?" Jim says, watching the dirt swirl in dusty clouds at his feet. "It was not," Spock agrees. "Aren't you glad I came with you?" "I am." "You love me," Jim says and holds his wrist to keep from swatting Spock's arm. "Admit it." "I will admit nothing," Spock says, but he smiles again, which makes Jim's heart soar. Just a little. "Are you going to tell me why it was such a big deal for me to come with you?" Jim prods. "I spoke Vulcan for you, and I bought you lunch. I mean, you kind of owe me." It is several seconds before Spock answers in a quiet voice. "I did not wish you to accompany me," Spock says carefully, "because I do not wish for your opinion of me to be lessened." "What are you talking about?" Jim asks, surprised. "I have never been respected among my peers." Spock turns his head to look in the other direction. A vein in his temple is throbbing. "Because you joined Starfleet?" Jim guesses. "Because I am half human." Jim takes a deep breath and nods. "You were afraid they'd say something to you, and that I'd overhear it," he says. Spock indicates that this is true with a bob of his head. Jim folds his arms over his chest and stares sideways at Spock. Maybe he's afraid that Jim will pity him. Maybe he doesn't want anyone to know how rough his childhood had been. It's probably not very Vulcan, to admit you were scarred by childhood bullies. Jim makes a mental note never to say a word. "You think I give a damn what some xenophobic asshole says about you?" he asks and wishes he could sling an arm around Spock's shoulder. Spock glances to him and is quiet for a long time as they continue to walk in tandem. When he does answer, his voice is a murmur. "I am aware that you do not." * The next six days pass similarly: Spock gets out of bed at an ungodly hour, showers with the door open, and Jim shuffles in to brush his teeth and (mostly) avoid gaping at Spock naked. They eat breakfast, sometimes with Sarek, and head for the NVSA on foot. Jim is subdued and tries to keep his smiles in check, and never once in front of Sarek does Jim dare touch Spock. Actually, apart from when they're sleeping, when it's kind of unavoidable, Jim continues to refrain from all physical contact, even when they're alone. It feels weird. It's not like he'd say he touches Spock a lot, but now that he isn't supposed to touch him at all, he finds he wants to do it all the time. His fingers practically itch from the distance between them, so when he wakes in the night to find Spock's foot touching his or Spock's back meeting Jim's back, he luxuriates in it a little. But at breakfast when Spock says something funny, Jim doesn't nudge him, and he doesn't lean against Spock on the couch like he would if they were at his apartment. He doesn't elbow him in the ribs or karate-chop his chest to emphasize a point, and it feels sort of...lonely. Spock's behavior shifts as the days pass. The changes are subtle, and if it were anyone else, Jim would think he's imagining things, but this is Spock. On the third day, he notes that Spock walks a few inches closer to him than the day before. When Jim pronounces a particularly difficult Vulcan word with the proper inflection, Spock catches Jim's eyes with something like pride in his, and Jim smiles. He begins to document these moments in his head to help stay awake, and he quickly notices that Spock looks at him at least once every five minutes. When he hands something to Jim, his hand lingers just millimeters above Jim's skin, just long enough that Jim feels tingly all over, as though he's being warmed from the inside. On the eighth morning, Jim wakes to the feeling of a body pressed along his back and something firm twitching against his ass. For a minute, he forgets where he is, then hears Spock's quiet breathing. Spock is obviously really happy in the morning, and Jim lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that it's absolutely fine to stay with Spock wrapped around him like this. He yawns, stretches his arms, and settles closer. Spock shifts, pressing his face into the back of Jim's neck. There's the scratch and drag of his stubble across Jim's shoulder blade. His breath is warm when he exhales; Jim suppresses a shudder. He's thought about this so many times, ever since he woke up in the hospital to find Spock standing vigil at his bedside. He imagined that when he'd been asleep, Spock had come to him, sat by his side, even leaned his forehead against Jim's once or twice. He imagined Spock crawling onto the bed with him, holding him as he slept. The image made him feel less isolated in the weeks of recovery he faced after waking from the coma. Spock rarely touched him, never held him, but he's holding Jim now. Jim allows himself to curl his fingers around Spock's arm, which is draped over his side, and he falls back asleep. * He's disappointed to wake up and find Spock isn't in bed any longer. The sun is up, and there is a mug of coffee on the bedside table. It's room temperature. Jim yawns through a sonic shower, takes the coffee with him into the kitchen. He intentionally takes the long way to the replicator, rather than passing behind Spock's chair. After reheating his coffee, he settles across from Spock at the table. "Morning," he says, feeling oddly shy. "Hello," Spock says warmly, looking up for just a beat, then drops his eyes back to his PADD. "Did you sleep okay?" "I rested adequately." "Looks hot out," Jim says, tracing his finger around the rim. The action causes a light scraping noise in a single tone, which Jim repeats until it's clear from a raised eyebrow that Spock can hear it. He stills his hand. "It is one hundred fifteen degrees Fahrenheit," Spock replies. It's obvious that Spock isn't in conversation mode, though his mood seems pleasant enough. Jim drums his fingers on the table and tries to remember what day it is back on Earth. He finally pulls out his comm and reads December 23. "Crap," he says. "Christmas is in two days." "Did you forget?" "Kind of," Jim says, scratching his chin. He needs to shave. "We're not exactly at the North Pole." Spock makes a noncommittal noise in response. Jim watches his eyes dart across the screen. How can anyone read that fast and remember two words of it? It's a little mesmerizing to observe. For every three sweeps of his eye across the screen, Spock blinks once, and Jim is oddly content to sit here and watch him. He rests his face in his hand, lifts the mug to his lips and drinks now that it's cooler. "So, did your mom celebrate Christmas?" Jim asks, feeling the coffee slide down his throat. "She did." "Did she decorate?" "Minimally," Spock says. Jim tries to imagine what that means: a sprig of replicated holly? A star positioned on one of the taller garden plants? "We always did a holo tree," Jim recalls, leaning back in his chair, wishing Spock would look at him again. "Mom had a thing about killing real ones. And she hung stockings for me and Sam, but my favorite part was the breakfast. She'd make a feast: bacon, eggs, potatoes, cinnamon rolls. Do you eat cinnamon?" "Not with regularity." "Hmm," Jim says and chews the inside of his lip. An idea strikes him. "I know you don't celebrate, but maybe...maybe I could cook for you guys?" Spock lifts his head at that and quirks an eyebrow. "Please clarify." "You know," Jim says, waving a hand in the air, "make breakfast for you, your dad, and the other you." Without changing his expression, Spock somehow manages to glower at the mention of the ambassador. One day, Jim is going to figure out what Spock has against the older version of himself, but for now he ignores it. "For Christmas," Jim adds, "and to thank your dad for letting me stay here." "He would welcome it," Spock says finally, returning his eyes to the table. "I will accompany you to the market." "No, no," Jim says hastily. "I want to surprise you." When Spock nods in agreement, it's tight. They move awkwardly around each other the rest of the day, and Jim is left wondering if he read too much into what happened that morning. He calls the elder Spock to arrange to meet him in the market tomorrow morning, and informs Spock he won't be going with him to the NVSA. "You'll probably get more done without me there," he says. "Besides, how bored would you be on a shopping trip?" When Jim wakes in the middle of the night, Spock is turned away from him, and their skin isn't touching. * "Why did you not ask my younger self to accompany you?" Spock inquires as they peruse the outdoor market stalls. It is multi-cultural, largely Vulcan, but there is an influx of wares from across the Federation. The setup is simple, box stalls with hand-written signs waving in the hot breeze. Some are covered in canvas to ward off the sunlight. Jim squints behind his sunglasses and tries to read the chicken scratch pinned to a crate of what might be fruit. "I wanted this to be a surprise," Jim says. "Plus, he's working. And I think we needed a day away from each other." He recalls the open bathroom door that morning, but how he waited for Spock to finish before he went in. Spock walked past him with his head bent, and they were quiet at breakfast. Jim spent the morning chatting with Sarek about hydroponic greenhouse technology and counts himself up a point. "Oh?" Spock inquires. Jim sighs and adjusts his sunglasses. "You really want to hear about this?" he asks. "If you wish to tell me," Spock says. "What develops between you and my younger self is your business." "Says the man who beamed me back onto a ship moving at warp, so your younger self and I could get over our shit." "You cannot blame an old Vulcan for wishing happiness for himself," the ambassador says with a soft expression. At his words, Jim grins. "I don't," he says, then sobers as they move to the next crate. "What are these?" "Soltar," Spock says. "Similar to a plum. It makes excellent preserves." Jim nods to the shopkeeper and says they'll take two dozen. He hands over his credit chip, and they continue to browse. "I can't tell if I'm misreading his signals or not," Jim tells him, "or if they're even signals. What if he's just comfortable with me? I don't want to take advantage of that. And I do outrank him. He has to be the one to make the first move. Ethically, I can't." Spock walks with his hands in front of him, clasped lightly together. A smile plays on his lips but doesn't form. "What are you laughing about?" Jim asks. "You are remarkably self aware," Spock says after a few seconds. "It was the opposite in my timeline. I came to understand the feelings I had developed for my Jim after a time, but he was career minded. He often remarked that he had no intention of settling down." "What happened?" "I should not tell you," Spock says, half to himself. "But you will anyway, right?" Jim says and nudges him on instinct. He straightens and turns away, but Spock doesn't seem offended. "Come on," Jim prompts. "What will it hurt?" "I did not see him for three years," Spock says finally. "What?" Jim says. He stops walking. "Why?" "The reason does not matter," Spock tells him. "Eventually, we both realized it was possible to have what we desired." "Good," Jim says, sidling up to a crate of carved stone figurines. He picks up one that looks familiar, examining the tiny fangs, the bear-like head. "Check it out," he says, holding it out to Spock. "That is the sehlat," Spock says. "I've been staring at pictures of them all week," Jim says. "Maybe I should get one for Jo." "Dr. McCoy's daughter?" "Yeah," Jim says. "I didn't get her anything for Christmas. Speaking of Christmas, what should I get you?" "Gift giving is not typically practiced among Vulcans," Spock says apologetically. "Good thing I'm human," Jim reminds him. "Just tell me." "I do not require anything." "Well, what about the other you?" Spock opens his mouth to reply, but Jim cuts him off. "And don't tell me he doesn't require anything. What would he like?" "You know him well," Spock says. "You know him best." Spock looks at him for a moment, his eyes softening. "I had a pet sehlat, as a child." Jim looks to the figurine in his hand and closes his fingers around it. * "How was work today?" Jim asks when he gets home with an armful of groceries and places them on the counter, separating them by dish. He comes to the sehlat figurine and feels his face heat up at the idea of presenting it to Spock. He shoves it into the pocket of his robes. "Productive," Spock answers from where he sits at the table. He looks up, meets Jim's eyes, and the awkwardness between them that had been so obvious that morning seems to be gone. "That's good," Jim says. "Were you able to locate the ingredients you require?" "Sort of," Jim says. "I couldn't find anything close to bacon, but I'd be the only one eating it anyway. The other you talked me into attempting a couple Vulcan dishes. I thought I might put my own spin on them. Are you going to work tomorrow?" "No," Spock says. "I will remain here with you." "Cool," Jim says and puts the perishable items into the fridge. "I'm going to start cooking tonight. You've got me making some type of jam, which apparently takes a couple hours to cook down." "I was unaware that you had such an interest in cooking." "Well, there's not a lot of opportunity for it on the ship," Jim says through a grin. "Mom was off planet a lot, so it was just me and a replicator. Got pretty sick of the taste after a while and got pretty good at making a few things. Mom used to cook a lot, when we were little." "It is a practical skill," Spock agrees. "Thought about going into it professionally at one point, before I met Pike. Bartending was a good living sometimes, but I didn't want that as a career." "What stopped you?" Spock asks, rising from the table and coming to stand across the counter from Jim. The counter comes to his waist, and he folds his hands in front of him. "Credits," Jim says with a shrug. "I didn't have enough for the schooling. In retrospect, I didn't have the patience for the industry at that age. And it tends to bring back some not-great memories." "Of what?" Spock asks, tilting his head. "Do you honestly want to know, or are you just being nice?" Jim asks, training his eyes on the counter. "I would not ask merely to be polite." Jim sighs, folds the canvas bag and lays it on the counter. He motions to the couch. They sit down, and he's quiet for a minute, considering. Spock doesn't push him, merely sits silently and waits for Jim to speak. It's funny how still the house is, without any clocks or noise from outside. "So Bones probably told you, if you didn't read it in my records," Jim starts, picking at a loose thread on his robes. Spock's robes. The idea that he's wrapped in fabric which has wrapped Spock's body makes him shiver. He pushes the thought aside, keeps his head ducked to his chest. "When I was thirteen, I lived off-planet. Begged to go, actually. Anything to get away from my stepdad." "He was abusive?" Spock asks, turning so his body faces Jim's. "Nah," Jim says, shaking his head. "He's not a bad guy. We just didn't get along. It was me, mom, and Sam for a lot of years, and then Frank came into the picture. I didn't like the change. Plus, I was a shit at that age. So when I heard about the colony, I begged them. We had family there." "I have read that you were on Tarsus IV." "Yeah," Jim says, his fingers stilling. "I used to try and get food together for the other kids. That was...it was the only truly good thing I ever did, until I joined Starfleet." "You were a child," Spock says. "Not after that." Spock doesn't say anything in reply, but Jim feels him move closer. "Will you show me?" he asks, and his voice is quiet, like he's hesitant. It's a moment before he meets Jim's eyes. Jim doesn't ask for clarification. He nods slowly, feels Spock's fingers skim over his face. Spock swallows audibly; Jim hears his shaky inhale through his mouth. But his touch is light, soothing, and Jim leans into it. It doesn't feel like his meld with the ambassador, but he's aware of a second consciousness in his mind, as if someone is peering through a mental window. He watches Spock, whose eyes fall closed. They are so close, closer than Jim can remember Spock ever having sat with him, and he can see the olive-green tint beneath Spock's eyes. There is pressure, almost like an embrace, somewhere deep in his brain, and a warmth fills the cold point where his memories of Tarsus crouch. He inhales unsteadily, and then Spock's hand comes away. Jim can't look up at him. He swats at his eyes, which begin to sting. "Jim," Spock says, and he touches Jim's wrist. "Their deaths were not your fault." "I know that now." Jim tries to smile, looks him in the eye. Spock's expression is somber, and Jim can sense something through their skin. He concentrates on the feeling, barely discernable whispers in his mind. He is aware of Spock's concern, his grief. For some reason, he grabs Spock's hand, even though he knows he shouldn't. He holds it between his until his own stop shaking. "Thanks," he says finally. He leans forward and kisses Spock softly, then stands up and goes back to the counter, searching in the drawers for something he can use to peel the soltar. Spock follows him wordlessly, hovering at his shoulder until Jim smiles at him. "I swear I'm fine," he says. "Go back to your reading." It's only later, when he's standing over the saucepan, watching the fruit gently simmer and the juices reduce, that he touches his own lips and recalls the feel of Spock's pressed to them. * Jim maintains an interest in his plate throughout dinner, purposefully not looking at Spock, who is not looking at him. Instead, he focuses on the texture of the food (soft yet grainy), the temperature of the tea (who the hell decided it was logical to drink hot beverages in the desert?). He definitely doesn't think about kissing Spock, or about how it felt when their minds were connected. Emotional transference...that's what the ambassador called it. Maybe he could blame the kissing on that. "Spock tells me you speak Vulcan, Captain," Sarek mentions. "Huh?" Jim asks, caught off guard. He wipes his mouth on a napkin and drops it back on his lap. "Oh, yeah, I took a lot of language courses at the academy." "In my experience, humans find the accent challenging." "I'm getting better," Jim says. "Spock says mine's pretty good." "It was many years before my wife's accent was passable," Sarek continues, looking Jim in the eye, "and that was with daily practice." Sarek resumes eating, and Spock seems quietly content. Jim scoops up the nearest thing on his plate and shoves it into his mouth, aware that his cheeks are burning from Sarek's words. He swallows without chewing and forces a smile. To Jim's relief, Sarek excuses himself for meditation immediately after dinner, leaving Jim and Spock alone in the common room. It's been a couple hours since they talked, but Spock hasn't brought up what happened. He leaves Jim alone in the kitchen to cook, so Jim spends the evening sterilizing the jars he'll use for the preserves and preparing dough for the next morning. He hums Christmas carols under his breath, the same ones Winona used to have them all sing together as she rolled out the dough for cinnamon rolls. There's enough jam that he's going to send a jar home with the ambassador tomorrow. When he leans over the counter to grab a spoon, he feels the figurine in his pocket push against his hipbone. If Spock had been upset when Jim kissed him, he would have said something. He would have pushed Jim away. He didn't, therefore...Jim is tired and shouldn't think about this right now. He's overthinking it, as Bones would tell him. He's got half a mind to call Georgia, even has a hand on his comm when he realizes what a dick move it would be to take Bones away from Jo on Christmas Eve. It's dark outside, so Jim imagines the snowfall in Iowa: the way it blankets the faded grass, forming rounded sculptures in a quiet, still landscape. He can almost discern the crunch of it underneath his boots, the satisfying crackle of a log fire, the smell of cinnamon wafting under his door. Sam spoiled the myth of Santa Claus for Jim when he was six, but Jim still set out cookies every year and sat up with his mom eating them long after Sam went to bed, singing Christmas carols. When his mom sang, it was off key, but he fondly recalls the sound of her voice and sings quietly. "... won't you guide my sleigh tonight …" "My mother was fond of that song." He startles, looking toward the door. Jim didn't hear Spock approach, but he's standing a few feet away, watching. "Mine too," Jim says after a pause, stirring the soltar and setting the spoon aside. He covers the pot and reduces the heat. "Of all the songs she sang," Spock continues, "it was my favorite." Jim stares at him. "You know it's about a reindeer with a glowing nose that pulls a magical flying sled through fog," he deadpans. "Rudolph was useful," Spock explains, coming toward him. "His usefulness was eventually recognized and valued by his peers, despite his differences. Therefore, I found it pleasing." Jim is speechless for a minute, imagining a young Spock feeling a kinship with a fictional reindeer, because they were both outsiders. He moves to the sink and washes his hands, turning around to survey his work. "Well," he says, shifting the conversation in a safe direction, "I have some kind of jam and two varieties of rolls for morning. The tuber root is sliced and draining. I'll fry that up first thing. Closest I could find to potatoes without replicating something. There's also lirs , which I'm thinking of cooking up sort-of like grits, in honor of Bones." "My father will be appreciative," Spock says. "I don't think your dad likes me," Jim confesses. He rubs the back of his neck. Spock gives him a funny expression. "I am certain my father's opinion of you is positive," Spock assures him. Jim considers citing a few examples—the dinner conversation, for one thing—but he decides against it. "It's Christmas Eve," Jim continues, changing the subject. "There's nothing else I can do tonight, but I was going to make some hot chocolate and try to get into the spirit. Do you want a cup?" "You are aware of the effect chocolate has on me," Spock tells him, but it's not accusatory. "I was planning to spike mine," Jim says, taking down two mugs. "So, we'll be on a level playing ground." "Where did you procure chocolate?" Spock asks, his eyebrows rising. "They've got it in the market," Jim says. "Not every species gets drunk off of it, you know. Besides, there's nothing wrong with kicking back once in a while." "I did not refuse," Spock says. "Good," Jim says and replicates a pitcher of steaming milk. They settle on the floor of the common room, in front of the fireplace. Spock sips his hot chocolate slowly, occasionally dipping his nose into the mug to inhale. The fire casts elongated shadows around the otherwise dark room. They've never sat quite like this, just the two of them having a quiet evening. Spock always leaves his quarters once their chess match is complete, though on Earth, he has begun to linger. Jim pictures them back on the ship: a tipped king, drinks in hand, and Spock in no hurry to leave. "How is it?" Jim asks, motioning to Spock's mug. He adds more liquor to his and tastes it. Better. Shrugging, he adds another shot, then takes a swig right from the bottle. His mom would approve. "I am experiencing a curious sensation in my fingers." Spock holds his arm at length and flexes his hand, curling his fingers into a fist, then flexing again. "Are you okay?" Jim says quickly, screwing on the cap and setting the bottle on the floor next to his mug. "It is an expected effect of the chocolate," Spock says, "but curious. My telepathy seems to be heightened." "You can't read my thoughts from across the room, can you?" "With enough concentration," Spock says. When Jim's eyes widen, he continues. "However, I would not do such a thing. It requires great energy, and it would be a violation of your privacy." At the word "violation," Jim frowns, wondering if that's what Spock thought happened earlier when Jim kissed him. But Jim recalls waking up in the circle of Spock's arms, the warmth of Spock in his mind whenever they accidentally touch, how Spock stands naked next to him in the bathroom every morning. He can't be imagining this. Sighing, Jim sits with his back against the couch, putting several feet between himself and the fireplace. He drinks often, cutting the chocolate with liquor every few sips. Spock finishes his hot chocolate and lies stretched out next to the fire; the mug is next to him, abandoned. There's a flush high in his cheeks, and his eyes are closed. He looks satisfied, but the fire is making Jim sweat. He wipes his forehead. He's not sure how much time has passed, but he's beginning to feel warm in his extremities, and his tongue has loosened. "I'm sorry if I freaked you out by kissing you earlier," he hears himself say. He takes his mug back up again and drinks the last sip, leaving flecks of chocolate behind on the white porcelain. Spock looks at him seriously. "You did not," he replies. "It was a heavy conversation. Bones says I use sex to deflect when I don't want to deal with my emotions." "Indeed?" Spock says, raising an eyebrow. "Not with him ," Jim clarifies. Spock sits up, somehow graceful despite his motions being exaggerated. Crawling the short distance between them, he shifts so he kneels next to Jim. "I am glad," Spock tells him. He reaches a hand to Jim's chest, places it over his heart, and strokes his thumb across Jim's sternum. The last doubts Jim had about Spock's intentions vanish, and Jim takes a shaky breath. "So, I haven't been imagining everything we've been doing the past few days," he murmurs. "If I believed you to be suffering from such hallucinations, I would have advised you to seek medical attention." Although Spock's face remains calm, Jim can detect humor in the casual way the words come out of his mouth. With his other hand, he squeezes Jim's leg. Even through the fabric of his robes, Jim can sense desire. "You really want to do this?" Jim asks, swallowing. "Yes." Spock's blunt answer makes his dick twitch, but Jim frowns and exhales, runs his tongue along the sharp points of his teeth as he thinks. "You know it's basically against regulations." "I do," Spock says. "You're not going to quote them at me?" "The regulations exist to prevent emotional compromise in a command team," Spock explains. He pauses, his brow furrowing, and slides his hand to curve around Jim's shoulder. "I am already compromised, where you are concerned." "If I really compromise you," Jim says slowly, bringing a hand up to cover Spock's, "you have to resign." "But I will not," Spock tells him. "I do not trust anyone else to keep you safe." "Are we on a hidden vid show or something?" Jim asks, looking around theatrically. "Cause that's probably the sappiest thing a Vulcan has ever said." "It is possible," Spock says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I find I do not care." "I think you're drunk," Jim points out. "Yes," Spock says again, and this time he does smile and lean his face closer. "Slightly." "You're the logical one here," Jim says. "Why didn't you just say something?" "I have said many things. I believed that you understood me." "Well, I mean there was that thing you did every morning, getting out of the shower and parading your perfect ass around the bedroom." "I am pleased you noticed." "Yeah..." Jim pushes a hand back through his hair and laughs. "That was pretty hard to miss." "Then why were you unclear as to my intentions?" "I don't know," Jim says, and as he speaks, he can feel his pulse picking up, his face growing hotter. "Cause we're at your dad's house, not on the ship. Because I've been flirting with you for months, and you haven't done anything about it. And because I'm your captain, and you're the last person I'd imagine would break regulations." "Such regulations also exist to prevent coercion by the officer of superior rank," Spock explains. "I am Vulcan and therefore incapable of being coerced." "But there's still the emotional compromise," Jim says. "It is presumed," Spock continues, "that such an attachment would prevent one of us from making decisions in the best interest of the ship, but I believe we have both proven this is not the case." "You'd be willing to leave me for dead, if the situation called for it?" "I would," Spock says, "though I would grieve for you." "Okay," Jim agrees. "And I would leave you, if I had to, if it means saving the crew." "You did not leave me in the volcano," Spock reminds him, squeezing his shoulder. "That was different," Jim says, dropping his voice to a murmur. He traces the veins on the back of Spock's hand. "The only life on the line was yours." "You must not do such a thing again." "But I would," Jim whispers as Spock's lips press cool and moist to his neck. "For any of my crew." "Hence the necessity that I remain your first officer," Spock says against his skin. "So you can be there to tell me I'm being illogical?" Jim asks, angling his head back when Spock mouths the hollow of his throat. "Indeed." Laughing, Jim shakes his head gently and grips Spock's hair, thick and smooth between his fingers. "We need to make it a rule that you've got to eat chocolate at least once a month," he says as Spock sits back to look at him. "And you have to let Bones see you like this one day." "I will agree to no such thing." "C'mon," Jim says and reaches his other hand to Spock's neck. He slips his thumb just beneath the neckline and brushes his collarbone. "I kind of like you like this." "I am aware," Spock says, tilting his neck to the side to allow Jim better access. "Have you been reading my thoughts all week?" he asks. Spock's skin is soft and musky under Jim's mouth. "Any transference which occurred was unintentional," Spock says. "So you've read them," Jim deduces. "Yes." Between the liquor and the chocolate, they end up horizontal in front of the fire. "Do you think we're moving too fast?" Jim asks against Spock's lips. "What is the logic in waiting?" Spock asks. "We both desire this." "Works for me," Jim says. He's happily planted between Spock's legs, their chests pressed together, and he smiles into his mouth. Why haven't they ever made out before? Spock is doing something incredible with his teeth when another thought occurs to Jim. "I don't mean to be a buzzkill," he whispers, pulling back an inch, "but what about your dad?" "It is unlikely he will disturb us," Spock says and takes the opportunity to suck behind Jim's ear. "How unlikely?" Jim pants, grinding his hips down. He pictures Sarek walking in to discover that Jim has not only gotten his son drunk, but he's currently debauching him on the floor. "I find I am unable to estimate probability in my current state." Chest heaving, Jim pushes up with both arms, so he is in a plank position above Spock. "Maybe we should postpone things," he says breathily. "Just until morning." "Perhaps," Spock murmurs, sliding his hand further up Jim's shirt, "you should cease talking." * It takes a minute, when he first opens his eyes, for Jim to remember that the night before actually happened. The shower is running. He stretches his arms up over his head and yawns widely, shoving the covers aside. The bathroom door is open, and although he's not sure how Spock will react now that he doesn't have chocolate in his system, Jim takes a chance and slides the shower door aside. Spock watches him enter and moves aside a step. Jim closes the door behind him, leaving his fingers wrapped around the handle. Spock takes a cloth and begins methodically washing Jim's arms and chest. It's kind of weird at first, but he finds himself leaning into it. At some point, Spock presses him against the shower wall, which is smooth and cool. The sonic waves move over his skin and hair as Spock's lips move over his throat. They're still kissing when the cleaning cycle shuts off, stay semi-locked together as they transition back into the bedroom to get dressed. "I've got to start the tuber root," Jim says into Spock's mouth. "And I bet your dad is awake." "Do you require assistance?" Spock asks. "If you want to help," Jim says. He thinks Spock is talking about cooking, but a part of him hopes it's a sexual reference. He's a little disappointed when Spock kisses him one last time—he's good at it, and Jim dimly wonders how much of that he owes to Uhura and how much is natural talent—and breaks apart from him. Spock opens his wardrobe and takes out the set of robes Jim wore the day before, lifting an eyebrow in offer. "Sure," Jim says. "They're pretty comfortable, actually." "Logic does not preclude luxury or comfort," Spock says, obviously amused. He hands the robes to Jim and takes out a set for himself. "Had you seen my father's house on Vulcan, I believe you would have been impressed." "Big?" Jim guesses. "Stately," Spock answers after a beat. He fastens his robes and stares at Jim, who reluctantly tugs his on. "Coffee," Jim yawns and heads out the door in front of him. "I need coffee." * Spock helps with the rest of the breakfast prep, standing vigil next to the tuber root as it fries to a golden brown. Jim is focused on the food, watching the kreyla bake until just rounded and covering them with a towel to keep them warm. He sips coffee and casts smiles in Spock's direction while he stirs the lirs , tasting it and adjusting the seasoning until it's slightly salty, a little rich. He transfers the food to the table and is just setting out skewers and glasses when the ambassador arrives. A chime sounds, and Jim greets him at the door. He automatically takes Jim's arm, wishing him a Merry Christmas, so Jim pats his hand affectionately and leads the way into the kitchen. "Mr. Spock," the ambassador greets his younger self as they settle into their appointed seats. "Mr. Spock," comes the stiff reply. Jim sits between them at the rounded table in the hopes that it will ease the tension, and takes up his fork. Despite Jim's attempts to direct conversation, Spock and Sarek are largely quiet throughout breakfast, though Sarek thanks Jim for his cooking and praises the kreyla , which he declares is as good as Amanda's. Jim cheers inwardly at the compliment. The elder Spock appears in high spirits, glancing fondly at Jim throughout the meal and occasionally touching his arm. Sarek doesn't react to it, and Jim figures the elder Spock is old enough to know what he's doing, so he rolls with it when Spock wraps fingers around his bicep. "You prepared an excellent meal, Jim," Spock says to Jim warmly, "but I expected no less." "It is excellent," the younger Spock agrees. He touches Jim's leg underneath the table; Jim swallows nervously and casts a glance at Sarek, who appears oblivious. He's grateful when Spock's hand comes away. "You'd better like it; you picked everything out," Jim chides, turning back to the ambassador with a grin. "How do I stack up to myself?" "Quite well," he says. "It would appear your cooking prowess is a universal constant." "Oh, I made an extra jar of the jam for you to take home," Jim tells him. To his right, he hears the younger Spock clear his throat. When Jim looks at him, he deliberately avoids Jim's eyes, instead fingering the neatly stitched edge of his sleeve. When they move into the common room to sit by the fire, the ambassador again takes Jim's arm and is only too happy to share a couch. Though Jim wants to sit by his Spock, he settles in beside the ambassador to be polite. Spock and Sarek both sit on individual chairs. The elder Spock is enumerating his mother's holiday traditions for his younger self when a thought comes into Jim's head. "Did we put up a holo tree?" he asks quietly, envisioning himself and Spock in a small cabin somewhere, curled together on a couch beneath a few blankets. "You insisted on it," the elder Spock tells him, smiling faintly. Jim grins at him in return. He becomes aware of Spock's eyes boring into him, but when he glances up, Spock is looking at the fire. "Was it on the ship?" Jim continues, turning back to the ambassador. "At our apartment," Spock says, "in San Francisco." "Water view?" "Naturally," Spock says, taking Jim's hand and pressing it. He lowers his voice and says conspiratorially, "and an excellent view of the stars." Jim chuckles and figures what the hell . It's Christmas. He squeezes Spock's hand in return. Across from them, the younger Spock abruptly stands and leaves the room. Jim hears the garden door open and shut forcefully. He stares after him dumbly in the silent wake that follows. After a minute, when Spock doesn't come back, Jim prepares to stand up. He curls his hands over the edge of the bench to push off of it, but the ambassador stills him. "I will go," he says and quietly follows after his younger self. Jim presses his lips together, now that it's just him and Sarek, and sits back. He wonders if Sarek is aware of what happened in this room just a few hours ago, if he can read it on Jim's face, if Spock told him. He thinks about thanking Sarek again for his hospitality, but he ends up chewing the inside of his cheek, tapping his toes against the inside of his boots. "He is jealous," Sarek says when the garden door closes a second time. Jim fights to keep his eyes from widening. "Excuse me?" he asks. "He forgets I was married to a human for many years," Sarek continues. "I have learned to recognize the emotion." Jim has no idea what to say, so he just continues to stare at Sarek, who appears so calm that he might as well be discussing the weather. "He cares for you a great deal." Sarek takes up a mug of tea. His face is blank, the curiosity masterfully concealed, but Jim can detect it in his voice. "I...care about him a lot too," he says carefully. "I am glad," Sarek says, leaning back an inch, the Vulcan equivalent of lounging, Jim supposes. "I do not wish loneliness for him." "He's got a lot of friends on the ship," Jim offers. "He's highly respected." "I am not speaking of mere friendship, Captain." "Oh?" Jim asks casually, despite the way his heart rate increases. Is this the part where he tells Jim that Spock would be better off with someone Vulcan? Jim recalls the feel of Spock's hands on his back, the electric pulse of mental energy wherever their skin touched. Is Sarek reading Jim's thoughts? He swallows and tries to think about something else: the ship, the golden color of corn husks in late summer. He scratches the side of his face to cover the blush he can feel appropriating his cheeks. Outside the window, he observes the two Spocks conversing. His Spock is looking down at the dusty garden, while the ambassador watches him calmly a few feet away. Their lips move, but Jim can't hear anything or make out any words. The ambassador motions toward the window where Jim sits, and Spock nods once. "I have not had an opportunity to speak with you privately. While we have this time, I hope I can speak plainly to you," Sarek continues, and Jim whips his head back to look at him. "I wish a bondmate for my son." "A bondmate?" Jim repeats, gaping. "Yes," Sarek says. Jim swallows, but he can't keep his heart from thudding loudly. He breaks into a cold sweat but doesn't dare wipe his forehead, and are they really having this conversation ? "Why are you telling me?" he asks. "You are an honorable man, Captain Kirk," Sarek says. "I believe you would treat my son well." Jim's eyes shoot wide. "I..." he begins, but the moment is broken when the garden door opens, and Jim straightens his back, pulls the fabric of the robes smooth across his knees. Sarek stands as his sons re-enter the room. The ambassador takes the seat beside Sarek this time, turning to him and speaking quietly. It's clear the ambassador is distracting him, and Jim is grateful. Spock pauses in front of Jim, who slides over an inch before looking up at him, then back down at the empty couch beside him. He pats it; Spock sits and inclines his head. "I wish to apologize," he says. "For what?" Jim asks and grins when Spock looks at him and quirks an eyebrow. "I misunderstood your actions toward my elder self," he says. "What actions?" Jim asks, scowling. "You touch him freely," Spock accuses. "You touched him six times this morning." "I guess so," Jim admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, he doesn't mind, so I didn't think it was a big deal." "You and I were seated the same distance apart, and yet you did not touch me, though I initiated it." Spock pauses and shakes his head. "I thought perhaps you desired him, that our intimacy did not please you." "What?" Jim asks. "I didn't think you'd want me to touch you while we were here, because you're Vulcan, and because of your dad and everything. I was trying to be respectful. It's been hard, believe me, especially this morning." There is a change in Spock's face, a look of understanding. "You do not need to refrain any longer," he says and lightly touches the back of Jim's second and third fingers, stroking briefly. He rests his hand beside Jim's, nods, and indicates that Jim should do the same to him. Jim happily notes the shiver that passes through Spock's body when he does, so he repeats it. "You know your dad can see us, right?" he whispers. "I am aware," Spock says with a smirk. "You could've just said something. You didn't have to get all jealous of...yourself." "I am not jealous," Spock insists, but he curls his fingers around Jim's and doesn't let go. * Spock stays by his side until the ambassador leaves at mid-day. Jim decides to screw propriety and hugs him goodbye. Sarek has meetings in town, leaving them alone at the house. Spock kisses him into the bedroom, deeply and sweetly. They're sprawled on the bed, Spock's fingers tangled in Jim's hair, when something pokes Jim in the hip. Wincing, he reaches a hand between them and pulls out the carving, turns it over in his palm. "What is it?" Spock asks. "This is kinda dumb," Jim says, blushing, "but I got you this from the marketplace." He rolls off of Spock and holds it out. Spock pushes up on an elbow and takes the stone sehlat from Jim's hand, looking at it fondly. "What was yours called?" Jim asks. "I-Chaya," Spock says, quietly studying the carving from all sides. "You remind me of him," he says. "A giant pain in the ass?" "Yes," Spock agrees. "Cute, though." "You are," Spock says, "quite stunning." "It's my eyes." Jim flops beside him. "Perhaps," Spock muses. "I was referring to the fact that I-Chaya also saved my life." "Hope you didn't write a report about it," Jim teases. Spock's mouth hints at a smile, but it never forms. "No," he says. "I was seven years old, eager to prove myself. I went into the desert alone in advance of my kahs-wan —are you familiar with it?" "Sure," Jim says. "The coming-of-age rite?" Spock nods. "I-Chaya followed me. He would not go home, even after I ordered him to return." His grip on the figure tightens. "He fought off a Le-matya to protect me and died because of it." Spock lifts his eyes, which are surprisingly vulnerable. "He was a loyal companion." "I'm sorry he died," Jim says, reaching a hand to Spock's face. It's slightly rough with stubble. "Did you stay with him?" "Yes." "It meant a lot to me," Jim says, "that you were there in Engineering. I just wish I could have seen you smash Harrison's face in." "I was compromised," Spock admits, "at the time." "Hmm," Jim hums. "You said I have that effect on you." "I was unaware of your feelings for me, until that point. I was surprised to learn them." "So you did understand me?" Jim asks, sliding his fingers into Spock's hair. "I felt like you were able to read me, even through the glass. I didn't make that up?" "I had never felt such affection," Spock says, taking Jim's other hand and holding the figurine between their palms. "When you said 'friend,' I didn't think you knew what I meant." "The concept is different for a Vulcan," Spock says. "It encompasses much more than mere amity." "If you've known how I felt all this time, how come we never..." Jim pauses and heaves a sigh. "You made no effort to advance our relationship once you were released from the hospital. I assumed this was out of respect for Lieutenant Uhura," Spock says. "When she ended our association, I was uncertain if you still harbored those same feelings. Three months had passed." "Why didn't you just touch me again and find out?" "It was better to believe you did feel them," Spock murmurs, "than to know you did not." "Isn't that lying to yourself?" Jim asks gently. "I suppose." Jim smiles and traces the point of Spock's ear. "You know your dad's trying to hook us up?" he asks. "He is concerned that I am unbonded," Spock says through a frown, "but I did not realize he had spoken with you." "Just for a minute. He said I'd treat you well." Jim squeezes Spock's hand. The carving's edges dig into his skin like a promise. "He thinks highly of you." "I honestly thought he hated me until this morning. How come he's so insistent?" Jim asks. "Is it the telepathy thing?" "Somewhat," Spock answers. "You guys are pretty tight-lipped about this. The ambassador wouldn't tell me anything either." Jim is consumed by jealousy, and it takes a moment before he realizes the emotion isn't coming from him but from Spock. "Your shields slipped," he teases. He kisses Spock's hand. "Do you mind?" Spock asks shyly and twines their fingers tighter. The jealousy dims and floats into hopefulness. "I'm an emotive guy," Jim declares. "What do you think?" "I think my father is correct." What comes through next feels like sunlight in Jim's brain, a warm point unfurling into delicate tendrils, which wind their way through his consciousness. He gasps at the sensation. "If we do this bond thing one day," Jim says breathily, "will it feel like this all the time?" "If you wish it." Jim smiles, content, and closes his eyes. "I'm glad you like the sehlat," he says after a while. "I did not get you a gift," Spock says. Jim feels the apology through their skin. "That's okay," he says. "I wasn't expecting anything." "I find the practice of gift-giving illogical, and yet I find myself wishing I had something to give you." "You invited me here," Jim says with a shrug. "That's enough. Of course, if you really want to give me something, I'm a big fan of orgasms." "I surmised last night," Spock says. "They are pleasurable." "What's your opinion on blowjobs?" Spock purses his lips. "Neutral," he says after a pause. "Neutral?" Jim scoffs. "You've never had one from me ." "Affirmative," Spock says. "Are you endeavoring to change my opinion?" "Oh, I'd like to endeavor, believe me." Spock lies back, placing his hands on his chest, and watches Jim, who straddles his hips and pushes his robes aside. "You've been teasing me with this every morning," he scolds. "Did you consider that it is you who has been teasing me?" Spock asks. "You are correct about your dreams." "I knew you couldn't resist me," Jim says and bends down to lick him. Spock gasps in a breath. Encouraged, Jim begins a playful exploration with his tongue, encircling him with his lips, and pulling off with a wet smack. Spock makes a whining sound and strains against Jim's hands, which rub circles into his inner thighs. Jim does it again, swirling his tongue lavishly and taking Spock deeper. It's been a while since he's done this; his jaw is sore by the time Spock is bucking up into his mouth. Jim swallows and shrugs off his robes, then crawls up Spock's body to lie on his chest. His lips are numb, his mouth tingling. "So, what'd you think?" he asks, smiling. "Good, huh?" "Effective," Spock replies, still trying to catch his breath. He wraps his arms around Jim's back. "Most...effective." *** Spending Christmas day in bed with Spock makes it the best Christmas on record, even if Spock does stop kissing him to make him call his mother and Sam. He grudgingly retrieves his comm and accesses a message from Bones, a holo of him and Jo in front of an old-fashioned tree hung with silver and gold ornaments. Uhura actually calls him, and Jim is just enough of a shit to put her on video. "Hey," he says, holding his comm up so his face and neck are visible. "Are you naked ?" she asks with a lifted eyebrow. "Not entirely," he says. "Jim is wearing shorts," Spock assures her, and Jim smirks. "Hi, Spock," she says dryly. Jim angles the camera so Spock is on screen too, and he watches Uhura's eyes widen just a hint. "Hello, Nyota," Spock says. "I trust you had a pleasant holiday." "Not as nice as yours, from the looks of it," she says. They chat for a few minutes and make plans to meet up once Jim and Spock are back on Earth. "We'll double date," she suggests. "Scotty's not going to believe me. And you're paying, Kirk, to make up for what I just saw." "Deal," he says and ends the call, then snaps a quick holo of the two of them before Spock has time to protest. He sends it to Bones with the caption "Greetings from New Vulcan, wish you were here." He'll catch hell for that later, but it's worth the laugh. They get up eventually, when Spock whispers that he's just heard the front door open, which means Sarek is home. Spock cleans his hands and dresses while Jim sneaks into the shower. He washes the smell of sex off of him, and tugs on his jeans and a gray t-shirt. He lazily pads into the common room barefoot. Spock and Sarek are speaking to one another quietly, though Sarek looks up as Jim enters. "Captain," he says, motioning for Jim to sit with them. Jim falls into place next to Spock on the couch. Spock deliberately touches his wrist, and Jim bites his lip to contain the grin. Spock and his father continue speaking, but Jim keeps glancing to his hand, to Spock's fingers which ghost over his knuckles, to the corner of Spock's mouth as he forms words Jim isn't even listening to. His stomach growls, and he remembers that they never bothered to get out of bed to eat. "I can heat up the leftovers from breakfast if you guys are hungry," Jim offers when the conversation lulls. "In a while," Sarek says. He looks between them, then drops his eyes to where their fingers meet. "When may I expect your bonding ceremony to take place?" he asks. Jim coughs and goes to pull his hand away, but Spock holds tightly to it while turning faintly green along his cheekbones and ears. "Father," Spock says, "we agreed to discuss this at a later time." "Yeah," Jim begins. "I mean, we haven't talked about anything...permanent. I know you said it's necessary for health reasons, and believe me I'm taking that into consideration, but that's kind of a big decision, and—" Jim stops talking when Sarek's mouth twitches. "What?" he asks, glancing to Spock, who still looks shell shocked and vaguely nauseated. "It is humor," Sarek says, "what my wife termed 'teasing.' I have never seen Spock so tactile. I found it...amusing." Jim stares at him for a few seconds before he bursts out laughing. Beside him, Spock's mouth has dropped open. Jim laughs until his stomach hurts and his eyes begin to water. Across from them, Sarek looks smugly satisfied with himself. Pressing the heel of his palm into each eye, Jim settles back in his chair and shakes his head. Spock's hand is still wrapped tightly around his. Yeah. He can get used to this. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text So Steve kisses him, and kissing him is like nothing else in the world. Eddie lets out a surprised sound against his lips. Steve thinks about pulling back for a moment but then Eddie’s melting into him, hands twisting out of his grasp to clutch at Steve’s face and Steve’s own hands tangle in his hair, ridiculously soft, he now learns, as Eddie’s lips part and he deepens the kiss hungrily and it’s a messy kiss, the way the first kiss with someone usually is, teeth knocking together and noses bumping and neither of them really knowing what to do with their hands and also it’s different kissing a guy, it’s sharper angles and the faint scratch of stubble and a gravelly lowness to the gasp Eddie lets out when Steve bites down on his lip, and it’s messy and it’s perfect and it’s fucking insane in a really, really good way and Steve can’t quite believe it’s taken him this long to do this already. “Only took you sixty years,” Eddie breathes, when they separate for air. “Shut up,” Steve says, and then kisses him again to make him shut up, because he can do that now. His kisses a trail downwards, down the sharp line of Eddie’s jaw, down his throat, and Eddie’s head tips back even as he gasps out, “If you’re planning on– fucking me in the woods, then by all means, continue– doing that but if not then you should probably– stop–” For a moment, Steve’s tempted. Like, sorely tempted. But it is the woods and they’re alone but anyone could walk past, really, and not only that but the feeling of dread hasn’t completely gone away just yet and he’s not sure he’s ready to dive into it quite that deep, not right now. So, reluctantly, he stops. Eddie looks at him through half-lidded eyes, a hazy smirk forming on his kiss-swollen lips — Steve’s fault now, and the thought is weird and wonderful in equal measure — and says, “No wonder the girls like you so much.” Steve can feel himself blushing . Holy shit. “Shut up,” is all he manages again, and the smirk widens. “Who knew that I, Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, lowest of the low at Hawkins High, would one day render King Steve speechless, not by the power of any wizardry or devilry but by the power of this irresistible mouth of mine–” Steve shoves at his shoulder. Eddie rolls backwards and grabs Steve as he does, pulling him down onto the ground on top of him so they’re nose to nose in the dirt and the leaves and the light in Eddie’s eyes is the happiest he’s ever seen him, and it’s more than enough to push Steve’s lingering doubts far, far down. They grin at each other. When they’ve sat up again, sitting side by side with their knees touching as the sky gradually deepens into a rose-colored dusk, Eddie speaks again in a softer, serious tone. “It’s bisexual , by the way. The word it sounds like you’re looking for. For liking both.” Bisexual. Steve tries it out in his head, and finds it seems to fit. I’m bisexual. He imagines saying it to his mom and feels something inside himself shrivel up. But then he imagines saying it to Robin, and the thought isn’t nearly so bad. “Bisexual.” He nods slowly. “Okay. Cool.” Eddie laughs suddenly, looking like the sound was startled out of him. “Yeah. Cool.” Then his eyebrows crease together and he looks closer at Steve, smile dimming. “Is it– is it really? You’re not gonna, like, go all gay panic on me or something, right?” His tone is forcibly light. Steve drops his hands to the grass and pulls at it, eyes on the distance. There’s still something swirling in his gut, something a little panicky, maybe, but he’s not going to make that Eddie’s problem. “No.” He sighs. “It’s just been an… interesting day.” “You can say that again.” He smiles stupidly. “It’s been an interesting day.” “Ha, ha, very funny.” Eddie says dryly. His fingers are twitching again; Steve wonders if he ever sits still. “Who knew you had such comedic chops — you’re wasted on the video store–” “Finally, someone’s seeing my potential.” A moment, then he lets the smile fade: “I’m, like– to be totally real with you, I’m very confused right now. Like, my whole idea of myself is– yeah. And I don’t know what to– I just know that it, like, really fucking sucked when you were avoiding me and I really don’t want you to do that again and, like, really the opposite of you avoiding me is what I want but I don’t want to fuck this up and–” “I’m not gonna avoid you again,” Eddie says softly. “I shouldn’t have– yeah, I shouldn’t have done that.” Steve wants to say it again. But what if I fuck this up. Eddie is so– tender, is the thing. Beyond the denim and the leather and the hair and the music and the antics that have everyone recoiling — he’s tender. A barely-healed wound. And Steve knows the feeling, knows being bruised and battered and feeling like a wonky Christmas light will shatter him completely. And beyond that, Eddie is different. Realer, and truer, and softer because of it. Mean and soft at once. Steve tries to be a nice guy but he’s a nice normal guy, and normal guys aren’t that soft, they’re just guys who get awkward when things get too emotional and Eddie isn’t like that. Really. Eddie deserves to be understood. But he doesn’t say any of this. He just looks at Eddie, at his full kissable lips, at his long pretty hair and his long pretty eyelashes, and he wants. He wants. And even thinking that in words in his head is freeing, somehow, and makes his stomach swoop and his heart pound and everything feel right and scary at once. Eddie scores his nails across his palm and keeps his eyes on his hands instead of Steve as he speaks again. “I don’t want to– like, I don’t know. I don’t want to be your experiment, Steve Harrington.” “Experiment? I don’t–” Eddie’s eyes move to him, and cling to him steadily. “You have a sexuality crisis and kiss the local fag all in one day, that day being the very first one after you learn said fag is gay in the first place — forgive a man for having his suspicions, right?” And the joking tone is back but only just, and there’s a horrible fear underneath it. “You’re not an experiment.” Steve feels a little sick, actually, at the wording. “You’re– you’re you. You couldn’t ever be–” “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Eddie smiles sardonically, but there’s a great sadness behind it, a sadness that makes Steve angry, actually, that someone might have treated him that way. “It’s okay. Par for the course, really. But–” And he looks away again. “Can’t do that with you. Really, I– really, I can’t. Got enough shit going on in my fucked-up little head, y’know? King Steve might do me in.” “I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Steve says quietly, scuffing his sneakers in the grass. He feels Eddie look at him sharply, out of the corner of his eye. There’s no response for a second, and then, “Sorry. Habit.” “I’m not– that, anymore. And I know you know that but I want you to know that, like– I was pretty awful. And I spend a lot of time now, uh, trying not to be awful. And I don’t want to be awful to you.” “That would be preferable, yeah,” he says softly. “Not that– yeah. I’m sorry I kind of– assumed the worst of you. I tend to do that, these days, y’know? It’s a self-preservation thing.” Steve can’t blame him for that. Suddenly he’s reminded of Jonathan, for some reason, cloaking himself in his own hostility and hiding away from the world, the opposite to Eddie’s sardonic shamelessness but made of the same material, like two sides of one coin. How seeing Jonathan in the hallways in 1983 made him prickle with discomfort under the collar, a weird feeling that he couldn’t name and now, actually, maybe he can, because he finally has a word for it. For some other reason that makes him think of Danny. Of the purple blossom of the hickey on Eddie’s throat, of the way less than twenty-four hours ago he was kissing someone else, someone who isn’t Steve. “What about Danny?” Steve says, quiet. Eddie looks at him. “Well, my answer to that depends on what you’re asking. He was, um, just a hook-up, if that’s your question, and not a very successful one to boot. I didn’t really, like, know him in high school but what I did know suggested to me he wasn’t as straight as he said he was, which became pretty clear at the party when he was making bedroom eyes at me across a room full of people. So, uh, he was there, and I– uh, I couldn’t have the person I really wanted, so–” “You do that a lot? Like, hook up with people?” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Is that judgement I hear in your voice, Steve Harrington, metaphorical killer of ladies and all-round seductive bad boy–” “No,” Steve says stubbornly, rubbing the back of his neck. More like surprise — which is itself probably a bit offensive. To tell the truth, until the revelations of the party he’d assumed Eddie was a virgin. All the D&D stuff, the weirdness, notable enough as a freak that it would have been widely known if he’d been sleeping around. Or not, because turns out he has a damn good reason to keep that under wraps. Eddie seems to take pity on him. “There’s not a lot of people to hook up with in this town. So every so often I, y’know, get out of this shitty place and try to pretend it doesn’t exist for a night or two. There are a couple good gay bars in Indianapolis.” The idea doesn’t really compute in Steve’s brain. A place, a real place, where everyone is just themselves with no need to lie about it, unabashed, unashamed, just like Eddie, and it sounds terrifying and exciting all at once. “So, uh, that’s where you go? When you’re out of town?” Eddie nods. “And the menthol cigs your friend left in your jacket — he wasn’t just your friend?” Another eyebrow raise. “I suppose I should be flattered you remembered that.” Eddie looks at the dirt, fingers endlessly toying with his rings. “I do it less, now, though. It’s getting– dangerous, out there, for people like me.” Steve doesn’t need to ask what he means. He remembers the guy at the party, All the fags are carrying something , and feels a low swoop in his stomach, like vertigo. People like us , he considers saying, and can’t quite get the words past his lips. His heart is pounding and he becomes aware that his hands have a weird tremble in them, the tremble they get when he wakes from nightmares about blue light and monsters with faces that open like flowers, only the Upside Down’s got nothing to do with this, this is all him. Him , and it’s terrifying. Then there’s a hand on his arm. Eddie’s touch is steady and steadying, his other hand coming up to cup Steve’s jaw, forcing their eyes to connect — “No gay panic, remember?” “Isn’t that, like, a murder defense?” Steve jokes weakly. “I’m not gonna murder you.” “Well, that’s always nice to hear.” Eddie smirks, but his eyes are serious. “I mean it, Steve, stop torturing yourself. There are plenty of people out there who are more than capable of doing it for you, and the whole what can they say to hurt me that I haven’t already said about myself sounds cute but really sucks in practice, actually. Trust me.” “I do,” Steve says, in a daze. He wasn’t really intending to say it out loud. Eddie stares at him, those rich dark eyes widening. Steve thinks fuck it and decides to double down. “I trust you, like, a lot, actually, I don’t know– something to do with all the shit that happened, probably. And– other reasons.” “Oh.” Eddie exhales, a shaky breath that ghosts over Steve’s cheek. They’re only inches away from each other. “I mean, there’s something so cliché about trust issues, right, like where’s the originality in that, but–” He stops. Looks down, and then looks up again, a new resolve in his eyes. “I’m working on it. On trusting you too.” Steve can’t do anything but kiss him. It’s a soft kiss, almost chaste, and this time it’s Eddie who’s blushing as they pull apart. Or maybe it’s just the richness of dusk casting its red glow over them, the water in the quarry glittering with the last embers of sunlight. Hawkins is suddenly beautiful to Steve, in a way it’s never really been beautiful before. And so is Eddie, and Steve thinks it again: what if I fuck this up . Because he’s a little bit cursed, isn’t he. But so is Eddie, and so is this town, and if the fourth apocalypse isn’t the time to throw caution to the wind then when is? Don’t you ever think we should just do the thing no one expects us to? When the sun has dipped below the horizon, Eddie gets to his feet. “I should, um, get home. My uncle– he worries–” “Yeah, I know. He threatened me with a switchblade.” Eddie, to his credit, looks horrified at that, eyes wide in the gloom. “Shit, I’m sorry. We’ve just had a lot of– and, yeah, you do kinda look like the type.” Steve makes an indignant sound. “He said I had a ‘decent look about me’, actually.” “He said that? Aw, shucks, you got the Wayne Munson stamp of approval, I can’t possibly get rid of you now.” They smile at each other. But Eddie is twitching, still, winding a hand through a curly strand of hair and pulling it in front of his face, nervous. “This isn’t– tell me I’m not gonna go home and never hear from you again. Or that I’m gonna wake up tomorrow — if I even fall asleep, let’s be real here — and just, like, have dreamt this whole thing. Tell me this isn’t–” He takes an audibly deep breath. “Tell me this is real.” Here’s the thing: Steve is scared. Steve is fucking terrified. His whole problem has been not knowing what he wants and now he does know, he does know what he wants but what he wants isn’t what’s right , at least in the world’s eyes, it’s so far from normal and he feels like he’s in freefall. But so is Eddie. That much is clear. And if they’re both falling they may as well do it together, right? So he says, “What are you doing tomorrow night?” Eddie looks startled. “Uh– there’s the first D&D of term after school, until probably eight? But– nothing, after that.” “Eight it is then. I’ll pick you up.” “How am I gonna get to school in the morning, then, if you’re gonna chauffeur me away into the night, being the chivalrous gentleman you are–” “I’ll drive you. I drive Robin too, I’m basically going that way anyway.” Eddie looks at him in the dark. “We’re really–” He breathes out and laces his hands together behind his head. “We’re really fucking doing this, are we? I’m really– Jesus, I’m really going on a date with Steve Harrington. Maybe I really have lost my mind.” “No more than I have.” Eddie exhales through his teeth. Then he smiles a little in the gloom, and leans over to kiss Steve again, lightly, pulling away before Steve can deepen it and draw him in. “Okay, then. We’re doing this.” He turns to go, then looks over his shoulder. “Fair warning, Stevie — if you break my heart, my uncle’s very handy with that switchblade.” The idea is less frightening than almost fond . Steve thinks about it that night, as he’s checking the voicemail and finding no calls at all, no word from his parents, not that he’s surprised. They’re still in Miami, last he heard, and he’s happy for them to stay there at this point. But he thinks about Wayne wielding that switchblade in defence of his nephew — not even his son — and feels a sting of something cold in his chest. Which he decides pretty firmly to ignore. Rocky Horror is still in the VCR, he realises. He thinks about sitting down to finish it but he’s tired, and overwhelmed, and the elation of what it means to be a little bit gay is marrying pretty uncomfortably with the panic of it. So he turns out the lights (not all of them; he hasn’t been able to sleep without the hall light since 1983) and tosses and turns all night. Wakes up with the realisation he’s got a date with Eddie Munson at the forefront of his brain, a phrase on repeat as he brushes his teeth and pours Frosted Wheats into a bowl and eats them standing up, watching mist creep over the pool. Today. He’s going on a date with Eddie Munson. Eddie the Freak. Eddie the pretty guy with the long hair and large eyes and softness about him that no-one else sees — that Eddie. What does he wear? Where do they go? If this was a girl he’d just take her to the movies, or the diner, or else just skip straight to the good bit and head to Skull Rock for a bit of handsy making out but they’ve done that already, the making out in the woods, even if it wasn’t that handsy, and Eddie isn’t a girl. And suddenly Steve’s feeling like he’s never once done this in his life before. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Robin says, in a cringingly bad English accent as she swings into the passenger seat. “Oh, wait, stupid question. I take it Rocky Horror was a success, then?” He looks at her with wide eyes. Then he looks at the road, then he looks at her. He can’t quite bring himself to drive on just yet, so they’re just sitting stationary outside her house. “Robin,” he says. He opens his mouth but nothing more comes out. “That bad, huh? You must really be in the thick of the identity crisis, oh my god, okay, talk me through it, I want to hear all your thoughts on–” “I’m going on a date with Eddie. And– I told him. And I kissed him. And I’m going on a– oh my fucking god, Robin. Oh my god.” She stares at him. And stares at him some more. The silence stretches so long between them it feels like the span of his last frayed nerve, which is mightily close to snapping. “Where do I even take him?” Robin explodes. “What the actual fuck , Steve, you couldn’t– you called me because you were scared of Rocky Horror and then I hang up and in the space of a mere–” she checks her watch “– seventeen hours you’ve somehow done and dusted the gay crisis and zoomed straight over to your crush and kissed him and holy fucking shit Steve Harrington you kissed a guy before I kissed a girl I could murder you right now!” “But where do I take him?” Steve says again, miserably. She sighs. “Just– drive, okay, and tell me everything .” “But there’s no time. We’re picking him up too.” She stares at him again. “Oh my god. Oh my god, this is what you’re like when you have a crush. You’re hopeless . I thought I’d seen it all from you, Steve Harrington, yet you continue to surprise me each and every day.” He leans his arms on the steering wheel and drops his head between them, letting out a low groan. “What if I fuck this up, Robin, I can’t fuck this up, he’s so–” “You might fuck this up,” she says, and he whips around to glare at her. “But so might he. So might a million other outside factors, Steve, you know you can’t think like that and you never had this problem with Brenda or Linda or Heidi or any other of the million women you’ve dated in the last six months–” “But that’s exactly it,” he says, voice small. “They’re women. And Eddie’s– Eddie. And I–” He swallows, throat suddenly dry. He doesn’t know when he came to this realisation — somewhere between Robin’s grave questioning and Eddie’s hot, perfect kisses — but it’s there, sitting immovably on his chest. “I really fucking like him.” Her face softens. He can’t really bear to look. “You know what to do, Steve. You’re — as much as it pains me to admit it — good at this. And he likes you already. He likes you so much , it’s honestly been kind of annoying to endure both of you pining so fucking loudly–” “I didn’t even know I liked him until yesterday!” “Well, neither did I, admittedly, but retroactively it made all the pieces fit together, so. And Nance could tell something was up at the party, too, so really you owe us all compensation for–” “Wait, Nance? When did you see her?” Robin flushes. “Family dinner dragged, so I managed to escape at, like, eight but then you weren’t picking up the phone and I wasn’t gonna sit around in my room with my Nana downstairs so I– yeah. Called Nance. We hung out.” “...Okay,” Steve says. It sounds weird, for no real reason — why shouldn’t they hang out? — but right now he has bigger fish to fry. “I swear I’ll never ask you for another thing in my life if you tell me where I’m taking Eddie tonight after D&D.” “We both know that’s a lie, but I’m feeling generous. A regular gay mother hen. So– I mean, seriously, Steve? You are supposedly the expert– but here. There’s a rerun of The Evil Dead on at the drive-in a couple towns over all this week, Eddie and I were gonna go but clearly you need this more than I do. He loves that movie. I’m sure you can work out the rest.” “Buckley, I love you.” She smirks. “You owe me. Which debt I’m claiming as an explanation the absolute first second I get a single chance, so prepare yourself for that, my friend, I want all the details.” Then she stops. Her voice gets quieter, some of the glee going out of it. “I just don’t– I can’t believe you, dude. How can you just– do that? Know what you feel and then just act on it, like that ?” She snaps her fingers. “It takes me years of desperate pining and suffering in hopeless silence to even look at someone I like, and here you are, so stupidly fucking confident with it all–” “Maybe I am just an idiot,” he allows. “But like– I don’t know. I’ve never held back from going after, like, what I want — I’ve never had to, and it just didn’t even occur to me to start doing that now. Like– yeah. Maybe it was stupid.” “It’s not,” she says suddenly, sharply. “Just because– yeah, just because the rest of us have learnt to be afraid doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do, to be afraid. Like, maybe if I had a bit of the patent Steve Harrington brand of foolhardiness maybe I’d actually be in with a chance of–” She closes her mouth, like she’s about to spill some secret she doesn’t want to share, and he frowns at her, because he thought they had no more secrets left. She just shakes her head, like she’s jolting herself out of some daze, and says, “Well, drive, then, don’t want to be late to pick up the man of your dreams–” “Oh, you are going to be so annoying about this, aren’t you,” he groans, as he puts the car in gear. She smiles. “Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’. He drives off, already a little late, he realises, because he didn’t factor in explaining the resolution of the gay crisis to Robin to the schedule. Robin fiddles with the radio, though he’s told her many a time that it’s my car, my music , as he’s told everyone, though very few of them listen. She and Dustin both have a shared interest in DEVO, which is exhausting. But what she settles on is pretty decent, actually, magnetic synth beats and a voice with a ridiculous range that sounds only vaguely familiar until Eddie slides into the backseat in that stupid Hellfire t-shirt and those unfairly snug ripped jeans and says, “The Bronski Beat is Robin’s good influence, I presume?” “Of course,” she says, as Steve splutters, “Hey, I like this! And why do you like this? This is, like, the furthest thing from all your metal stuff I’ve possibly ever heard–” “Oh, so he’s admitting he’s heard it now? That’s a step.” Eddie, when Steve looks at him in the rearview mirror, is smirking. The eyeliner is back, fuck, and it makes his eyes look somehow bigger than normal, darker and richer and full of promise. Robin snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Eyes on the road , Steve, Jesus, if I die because of your bisexuality–” Eddie falls to laughing in the backseat as Steve blushes horribly , like really truly awfully, and puts his eyes back on the road. “This is Smalltown Boy, Steve,” Eddie says, a laugh still in his voice, and it’s pretty, that laugh, that voice. “I’m a gay guy in a small town who ran away from home — it’s practically required listening, metal or no.” Ran away from home. Steve didn’t know that, and a sideways glance at Robin tells him she didn’t know that either. But there has to be a reason, he guesses, that Eddie lives with his uncle, not his parents — it only makes sense. “Truer words never spoken,” Robin says. “Your gay education starts here, Steve Harrington.” “Hey, I already watched half of Rocky Horror –” “Only half?” she cries, throwing her hands up in the air. “You couldn’t even finish it before you–” “In my defense, the little shits interrupted me. And then–” he looks at Eddie again “–okay, yeah, I was a little busy.” “Did you at least get to Touch-a-Touch-a-Touch-a-Touch Me ?” Eddie says, leaning forward with his hand on the back of Steve’s seat, fingers brushing his shoulder. There’s a sudden waft of– cologne? Eddie’s wearing cologne. Steve feels his cheeks color again. Why oh why does that keep happening to him? “Yeah,” he manages. Eddie leans back as if satisfied, and that was definitely deliberate, wasn’t it. Jesus H. Christ. Munson is going to kill him. When they arrive at the high school, Robin skips out clumsily, saying over her shoulder (thankfully in an undertone), “Later, lovebirds!” Eddie leans between the seats again before he gets out, face inches from Steve’s. “Later, lovebird,” he repeats softly, in a tone that pretty much has Steve’s heart in a puddle. “See you at eight.” “See you at eight.” Eddie saunters off among the crowd of gathering students, Steve unable to tear his eyes away until he’s long disappeared into the building. Fuck , he thinks. Eight o’clock it is. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text After every performance, there is one face in the crowd you’ve come to expect. You can’t mistake those beguiling eyes for anyone else. They swirl with unknown emotions like a roaring whirlpool, threatening to pull you under the longer you stare back. Tonight serves as a confirmation of your suspicions. This redheaded patron is indeed acting as your incessant shadow, making appearances at every venue you’re set to perform. There’s no dismissing it as mere coincidence any longer. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide it. The applause is thundering, a testament to your well-received performance, cheers reverberating off the establishment’s walls in abundance. What should serve as a moment to bask in the glow of your audience’s admiration is tainted by your anxiety. It’s a nagging thing, really, that little impish voice in the back of your head. How it makes the most absurd claims. This should be nothing new, you’ve dealt with some rather... passionate fans in the past. Nothing you couldn’t handle. A stern conversation here, a boundary drawn there. They’d back off when you put your foot down. Even the most persistent admirers ran for the hills when you revealed your Vision. So why is your gut screaming at you that this time is different? Backstage, you gulp down water to ease your burning throat and wipe the sweat from your brow. The audience seemed to enjoy your performance, but you can’t help but dwell on some amateur mistakes that had been made. For someone of your skill level, it should never have happened — though you doubt the untrained eye would’ve noticed — it’s still enough to frustrate you. Stage fright has long been a thing of the past, but you couldn’t compare the butterflies in your stomach feeling to now. A more suitable comparison would be a hornet’s nest. Well, whatever, you dismiss with a frown. I’ll rest up and practice tomorrow. After you receive your payment from the bar’s owner, you waste no time making for the exit. The walk back to the inn is a long one, unfortunately for you, as this time of year tourism in Liyue makes finding a room difficult. You take a deep breath, the refreshing scent of Liyue’s ocean lingering in the air. The city is ethereal at night, warm hues of orange and red illuminating lively crowds, the lantern’s glow rivaled only by that of the stars above. It’s enough to serve as a momentary distraction for your problems. Rounding a sharp corner, the air from your lungs feels like it’s been forced out when you spot the man from before. No longer obscured by the packed audience or dim lighting, you’re able to get a better look at him, and a part of you wish you didn’t. Those colors unmistakably belong to the Fatui. What’s worse is the bright cerulean gem attached to his hip, a Vision, pulsating with energy. If it came down to it, could you best this person in a fight? With no way to know for certain, you force yourself to remain composed, already needing to rebound from stopping to stare at him. Any hopes that he might leave you alone are snuffed out as he props himself off the wall, a wolflike grin on his face. “Ah, fancy meeting you here,” he makes his way over to you with long, confident strides, the height difference between you both evident. “I take it you’ve seen me before?” From this brief interaction, you’re able to gather some information. The individual standing before is uncaring for social conventions, simply doing as he pleases, the judgment of others meaningless. Why else would he approach you boasting this much confidence? You return his smile — albeit strained — not wanting to give the fearful reaction he’s likely searching for. If he wants to act coy, two can play that game. You look up at him through thick eyelashes, feigning innocence. “Yes, once or twice, if memory serves.” He quirks an eyebrow at this. “Hmm… I could’ve sworn it was a bit more than that. I even went through the trouble of securing front row seats and everything.” Why is he so difficult to get a read on? While it appears he’s reciprocating your lighthearted banter, it also feels like there’s a ravenous monster lurking beneath the surface. That tight-lipped smile that fails to reach his eyes doesn’t help put you at ease. Your mouth goes dry from how he looks at you, or more accurately, looks through you; alarm bells ringing loudly. Of all the places he could’ve chosen to approach, this one is the worst. An isolated alleyway you’ve been using as a shortcut when returning to your inn. You doubt it was an accident. “I appreciate the support,” you square your shoulders and meet his unnerving stare. “Though, I’m sorry to say that I’m quite tired. I think I’ll be heading out now.” The moment the words leave your lips, you briskly walk past him, laser-focused on getting to a more populated area. You wonder if that would actually help in the event he tries anything. The Fatui have earned a well-deserved reputation for their ruthlessness. Your stomach drops when footsteps approach from behind, the stranger half jogging to meet up with you. Persistent, this one, you think. “You’re faster than you look,” he lets out an airy laugh, the comment feeling unnecessary, considering he’s keeping up with your pace just fine. Irritation seeps deep into your veins. It’s been a long, arduous day, and now you have to deal with this pest? Going against your better judgment, you decide to bite back, exhausted, and uncaring of the potential consequences. “Appearances are rather deceiving , aren’t they? I, for one, had no idea the Fatui were avid patrons of the arts.” Instead of finding offense in your pointed quip, the cocky bastard laughs , as if you had just told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “I can’t fault you for thinking that,” he’s enjoying this interaction, that much is obvious. “Where are my manners? I’m called a lot of things, but I’m going by Childe for the time being.” That name definitely sounds familiar. You swear you’ve heard it uttered at the marketplace somewhere in Liyue harbor — no doubt in a disgruntled manner — now you understand why. In all your time traveling and performing, you’ve run into a fair share of unique characters. Never did you imagine the alcohol obsessed bard from Mondstadt would look normal in comparison to this guy. You manage to get your next words out through gritted teeth, fully dropping the cordial act from before. “Well, Childe, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you in the future. But really, I’d hate to take up more of your evening, so…” Please take the hint, please take the hint, please — “Wangshu Inn, I presume? Funnily enough, I’m actually headed that way myself. Mind if I come with you?” Your eyes flicker warily to his Vision and back. The best option here is to avoid any further trouble, you decide. You don’t want to test how your Dendro Vision would hold up against a Fatui, who based on appearance, isn’t a low-level figure. On the bright side, you’re now in a more crowded area, the streets of Liyue never without activity. Merchants and average folk alike wander around, entirely oblivious to your predicament. The sight of Millieth standing guard fills you with temporary security. So you resign yourself to your fate. Getting in the Fatui’s bad graces is not a smart move, you’ve managed to keep him content this long. A muted sigh leaves your lips and you nod. “Help yourself.” A glorious silence settles in after you give Childe permission to accompany you. His arms are behind his head, his posture far more relaxed than yours. You’d done your best to create a sizeable distance between him, but to your chagrin, he matches your pace without so much as breaking a sweat. The longer you glance his way, the more you realize that sneaking off would’ve proven a challenge. Childe appears mellow, with how he’s humming to himself and the spring in his step, but he sports the disposition of a predator in waiting. He’s just very good at hiding it. You catch how his eyes never miss a blind spot, always searching, never letting his guard down. Your heart thrums against your chest at this revelation. This man is dangerous . Nothing good ever lasts forever. Childe decides to strike up a conversation, not so subtly moving in even closer than before. He smells slightly of saltwater and citrus, you note. “About what you said earlier. I can’t speak for my fellow comrade in arms, but I’ve always found performance fascinating. It requires lots of stamina and training, doesn’t it?” The question is devoid of condescension from what you can tell. It feels like the closest thing to a regular human conversation thus far, and on a subject you’re rather passionate about. You still don’t intend on letting your guard down, but humoring him here doesn’t seem harmful. “That among other things,” comes your sheepish reply. “Choreography, finding outfits, tireless hours of dedicated practice, securing places to perform… I do everything myself.” Childe takes in your every word with reverence. “Well, if you ever find yourself in need of additional funding, I could certainly pull a few strings.” Is he joking? Who in their right mind would ever want to indebted to the Fatui? Childe stares at you expectantly and you realize it’s a genuine offer, despite his flippant delivery. Archons, help me, you think. There have been a few times in the past that potential clients offered financial support, but with uncomfortable implications. The main difference now is that rather than some random nobleman with too much time on his hands, Childe is connected to a threatening organization. “Mora isn’t an issue,” you shake your head and his smile wanes for a second before he catches himself. “Besides, I’m not really in it for that. Although it certainly helps.” “I mean it, though. There’s not one thing you’d want help with? Name it and I’ll see it done.” He insists with a tilt of his head. You clear your throat, hoping that he’ll drop the uncomfortable subject altogether, preparing to reject the offer a final time. “Really, I’m doing fine. I’ve managed to make it on my own this long.” You muster a weak smile. Childe stares unblinkingly, as if trying to get a better read on you. He runs a hand through his hair and returns your smile, albeit strained. “If you say so. The offer still stands.” He drops the subject after that. Liyue is a different kind of cold after night. The lack of sun paired with the ocean’s breeze sends shivers down your spine, your unusual company not helping in that regard. Worn trails become more prominent once you leave the harbor, overgrown shrubbery making you cautious of every step. It’d be embarrassing to trip on something so similar to my own Vision, you muse. Wangshu Inn comes into sight on the horizon. You pray Childe will have the awareness to leave you alone at this point, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye on occasion. He catches you and gives a toothy grin. “You sure look wary of me,” he hums. “Just what is it that you’re thinking now? I wish I knew.” You bite your tongue to hold back a scathing comment. “I’m mostly confused, truth be told. Not many people, er… take it upon themselves to accompany me around.” “Aha! That’s a relief. Less competition, y’know?” He stops and so do you, shooting him a quizzical look, your head tilting. That was straightforward, you note. After tonight, it’ll be your new priority to avoid this man at all cost. Difficult as it may be. Maybe a trip to Fontaine is in order, just anything far away from here. Far away from him. Childe only became a problem when you started making appearances in Liyue, so that feels like the next logical step. “Thanks for the walk and chat,” he gives a single handed wave. “As much as I prefer your company, I’m afraid I have work to get to.” There’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye, one that promises more. “Unless… you’d rather I accompany you to your room?” You gulp at the noticeable dip in Childe’s voice. There’s straightforward and then there’s pushing it, he’s leaning more towards the latter. It might not be your finest idea, but you give an awkward joke to alleviate the thick tension hanging in the air. What else can be said in response to such an obvious flirtation? “You’re not even going to offer to take me to dinner first?” The moment it leaves your lips you regret it, feeling as if you’ve dug a grave and leapt into it. He gapes at you but bounces back with unmatchable speed. “Oh, if that’s what it takes, then count me in—” “Kidding! I was kidding,” you bite your lower lip and laugh nervously. With a renewed sense of vigor, you make for the inn’s entrance, not wanting to look back at his undoubtedly smug expression. It wasn’t in your plan to leave so soon, yet you’re already planning to pack your bags. One of the benefits of being a traveler, you suppose. “I’ll see to it that you’ll mean it someday!” He exclaims, much to your displeasure. In a quieter voice, he adds, “Dover'tes' mne.”* You double-check to make sure your door is locked that night. You double check to make sure your door is locked that night. *Russian for “Trust me.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Chapter Four: The Human Mating Crisis Center The insolent boy— Sōta , if that was even his real name—had finally left. Not without further offense, of course. He’d chewed with his mouth open. Wiped his hands on Sesshoumaru’s— on this body’s —shirt. And worst of all, before walking out the door, he’d muttered: “You’ve got two appointments today. First guy’s a human husband hiding from his dog demoness. Second’s a half-breed cat wife running from a dragon. Be gentle. Or don’t. You usually yell. Whatever.” Then the door had shut, and Sesshoumaru was alone. Alone. In a mortal body. In an apartment that smelled like cheap incense, wet raccoon, and shame. He stood perfectly still for a moment. Escape? From a mating? Unacceptable. In all his centuries of existence, he had heard many things. Cries for mercy. War declarations. Ambitious fools declaring vengeance before he incinerated them. But never— not once —had he heard of creatures so unserious that they attempted to renounce a sacred yokai bond over petty grievances. Sesshoumaru’s jaw tightened as he took another sip of the abomination Kagome called “soothing barley flower tea.” It tasted like regret and weak morals. Still, if he was to be cursed into this mortal form, he would at least correct her operations. He stared blankly at the tea kettle. One does not simply “leave” a mating bond. It was sacred. Eternal. A promise made with soul and blood and, in some rare noble cases, contractually binding ceremony goats. To simply leave a demon marriage? Blasphemy. Insanity. He opened one eye. “This human…helps humans divorce demons.” He stood up immediately. “This is an act of war.” He strode toward the shrine’s consultation room with Kagome’s long, mortal legs, which felt like walking on overcooked noodles, and passed a mirror in the hallway. He paused. Stared. Tilted his head. Then frowned deeply. “…This body has no fang marks.” Which was somehow the most disappointing part of this entire experience. The room was small. Cushions. Sliding door. A hand-painted sign that read: “SAFE SANCTUARY FOR HEARTS IN HEALING 💕✨” He read it three times. Then muttered, “Disgusting.” He sat. Regally. Cross-legged. Back straight. Kagome’s hair tied up in a crooked bun with a glitter pen because he could not, for the life of him, find a proper fastener. The door slid open. Enter: The Human. The man was already crying when he arrived. Not even inside the shrine yet. Just…crying. Loudly. Into a tissue that looked like it had died three times. He entered the room. Sesshoumaru stood. The man blinked. “You look taller than yesterday,” he said. Sesshoumaru resisted the urge to growl. “Sit.” He did. The man sniffled. “She’s just…she’s so intense.” Sesshoumaru folded Kagome’s arms across Kagome’s chest. The effect was underwhelming. He had no shoulder breadth in this form. “Explain,” he said coldly. “She’s always demanding things. Telling me what to do. She growls at me. I never know what she wants! And last week, she bit me.” Sesshoumaru tilted his head slightly. “Where?” “…On the shoulder.” “Was it during combat?” “No! It was during dinner!” Sesshoumaru narrowed his eyes. “Was there meat?” “Yes?” “Then it was affection, you fool.” The man blinked. “She is a dog demoness. Growling is foreplay. Biting is foreplay. Destroying your shoes? Also foreplay.” The man went red. Sesshoumaru leaned forward slowly. “You are not in danger. You are mated. She has not killed you. She has fed you. Has she given you a nickname?” The man nodded miserably. “She calls me ‘noodle boy.’” Sesshoumaru exhaled sharply through his nose. “She is praising you. A term of affection.” The man made a small noise of distress. Sesshoumaru stood. The man stared at him. Sesshoumaru stared back. “I don’t feel emotionally safe,” the man whispered. Sesshoumaru narrowed his eyes. “Do you feel alive?” The man began crying again. Sesshoumaru made a note in the margin of the folder: Unworthy. Rejected sacred bond. Recommend exile. Possibly neuter. He handed the man a tissue. It was pink and had little cats on it. Kagome apparently ordered them in bulk. “This session is complete. Return to your demoness. Bring her a slab of beef and show your neck. If she bites you again, take it as an invitation.” The man left in stunned silence. Sesshoumaru sat down and stared at the incense burner. This shrine was harboring cowards. The second appointment was worse. She was a half-cat demon hybrid, wearing oversized sunglasses indoors and chewing bubblegum like it had wronged her. Sesshoumaru had already prepared himself for war. She plopped down, slung a designer handbag onto the tatami, and began with: “I swear, if I have to look at another golden hoard pile, I will throw myself into a blender.” Sesshoumaru blinked once. “Explain.” She sighed dramatically. “He keeps. Moving. The gold. And the shiny things. And he hides my hair clips. My entire vanity table has been rearranged into a shrine to coins.” “…He is a dragon.” “I know,” she wailed. “He’s a dragon! It was sexy at first! But now I can’t find my nail clippers!” Sesshoumaru took a slow breath. “You are upset that your hoarding mate…is hoarding.” “Yes! I mean—who organizes makeup remover by shine factor?! Who alphabetizes gemstones by luster and mood?!” He stared at her. She sniffled. “And sometimes when I yell at him, he just stares at me and wraps his tail around me like a blanket, and I hate it. Because I can’t move. And it’s warm. And—ugh, I hate him.” Sesshoumaru stared. “You do not hate him.” She went rigid. “I—what? Yes I do. I—he—he breathes loudly.” “That is affection.” “Breathing is NOT affection!” Sesshoumaru raised one elegant eyebrow. “To dragons it is. A dragon who allows you to hear him breathe is one who wants you to sense his presence at all times. It is an instinctual anchoring technique.” The cat demon paused. She looked slightly faint. “…Oh gods,” she whispered. “He does follow me into every room.” “Because he is your mate.” “He…tucks me in.” “Because he is your mate.” “He makes a weird noise when I cry and offers me emeralds.” Sesshoumaru allowed himself the faintest exhale. “A classic mating ritual. You are not meant to leave. You are meant to collect more emeralds.” She stared. He stared back. She left ten minutes later in tears and called him “spiritually rude but very convincing.” Sesshoumaru watched her go. Then looked back at the shrine, the notebook, the glitter pens, the emotionally stained furniture— And concluded that Kagome Higurashi was running an underground sanctuary for emotionally weak traitors to the sacred bond of mating. If he were to remain trapped in this body for more than a few days, he would cleanse this operation. With fire. And possibly pamphlets on yokai biology. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Thus did the blacksmith look forward to the lady and the gentleman. They varied their visits, now one, now the other, now both or neither appearing each day. Sometimes they would visit for several days in a row, then almost a fortnight would pass before he saw them again. Sometimes they would only talk for a few minutes, sometimes they would stay well on an hour. The one constant was the lady only visiting during the morning, just after sunrise, and the gentleman only visiting during the evening, just after sunset. The lady always had some new question or comment about his latest work and idea, and proved a willing ear to even his most outlandish ideas. In time the blacksmith invited the lady into his study as well, where she took note of his travelogues and atlases. He had only travelled as far as Frostheld, he explained, as a child when his parents took him on one last trip in hopes of studying the great Frejlordian craftsmen. Alas, the northern smiths jealously guarded their craft, and all that the blacksmith’s family brought home were a great ram’s horn carved with the mark of Ornn and the memories of the great trek there and back over land and sea. “We always hoped to travel again” He said as the lady sipped the tea he now prepared each morning in hope of her. “But my mother’s health faltered after such a great journey, and by the time she improved my father passed away, so I took up his place here. And now…if I left, who would be here to fix the people’s things when they break?” In turn the lady told him of her own travels, where the authors had gone right or wrong in describing the Serpentine Delta or the Kumungu Jungle. “Every author has a reason for the way they write, and the things of which they write. Fiore was a Noxian general seeking conquest and so sought to show the Kumungi as savages in need of a firm hand, while Ux’ik was a fierce patriot of her tribe and so sought to claim the Delta under ancient tradition. History is the curation as well as collection of facts, and what facts are chosen say as much about the writer as the written.” “Is it all so bad?” The blacksmith frowned. “You make it sound as if no one ever writes for the simple pleasure of putting down facts.” The lady shrugged. “Man does nothing without reason, even if that reason is no more than simple pleasure. Pleasure, pride, profit…there is always some hope of gain, behind his actions.” “What about charity, or giving gifts to someone who has no way of repaying? What gain is there in that?” “The pride that comes with knowing you have the power to provide something for someone, the pride of appearing a good person to others…” She sighed, sounding as if she wished not to believe her own words. “The pride and pleasure of thinking oneself a good person.” She looked away from the blacksmith. “Forgive my cynicism, I have see much of the world, and much in it…disappoints me.” “I am sorry to hear that.” The blacksmith reached out one hand to comfort her, then dropped it to the table, afraid to overstep. “I must admit I - I think I feel the same way at times. Even just from reading books - there is so much wrong and so little I can do to fix it.” He clenched the hand on the table into a fist. She rested her warm hand on his fist. “But I have seen you work, and heard the way you talk of your friends. You give all that you can give of yourself, your strength and your skill, and as you said you take joy in giving yourself. That is all anyone can do. And as I’ve said I’ve seen much of the world, and I’ve never seen anyone - anything - quite like you.” And she gave the blacksmith a smile so bright he ducked his head to hide his pink cheeks. The gentleman likewise talked of the world with the blacksmith, though their conversation was mainly on the laws which govern its workings, and how such laws may be broken, or at least circumvented. As he had brought the lady into his study, so he brought the gentleman into his forge. There the blacksmith proceeded to show the gentleman his work in various stages of completion, the commissioned work of plowshares and scythes and horseshoes, and the personal work of machine components and prototypes. “Look at this,” The blacksmith held up a yoke for oxen, engraved with runes. “This enchantment makes the load lighter on the oxen, and allows them to work longer. But I try to sell it to farmers and they shake their heads, saying ‘I can’t be troubled with some new-fangled thing, just give me what I always get.’” The gentleman frowned. “Why not demonstrate its efficiency to them?” “I’ve tried, but they still don’t listen.” The gentleman frowned, but did not comment. From there the two men inspected the workings of the smithy. A great building of grey stone and slate roofing, it had been built by the blacksmith’s great grandfather and every inch bore testament to the labors of four generations. The interior was rough but sturdy, the paved-stone floor worn flat from decades of feet around the hearth and anvils, the rude log tables and benches splintered and grooved from countless projects, the timbered roof beams stained with layers of ink-black soot. Piece by piece the blacksmith showed the gentleman the various improvements he’d made to the building - the great chain-powered bellows to pump more air into the fire, the custom tools and grips he’d designed, and the modifications he’d made to the forge to better preserve the heat. “Truth be told, I have an entirely new design for the furnace in my notebooks,” the blacksmith said as they sat upon the hearth of the forge. “If my theories are correct, it will be able to produce higher quantities of iron, and of better quality” “What holds you back from building it?” The gentleman, sitting beside him, ran his fingers along the rough brick. “Time and expense, mainly. And besides…” the blacksmith gave an uneasy shrug. “I’m not entirely sure my theories are correct, so I will have torn down my forge for nothing.” “If your previous work is anything else to go by, I’m more than sure your theories are correct.” “It needs to be certain, not just ‘more than sure’. This - “ and he placed his palm flat on the brickwork between them “ - is where my forefathers worked, where I first learned to smith. I do not think I could bear to take apart that history with my hands.” The gentleman arched a brow. “Well aren’t we the hypocrite?” The blacksmith bristled. “Hypocrite?” “You shame your customers for not adopting your new methods, yet when the time comes for you to change, you cannot bear it?” “You cannot compare the two, you ask me to give up my history” “I ask you to sacrifice the dead for the living. Must we ask the permission of ghosts to change the world?” Here the gentleman started to rant, in the voice of one who long rehearsed a speech in their mind and leaps upon the chance to share it with the first willing ear. “Everywhere I see men caught in the noose of history and tradition, doing things the way their fathers did because they are too afraid to do otherwise. They see the world and think it will always be like this, that their fields will always grow the same crops, that there will be the same people to buy those crops, that the woods, the water, the clean air will always be there for them. They do not think that soil grows poor, that people move away, and that resources dry up, until it’s too late. What then?” The blacksmith finally got a word in. “What you describe is true, but these things take time to happen - ” “But they will happen, regardless of how long it takes. Time proceeds, indifferent to our pleasures and pains, and all the money, strength and prayer in the world cannot buy a second of it back. And with time comes change. We change or we die - and what is death but nature making the decision of change for us?” The gentleman stopped, suddenly abashed. “I - forgive me, when you have studied and travelled much as I - it can feel the rest of the world is blind to its own self-caused suffering, and I struggle with why others do not see it so.” The blacksmith, who’d done his best to follow along, gave the gentleman an awkward pat on the back. “I - must admit I am not one for deep pondering on the workings of time or the world. Such thoughts tend to all go over my head, or else send me spiraling.” He hesitated, then let his hand go to the gentleman’s shoulder. “But know at least I sympathize with wishing the rest of the world could see what you see. I try to tell people my ideas but - I do not know the words to explain them, or else the words haven’t been invented yet.” The gentleman laid his own cool hand over the smith’s where it rested on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth I’ve enjoyed listening to your ideas, and telling you mine. Perhaps the fault is not in the words but in the listeners, and only now have the two of us found another with the mind to understand us. I have been unfair in calling you a hypocrite, for you at least recognize the need for change. Forgive me, my dear smith” He leaned into the smith with a sigh, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the other man’s shoulder. And the blacksmith, trembling, declared the gentleman forgiven. So the blacksmith found his days brightened by his new friends. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Photos posted to a fan account Twitter showing screenshots from Caitlyn and Vi’s on screen characters in season one, plus two photos photos of them from press promotions Text: “What we know so far about Caitlyn and Vi’s relationship, from their hot onscreen chemistry to their cold offscreen avoidances.” > What we know is a bunch of people making assumptions because god forbid two women stand near each other without shippers making a big deal about it. > WTF are you on about, they’re dating. > No, they’re coworkers who’s characters might be involved. But the actresses themselves are real people, not shipping fodder. > Actors aren’t real people > what is wrong with you > They’re just working together and hanging out a couple of times. Do you guys not have friends? > They worked together all last year too. What changed? You don’t just randomly become friends without something there to make you change your mind > Who wants to be MY ‘friend’??? A text post on Twitter from CKiramman13 that just says “I never quite realized how much I enjoyed the colours of morning. Sunrises are worth waking up for.” >Couldn’t agree more! >LMAO is this a fucking subtweet about how You-Know-What >don’t vague tweet, spill the tea >Check this context: …reddit.com/r/confessions/an_actress_I_slept_with_has_a_sunrise_rule_and… >I’M ONLY JUST HEARING THIS??? LOL A video posted on Vi.O.Lane’s Tiktok: wearing a denim apron that reads “Hi Hungry I’m Dad” thrown over a tank top and basketball shorts, she’s energetically cooking breakfast, instructing the viewers on how to make ‘street toast’; two coffee mugs framed visibly on the kitchen island behind her. Vi scrapes the chopped cabbage onto the pan with a flourish of her knife and an accented voice can be heard in the background, laughing, chiding “you got half of it on the stovetop!” before Vi turns and shushes the camera holder with a grin. Video cuts through the process of the vegetables, eggs, and toast cooking before cutting to the final product, a thick, steaming toast sandwich sliced in half. “Look at that,” Vi’s voice is heard off screen as the video zooms too close to the plate, the sandwich going in and out of focus, “real gourmet.” “It’s probably edible.” The offscreen voice says again. “Hard to fuck up eggs and toast.” Vi grabs a piece and takes a bite, shoulders slumping and eyes closing at the taste. “Mmmmm fuck that’s good. Seriously,” she waves the bitten piece at the camera, “make it. Eat it. Impress all the girls.” “Yes, I’m incredibly impressed.” “Look,” Vi grins and steps closer to reach past the camera, the video shaking as both women laugh before cutting out. >… WHO WAS THAT? > CAITLYN???? > Did Vi move? That doesn’t look like her kitchen, did I miss a moving update? > p sure that’s Caitlyn’s kitchen, they’re teasing us now that we know 🤪 >does it count as queerbait if they’re real people > VI IF YOU WANT DESSERT MY ADDRESS IS “That seemed to have gone well.” Closing the app, Caitlyn delicately placed Vi’s cellphone down on the island counter as she watched the other actress finish off the sandwich she’d just made. Vi grinned through her final mouthfuls, excitedly taking the last bite before speaking. “Yeah, I actually used to love making cooking videos before we got into show contracts.” She took the plate and pan over to the sink, dumping them in with a quick rinse of water. “Pow would help me film it, I never really got the hang of doing it by myself.” “Pow..?” “Shit,” Vi swore while she dried her hands, nose scrunched as she shook her head. “Jinx I mean. I still mess that up when I think about our time as kids.” She scratched the back of her head before fidgeting her hands further down her neck to untie the apron. Caitlyn leaned forward on the counter, looking interested. “What sort of cooking videos did you used to shoot?” “Oh, dumb stuff,” Vi grinned, placing the folded apron on the island beside their coffee mugs. “Lots of ‘this is all we have in the fridge, what can we make with it’ videos. How I learned butter and onions make everything better.” “Butter and onions?” “Take anything in your cupboard, cook it with butter and onions.” Vi smiled into her coffee as she took a sip. “Takes a couple tries to figure out how much to use but like, 8 bucks back then got us a pack of butter and a bag of onions, enough to feed us for two whole weeks.” Caitlyn smiled slightly at the idea as she idly played her fingers through the mug handles. “The creativity of necessity. Do you remember any of your recipes?” Vi snorted. “I can do better than try to remember. Here.” She grabbed her phone off the counter, flipping it to face her to unlock as she began to walk to the couch. Caitlyn watched her passing and stood up herself from the counter, walking over to follow Vi with coffee in hand. Vi sat down on Caitlyn’s long couch with a wide-legged seat, while Caitlyn sat beside her more carefully, tucking her legs up to rest under her as she settled. Vi, concentrating on her phone with some muttering to herself, grinned and aimed the phone over so Caitlyn could see. “This.” The small screen lit up with crudely drawn cartoon caricatures of two girls, coloured in a familiar scribbly manor - clearly drawn by a younger Jinx of herself and Vi. The title, an equally crudely hand drawn font, said “Two Girls One Cupboard.” “We thought it was funny,” Vi explained as Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. The screen flickered over to a shot of a small, outdated looking kitchen with thick wooden cupboards and a small old looking white and black stovetop nestled in the cream and brown counter. Standing in front was a younger Vi - maybe mid-teens, thin and scrappy looking with a faded bruise on her cheek and messy faded dyed pink hair, wearing an apron that was clearly too large and over mitts so worn out they likely weren’t even effective. She grinned broadly at the shaky camera. “You really do favour the pink,” Caitlyn noted and Vi laughed slightly. “Alright,” the video Vi said in a similar voice to her adult self but slightly higher with a bit more of a twang. “Welcome back to your favourite shitty kitchen where today we try to figure out how to make something that tastes good with… A can of black beans, a can of tomato paste, this bag of rice that weighs more than Pow,” “Hey!” A childish voice giggled as the camera shook. “And these cheese strings that probably aren’t expired.” Teenage Vi dropped the bulk bag of cheese strings on the counter and grinned charismatically toward the camera. “And the power houses of course,” Another cartoon graphic popped on the screen with minimal animation loops saying ‘BUTTER AND ONIONS’ while sound effects played. “I can see why you went into acting,” Caitlyn observed, shifting slightly closer as she watched Vi talk and wink to the camera as it filmed her chopping and preparing the meal, talking about food, or random stories about her day, as she cooked with occasion commentary from Jinx behind the camera. “You were very natural on the screen even then.” “Hmm, yeah,” Vi mused as she watched her younger self. “The videos never really got much attention, almost all the views now are because fans found them after my first show, but they were fun to film. Jinx never liked eating and our foster dad wasn’t the best cook, so I started it as a way to kinda, get her interested in cooking hoping it’d help our dad out and get her to eat more.” She exited the video and scrolled a bit through the library before clicking on another. “I actually got really into it later and didn’t goof off as much before I stopped.” An older teen Vi, looking more comfortable in her short haircut and clothing, smiled warmly and began to explain the process of sourdough baking. “So what made you decide to get into acting instead of cooking?” Caitlyn asked, glancing up from the screen to the pensive expression Vi was making at her own past. Vi blinked away the expression and shrugged, turning the video off. “Jinx, honestly. She wanted to try it out, I went to the audition with her for a commercial and got offered the part instead. I turned it down, but she encouraged me to try again, we got an agent together and I did some small parts and stuff before auditions to this show came up.” “It must’ve been interesting when you heard about your parts on the show together.” Vi made a small huff, fidgeting with her phone before laying her hands in her lap and staring over to Caitlyn’s kitchen, nodding slightly. “Yeah. We didn’t always have the best relationship growing up and we got separated for a bit when I aged out but this whole thing with… us playing sisters. It just feels right.” “You’re both phenomenal at it.” Vi smirked in a way that wasn’t her usual cocky style, giving Caitlyn a side-eyed grin. “Yeah,” her tone was amused as one hand continued to fiddle with her phone. “I guess I’m alright.” Caitlyn huffed a little bit through her nose before smirking slightly back. Vi cleared her throat, glancing at the kitchen and then outside before rolling a shoulder and shifting her position on the couch. “I should get going now, since we’re done. Thanks for letting me use your kitchen.” She made as if to stand before pausing, shooting Caitlyn a curious look. “Alright to take a couple photos before I head out?” “Oh yes, for future posts that would be a good idea.” “Yeah that’s what I was thinking,” Vi pushed herself up to stand, walking over to the backpack she’d brought with her to Caitlyn’s house and taking a sweatshirt out of it. She pulled it over her head as she walked back to the couch, voice slightly muffled by the action as she did so. “There,” she exhaled while sitting back down with a heavy fall. “They didn’t see you in the video so now it can look like a different day.” She took her phone and held it out, shuffling closer to Caitlyn, who ducked her head low to fit into the frame. They both kept adjusting, lightly nudging each other in different directions for the picture. “Here, a bit tighter, the light’s not great—“ “Is this okay or—“ “Leave your arm right there, alright?” “Just take the photo.” Caitlyn said, grinning warmly. Vi chuckled and snapped a few photos, tucking her arm around Caitlyn a bit tighter and leaning so her head rested on top of the other woman’s. “Look, I’m taller than you.” “Enjoy it.” Caitlyn made a face into the camera as she elbowed Vi. They both laughed, light nervous chuckles, and moved apart slightly as Vi brought the phone down andthey looked at the selection on the screen, Caitlyn bent slightly over Vi’s shoulder to see better. “You don’t think it’s too..” Caitlyn raised her head while speaking at the same time Vi turned hers to listen, and they found themselves suddenly very, incredibly close, Caitlyn’s words dying in her throat. Those bright blue eyes glanced down to Vi’s scarred lip before blinking back up. Vi couldn’t help her own glance at Caitlyn’s mouth, snapping them back up to the other actresses with a dry swallow. Neither moved. “Um…” Clearing her throat loudly Caitlyn turned her head and stood up quickly, adjusting her perfectly un-wrinkled blouse as she glanced around her living area. “The photos look great. Thank you for coming.” She spoke quickly, clearing her throat again and walking over to the kitchen counter to grab Vi’s apron. She turned and held it out as Vi stood, hand out to take it. “Yeah,” Vi cleared her own throat, sounding slightly out of breath. She tucked the apron under one arm and shoved her phone in the pocket of her shorts. “I’ll uh, see you at work then.” “Yes.” Caitlyn nodded stiffly. “We have some table readings tomorrow right?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “Good.” Caitlyn stepped a bit closer to Vi, her fingers folded and fidgeting over each other. Vi stood there, looking up slightly to Caitlyn, waiting for whatever she was about to say. “I’ll see you later then.” She said, holding out her hand. Vi looked at it and then back up to Caitlyn, smiling a little awkwardly with a tilt of her head. She reached her hand over and took Caitlyn’s, shaking it slightly with a squeeze. “See you.” They shook lightly before Vi pulled her hand away, their fingers brushing as they released the shake. Looking like she might say something further, Vi only scratched the back of her head and silently nodded. She turned to head to the door. Caitlyn stood there in the same spot, thoughtful expression on her face as Vi slipped on her shoes and left. When the sound of door shutting came, Caitlyn blinked herself back into action and, with a slight scoffing noise, went to clean up her kitchen. “-and then Lux just kept asking in that really passive aggressive way that’s, y’know, ‘I don’t want it to be my decision but this is the choice I want you to make’ sort of way and I— hey, are you even listening?” From her makeup chair Jinx frowned over at her sister, lounged again on the couch in Jinx’s dressing room and seemingly more focused on her phone than on the story. Leaning down, Jinx snapped her fingers close to Vi’s face, snapping the other woman out of her concentration. “Sorry, sorry yeah I’m listening.” Jinx pinched her face toward Vi in an exaggerated squint. “No you weren’t, you’re listening to music.” She pointed a finger toward the earbuds Vi wore. “I usually do.” Vi protested. “I just…” she looked back down at her phone, shrugging a shoulder slightly. “I got a little distracted.” “Mmhmm? With who?” Jinx stretched forward a bit more to try and glimpse Vi’s phone, and Vi pushed her face away with a laugh. “No one. Just, a song came on that made me think of Caitlyn, like what we’re doing and I was wondering if I should tell her that or if that would be… what?” She frowned over at Jinx, who was grinning a broad cherish grin her way. Jinx shrugged and shook her head. “Nothing.” Vi’s brow lowered in disbelief. “What?” She asked again firmly. “Nothing!” Jinx repeated. “Nothing, you just found a song and it reminded you of a girl and you want to send it to her because it’s 2012 and you’re in highschool.” “It’s not like that! It just, I dunno, it’s a good song.” Vi muttered, sticking her phone back in her pocket. Jinx said nothing, just leaned back in her chair and rested her chin on her hand. The two sisters stared at each other for a tense second before Vi let out a huff and pulled her phone back out. “I’m going to tweet it.” Jinx barked a laugh, sitting forward. “You’re going to what?!” “If it’s a tweet it’s part of the game, right. So it’s not weird.” “Yeah,” Jinx made a tight smile, choking back another laugh. “None of this is weird.” “There.” Vi dramatically closed the app on her phone and returned the device to her back pocket. She leaned forward onto her knees, one leg bouncing slightly. “So what were you saying?” Without losing her smile, Jinx shrugged and flourished a hand in the air. “I don’t even remember.” “Right.” Vi sucked her bottom lip in her teeth for a second, ran a hand through her hair and stood. “I’m gonna go see Jayce about this 203 scene then, k?” “Mmhmm. Have fun with Pretty Boy, I should be done by five.” Jinx hummed with a wave of her hand, settling back into her makeup chair and looking herself over in the mirror. Vi snorted and shut the door behind her, and alone in her dressing room Jinx smiled at her reflection, sticking out her tongue and giving herself a wink. Placing the steaming cup of tea on the coaster, Caitlyn carefully wrapped the warm houserobe around herself as she settled down on her couch. Turning on her television, she began to scroll idly through her movie options to see if there was anything to catch her eye for the down period. A couple of action films she knew Jayce was always a fan of popped up in the “New Arrivals” section. She hovered over them, curious, before placing her remote down and picking up her phone. Caitlyn That action film you always talk about is available now. Worth my time to watch, do you think? Waiting for a reply, she opened up her social media, scrolling idly. Reaching forward to take her tea and bring it up to blow on it softly before taking a sip, she hummed at various little tidbits that popped up on her feed, before a post from Vi made her blink. Vi’s Twitter, her least used of her socials, posted a song link with a mention of Caitlyn’s username and the words “made me think of you.” Curious, Caitlyn opened the link to see the song: -New Romantics by Taylor Swift. She frowned slightly at the phone as the music played quietly from the speakers, puzzling over what the song could have to do with their relationship, real or false. Switching over to her messaging app, she texted Vi quickly. Caitlyn I saw your post on Twitter and I have to ask, what does the song signify? She flipped back to Twitter while she waited, checking the replies and saw a number of comments that seemed to echo her confusion, or ignore the two women involved in the post to exclusively discuss Taylor Swift’s upcoming discography instead. A couple seemed interested in deciphering some of the lyrics meant to reference both Caitlyn and Vi’s dating histories in a way that felt uncomfortably invasive. Her phone buzzed as she read and she switched back to her messages. Vi Sorry I didn’t look up if the words had any hidden meaning. But it reminded me of you for some reason and the ladies love miss Taylor so I figured it would be a good idea to post Vi Want me to delete? Caitlyn No need, it’s out there now. I was just a bit confused. Vi Oh hahaha Vi It just… kinda sounds like it could be a love song or it could be about the fake thing like a double meaning Caitlyn Well, thank you for the spontaneous song recommendation, but maybe just text me next time. As much as the fans love a Taylor Swift song, they also liked to assume. Vi Will do Placing her phone down, Caitlyn took another drink of tea and realized she still hadn’t put a film on to watch. Checking her phone she noticed Jayce still hadn’t replied to her and she likely wasn’t going to get a reply in time. Hand on the remote, ready to watch something old she’d seen before, Caitlyn looked back down at her phone and picked it up, beginning to text instead. Caitlyn Are you a fan of that car action film series like Jayce? It’s available to watch now and I was wondering if I would be interested. Her phone buzzed almost instantly with a reply, startling her into a laugh. Vi what? Vi You mean FAST AND FURIOUS Vi ? Caitlyn Yes, is the capslock a positive reaction? Vi Do they have the first one, I haven’t seen that in ages Unable to prevent the smile at Vi’s rapid excited replies, Caitlyn replied back a yes and just as quickly Vi texted back a request that Caitlyn put the movie on in five minutes once Vi had it set up on her side. Caitlyn agreed, hovering on the play button until Vi texted her an ‘okay start’ message. She hit play and lounged back to get comfortable, tugging the house robe around herself a little more as the opening credits began to play. Vi Jinx and I watched this one so many times when we were young, home had it on DVD. Always used to laugh about how a guy who’s last name was ‘Diesel’ was in car movies Caitlyn smiled at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard as she tried to think of a way to reply. She let her hand drop, watching the movie on the screen for a bit, when her phone buzzed again. Vi Man I haven’t seen this in so long and I remember everything Caitlyn Jayce always loved these films, tried so hard so get me to watch them while we were in school. Never my style, but they’re such a big deal now I guess I should give them a chance Vi So this is your first time? Caitlyn One way to put it, yes. Vi I’m flattered you picked me and not Jayce for it Caitlyn Please don’t ruin this movie for me before I’ve even started by making me think about it in that context. Vi ha sorry. Vi didn’t send another message after that, while Caitlyn continued to watch the movie play out. It certainly wasn’t her type of movie at all, and she sighed and got up to make herself a cup of tea at one point out of disinterest, but she felt compelled not to turn it off out of the knowledge that Vi was, probably, watching it at the same time in her home. Caitlyn could at least appreciate wanting someone to watch a film you liked and them watching it despite not finding it entertaining. About halfway through the film she picked up her phone and sent Vi another message, to covertly see if she was still watching or if Caitlyn could turn it off. Caitlyn Does Jinx like the movies still? Vi replied back quickly, Caitlyn’s phone lighting up before she even had time to place it back down on the couch beside her. Vi More than me. She’s seen the spinoffs too, I just like the cars part It was quiet as Caitlyn mused to try and think of something else to text to Vi - she felt like the conversation shouldn’t be over at this point with the movie barely halfway but she sill wasn’t entirely sure how to talk to the other actress casually. This was one of the first times they’d had a conversation that wasn’t work related. Or related to Vi’s dating life. But before she could think of a way to continue the conversation her phone lit up with a new message. Vi Fun fact I’m pretty sure this movie is how I figured out I was gay. So no matter how cheesy it is, I’ll always like it because of that Vi That and the family thing. That just means a lot when you’re a foster kid yknow Caitlyn I can imagine Phone in hand, her thumb worrying against a piece of the phone case that started to wear slightly from her repeated fidgets, Caitlyn watched as the movie continued playing on. The loud energetic music thudding through her speakers unused to the level of noise and she winced slightly, turning the volume down. She turned her attention back to her phone. Caitlyn I suppose I can see the appeal of the films, even though they’re not my style. Vi Later ones are better, this one just has the charm of being from that 2000’s era earnest dork energy Vi You might have to watch all of them in case you’re ever asked in interviews about my tastes for the whole dating lie thing Caitlyn By the time interviews begin we no longer have to be fake dating. Vi Oh right Vi You got off easy this time, I’ll have to find another excuse to make you watch them Caitlyn stared down at the last message, before glancing up to the action of the film, watching as the car on screen squealed it’s tires and took off down the street in an echoing roar of the engine. The plain brown folder slammed onto the solid dark oak desk as Cassandra Kiramman stood up, a very firm frown dragging down the lines of her face. “We have a very firm contract, Ms Lane.” She said tightly, smoothing out the front of her pantsuit. “One that you suggested, signed and agreed to. If you need reminding.” Sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, clad in a letterman-style jacket and black sweatpants, Vi met Caitlyn’s mother’s gaze, expression stony. “I don’t know why you think I do. I haven’t done or said anything inappropriate, I’ve been staying vague, haven’t made any hookups that leave papertrails, just like the contract says.” “Is that so?” Cassandra’s voice didn’t lose it’s harsh edge as she folded her arms in front of her. Vi worked her jaw, trying not to make a face in front of her boss. “Because I seem to feel the need to remind you of this as I see rumours and photographs of you ‘hitting up’ other women, as well as posting songs that insinuate far more than the odd hat exchange.” The older woman bristled, looking down at Vi in her chair. “Sorry, what’s the problem?” Vi asked, leaning on one arm rest. Cassandra did not look amused by the response. “You have five weeks, Ms Lane, to manage yourself. You’ve been given a loose leash on this side project but I will micromanage if you force me too. Control yourself when out on the town, and no more public romantic gestures towards my daughter. Implications for fans to misinterpret only, do I make myself clear?” Vi looked ready to protest, one hand gripping onto the arm rest like she was expecting an attack, but instead she sighed and leaned forward, standing. Cassandra watched her, unmoving. “Do I make myself clear?” She repeated, dangerously slow. “Yeah,” Vi said shuffling the jacket on her shoulders as she stood. “Loud and clear.” It was late at night, the street mostly dark save for the street lamps and the faint light of the moon. Caitlyn’s modest home was dark, save for the faint blue light from her cell phone as she sat on her bed, puzzling over her choices. Caitlyn thumbed over the selection of selfies she’d taken that afternoon, wearing the custom letterman-style jacket that Vi had loaned her after script readings for the purpose. She hesitated over a few of them, all a variety of angles and poses, most of which she rejected, tossing to the trash folder with a wrinkle of her nose. She had three she thought would be the effective to post, both as just attractive pictures of herself and as a teasing clue to show Caitlyn wearing Vi’s jacket of course. But she couldn’t find herself able to choose between the three which she wanted to post. After fussing and humming and constantly flipping indecision, she finally gave up. Sitting further back on her bed, Caitlyn lay down with a huff, thinking for a minute with her phone on her chest, before lifting it up to check again. She selected the photos and sent them via text, hesitated one last time and then hit ‘send’ Staring at the message screen for a minute, tapping her fingers against the side again, Caitlyn distracted herself by opening the pictures again, still aimlessly scrolling between the three, until her phone buzzed with a reply message. Caitlyn I’m having trouble decided which of these to post, could you offer your expertise? Vi ha, I’m the selfie editor now? Caitlyn laughed slightly at the reply, shifting herself backward to sit up more comfortably in her bed as a second reply came through. Vi Hmmm I think 2 Caitlyn The second photo? Why? Vi Yeah the one where you used a bit of a side angle? It looks best Caitlyn Not the first? I thought that might be the one Vi Yeah but it doesn’t look like you Caitlyn What do you mean? Vi this might be easier on speaker, call? Biting her lip, Caitlyn tapped against the side of her phone rapidly before nodding to the empty room and clicking on the call icon, hitting the speaker. The ringtone buzzed into the darkness a couple of times before the soft click of the phone being answered stopped the sound. “Hey,” Vi’s voice came over the speaker, a little low and raspy with the voice of someone trying to talk quietly. “Sorry, I’m not great at explaining over text because I have to keep bouncing between writing and the pictures. But yeah hmm, second picture is your best bet because the angle of the light looks really good on your eyes.” “My eyes?” “Yeah; they’re your best feature for sure, the thing you’d want everyone to notice about you first when you post a picture like this. The first picture makes it a bit too obvious you’re showing off my jacket and the third one just doesn’t look as good. Go with the second.” A light laugh echoed over the speaker. “Bet you’re gonna wake up to a flood of DMs.” Caitlyn scoffed lightly, smiling into the darkness. “Unlikely, but thank you for your advice.” “Hey, my skills are good for something.” Vi chuckled. Caitlyn chuckled in return and both women fell into a silence on the phone until Vi cleared her throat slightly. She spoke up again, sounding a little distracted. “Oh and, um. You should get a jacket like that. It looks good on you.” “Oh,” Caitlyn blinked at the compliment, a hand fidgeting with the fabric hem of her sleep shirt. “Thank you. Maybe I will.” “Nice. Okay I won’t keep you up. Night.” “Goodnight Vi.” Vi hung up, leaving Caitlyn in silence as she moved the phone from her ear to look at the screen, squinting slightly at the dim lighting in the darkness of her room. Sighing, she hesitated a finger over the Instagram app before pulling her hand back, running her thumbpad over her fingernails. She placed the phone on the side table, and lay on her back under the covers of the bed, staring at screen light’s glow faintly illuminating until the phone shut itself off, leaving the room to darkness. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Erestor heard the river, had heard it for days; it beckoned him close like an old friend needing to whisper a secret. There were many things he should do that afternoon but he found himself walking down the long meadow, dark woods stretching out to either side of the brilliant green carpet toward the river's deep spring torrent. Sweet smelling vines began to bloom only a few days before. Their honey-scent was short-lived but perfect and Erestor thought that it was fitting that the flowers flourished so briefly, if they stayed any longer their sweetness would be too much. If Erestor still knew music, the way it once rested within him, he would have hummed as he walked. As it was, he traveled silently and slowly. He did not move toward the falls or the torrent of the rapids. He headed instead to a seldom visited embankment where the river flowed like glass over smooth stones. The water there was a polished window, a place to pause and reflect. The air was thick with pollen, the debris of spring hovered all around Erestor, slipping through the thick bands of late afternoon light streaming through the forest branches. Erestor preferred autumn but he could admire this day, warmth caught in the rocks, yellow butterflies touching down across the water. The meadow grasses, fed by late winter rains, reached far and bent along the bank like graceful wrists, fingers trailing leisurely along the current. It was the most beautiful day of the year but not at all the sort of day that Erestor normally chose to admire. He walked to the river because Glorfindel loved the spring, was the spring, and it was here that Erestor could find him – if only for a moment, a brief slice of time before the light shifted and the memories fled to a secret winter vault where they could safely rest and not wither. Soon Erestor would leave the valley he had only recently began to think of as home and he would travel to the outlying lands to learn what new threats waited and multiplied – attacks against men, attacks against his own kind. Erestor would travel with two or three others, he had not decided yet who would accompany him. Elrond made suggestions. Erestor would travel alone if not for Elrond's concern and insistence. "I want you to show me things," Erestor said to the glassy water. He spread his cloak on the grass and sat down, slouched there with his elbows propped on his knees. "I prefer to ride alone if you're not here with me. I must show you this land and there is no one else to take that would understand. You would love this day and you would make me see things about it I cannot because it feels like there is a black veil across my face." Erestor looked to either side of where he sat. "You would make me see the blueness in the green grass and the flood lines on the trunks of trees. You would tell me what animals had visited the bank this day and you would show me the best place to leap my horse over the water. And we would leap our horses across the water – for no reason – and then we'd turn and leap them again until they told us they were tired from jumping. "We have a horse here that looks and feels like the horse you gave me, Nolwë, but this one is grey. He smells like Nolwë, like a strange spice I might have tasted or dreamed. When I first sat on him, I knew he carried some piece of our old horse with him. The horse keepers obeyed without question when I asked that they weave curious colors and bells into his dark mane. He is almost white in color now, but his mane and tail are dark as Nolwë's. He steps with certainty and does not mind my poor attempts at training. This horse is the first thing I've found that gives me hope. I lie awake at night having to will myself to stay in bed, to not visit the stables. If I go there – I will ask the horse to show me his thoughts. If he cannot, or if he shows me nothing of note, my sadness will swallow me, so I do not go to him. Nor do I ask him to reveal himself while we are together in the daylight. I never laid claim on him but everyone says he is Erestor's horse – and it is he that is made ready for me whenever I travel. No one knows when he arrived here. Elrond doesn't believe he was born here. He is simply here. "My sources tell me there is a new darkness taking shape, yet they cannot describe it. Men have no power over it, the rest of us can only sense it – no visible shape. It is described as a madness that passes through the towns. There are not many of us left. Many travel like Gildor – he remembers our city so I try my best to avoid him. He does not ask me to speak of our past, nor has he spoken to others concerning my family. He was a friend to my father – and you. He speaks often of you. He sings of you – he will not have us forget you. His brightness and good cheer are dreadful, but he travels far and wide and is of great use to me, the best really. Nothing escapes him and he does not trouble me with things of little importance. I will see him, I'm sure, when we travel but I will not spend the night close to his fires. "Imladris was attacked not long after we moved here. The house was only partially constructed. I do not know how they found us but we drove them back and cast a watch on the river. You would not stop laughing if you knew that it was left up to me to order the guard after I showed small success in this endeavor during the siege. I thought of you, planning and ordering your designs, and it was your skill I borrowed, rising from some ill-used and forgotten place in my memory. I often find you in battle and I wonder then how you remained so kind and good – and I know, though I need little proof, why you were so loved. They cannot stop signing of you, even now. And if someone does some great thing against awful odds they are compared to you in name and deed. "So even now that Galor has gone to be with you, I am reminded daily of your name, but there are things they do not know of you and I will never tell: that wine spoke to you and told you the secrets of its birth year, that you hardly slept, that you could not sing though you often tried, that you loved a necklace that your mother wore and you searched the house as if you would one day find it in a forgotten chest, that you and I kissed for the first time in the king's palace, that you and I kissed. "I have both regretted and held that kiss close to me for so long that it does not seem as if it truly happened. Four of my lifetimes in that city could I fit into the time that has passed since you left. I have walked these lands without you for an age. I have seen the world broken and remade. I have seen all that we knew, save Gildor, die or sail. I have seen the curse broken. I have served the king. I have killed. I am negligent with my safety; I am the first to move toward danger, not from any honor or sense of purpose, but from fear of living without you. I have woken with your name upon my lips and I have turned, fresh from sleep, expecting to see you lying beside me. This does not get better with time, as Galor promised. "I walked here today because it seemed if you were anywhere, you would be hidden in this green grass beside the river. I have often thought that you died and I was left here in punishment for us coming together, that we disturbed the natural order of things, and you with your golden spirit, received the lesser sentence. We did not injure the others, my father, purposefully – but one could say the same of Fëanor. He did not choose to be blinded by his longing. His longing found him, as did ours. You, at least, tried to fight your thoughts; I ran to you on the first impulse and drew them out. "So I come to you by the river today to say if you were to appear before me now, I would show restraint though every instinct in me called out to you. I would keep a distance between us and hope to find your friendship, if nothing more. It would be enough for me to just see you. I could not risk us again by touch and desire and the deep sea waves of longing. We existed so happily together as friends. We could do so again. It is easy for me to say all this – you are not here. "Perhaps this is best, exile – from each other. You were the one thing I could not do without, but I lost you just the same. In loss, everything is possible," Erestor said and his words sank into the water. "My love . . ." he said but did not finish. He leaned his head on his knees and gripped his legs tightly, lest the quiet sound of the river wind its way into his heart and carry him out to the sea. The trees and the grass, the rocks and the flowers, all these things heard Erestor's speech and they knew of the love he mentioned. The water carried his words along its secret routes to the place where Ulmo listened. He was pleased with the words until Erestor reached the end. Ulmo took great pride in the many strange paths, large and small he had aided in the history of the lands – especially Gondolin with its many fountains. This one match, unseen by anyone and unprecedented in choice and scope, concerned him all the more. It was he that gave his blessing to the match and Ulmo saw no crime in their coming together. Ulmo sped the Halls of Mandos and he called out in his booming voice, like the crash of waves along a rocky shore, until Namo met him at the doors. "How much longer?" Ulmo asked. "Not long at all," Namo answered – but who was he to reckon time? "I need a golden thread," Ulmo said and Namo took a thread, like sunlight, brilliant, blinding, from his otherwise shadowy hem and passed it along to him. "He is needed there for more than love," Ulmo said, as if love were not reason enough, and was quickly gone. Erestor had not moved from his place beside the river. He sat with his head bowed but he looked up suddenly, as if someone called his name. The river liked to mimic voices and there were a few in Imladris who boasted that the water spoke to them, but it had never spoken to Erestor. You have stopped listening, a distant memory said – a dry memory, crackling with ash. Brow furrowed, Erestor glared at the river as if it were an impetuous question disturbing his work. The water rippled; a frog leapt from the bank. Erestor sighed and leaned back to lie on his cloak. He watched the blue sky through the trees and he allowed himself to admire the color. He rested there until the sunlight shifted toward evening and the bands cut through the trees like stained glass prisms. The sun sank lower, the light reflecting against the water. And then, tangible as a thread, a warm beam crossed Erestor's face. He closed his eyes against the brightness but it made no difference, the light seemed to fill him. Suddenly, Erestor sensed that Glorfindel was very near – his spirit caught up in the sunlight, chasing away the old circles of Erestor's excuses the way fire disperses a dark room's chill. It was not wishful thinking; it was fact. Glorfindel were there in the sunlight, in Imladris. Erestor's heart pounded, he was afraid to breathe lest the feeling pass as quickly as it came, the absolute assurance that Glorfindel was there in the warmth of the light. Since fleeing Gondolin, Erestor had kept himself in motion as if he could outrun the starving hounds of grief and fear. The thread showed him that the things he dreaded most were not behind him, chasing at his heels. They had instead stood in front of him all that time: sharp-toothed, hideous sentries guarding the gateway to peace. Fear found no habitat in the soft thread of sunlight. Grief also faded and Erestor could not help but smile, a smile that had not crossed his face in an age. A smile reserved for one, only one – the one he felt move through him. Erestor felt Glorfindel's joy, the sea-tide of them coming together. If the light had continued, Erestor would have stayed beside the river until the rich grass covered him up, but a thread is only so long. The sunlight drifted, too quickly, from the river to the bank and Erestor was alone again with the sound of the wind in the trees and quiet voice of the water. He stayed there for some time, reluctant to move, remembering. He stayed until his memories changed course the way rock moved the river, the way the river moved rock. He stayed until his memories felt like premonitions. The joy stayed with him throughout the evening and night. There was such strange hope on his face that many guards abandoned their natural reluctance of Erestor's otherwise stony demeanor and asked if they could accompany him on his upcoming journey. He occupied himself with routine until the night called him to his bed. When Erestor awoke the next morning he did so with a familiar name on his lips, but for the first time in an age, he was not afraid of finding the space beside him cold and empty. Sunlight streamed through the open window and Erestor turned toward it; he reached out and pressed his hand to the warm bed covers. He was not quick to rise but stayed there watching the newly-leafed trees sway in a careful breeze. The soft wind blew spring into the house, reached across the pillows and touched Erestor's hair like a well-loved hand. If the river had voices, then the sunlight had visions and Erestor did not have to look hard to imagine Glorfindel riding down the steep path toward Imladris. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Tim woke up slowly. He was nice and warm and something was vibrating gently on his hip and he felt like he was cocooned in protection. He felt safe . There were muffled sounds around him, and a heartbeat under his cheek, and a low conversation in the distance and Tim blinked open his eyes to see a dark T-shirt. Smelled like Alfred’s preferred detergent. Not Kon then. It didn’t look like he was in his Nest—this actually looked a whole lot like the Manor, and Tim blinked again as he wondered what he was doing in the Manor. Coffin. He couldn’t breathe. Jason. “Tim?” came the sleep-hoarse yawn, an arm tightening around him, clearly sensing the jump in his heart rate. “You okay?” Jason had saved him. They’d drank hot cocoa together and cuddled. Tim was fine . “Yeah,” he croaked back, letting his head rest on Jason’s chest for a moment longer and reveling in the warmth. Jason’s height and solid frame had been terrifying when he’d been coming after Tim, but like this, wrapped protectively around him, he felt like Bruce, like Tim was safe and tucked away, like nothing could get to him. “Mind getting up?” Jason ask-yawned, tugging at his hair, and Tim huffed a laugh. Oh, god, he didn’t even know how long he’d been sleeping—he had W.E. stuff to do— The vibrating spot on his hip made a quiet sound as he shifted, and Tim froze. “Tim?” Jason asked as Tim slowly tugged the blanket all the way off his face, “What happened?” Tim stared at the little kitten curled on top of the blankets, fast asleep. So adorable. So, so dangerous. “Oh no,” Tim whispered softly. “What is it?” Jason asked, sounding much more awake. “Alfred’s sleeping on me,” Tim said, still a whisper. The kitten was purring softly, curled up with its tail near its ears. “Alf—Tim, what— ” “The cat,” Tim hissed, “Alfred the cat.” Steph had named it Catfred, but Damian promised to skewer anyone who called it that and—wait a minute, wherever his pets were, the little demon was not far behind. “I swear you’re speaking English, baby bird, but it’s still incomprehensible. Can you please get off?” “No!” Tim whisper-yelled, “There’s a kitten sleeping on top of me. Damian’s kitten . If I move, it’ll wake up!” A long, stretching silence, and then a low groan. “Are you fucking serious,” Jason said, but his tone was more resigned than angry, “I’m being held hostage by a cat.” “Kitten,” Tim concealed his smile, “The big, bad Red Hood, held hostage by a kitten.” “Funny,” Jason grumbled, “Any idea when the kitten will stop napping and I can get up? My foot’s asleep and I’m hungry.” “Oh, you guys are awake!” a cheerful voice chirped, and Tim carefully twisted to see Dick leaning over them, slightly manic smile on his face. “Oh fuck,” Jason said, very quietly. Tim shrank back from the expression on Dick’s face. “Quick question—do you guys want waffles before or after your lecture on calling for help when in trouble ?” Dick asked, still smiling. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Bludhaven?” Tim asked—though if Damian’s pets were here, that meant the demon brat was here, which meant that Dick would obviously not be far behind. “I was , then I came over to pick something up and discovered that one of my little brothers had been buried alive and neither of you bothered to let me know .” Tim remembered that they hadn’t written a report, “Did you want a summary, or—” “No, Tim, I already listened to the comm footage.” There was something cracked in Dick’s expression, and Tim burrowed deeper in Jason’s hold. “And at no point did either of you consider calling for help.” “You were in Bludhaven—” “You didn’t know that,” Dick snapped. Oh. Dick was furious . “You had no idea where I was. You had no idea how long it would take me to get to Gotham. And I didn’t even need to get to Gotham—I could do research just fine in Bludhaven. So could Babs, on the other side of the country. And Steph was in Gotham, and you didn’t let her know!” “I—I’m sorry,” Tim hadn’t thought of any of that—hadn’t considered calling Steph—“I was—I wasn’t—” Jason came to his rescue. “Forgive us for not hunting down every Bat and Bat-adjacent vigilante,” he said acidly, “We were a bit more concerned with the immediate problem of getting Tim out.” Dick’s fixed smile faded, and he folded gracefully into a crouch, coming down to their eye level. The vibrating pressure disappeared from Tim’s hip, and he panicked for a moment before he saw the kitten curled up in Damian’s arms, the younger boy watching them with an impassive face. “I know it was scary,” Dick said softly, pressing a soft kiss to Tim’s forehead and ruffling Jason’s bangs, “For both of you.” His gaze shifted pointedly up to Jason. “And I’m so, so sorry that you both had to go through that.” “Yeah, well, we’re both in one piece, which is more than I can say for some of my other messes,” Jason drawled, and if he was hoping to make Dick back off with a death joke, then it failed. If anything, Dick looked more determined. “You need to remember to call for help next time,” Dick said gently, “Both of you.” He smiled, “I’ve already drafted some drills to help you guys with that.” Oh no. Not Nightwing’s drills. Tim hastily looked for a distraction, and saw Steph entering with two plates piled high with waffles that smelled mouthwateringly good. “Damian and I helped with them too,” Steph said cheerily, a tone that did nothing to disguise her narrowed eyes. Shit. They really were screwed. “Is it too late to grab a shovel?” Jason muttered under his breath. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Dear smith,” said the lady one day as she prepared to leave. “Would you be so kind as to do me a great favor?” “Name it and it will be done.” The blacksmith put down his lute and picked up his tongs. The lady’s brow curved upward. “You do not wish to know what I ask of you?.” “It matters not.” The blacksmith set his latest piece, a plowshare in the fire to heat. “You and your husband have brought me so much pleasure these past few months, I've long sought a way to repay it.” This was severe understatement. The blacksmith’s private notebooks were littered with ideas for showing his appreciation of the lady and gentleman, each one rejected, revisited, and rejected again at least a half-dozen times. The most promising was a song - the melody had come quick enough, a happy skipping sort of tune, but the only lyrics he could come up with were far too intimate to be shared yet. “It does matter. What if I asked you for some impossible or immoral task? Then you would have promised yourself to something beyond your ken or virtue.” “But you would never ask me that,” The blacksmith said this in the same tone one would use to state the sky was blue, or two came after one. “You are too sensible and too good to ask such things of me.” The lady colored ever so slightly. “May I be worthy of such trust for all my days! But you are right, my request is simple enough. I have been hired for business yonder, and will be away from home for sennight. I sorrow to be separated from my lord and lover so long, as does he, for we are used to seeing each other morning and evening.” “Indeed,” the blacksmith said, watching the iron heat. “So where comes the favor?” “I ask that you look after my husband while I am away. I ask you to be there for him in all the ways I would be, were I there. Tend to him in my stead.” The blacksmith cocked his head, amused. “Where is the favor in asking of me something I already do? At the very least I hope I have been attentive to him during his visits.” “Oh, you've been wonderful to us both! He loves calling upon you as much as I. We adore talking of your latest doings amongst ourselves." That he appeared as much in their thoughts as they did in his gratified the blacksmith beyond mere vanity, and he put as much of that gratitude as he could into his next words: "I am glad to hear it." “But without me", continued the lady, shouldering her mandolin. "My husband will be all alone, and with his tendency to solitude I fear he will go a full week without conversation or company. So swear to it. Swear you will attend to my husband while I’m away, that you will not shirk anything he asks of you." Now the blacksmith curved his eyebrow. "And what would anything be?" "Nothing that is not sensible and good I promise," replied the lady, chuckling. "Just the natural continuation of what has already begun. But as reassurance, I will give you something to pass on to him. Come here." Indulgent, the blacksmith walked to her, one hand out to take whatever she planned to give. What she gave was a kiss to his cheek, standing on her toes to press her lips to the corner of his. She was already back on her heels smiling up at him by the time he'd regained the presence of mind to react. And all the reaction he could manage was to press his offered hand to his face, and wonder if the way his skin burned was only in his mind. “Promise you will give my husband that at least once while I am away." Her expression grew serious. “It will not trouble you, I hope, to pass that along to him?” “No! - No not at all!” The smith replied, halting, "I have shared many such with my friends!" Which again, was not quite true - exuberant as he was with his physical affections, at most he’d only given quick pecks of brotherly greetings to friends and family. Nothing that had lingered the way the lady had. Her eyes sparkled and she bit her lip, but she said no more on the topic. The gentleman's nightly visits offered their typical pleasures of mechanics, conversation and song, but the blacksmith's mind returned ever to the promise he’d made to the lady. Time and time again when they leaned in together to examine a page or a prototype the smith willed himself to lean in just a little further and brush his lips against that smooth skin. Surely no one knew the gentleman better than his own wife? Surely she would not have placed this prank upon him if she knew her husband would not at least tolerate it? But each time his courage failed him, and he shrank back, and as time went on he could not miss the puzzlement that flickered across the gentleman’s face each time it happened. Finally, the evening before his wife was due to return, the gentleman requested they go outside, as it seemed a pity to spend the whole visit indoors when such excellent weather beckoned. So out they went, sitting side by side on the low stone wall and looking out across the small lane to the view commanded by the smith's house. It shamed the smith a little, to think of how long it had been since he'd appreciated the prospect of his home. All nature drowsed in the twilight, warmth and stillness settling over everything with gentle yet palpable weight. In the daytime undulating meadows of long grass and wildflowers surrounded the property, sloping up to low hills crowned with deep forests gnarled by age and weather. Darkness turned the landscape into shapes of varying deep blue shades, with only the tops of scattered trees catching enough starlight to be seen. And such starlight! A thick stellar band crossed the sky, blurred by clouds like a column of smoke rising from an unseen celestial fire. And as a fire releases sparks, so did this one scatter further countless stars to wink and glitter across the dome of indigo sky. In the dozing fields the fireflies winked and glittered in reply, intermittent green flecks of light drifting back and forth on a lazy breeze while their unseen cricket brethren pulsed and trilled all around. Beside him the gentleman sang his latest, voice and instrument a murmur as if he dared not wake the scene. I love coming home from far across the sea I pick my little wee wifey up and set her on my knee See how my eldest boy has grown whilst I've been away See here's a boat I've whittled for thee, especially for thee I've thought of you every day I love coming home from far across the sea And taking up my walking cane and passing through the trees I wander on the hillside, the doggie at my heel The bracken waves a welcome to me "Where have you been? We've missed you a great deal" “I suppose I am the wee wifey in the scenario, but the sentiment goes both ways.” The gentleman set his finger harp aside. “Silly perhaps, to miss her when she will be back so soon.” “Not at all.” The smith weighed his words, then went on. “When either of you miss a visit, even for a day, I miss you dearly.” “And we miss you. How easily you have slipped in between us!” The gentleman moved closer, fingers brushing against the smith’s. “My wife and I always considered ourselves formed perfectly for each other, yet somehow we have found places for you to fill in. So it is from such care that I must ask you, what ails you?” The blacksmith started. “Ails me?” The gentleman rested his chin on the smith’s shoulder. “You have been out of sorts this week. I thought at first you shared my melancholy at the absence of my wife, but even with her returning on the morrow you still seem at odds with yourself.” The smith steeled himself, no longer able to avoid the promise. “Your wife asked me to give you something.” “Well,” The gentleman said, all curiosity and innocence, “May I have it then?” Taking a deep breath, the blacksmith kissed the gentleman’s cheek. So short and brief, he barely bumped his lips against the hollow of the other man’s skin before sitting back, heart racing. In the dim light provided by the stars and the gentleman’s lamp, the smith saw no trace of upset or alarm on his face. Only half-lidded eyes and a smirk. “Good smith, I know my wife’s kisses, and they are not this tepid thing. Kiss me properly, as she no doubt kissed you.” Panic followed on the heels of relief, the blacksmith swallowing to buy himself time. Then, firm and deliberate, he kissed the gentleman again, making sure to set his lips to the same spot and for the same time that the lady had. This time he only pulled back a little, hoping and dreading the gentleman’s response. The gentleman wrapped one hand around the blacksmith’s head, drawing circles with his cool fingers through the blacksmith’s hair. “Much better my dear smith.” He breathed against the smith’s bearded cheek. “I felt her fire that time, and yours beside. You have my gratitude and my wife’s.” Then the gentleman kissed the smith on the opposite corner of his mouth, and whispered, breath hot against the smith’s lips. “And that is repayment for your first attempt, trifling as it was.” The smith had hoped, or dreaded, that would be the end of the topic, and indeed when the lady visited the next morning she made no mention of her request or his fulfillment of it. Then, as she was preparing to take her leave she said, most casual, “Thank you for taking care of my husband when I was away. He appreciated it as much as I did.” “Oh, of course.” The blacksmith emptied his second pail of water into the quenching vat, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “No trouble at all.” The answer did not satisfy her, for she went with him outside as he walked to his well with the empty pair of pails. “He did tell me though, that you had some trouble in passing along my token.” “No! - No, not at all I just was unprepared for passing it along.” He hooked one pail to the rope and lowered it in, trying to think of where even to start. “I have to admit I am - less than skilled in such matters.” “What, in kissing? Surely not you.” She leaned against the well, arms folded. “You must pardon my forwardness, but with parts such as yours, I’d imagined you’d be quite the charmer among the village.” The blacksmith gave a rueful grin. “My apologies for disappointing you, but I’m afraid I’ve not much experience beyond a few stray kisses and groping. I do not have you and your husband’s gift for words, so proper wooing is beyond my skill.” The pail now full he began pulling it up. “Perhaps a man of my age ought to have sown his wild oats better, but it is what it is.” He replaced the first full bucket with the second empty one. The lady’s tone grew pensive, her eyes tender. “A man may sow his oats whenever where ever and however much he pleases, it is no one’s business but his. Here, let me.” She took the rope from him and with a strength that belied her slender frame she pulled the second bucket up and unhooked it. The blacksmith thanked her, then picked up a bucket in each hand and started walking back to the vat, slower to avoid splashing. “Still,” The lady followed behind him, returning to her usual playful manner. “It seems a shame that natural gifts such as yours would go unappreciated.” At once at his back, her arms suddenly wrapped around him, and all his strength fled when those fine chestnut hands brushed him, her body pressed against his spine. “These apples in the cheeks untouched - “ She stroked his cheeks “These cherry lips untasted - “ she tapped his lips - “these ripe firm peaches unbitten - “ She cupped his chest, giving his paps a good squeeze. The blacksmith nearly dropped his pails, yelping. The lady let go, laughing as she twirled in front of him. “Pardon me again for my forwardness, dear smith, but I never could keep from touching beautiful things.” And she hopped up to steal a giddy kiss on his nose. Still laughing she skipped ahead through the smithy and away, leaving the sputtering blacksmith to recover his balance and his buckets lest he spill his load. The gentleman’s visit the following night started ordinary enough, meeting in the smithy to review new improvements. But during a lull in the conversation, the gentleman sighed, then hoisted himself up to take a seat on the work table by the opened window. “I appreciate your discretion, good smith, but I’m afraid I must apologize for my wife’s giddiness yesterday.” “Her - oh yes!” The tips of the blacksmith’s ears heated. “It was nothing, just playfulness. I assure you, I bear her no ill will.” Quite the opposite, in fact, but the blacksmith had no intention of mentioning that. “Still, we’ve agreed you are owed a chance at retribution. Allow me, therefore, to pay my wife’s debt.” Cool as you please he undid his belt and pulled open his shirt. “There, now take whatever liberties you like with mine own person.” The blacksmith moved back in alarm, as if the expanse of pale skin now gleaming under the moonlight would bite if he got too close. “I - it is hardly fair you should pay for your wife’s indiscretion, sir.” “You’re right, I fear my bosom is nowhere near so luscious as hers, and therefore it is not quite an equal exchange.” The gentleman looked down mournfully, a hand resting on his chest just above the top of his brace. “That’s not - sir, removing your shirt was unnecessary, I was clothed when your wife touched me.” “Were you now? Well consider this bareness interest to accompany the principal.” With a long suffering air he arched back and pulled his knees apart. “Now, good smith, inflict your vengeance for my wife’s dissipation.” Realizing he’d lost in more ways than one, the smith stepped forward between the gentleman’s legs. He did his best not to think about how the gentleman’s neck curved long and white as a swan’s, or how his grip would span the width of the gentleman’s waist. With great effort he managed a quick pat of the latter’s chest with both hands. “There, all paid.” He tried to back away but the gentleman’s thighs sprang tight around his hips, and again for all his strength he was trapped. “Was that really all she gave to you?” The gentleman pouted as if disappointed with the laxity of his punishment. “You are not holding back are you?” “No, not at all!” The blacksmith’s voice squeaked more than he intended, so he swallowed before continuing his lie. “It really was no more than that, I barely even remember it.” “Very well I suppose, but there’s still one part I haven’t paid for yet.” The gentleman sat back up, his face now inches from the blacksmith’s. “My wife mentioned she went so far as to kiss you on the nose.” He shrugged. “Again my nose is perhaps not so dainty as hers - “ “It’s lovely,” It slipped out before the blacksmith could stop it. For it was a lovely nose the gentleman had, charmingly crooked in the way it broadened and narrowed down his face. Its sharp tip now scrunched in amusement as the gentleman smiled up at the smith. “You really think so?” “Yes,” And before he could lose his nerves or find his sense the blacksmith popped a kiss to the bridge of the gentleman’s nose, then the tip. “There! Would I kiss you again for free if it were a punishment to kiss such a nose?” The gentleman, at first dazed, laughed heartily as he hugged the smith, nuzzling his neck. “I shall allow it this time but don’t think you can kiss your way out of future arguments, good smith.“ He kissed the blacksmith’s nose back with a loud smack, then rubbed his cheek against the smith’s beard and purred into his ear “I do, however, look forward to seeing you try.” All that night the blacksmith tossed and turned in bed, kept awake by longing and craving for the couple. Even when he finally fell asleep he was tormented with dreams of kissing first one, then the other, then both kissing him, then neither kissing him but kissing each other, and further visions of such lust and lubricity that for the sake of his dignity they will be tactfully skipped over. The day proved no less a trial. Long after the sun had risen and it had become clear that the lady would not come that morning, his forge remained unlit, his tools idle on their benches. All thoughts of ordinary work were lost as he paced and lay about, dizzied by the heights of raptures and pits of his despair. When night came, without the arrival of the gentleman, he flopped back into bed exhausted from sheer thinking. And when he awoke, he realized then what he must do. This time he managed to light the forge, but instead of working he waited at the threshold. With relief and anxiety uneasily mixed, he heard the lady’s voice and watched her come up the lane. He sat on the doorstep With his arms around his knees Watching the passers by and wondering why They don’t see what he sees He stands on your doorstep with his life under his feet Arms full of roses watchfulness He’ll be what he will be Her song came to a jarring stop when she saw the blacksmith at the door, and rushed up to him. “Smith, you’re trembling! Are you ill? Are you injured? What’s wrong?” “No further!” He stepped back from her outstretched arms. “Touch me not, until I say my piece.” Now it was the lady who trembled, and she dropped her arms reluctantly. Even so it was several long moments before the blacksmith spoke. “What am I, to you and your husband?” The lady gave a confused smile “You are our blacksmith.” How could that answer give him so much pleasure and pain? “I may be yours but are you mine?” “Of course we are - “ “No.” The torrent came loose inside him. “How can you be? You know everything of me. You have been in every inch of my home, save the bed- You have eaten my food, drunk my tea. And what am I given from you? A few hours of company a week? Some idle talk and songs?” What was left of the lady’s smile withered away. “Idle talk? Is that all our friendship is for you?” “That is all you allow it to be!” The blacksmith paced the inside of his smithy, overcome. “I cannot stand it.” He finally said. “I cannot live only in the moments you deign to give me - yes deign,” for she exclaimed at this, “for you are always coming and going on your own terms, in your own time. And I am left to wait and wonder when - if - I will see you again.” For the first time in knowing her, the blacksmith found the lady speechless. She looked everywhere but him, wringing her hands until she found a thin, timid voice. “We had no idea - please let us make amends. What do you want from us?” “What do I want?” The blacksmith barked a broken laugh. “I want to have you day and night. I want you to paint the walls of my cottage and smithy in all the colors you know. I want your husband to do the fine metalwork that my hands are too big and clumsy to manage. I want you both to give me your poetry and music because I have nowhere near enough of either to voice what you make me feel.” He paused, drained after dredging up such truths from the depths of himself. “All this I want. But I will settle for knowing just who or what you both are. I will not have any more secrets between us.” For the second time, the lady was speechless. She covered her opened mouth but her chest and shoulders still heaved with the strain of breathing. Realization and shame dawned in her eyes, now rapidly blinking away wetness. She drew her hand down just long enough to force out: “You would not believe us if we told you.” “Why not?” The blacksmith’s voice took on a note of hysteria. “Am I too untrustworthy or merely too stupid for the truth?” “No! No - never! Call us stupid and untrustworthy - not you, never you!” “Then give me the truth or leave, before uncertainty wrecks me - “ She swallowed the rest of his words with her mouth, throwing her arms around his shoulders as she kissed him. She kissed the way she sang, all consuming and all embracing of his senses. The spiced scent of her hair, the desperate noises at the back of her throat, the heat of her body through the silks of her dress, the sweetness of her mouth flooded through him, and how he wished he could drown his anguish in them, forget his doubts and let things remain as they were - - but no, a blade of grass cannot be bent forever back upon itself, nor can a wire of metal be stretched into infinite thinness. All things have their breaking point, and the blacksmith had reached his. With all the effort he could summon he broke off their kiss. Neither spoke, merely looked at each other. Her gold freckles sparkled bright under the sheen of their mingled tears, her plumped lips trembled as she tried to keep down her sobs. Then the lady unwrapped her arms from his neck, and shifted back. “Accept that as apology, and thanks for the pleasure you have given us this summer. I grieve that my husband and I allowed this…affair to affect you so much.” The lady turned and walked back to the open door of the smithy, for once leaving the mandolin strapped against her back. She stopped, one hand resting against the door resting against the doorframe. She turned her head enough that the blacksmith could see her rounded features in stark relief against the morning light pouring in, their outline so sharp that he fancied he’d cut himself if he’d indulged in his whim of tracing the curves of her face. “I take my leave of you, and promise this will be my last visit. Neither I nor my husband will trouble you again.” Then she turned out the door and was gone, with not even her usual singing to mark her walking away. The smith folded his hands, looked down to his feet and willed them not to walk to the door so he could follow her departure with his eyes. As the blacksmith had - not hoped, but assumed as probable - the gentleman appeared that night. The smith had waited for him as well, sitting on the wall in the place where the gentleman had first sat so long ago. Eyes fixed ahead on nothing in particular the blacksmith did not turn to look when he heard the mournful song. Hidden in your every move Are the words that you will never say Stars and moons are not your style I've known for a while this is not your way There was a rustle of fabric, a tap of wood against stone as the gentleman sat next to him, and still the blacksmith did not turn. “Good smith,” the gentleman said at last, in a halting tone not at all suited to the regal voice the blacksmith knew so well. “I have come to offer my own apologies. Believe me when I say we are sincere in our affection for you, that we never dreamed we would hurt you this way. Were it in our power…” A pause, then a slim hand on his shoulder. “I swear this will be the last time. Please, one word before I go, though I do not deserve it.” The blacksmith turned, and crushed the gentleman in his embrace as he kissed him. Even in his passion he was mindful of the gentleman’s condition. One hand went to support his spine, the other to bury itself in that fine soft white-brown hair. For all his bones and angles the gentleman proved pliant against the smith, as if the heat and fire of his heart had melted the other man, made him pour like molten metal into the crevices of the smith’s body. When the smith broke off the kiss the gentleman rested his head against the smith’s chest, shaking with eyes tightly shut. The smith indulged one last time in running his hand along the gentleman’s back, making him shudder, then pushed him gently away to look him in the eye. “Repayment”, said the smith, “For what your wife gave me this morning.” The gentleman stared at him, misery all over his face. His lips moved silently, as if he’d one last thing to say, but in the end he only shut his mouth and gave the smith a stiff nod. Stiffly and slowly as well he got up, picking up his stick and pulling up his hood. Then silent he glided down the path, stopping once just before he went out of view and making as if to turn, then continuing on. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Walking Dead Wizard Chapter 13 Luna kept quiet, keeping even her breathing to a minimum, sound drew these things, it was something Harry had first discovered and shared with everyone within Hogwarts. She had shrunk the box with the swords as soon as she closed the passageway door. She had her wand out and lit so she wasn't walking blindly into anything, sometimes they didn't make a sound so she felt it was better safe than sorry. The light was dim but enough for her to see in front of her. She knew she could take care of herself, she had been using the Room of Requirement to practice, admittedly more often than not she ended up 'bitten' but with practice came experience and she didn't feel completely overwhelmed by going out here. There was no doubt she was scared, she'd been scared facing the Death Eaters she just didn't let it get the better of her. Gripping her sword tightly, hearing the rattling breathy moan, she jumped when the thing fell down in front of her, there were stairs there. With quick work she stuck the sword into the brain before it could move again. Kicking its hand off her boots, she edged closer trying to see if there was anything else in the room or if it was dangerous to go up there. Noise; if there were any there they would be drawn to noise. Clanging her sword against the stone walls encasing her, hoping she wasn't making a mistake she waited and listened. Thank Merlin for Harry, she wasn't even the slightest bit surprised he could survive out there, he'd survived worse and came out on top. When nothing appeared Luna began to walk up the steps, keeping herself silent as possible, pausing half way up when she heard distant banging as if someone was thumping against the door of the shop. Breathing deeply she went the rest of the way, keeping her wand in front of her, she jumped through the hole, sliding the stone back into place and sealing it magically. Now nothing would get into that place unless someone actually cancelled her magic on the stone and ducked down under. Hopefully Hermione will have also sealed the other entrance. Luna stood to her left and peeled away the stone, finding the warding hub, it was unused, it wasn't even got a spark of a glow in it to show that the wards worked. She wondered when it happened, during the war? Or had this stone ward been forgotten over time? And neither Dumbledore nor Minerva had bothered to fix it since technically it wasn't at Hogwarts? Pouring her magic into the stone, her wand tip touching it as she continuously muttered Latin erecting the ward to protect Hogwarts at its fullest. It's the only safe place left in the magical world, she realized sadly, and it had been her home for so long. She didn't have anyone else other than the others in there, now she was alone, but she'd had to do it, to protect everyone. Then the ward stone glowed to life, before settling, emitting a tiny glow here and there showing it was working at full strength. Nodding grimly she levitated the stone slab back onto the warding hub (or rather one of the dozens Hogwarts had) sealing it closed with a sticking charm. There was only one way out of here, opening that door, there was at least five of those things out there she realized, as she crept closer, counting the hands banging on the door. She could deal with them one at time, but she had to be careful. Creeping closer, she was distracted by all the sweets, a small whimsical smile appeared on her face; Harry loved sugar quills, which was what she could see closest to her. Shrugging indifferently she opened her trunk and swiftly began summoning on the sweets and getting them to sit neatly in her trunk. Grabbing the broomstick as an afterthought, those things couldn't fly so they couldn't catch her. Leaning it against the door she shrunk her trunk and put it away, opening the door she allowed one to get in but the weight of the others was too much for her, she ended up almost being squashed, cursing she raised her sword stabbed one as she backed away behind the counter, wand raised she tried to keep it quiet an blasted another, raising her sword she sliced through three of the others, half their heads slicing of like cheese. Well, Hermione had it right, she thought wryly, grimacing at the blood on the blade. Hearing more growling she quickly went to the window cursing, there were two large groups of those things making their way to her. Grabbing her broom she kicked off, raising up, as they crowded around arms in the air trying to get to her. Looking back at Hogwarts, knowing if she tried to get through the wards she'd be bounced off them and end up dead. Where did she go? Did she try to make a home somewhere here? Kill those things and just wait it out? It was much too risky though, despite the fact Hogsmeade was closed off those things still came. From who knows where actually she thought about risking it…but she didn't want to be on her own. She'd gone her entire childhood and some of her teenage years alone. Then she'd become friends with Harry and later the others, she'd never been alone after that. She knew she didn't have it in her to do it again, closing her eyes as the wind soothed her, and it came to her, Harry, he was out there as well, could she make the journey to America? It wasn't as if she needed to know where she was going, the point me spell would lead directly to Harry if she couldn't get his coordinates somehow. Whipping back around to Hogwarts, "Patronus message to Hermione Jean Granger message starts 'I got out, I'm going to make my way to Harry, I need his coordinates' end message." with that the hare she conjured flew through the air making its way to Hogwarts. Sliding her wand up its holster, she sheathed her sword into her belt, it was uncomfortable but she'd make do. Without another pause she swooped through the air, she had no idea how long it would take to get to America but she knew she couldn't do it in one go, she would need to sleep at some point but for now she would go as long as she was able without stopping. It was roughly three thousand miles to America six or seven hours in an Aeroplane depending on the area, but she wasn't sure how long it would take her on a broomstick. Thankfully she knew a lot about geography due to her father's passion, and knew which direction to go in. Harry continued to walk through the woods, occasionally stopping to see some tracks and what they were. None were what he was hoping for, the shuffling pattern indicated walkers, there were other animal tracks scattered in various directions. He didn't have anywhere near Daryl's ability, he was a Master at tracking, it was why he had sent him to where Sophia was last seen, but he was no slouch, he'd paid attention even when he wasn't teaching him. Observation was half of learning how to track. Light was beginning to wane, but Harry refused to turn around, he couldn't lose Sophia, he had promised himself to protect the kids until they could do it themselves. The point me spell wouldn't work, not unless the girl was secretly a witch, which of course she wasn't. The spell latched onto the persons magic, led magic to magic, so he was on his own in finding her. He could hear everything in a certain radius, Harry wasn't sure how far it extended, but it was like the ears Fred and George had made, they allowed you able to eavesdrop but the spell was much better obviously and in all directions. The spell picked up heavy panicked breathing, turning slightly as if it could possibly help him hear anything better. He knew where it was coming from though so he picked up the pace; thanking whoever was out there that he was a fast runner. "No!" the voice said, and Harry's eyes widened, it was Sophia, he began to run even faster, his breath harsh and uneven but he didn't dare stop. Not even when he slammed into a tree, causing him to nearly pass out, he just shook it off refusing to let it deter him he had to get to her she had no weapon and no means of defending herself against the damn walkers. Why hadn't he given the kids lessons sooner? Oh yes, because their parents wouldn't have liked it, it wasn't really his place Merlin be damned! He heard sloshing of water and more screams, damn it Sophia she was probably bringing all the walkers towards her with her sound. When he saw the water he knew he was getting close, the screaming was continuing. Then he saw her, with a walker right beside her, its arms out getting to her its teeth inches away from her neck. "SOPHIA DUCK!" Harry roared grabbing his gun as he ran, and with a single bullet and brilliant aim he got the walker in the head. It fell - right on top of Sophia and in the water. Cursing violently, he didn't even hesitate for a second before jumping into the freezing cold water, slowed down by its rapid waves, as he wadded across trying to get to her before anything happened. With what felt like too long he finally got to her, yanking the walker away and grasping a hold of her and wrenched her from underneath. "Sophia!" Harry shook her but she was unresponsive. Cursing once more when he heard walkers behind him, he had no choice but to wade over to the other side; he couldn't keep a grip of her and fight them. As soon as he was over he lowered her roughly to the bank edge. "Anapneo!" Harry cast the spell, watching as the water was forced from her lungs as her body coughed it up violently, it woke Sophia up as well, and Harry slid his wand away as he watched her shiver in cold. "Hey, how you feeling?" "Harry? You saved me," Sophia said, her voice warbling, as tears ran down her face, with suddenness that surprised Harry, Sophia hugged him tightly, as she sobbed all her fear and terror out. "Sssh, please, Sophia its okay I've got you, we have to be quiet now," Harry urged her as he rubbed her back, making her think he was angry wouldn't stop her waterworks, it would make them worse hence he was talking as soothing as possible despite the fact there were walkers upon them. Then they wandered into the water and were quickly dragged down with the tide. He sighed in relief at both facts, Sophia had stooped crying and the immediate threat had been dealt with. "I want my mummy," Sophia whispered still choked up. "I know, but right now you must be a brave girl, can you do that for me? I won't leave you alone and I'm not going to let anything hurt you I promise. You're a big girl now, and when we get back to the others I'll make sure you can defend yourself against those things okay?" Harry said softly, both of them were shivering and freezing bloody cold. Sophia nodded and cuddled into Harry further completely exhausted by the day's events. "Oh, no, no sleeping," Harry said, it was pitch black, he wouldn't be able to track them back accurately, he was better off finding somewhere safe for them to sleep them getting the tracks tomorrow when there was light. He couldn't carry her all the way either, he wasn't strong enough for that and he definitely wasn't using magic. Not unless he had absolutely no choice for that matter. "Come on, we need to find somewhere," an outhouse somewhere they could get a rest and dry up. He wasn't going to trip over himself or risk getting them both lost. "Come on," he said helping the girl up as they crept through the dark night, Sophia clutching him in terror but thankfully she remained quiet and didn't protest. He could have cheered when he came across some sort of shack; it was the best they were going to do tonight. Getting them both inside, he began to check every area to make sure there weren't any nasty surprises. When he was checking the pantry he found a duvet and pillow inside, as if someone had hidden in there from walkers and a kid too since it was too small for an adult. "Here, go in there and get your wet stuff off, it can dry during the night, we can't have you getting sick, wrap these around yourself." Harry told her firmly, opening the pantry if the food was anything to go on. He put the duvet down so she could do it, "Let me know once you're covered and I'll get everything up to dry." there was no clothes here and he didn't have anything in Sophia's size. He could give her one of his t-shirts though even if it was going to be far too large for her. She crawled in without a word and Harry closed the door and removed his trunk out of her sight and took the things they'd need out before shrinking the trunk again. "Harry?" Sophia said after a few minutes, "I'm done." she added speaking softly. "Here, put this on," Harry said keeping his eyes averted from the cupboard he put the t-shirt through in her general direction. Then grasped a hold of her wet clothes before putting them over one of the rickety chairs to dry, and they would be dry he would make sure of that. She never once complained about being hungry or thirsty, but neither had he at that age after all the abuse he'd suffered. He saw himself in Sophia it was why he was so protective of her. "Are you hungry Sophia?" Harry asked as he shuffled around lighting candles so they weren't completely in the dark. "Yes," she whispered quietly, sounding much better now that she wasn't freezing cold. "I don't want to be alone, Harry." she added. Harry sighed softly, opening the doors and sitting down next to her, passing over the bottle of juice, crisps, biscuits and a tin of peaches that he actually opened with a fork inside it, it wasn't much but it would do until they got back to the others. He sat with his own tin of pineapples smiling softly as she greedily began to eat. Sophia didn't get half way through her meal before she was out like a light, her body succumbing to the exhaustion of running for hours to avoid the walkers and the constant fear of being bitten by one. He was right t-shirt was absolutely humongous on her, moving the covers up to her chin, he moved the food and put the water at the side of her pillow and screwed the cap back on. Sighing softly, he flicked out his wand again and cast a few spells so he wouldn't have to remain awake. He also dried his own clothes before he ended up sick, and purely as an afterthought dried Sophia's so they would be definitely dry when it came to heading back. If it was still there, who knew what was going to happen? They could have just cut their losses and left, he should have put tracking charms on stuff so he knew where and when everyone was. He swore when (if) he got back he would do just that. He didn't think the group had it in them though to leave a kid, if it was just him probably, but not Sophia. Facing the twelve year old he cast the tracking charm on her, there now she definitely couldn't end up lost again. Leaning against the pantry door he lost himself in thought, keeping an ear out for anything that could come his way. Daryl was unable to sleep, between Carol's cries and his own worry for both Sophia and Harry eating away at him. Cursing under his breath, he hoisted himself up from the floor of the RV where he had been trying to get some sleep. Grabbing his crossbow, he moved out of the RV looking up instinctively to see Dale at the top keeping watch. "Shine some light so they can find their way back," Daryl demanded. "I will, be careful out there, son," Dale said his concern apparent. Daryl just nodded once grimly, looking around finding his brother smoking against his truck. He moved over to explain where he was going, knowing Merle probably wouldn't be happy about it. "I'm going out to look for them." he explained with seriousness, nothing his brother said would deter him from going. "He'll be fine, he knows what he's doin'," Merle said staring out at the expanse of woods pensively. Daryl blinked surprised by the fact his brother wasn't putting up more of a fight to stop him. Even more so he was sure he had seen concern for Harry hidden in his brothers eyes. Merle didn't really like anyone, never had, what was it about Harry that made him show concern to someone who wasn't him for the first time in his life? "Are you actually worried?" Daryl snorted, trying to make light of it. "Said it before, he's our best chance of survivin'" Merle muttered, if a wizard couldn't survive what the hell sort of a chance did any of them have? "That the only reason you're worried?" Daryl knew there was more to it than self-preservation which was his brother's number one trait. "I ain't worried," Merle grunted, flicking away the butt of the cigarette. Daryl knew his brother wouldn't admit to anything more, it just wasn't who they were. Shrugging his shoulders, he moved downhill again, and leapt over the barrier and moved into the night with only a single flashlight to see anything. Another flashlight joined as his brother silently followed him, "Someone has to protect your sorry ass," was all Merle said in explanation. He honestly thought that she was gone already, they were just wasting time, ain't no way a kid was going to survive in a woods filled with walkers, even adults would be hard pressed to. Harry jerked awake, wincing in pain at the sound of the gunshot, jumping up he ran for the door and had his guns at the ready. Nothing, had he dreamt it? Belatedly realizing he still had the charm on he quickly removed it, sighing in relief. Adrenaline pumped through him, man he'd just about had a heart attack. Looking up he realized he'd slept longer than he intended to. It was time for them to get out of there, especially with the gunshot. It was only a matter of time before the walkers began coming this way, he wasn't sure where the sound had come from but it had to be at least close. "Harry?" Sophia was standing wide eyed at the door, relief and fear in her eyes; she had thought he'd left her. "Everything's fine, Sophia," Harry murmured soothingly, "Go get your clothes on, it's time to head back." all he had to do was find his tracks. He took another wander around the cabin again just to make sure there were no surprises waiting on them. It was all clear, for the moment that is at any rate. He absently checked his guns as he waited; there was enough ammunition for anything that came their way right now. Sliding them back into his holsters, he needed to find a knife that was suitable for a preteen, something she could keep on her without getting hurt, yet could defend herself with against a walker. Sophia came running out, her top clutched tightly in her arm as she kept Harry's t-shirt on. "Keep beside me no matter what do you hear me? Do not run if you get scared, I will deal with them, and if you see one I don't tell me," he told Sophia as he crouched down as if he could make her understand better eye to eye. He took her top and put it in one of the bags on his shoulder. Sophia nodded eagerly, she didn't want to run again and end up lost, she just wanted to go back to her mum. "Alright, let's go." Harry said giving her head a little rub before he started walking, he stopped in surprise when the twelve year old slid her hand into his. Clutching it tightly, they began to make their way they came. Part of Harry worried about the gunshot still, Daryl and Merle wouldn't use one unless they had absolutely no choice but Rick and the others? Well they hadn't had the time to realize how bad an idea a gun was to use. It was just the one shot though, sighing softly, he shoved those thoughts from his mind and got back to the area they'd come from to find six walkers all muddling along at the other side. Unaware that they'd been drawn to the bells they'd heard earlier before the gunshot. "Crap," Harry hissed though gritted teeth. Grabbing his gun he checked behind him first, keeping a tight grip of Sophia before he put a bullet through each of their brains, effectively eliminating them as a threat. He quickly made his way around, only to see that there was no way to make his way back home by tracking them. The walkers had come the way he had, thereby crushing his own tracks effectively. He had no idea where he had come out from, no idea how to get back. He had no choice he would just have to guess and hope for the best, maybe find some of his own tracks along the way. It was going to be one hell of a long day he realized. There was no choice, they couldn't remain where they were, and they had to get back to the others before they did decide to leave. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “...eya!” the voice sounded foggy; as if coming from afar. “kaeya!?” whoever was yelling was annoyed. “ugh… stop yelling.” i said, confused. did my voice always sound like that? i opened my eyes slowly; my head was pounding by now. “what's wrong with you for archons sake?” said a redhead in front of me. his arms were crossed. id think he was mad if not for the hint of worry in his eyes. suddenly everything came to me. archons? kaeya? unknown redhead? what in the– “who are you?” i blurted out. i initially intended to sound offensive, yet my voice cracked, betraying me. “who am– what? did you come in here already drunk?” accused the man, worry deepening, i opened my mouth; closing it almost immediately. what is going on? “you know what, i can't deal with you right now” sighed the redhead. “take this, go upstairs, and try not to cause any trouble.” he handed me a glass of some drink; alcoholic one, i decided. and that's when i saw it. my reflection. my eyes widened, panic rising. “go drink quietly.” redhead reminded me. “what the hell, sure.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Potter, stay where you are.” The sharp voice rang out through the Potions classroom, and Harry grimaced, shaking his head when Neville shot him a concerned look. “I’ll catch up,” he assured, wondering what he was in trouble for this time. Perhaps, after having the weekend to think it over, Snape regretted being so nice to Harry. They’d had a pretty pleasant evening working together in his quarters, and he probably just wanted to make it clear he was still the evil, terrifying dungeon bat Harry had thought he was for the first three years of schooling. When they were the only two left in the classroom, Snape locked the door and went through a series of privacy wards; he, too, was aware of Skeeter’s subterfuge. Harry stayed in his seat, waiting for the explosion. “How often do you check the map?” Harry blinked at the unexpected question. “I— what?” “The Marauders’ blasted map,” Snape clarified. “How regularly have you been checking it?” “At least three times a day, lately,” he said. “Looking for Rita Skeeter.” So far nothing unusual had come up, except for Mr Crouch being in the school sometimes. But he was probably just organising tournament stuff. “Why do you ask?” Snape scowled. “Someone broke into my private stores recently.” “Was it another champion looking for gillyweed, do you think?” Harry queried, wondering who would be stupid enough to steal from Snape. “No; the only thing of note that was missing was boomslang skin.” His dark eyes turned pointed as comprehension dawned on Harry’s face. “You haven’t been brewing Polyjuice potion again, have you, Potter?” “What? No!” Harry denied immediately. “What use would I have for Polyjuice? Wait, how do you know about the first time?” “Miss Granger was indelicate in breaking into my stores, and left her magical signature all over the place,” Snape replied. “Don’t tell me what you used it for, I’m quite certain I don’t want to know. I assume it had something to do with Miss Granger being partially transformed into a cat.” Harry snickered at the memory. “Yeah, bit of a mix-up there.” Snape gave him a despairing look. “I swear, sir, I don’t know anything about any Polyjuice being brewed. Couldn’t you tell who did it this time?” “Whoever it was, they were very thorough in removing any trace of their presence,” Snape said, looking quite annoyed by that. “They stole enough for quite a large batch of Polyjuice, so I suspect they won’t need any more for a while.” Harry glanced up sharply as the man’s words settled in his brain. “You think it’s for long-term use.” “I think there is someone in this castle who is not who they appear to be,” Snape confirmed. “Whoever it is, they’re doing an impeccable job at impersonating their chosen target.” “Do you think they’re the one who put my name in the Goblet?” Harry asked grimly. Snape nodded. “It would make sense, yes. Stay vigilant, Potter, and check the map whenever you are able. If any name is unfamiliar to you, come to me immediately.” “Yes, sir.” The map was enormous, but Harry would keep an eye on it the best he could. “Can I go, sir? I’m going to be late to History of Magic.” “Which would, of course, be such a tragedy,” Snape retorted dryly, making Harry snicker. “Oh, I’d be devastated,” he agreed. Snape rolled his eyes, turning away. “Get out, brat. Come to me at lunchtime on the 23rd, I’ll get you your gillyweed. The fresher it is, the more potent it will be.” “Thanks, Professor!” Leaving the classroom, he made sure to school his expression into something appropriately downtrodden as he walked past the crowd of second years waiting for their lesson to begin. As soon as he was past them, it turned into a concerned frown, his hands suddenly itching to pull the map from his bag. That was… concerning news. At least now they had something to look for. .-.-. Harry was getting used to being manhandled out of the common room by one or both of the Weasley twins by now. He didn’t put up a fight, letting them drag him up to their dorm room. “What are you two planning now?” he asked suspiciously. They sent him identical innocent grins, which didn’t fool Harry for a second. “Nothing untoward!” Fred insisted. “We were just talking about you,” George said conversationally. “As we often do.” “And we realised that we’re putting an awful lot of trust in that boyfriend of yours.” “We know you say he’s alright, but you’re a bit daft sometimes.” “No offence.” “So we were thinking, as the only two of your brothers who know the truth.“ “We should meet him, properly, make sure he’s actually a decent bloke like you say he is.” Harry wasn’t thrown off by the alternating sentences, but their words did make him blink. “You’ve met Draco,” he said, perplexed. “Many times. Played quidditch against him. Remember?” Both twins rolled their eyes. “We’ve met Malfoy ,” George clarified. “Slytherin Prince and pureblood prat,” Fred added helpfully. “We haven’t met Draco. Not your Draco, anyway.” “And we thought you might hex us if we took that meeting upon ourselves.” “So we decided to ask you if you’d arrange something.” George looked hopeful, leaning against a bedpost. “It’s obvious you’re mad about him. I know you said Sirius and Lupin have met him, so obviously he’s not terrible since they approve, but…” “You’re family,” Fred finished, his tone surprisingly serious. “And if he’s everything you say he is, then hell, he might end up family too, one day.” Harry blushed furiously — that was getting very far ahead, Merlin, they were only fourteen! “So can we meet your boyfriend?” they finished in unison. There was a funny little warmth curling in Harry’s chest. The twins wanted to meet Draco, to see him how Harry saw him, to genuinely get to know him. Even Neville hadn’t said anything more about Draco since the Yule Ball. “You promise you’ll be nice to him?” he asked cautiously. George grinned at him, for once without any mischief or dramatics. “He makes you happy,” he said simply. “That’s enough to at least get a pass on any pranks for one meeting.” “After that, we’ll decide,” Fred finished with a smirk. Harry snorted; that was all he could ask for, he supposed. Even he didn’t get a complete free pass for prank immunity. Though that could be because the twins had discovered Harry would give back as good as he got, after spending half a summer living with Sirius and Remus. Harry still hadn’t told them the truth about the two Marauders; he was saving that little gem for when he needed it most. “I’m meeting Draco tomorrow night,” he said eventually. “I’ll check with him, but you two can come with me.” The twins beamed. Harry hoped he was making the right choice. The more people he had on Draco’s side when they eventually went public about their relationship, the better. Harry managed to catch Draco after breakfast the next morning, and the blond looked incredibly uneasy at the prospect of being introduced to the twins as Harry’s boyfriend. But after a promise of no pranks — and several kisses to ease his nerves — Draco agreed to the meeting, and so Harry found himself squeezed under the invisibility cloak with the two tall redheads that night after curfew. “This thing is amazing,” George murmured softly, in awe of the cloak. “No wonder you sneak about so much.” “Can we borrow it sometime?” Fred asked. “This would come in handy for so many things!” “As long as you’re careful with it,” Harry agreed. “It was my dad’s.” He was pretty sure his dad would like the idea of the twins using his cloak to cause mischief. Sirius certainly would. They reached the empty Charms classroom and Harry nudged the door open, smiling to see Draco perched on the teacher’s desk inside. The Slytherin was nervous, Harry could tell by the line of his shoulders, but there wasn’t a sign of it on his face. Harry dropped the cloak, greeting Draco with a grin. “Hi,” he said quietly, taking a step forward, then hesitating as the twins appeared behind him. He’d never kissed Draco in front of another person before. Was it okay if he did? The light in Draco’s eyes dimmed a little when Harry didn’t move towards him, and that made up his mind; he closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together without hesitation, even as his cheeks turned red. One of the twins — he was pretty sure it was George — let out a wolf-whistle. “Our little boy’s all grown up, kissing Slytherins.” That was definitely George, mock-sniffing and wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “Just following your example,” Harry retorted sweetly, making George freeze. “What do you know?” Harry laughed, shaking his head; it had just been a hunch, but that definitely confirmed things. George had kissed at least one Slytherin in the past. He wondered who it was. Taking Draco’s hand in his, he tugged the blond off the desk and closer to the twins. “Draco,” he started, “this is Fred and George. Don’t worry if you can’t tell which is which, yet.” Harry wasn’t even sure how he could tell anymore, he just knew . “Fred, George, this is Draco. My boyfriend.” He couldn’t stop the grin that took over his face at the announcement, and George cooed. “Look at him, Freddy— about ready to fight us, isn’t he?” Harry hadn’t realised he’d taken a protective stance, keeping Draco ever so slightly behind him. He blushed, but didn’t move. “You can relax, Harrikins; this is a peaceful mission,” Fred insisted, holding out a hand towards Draco. Draco shook it, trepidation on his face. “So. Your dad’s a Death Eater.” He said it as if discussing the weather, and Harry flinched. “ Fred .” His tone was warning, but Draco’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he assured, meeting Fred’s gaze with his head held high. “He is. But I am not my father, and I’d rather die before I knelt to that twisted monster.” Fred’s gaze assessed him carefully, then he eventually nodded. “Good. I reckon Harry won’t let either of those things happen to you, so you’re alright there.” George jumped in at his twin’s side, grabbing Draco’s arm in a handshake. “You’re better at Potions than Harry is, aren’t you?” “That’s not difficult,” Draco replied, smirking. Harry jabbed him lightly in the side. He was okay at it, now! “Why?” “We’ve been working on this variation of the Swelling Solution for one of our products,” George explained, “and we’ve been having a bit of trouble getting it to only work on certain parts of the body.” Harry was left blinking as his boyfriend was stolen away by the twins, dragged towards some empty chairs and brought into a debate about ingredient measures and brewing times. Still, he couldn’t be too mad about it; the twins were trying so hard . They hadn’t brought any Wheezes products, and other than Fred’s first remark, not a single mention of Draco’s family escaped their lips. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he’d agreed to the meeting, but something with more of a fight had certainly crossed his mind. Draco had been pretty awful to the Weasley family in the past, even if not to the twins specifically. Their families had a blood feud that had lasted for generations. He couldn’t be much help discussing Potions, but Harry pulled up a chair next to Draco anyway, smiling when the blond tangled his fingers in Harry’s without even thinking about it, his other hand making a series of gestures to help explain whatever he was explaining to the twins. A lot of it went over Harry’s head, but it was apparent Draco knew what he was talking about, and the twins clearly appreciated the input. “We might have more questions for you,” George warned, after Fred finished writing down Draco’s instructions. “We’re both decent enough at Potions, but it’s never been our favourite. Spells are so much easier to manipulate.” “I suppose I can help where possible,” Draco acquiesced. “As long as I can trust you not to use my own work against me.” The twins shared a smirk. “I think that’s fair,” they agreed. George glanced down at his watch. “Right, we’d better leave you two alone, then,” he said, smirk widening as he gave Harry and Draco a lewd wink. “Don’t want to take up your whole night.” Harry was immeasurably grateful for that. He was over the moon that the twins and Draco seemed to get along well, but he also just really wanted to be able to snog his boyfriend in peace. The twins stood, and George ruffled Harry’s hair fondly. “You were right,” he declared. “He’s not as much of a prat as he likes to pretend he is.” Draco made a vaguely offended face, but Harry ignored him, grinning up at the older boy. “So I can keep him, then?” he asked in a falsely casual tone. Fred snickered. “As long as you remember to feed him, and walk him, and don’t let him piddle on the carpet,” he replied, earning a bark of laughter. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in the morning. Don’t stay up too late.” “Remember the spells in the book,” George added, making Harry splutter. As if they were anywhere close to needing those spells! “We’ll see you around, Draco,” Fred said to the Slytherin, nodding. Draco nodded back, and Harry felt like he was missing something. “If you have any more Potions questions, write them down and send them with Harry,” the blond instructed. “I’ll do what I can.” The twins grinned, then disappeared from the classroom, leaving Harry’s invisibility cloak pooled on the floor in the doorway. They’d been sneaking around the castle long enough not to need it. Harry didn’t really need it either these days, but he brought it out of habit. There was a beat of silence, then Harry let out a long breath. “That was alright, wasn’t it?” he asked worriedly. “They were okay?” Draco’s hands rested on Harry’s hips, and the smallest smile curved at his mouth. “I expected more hexing,” he admitted. “Possibly a bit of yelling. Certainly not… that.” Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah, they’ll surprise you.” He hadn’t realised how nervous he’d been about the whole meeting until it was over, and his heart was thudding in his chest. “I’d say it went better than either of us expected. They like you.” If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have left Harry behind. Draco leaned in, lips brushing against Harry’s in a way that had the Gryffindor following when he pulled back. “Let’s stop talking about Weasleys, shall we?” he drawled, hand sliding around to the small of Harry’s back. There wasn’t much talking about anything for a while after that. .-.-.-. It was starting to become a thing, Harry thought to himself, entering the common room to see Ron and Hermione sat on the sofa by the fire and staring at him intently. He reluctantly veered in their direction, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “We had something we wanted to say,” Hermione said by way of greeting. Harry snorted, perching on the arm of the chair opposite. “I can see that,” he muttered to himself. “Go on, then.” “Everything has been a bit of a mess lately,” Hermione said earnestly. “Between the tournament, and Viktor, and… everything else.” Harry wondered if she was referring to Ron’s attitude, or his many other friends. “I think it all just got out of hand, and we let it. But Harry, the three of us have been best friends since first year. Surely we can’t let a little drama and a boy get in the way of all that?” She was oversimplifying things so enormously that Harry goggled at her a little. “First off, I’ve never had a problem with Viktor,” he pointed out. “He’s great, we’re friends, if you want to date him then go right ahead. Ron’s the one with that issue there.” The redhead flushed, looking a little angry, but after a glance at Hermione he swallowed it back. “Ronald and I have worked out our differences,” Hermione assured him. Harry doubted it, but let her keep up her illusion. “We miss you, Harry. I know you’ve been busy with the tournament, but all that aside, this year has been different for all of us. We’ve hardly spent any time together. It feels like we’re losing you.” Her voice cracked slightly, and guilt reared within Harry’s chest. It wasn’t their fault he now had a mountain of secrets he was keeping from them. “That hasn’t all been my fault,” Harry pointed out, thinking of the multiple arguments he’d had with both of them over the last couple of months. Hermione ducked her head. “No, it hasn’t,” she agreed. “Which is why I thought it’d be best if we just drew a line under all of that and started over, back how things were. You, me, and Ron.” Obviously the tentative truce they’d agreed upon before the Yule Ball wasn’t enough for her. Part of Harry wondered why she was trying so hard to salvage a failing friendship; then he realised she didn’t exactly have anyone else to turn to. Maybe he’d been too hard on her lately. On both of them. It had to be strange from their perspective, seeing Harry change so drastically as a person seemingly for no reason. They didn’t know about the Compulsion charm. Once again, Ron was being very silent, and Harry glanced at the redheaded boy. “What do you reckon?” Ron looked up at him, smiling very faintly. “I reckon if some nutter’s out to kill you again, you could use all the friends you can get.” Harry cracked a grin in return, even as his stomach churned uneasily. Ron and Hermione really did deserve more of a chance than he’d been giving them lately, after everything they had been through. Harry wasn’t quite ready to start sharing his secrets, but he could at least stop expecting the worst of them. “Have you two done the essay for McGonagall yet?” he asked tentatively, offering an olive branch. Hermione beamed, even as Ron groaned at the mention of homework. “We were just about to start,” Hermione said, reaching into her bulging backpack. “Do you want to join us? I’ll help you if you like.” Hermione had to be desperate, Harry mused, to be volunteering to help him with work. Not that he needed it these days; if she’d been paying close attention, she’d notice he was doing just fine on his own. “Yeah, alright.” He pulled out his Transfiguration textbook and writing supplies, sliding down into the armchair to lean over the coffee table. Ron grumbled a bit, but got his things out too, and the three of them settled in to work. Harry couldn’t really call it working together — despite Hermione’s offer, she kept to herself and glared at Ron every time he tried to sneak a look at her parchment — more just working in proximity to one another, but it was a start. Harry was only half-focused on his work, the rest of his brain still trying to figure out what had prompted the change of heart. Despite the agreed-upon truce, after the disaster of the Yule Ball and the following fallout, Harry had expected to go the whole rest of the year without overtures of any kind from Ron and Hermione. Ginny was still pissed at Ron for ignoring Luna all night, Hermione wasn’t impressed by the rumours circulating about her and Harry, and Harry had thought Ron was still convinced he was some kind of traitor for making friends with people from other schools and houses. What had happened to make them so determined to clear the air and start over? It was a testament to how fractured their friendship had been lately that the sight of the three of them studying together gained many odd looks from the Gryffindors who passed through the common room. Neville was one of them, eyeing Harry in concern, but Harry just waved him off. If they wanted to try, he was willing to try. When he finished his essay — faster than Ron and Hermione, though Hermione was at least four inches over the requirement with no signs of stopping — Harry sat up with a stretch. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go get my History of Magic book.” Might as well get a head start on the next essay, even if he couldn’t finish it in one night. Heading towards the dorms, Harry started jogging up the stairs, almost falling flat on his face when an arm reached out and yanked him through a door. “What the hell, George?” he asked the redhead, straightening up with a scowl. It faded when he saw the concern on George’s face. “What did those two say to you?” George asked. Harry frowned. “What? They just want to try being friends again. I guess Hermione misses me, I suppose Ron might as well.” Ron was still a little off with him, but he’d tried cracking a few jokes while they worked, some of which were actually funny. To Harry’s surprise, that made George grimace. “I don’t want to ruin anything, in case they genuinely mean it,” he started cautiously. “But I thought you should know. I saw the two of them talking with Dumbledore after lunch today.” Harry’s heart sank. “I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying, not without risking being caught. But he looked like he was annoyed with them for something, and Ron didn’t seem too pleased about whatever he was saying.” “Do you think…” Harry trailed off, unable to voice his concern. “That Dumbledore isn’t happy they’re no longer keeping an eye on you, and told them to get back in your good books?” George finished grimly. “I’d bet my broom on it, mate.” Harry’s blood became ice in his veins, and George squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry,” the redhead murmured. “If I thought they were honest, I’d let it go, but… there’s too much at stake for you to risk this. And honestly, some of the stuff Ron’s said about you lately when you’re not around, I find it hard to believe he’s had a change of heart, even with Hermione pestering him.” “Right.” Harry definitely didn’t want to know what Ron had said. He wasn’t sure he could take it. “Yeah. I… shit.” He ran a hand through his hair, hating the way his eyes were starting to itch. He didn’t even like Ron and Hermione that much anymore; why did it hurt so much to have his fears confirmed? All of a sudden he was wrapped in a hug, his face pressed against George’s chest. “You’re still family,” George promised, hand warm and solid on Harry’s spine. “You’ve got us, and Bill and Charlie, and even Ginny. If Ron and Hermione are working for Dumbledore, you’re better off without them.” That was true, but it didn’t change the fact that they were the first friends Harry had made at Hogwarts; the only friends he’d had for a long time. To learn it was all a lie — even if it had been genuine once, it wasn’t anymore — Harry couldn’t help but feel his heart break just a little bit. “Thanks for telling me, George,” he said eventually, pulling away and trying to compose himself. “I’d love to say I’m surprised, but…” George shared his uneasy look. “I should go. They’ll be wondering what’s taking me so long.” “If you need a rescue, you know the signal,” George told him, not arguing when Harry left the dorm. Hurrying up to his own dorm to grab the book he’d originally gone up for, Harry went back down to the common room with a smile on his face like nothing had happened. Hermione smiled back at him when he approached. “Everything alright?” “Yeah, fine,” he lied breezily, cracking open the textbook. They would definitely get suspicious if he turned on them so quickly after agreeing to make friends again, but Harry was pretty sure they’d end up arguing within a week or two and he could break away then. It might be worth trying for a little longer, to give them something to take back to Dumbledore. Reassurance that Harry was still his old self — still under the Compulsion charm and blissfully unaware of anything to do with his inheritance or pureblood culture or the Wizengamot. If they were going to spy on him, he might as well use it to his advantage. .-.-.-. Being friends with Ron again meant it was difficult for Harry to sneak out of the dorm to meet Draco, but he managed it eventually, filling the blond in on the situation as they sat together on the floor of the Transfiguration classroom, a Cushioning charm making the stone surprisingly comfortable. Harry’s head was in Draco’s lap, the Slytherin’s narrow fingers running through his hair, a frown at his lips. “I don’t like this,” he said eventually. “It’s hard enough keeping all your secrets in order when no one is looking at you, let alone with Weasley and Granger sniffing around.” “Someone’s always looking at me,” Harry insisted. “At least if I know they’re looking I can direct them elsewhere.” Barely a week into their renewed friendship and Ron and Hermione were already pestering him to open up to them; Ron in the guise of wanting gossip about who he was snogging, Hermione pretending to be concerned about Sirius. Harry wondered if Dumbledore was frustrated at not knowing where the dog animagus was hiding. “That doesn’t mean you should let them look so closely.” “I’ll feed them enough lies to get Dumbledore off my back, then wait for Ron to be a prick again and stop talking to them,” Harry promised. He’d already managed to get them to believe that Sirius was hiding in Central America, hence the lack of frequent letters. He’d also told Hermione that the people at the Yule Ball were mostly Susan’s friends, and he’d just pretended to hang out with them to keep her happy. Susan was fine with that misdirection, happy for Dumbledore to be aware that she was bridging the gaps between houses. Draco looked doubtful, and Harry sat up enough to kiss the frown off his face, sneaking his tongue between the Slytherin’s lips. Draco moaned softly, pulling Harry into his lap. “You’re trying to distract me,” he declared with an annoyed look. Harry smirked. “I am, and it’s working,” he retorted knowingly, trailing a finger up Draco’s bicep and across his chest, leaning in for another kiss. “Just relax, and trust me.” Draco’s head tipped back against the stone wall, and Harry used the movement to kiss down his jaw to his throat, teasing the sensitive spot below his ear that made Draco grip him tighter and hiss with pleasure. “You’re too damn Slytherin for your own good sometimes,” Draco muttered, his hand up the front of Harry’s shirt. Harry’s green eyes flashed playfully. “That’s why you like me so much.” He nipped at Draco’s earlobe, rocking forward in his lap a little. They still hadn’t gone any further than rutting up against each other, but that was more than enough for Harry. He was getting pretty good at Cleaning charms these days. Draco’s mouth was too busy for him to argue back for several minutes after that, and by the time it was free he was too dazed to remember his objections. Harry was only a little bit smug about that, but it was enough to have Draco scowling at him when they said their goodbyes. “I still don’t like it,” the Slytherin insisted. Harry kissed him. “I know. I’m not thrilled about it either,” he admitted. “But it won’t be forever, and if I’m too resistant to them, Dumbledore will start asking questions.” He doubted he’d have to wait long for one or the other to screw up and get angry with him. They didn’t like the person he’d become, that much was abundantly clear. Hermione had been biting her tongue all week, and she would only last so long. If Ron didn’t explode first, of course. The pair eventually parted ways, and Harry slipped away towards Gryffindor under the cover of the invisibility cloak. His mind still on the feeling of Draco’s soft skin under his fingertips, Harry hardly noticed the insistent push of magic against his own; the castle trying to warn him of something. It was only when he heard the faint thunk-thunk of Moody’s wooden leg that he froze. Slowly, he tried to back around the corner, away from the source of the noise. “Potter!” He cursed under his breath. The invisibility cloak was useless against Moody’s magical eye. “Professor Moody,” he greeted, dropping the hood reluctantly. Moody limped closer, smirking at Harry in the dim light. “Out for a little late night stroll, are we?” “I don’t sleep well sometimes,” Harry replied evasively, hoping he didn’t look as ravished as he felt. Draco was usually pretty good about not leaving marks, unlike Harry. They both knew Moody could see through glamour charms, and Harry didn’t want questions in class. “I’m sorry, I’ll go back up to my dorm.” “Don’t worry about it, Potter,” Moody waved him off. “What McGonagall doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Harry thought it interesting that he chose to mention the Gryffindor housemistress and not the headmaster. Was he implying Dumbledore already knew, or just that he was likely to tell the man? “Listen, while I’ve got you here; how are things going with that egg of yours?” “Fine,” Harry replied, eyes narrowing. “I’m not supposed to accept help from people. Especially not teachers.” As if he hadn’t been helped by Snape plenty already. But Moody didn’t need to know that. The Defence teacher let out a raspy laugh. “Like you’ll be the only champion getting outside help,” he pointed out. “You sure you don’t want to talk it over? My office is always open to you.” “No, I’ve got it covered, thanks,” Harry insisted. “Look, if you’re not going to take points or anything, can I go? I’d really like to go to bed now.” It was nearing midnight, and he had Potions first thing in the morning. Snape would crucify him if he dozed off in class. “Aye, be on your way, Potter. But be careful; there’s all kinds of strangers in this castle. Even with that fancy cloak of yours, you wouldn’t want one to come and snap you up.” Moody grinned, though it was more of a grimace, his disfigured face twisting in a way that could easily give a person nightmares. Harry almost pointed out that Professor Moody was one of those strangers, but quite frankly he was ready for that whole interaction to be over as quickly as possible. He nodded, throwing the hood of the cloak back up to cover himself and hurrying away from the creepy professor. When he was several corridors away, Harry paused and pulled the map out of his bag, wanting to make sure Draco got back to his common room safely. If Moody came across him too, he might end up drawing some conclusions. His eyes scanned the paper, relief hitting him when he saw the dot labelled ‘ Draco Malfoy’ down in the dungeons, approaching the Slytherin common room. Then, Harry frowned, his brow furrowed. According to the map, Moody was in his office, behind the desk, like he always was. How was that possible? There was no way he could have made it back that quickly! He kept looking around the map, wondering if there was some sort of mistake, but other than Barty Crouch walking down the hall away from Dumbledore’s office entrance — that was an absurdly late meeting, surely the tournament arrangements couldn’t be that urgent? — He didn’t see anyone out of place. Harry shook his head, wiping the map away and continuing on to Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps Moody knew of a secret passageway Harry didn’t. He wasn’t so arrogant to assume he’d figured out all of Hogwarts’ secrets, even with the help of the Marauders. .-.-.-.-. The night before the task found all four Triwizard champions tucked away in a small living room in the Beauxbatons carriage, Fleur insisting it was the best place for privacy as none of her schoolmates would bother them. It was certainly more comfortable than hanging out in an abandoned classroom in the castle, so Harry wasn’t going to complain. “So is everyone ready for tomorrow?” Cedric asked, leaning back in his armchair with a bottle of butterbeer in his hand. The champions were all avoiding alcohol, not wanting to be hungover when they plunged into the Black Lake in the morning. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Viktor replied with a shrug. They’d all agreed not to say a word about the methods they planned to use, wanting it to be a surprise when the task began, but it was hard not to talk about what they were about to undertake. “I am curious about what zey ‘ave taken from us,” Fleur mused. “I ‘ave not noticed anyzing missing.” Harry hadn’t either, but his three most important possessions — the cloak, the map, and Sirius’ mirror — were in his bag pretty much permanently, so he couldn’t see how anyone could take them. Maybe they’d take his Firebolt. “It’s whatever we’ll sorely miss ,” Cedric said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe they’ve nicked my Potions notes. I’ve got an essay due on Friday.” The other three laughed. “Maybe they vill take a person,” Viktor suggested. Harry and Fleur shared skeptical looks. “Surely they wouldn’t take that risk? If we don’t make it in the hour…” Harry trailed off at the pointed look Viktor gave him. “Right, yeah, dragons.” They hadn’t cared too much about the safety of the spectators in the first task. Who was to say they wouldn’t put an innocent person in danger to motivate the champions? “I guess we’ll find out in the morning.” “D’you think we’ll have to fight the merpeople, or just find them?” Cedric mused. “To get whatever it is back, I mean. Merpeople are supposed to be a warrior race. Do you think they’ll just let us take it and go on our way?” “I’d like to think the challenge is in getting to them in the first place,” Harry said grimly. There were all sorts of creatures in the lake that would make it difficult enough. “But I wouldn’t put it past them.” “I will just charm zem,” Fleur declared, tossing her hair. “Zen zey will ‘ave to let me go past.” “Does that work on merpeople, then?” Harry was curious, knowing very little about veela and their charm. “What are the limits of it? Can you charm, like, cats and owls and stuff, or do they have to be humanoid? Or a certain level of intelligence?” Harry presumed if Fleur was capable of charming non-human creatures, she would have tried to charm the dragon in the first task. “Or does it only work on boys? There might be mermaids down there.” The dragon was a nesting mother, so maybe that was why it didn’t work. “I ‘ave not tested ze specifics,” Fleur admitted, looking amused at the line of questioning. “And I am not as strong as a full veela. But a veela’s charm will work on anyone ‘oo is attracted to ‘umanoid women. I would assume merfolk would be similar enough for eet to work.” “That explains why it didn’t work on me at the World Cup,” Harry murmured in comprehension, realising after a beat of pointed silence that he’d said that out loud. “I mean. Err.” His face went hot as the other three stared at him wide-eyed. “Did you just…” Cedric looked hesitant, like he didn’t wait to say it out loud until Harry did. “Accidentally come out?” Harry confirmed sheepishly. “Apparently. Please don’t tell anyone.” He wasn’t ashamed, not really, but it was attention he didn’t really need right now. People were judging him enough as it was without knowing that. “Your secret is safe wiz us,” Fleur promised, reaching over to squeeze his arm fondly. “I admit, I did suspect. I ‘ave tried to charm boys wiz you around before, and you did not even seem to notice.” Harry blinked, staring at her with raised eyebrows. “How often do you use that charm of yours?” he asked suspiciously. Her response was an innocent smile, and Harry assumed by the way Cedric and Viktor’s eyes turned adoring, she was using her charm right then. Harry laughed. “I never use eet when eet matters,” she promised, the boys turning back to normal after a second. “But sometimes eet is ze easiest way to get boys to leave me alone.” “Not Harry, clearly,” Cedric teased, his grey eyes playful without a hint of judgement. “You’re stuck with him.” “I haff to say, this makes me feel better,” Viktor declared, earning a confused look. “I know you are not the type to interfere with another person’s relationship, but I had vorried about the rumours of you and Hermy-own.” “Oh, those are completely made up by Skeeter,” Harry promised. “She’s all yours, don’t worry.” That made Viktor grin, and something in Harry’s chest twisted. He hadn’t realised the Durmstrang boy liked Hermione quite so much. Should he say something? Tell Viktor that his sort-of-girlfriend was maybe spying on Harry for Dumbledore and who knew what she really wanted with Viktor? No, he couldn’t do that. The worst Hermione could likely be accused of where Viktor was concerned was using him to make Ron jealous. It was none of his business, Harry decided. Viktor would leave at the end of the year anyway. “So who were you with at the Yule Ball, then?” Cedric asked curiously. “If it wasn’t any of the girls. It certainly wasn’t George; him and Boris made it pretty clear where they were going when they left.” Harry ducked his head, cheeks turning red. “No one important,” he lied. “Was it Cassius? Wait, no, he was still in the hall while you were gone.” “Why does everyone think I’m with Cassius?” Harry despaired, remembering Neville’s assumption too. Did he really spend that much time around the older Slytherin? No wonder Dumbledore was getting worried. “Leave it alone or I’ll tell Skeeter it was you I was snogging,” he told Cedric, who snickered. “I could do worse,” he said with a shrug, winking. “Not sure Cho would be pleased about it, mind. She’d want to watch if I was snogging you.” Harry made a face. “That’s more information than I ever wanted about you or your girlfriend.” Maybe Cedric wasn’t as incredibly straight as George had assumed. Cedric burst into laughter, and even Fleur and Viktor joined him at the disturbed expression Harry wore. “On zat note, I think eet is time to go to bed,” Fleur suggested, still giggling. “Since ‘Arry will not share ‘is rendezvous wiz us.” “If we all survive this bloody tournament, I’ll tell you,” Harry grumbled, getting to his feet. It was later than they probably should have stayed out considering their early start, but Cedric and Harry weren’t remotely tired as they snuck back up to the castle, bidding Viktor goodnight on the lawn. They parted ways at the stairs, and Harry quickly made his way up to Gryffindor Tower, creeping up to his dorm. All the other beds had the curtains drawn, so Harry tried to be quiet as he got ready for bed, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to force himself to sleep. He’d need all the rest he could get. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “This is the gate that leads to the soul society,” Kisuke declared with just a hint of pride in his voice. From what Tensho understood - building an unlicensed Senkaimon that could allow individuals to travel through it without the use of Hell Butterflies was not an easy feat. “Now, listen very carefully. But first… “ And without warning, Kisuke used the bottom of his sword-cane to slam Ichigo’s soul out of his body. That seemed to impress Chad, Orihime and Uryu, each of whom had probably never seen that before. While they were distracted, Tensho snatched the cane away from his father and used it to push his own soul out of the gigai he wore day to day. It had been getting a bit tight lately - when Tensho got back he would have to talk to his dad about getting fitted for a new one. “Yes yes, very fascinating,” Kisuke said sarcastically as the others fretted over Ichigo’s now empty human body. “Listen up! This gate consists of a Reishi conversion machine combined with the normal Senkaimon.” “Reishi… conversion machine?” Ichigo asked, confused. “Yes. As you already know, the Soul Society is a world of spirits. It is impossible to enter that world unless you have the form of a spirit. However, only Ichigo and Tensho, as soul reapers, can currently cross through. So we’ll use the conversion machine to convert the rest of you into spirits until you get back.” “Okay, got it!” Ichigo explained, and started stomping forward. Tensho saw the jab that struck the strawberry blonde’s side from a mile away. “The time that we have to open the gate and connect it to the Soul Society is… four minutes,” Kisuke continued. “Normally, that would be an impossible amount of time. It’s a reckless idea to start with. I’ll do my best to hold it up for those four minutes, but if you can’t cross over in that time… you will be trapped forever in the boundary dimension between the Soul Society and this world.” “So… so what should we do?” Orihime asked, her voice a little shaky now. “Go forward,” came a deep voice that almost caused Tensho to double over laughing. “I told you that the heart and soul are connected. The important thing is what you feel in your heart, and the will to move it forward.” Tensho desperately fought the urge to interrupt and greet his mother, but didn’t. She was going for the usual gig of convincing people she was just a talking cat, and Tensho would hate to ruin that too soon. It was undeniably funny, after all. “I will be your guide,” Yoruichi declared. “Go forward… only those who can do that can follow me.” Ichigo blinked in confusion after spending several seconds looking around to try and find the source of the voice. Eventually, his eyes located the black cat, and he pointed in shock. “The fuck? Did that cat just talk?? ” “Yes?” Chad answered, apparently uncertain as to why Ichigo found that in any way unusual. “This is Yoruichi!” Orihime added in. “He’s been training Chad and I for almost two weeks now! Yoruichi is really smart, so you should listen to him.” “A talking…. cat,” Ichigo mumbled, clearly still processing what was going on. “Mhm,” Tensho added in, playing up what the others had no idea was a massive joke. “You’ve never seen a talking cat before? It’s not that strange, dude.” Ichigo groaned in defeat. Then, without warning, the Senkaimon lit up - meaning it was time to go. The light dispersed, and the Rukia Rescue Squad were pulled through. The Precipice World was… almost what Tensho had expected. He had thought it would be just one long hallway, and… it was. But it was filled with some kind of flowing sludge that he hadn’t imagined being there, a sludge that was constantly closing in on the group as they ran. It would have been so much easier if everyone else knew how to flash step, but nothing about this little adventure was going to be easy, was it? “What’s going on??” Uryu demanded. “This place is closing in on us!” “If you have time to look back, you have time to run,” Yoruichi urged. “It’s all over if the Restrictive Current swallows you up!” It would have been good of Tensho’s mother to mention that the current was able to seek out and home in on sources of reiatsu - but she didn’t, and when a tendril of sludge caught up with Uryu and latched onto his cape, Tensho went into crisis mode, instincts taking over. Ichigo reached for his Zanpakuto, but before he had a chance to do anything, Tensho flashed back to where Uryu was, ripped the cape apart and grabbed him, slinging the Quincy over his shoulder and bolting away from the sludge. “Put me down, Shihouin! I can run on my own!” Uryu shouted. “Nope,” Tensho responded simply, and kept on running. They kept running for another minute, now managing to keep some distance from the chasing restrictive current, until… “Guys… something’s coming!” Uryu warned from over Tensho’s shoulder. A bright light shone from behind the group, followed by a loud rumbling noise. Something was coming towards them, and fast . Yoruichi hissed. “It’s the Cleaner! It appears once every seven days, and it just fucking had to be today. You guys need to run faster if you want to live!” They were almost there. Almost, but the cleaner kept gaining on them. Closer, and closer, until the group was barely a few steps away from the exit - but Tensho could also feel the pressure of the Cleaner right behind his back. And then for some wildly unknown reason, Orihime decided to stop, and turn to face the cleaner. “Hinagiku! Baigon! Lily! Santen Kesshun! I reject! ” Three sets of lights shot out of Orihime’s hairpins, and formed into an orange barrier that collided with the Cleaner. The sheer force of the collision blasted in waves, sending everyone hurtling out of the exit without warning. Rather inconveniently, the gate opened in the sky and at an angle - meaning the Rukia Rescue Squad was sent hurtling straight towards the ground without much chance to stick a decent landing. At least the gate hadn’t opened too high up. Slowly, everyone managed to pick themselves up from whatever awkward position they’d landed in and dust themselves off. “Well fuck, that was quite something,” Uryu remarked, not seeming all too bothered despite having just had a near death experience. He unzipped part of his top, and pulled out… another cape. “I never thought I’d have to use my spare so soon.” “I’m so glad though, no one seems to be hurt,” Orihime said cheerfully, moments before being clawed in the face by a pissed off Yoruichi. “What’s there to be glad about? We’re lucky the Restrictive Current only made contact with the shield itself, and not any of the six flowers! The objects connecting a Fullbringer to their power are filled with reiatsu connected directly to your soul - had it touched even one of them, you would have died!” Fullbringer? I’ve never heard of that before… Tensho thought, making a note to ask one of his parents about that later. “I’m… I’m sorry,” Orihime apologised, trying not to look as upset as Tensho knew she was. He had seen this before - whenever Orihime took harsh criticism, it affected her deeply even though she had started learning to hide it. “Hey,” Tensho cut in. “We did make it out unharmed, and you never actually told them about the Restrictive Current homing in on reiatsu. Go easy on her, maybe?” Yoruichi grumbled, and turned her attention to the surrounding ghost town - even for a town populated by souls, it was eerily quiet. “So… this is the Soul Society?” Ichigo asked, also looking around now. “Yes,” Yoruichi confirmed. “This place is known as the Rukon District, where most souls who have passed on go to live - it is made up of eighty separate districts, and it seems we’ve been fortunate enough to land in District 1, which is by far the most peaceful. Together, the eighty districts form a wide circle around the inner Seireitei, the city where Soul Reapers and nobles live. And over there, where everything looks markedly different, is the Seireitei. But-” “Alright! If that’s the Seireitei, let’s go!” Ichigo yelled, and charged off in the direction of the Seireitei without even waiting to hear the rest of what Yoruichi had to say. The moment Tensho saw the huge blocks of stone falling out of the sky, he blitzed past the rest of the group, grabbed Ichigo by the collar and yanked him back before he got squashed. As the huge resultant clouds of dust cleared, both Ichigo and Tensho turned their attention to the absolutely giant soul reaper who had gotten between them and the walls. “It’s been a long time since someone tried to pass through the Seirei Gate without a travel permit,” the giant’s loud voice boomed. “You’re a rare guest, so welcome.” The giant slammed an equally large hand axe into the ground, and Tensho quickly shielded his eyes with his arm. “Now, if you want to pass, you will have to defeat me in a fight,” the giant challenged. Tensho could sense Chad, Orihime and Uryu running towards the gate, trying to catch up - and it seemed the giant had spotted them too. He slammed his axe down, this time striking the ground behind Tensho and Ichigo, and dragged it along the ground in a wide arc. There was so much force from the strike that the axe had drove up chunks of earth, forming a jagged barrier separating Ichigo and Tensho from the others. “I don’t like your manners - you must be country bumpkins,” the giant declared. “Now listen up. We have rules in this city - First, wash your hands when you return from outside. Two, don’t eat food that’s fallen on the floor. And three - when a challenge for a fight is issued, it’s one on one unless otherwise specified. Which means-” The giant stopped mid-sentence when he realised that Tensho and Ichigo were no longer listening, now going at each other in a game of rock-paper-scissors. Tensho glared at Ichigo. He had thrown rock, and Ichigo had played scissors, which means he had won, but Ichigo wasn’t having any of it. “Dude, take the loss. It’s only fair!” “No!” Ichigo insisted, getting ready for another round. “Best of three, that’s the real way to play!” So they played again. This time Tensho’s scissors beat Ichigo’s paper, which means that, by Ichigo’s rules, Tensho had already won. “Fuck!” Ichigo exclaimed in frustration. “Fine, you get this one, but the next fight’s mine, okay?” “Sure, sure, whatever,” Tensho replied almost dismissively. “Now clear out and let me handle this guy. And make sure the others stay put, I don’t need any help! Hey giant, you got a name?” “It seems you’ve chosen your first fighter. Very well! I am Ikkanzaka Jidanbo, gatekeeper of the White Road Gate. I have held this position for the last three hundred years, and in that time nobody has once defeated me!” Tensho looked up at the hulking figure. “Jidanbo, huh? Well, nice to meet you. Name’s Shihouin Tensho, and I’m sorry to say that this will be your first loss. At an educated guess, I’d have to say you’re probably weaker than the lieutenants and captains, but stronger than just about everyone else, right? They wouldn’t station a lieutenant or captain on one of the gates, since they’ve all got ‘more important duties’ to attend to or something. But at the same time, the Gotei 13 would want to make sure the gates are well guarded anyway. That sound about right?” Jidanbo huffed. “You’re pretty knowledgeable for a Ryoka. And what did you say your name was? Shihouin? Isn't that one of the four great noble clans? What are you doing being a Ryoka?” “Well, I'm not exactly from these parts,” Tensho answered. “Anyway, should we get to business now?” Jidanbo’s giant lips twisted into a grin. “Very well. To start, how about we see if you can BLOCK MY AXE!” As Jidanbo’s voice boomed, his axe came hurtling down towards Tensho. He didn’t want to release his shikai for this, despite knowing that Jidanbo clearly had the upper hand in raw strength without it. But… Tensho had other tools in his repertoire. This one wasn’t something he’d mastered yet, but he could use it well enough to cover his zanpakuto at least. Tensho held his zanpakuto upwards defensively, covering it in a silvery shroud of pure kido. He’d never been any good at incantations, but this technique was wordless, and gave him the supplement of raw strength that he sometimes needed. Jidanbo’s axe collided with Tensho’s zanpakuto, kicking up a humongous cloud of dust. As the dust cleared, Jidanbo looked down. His face twisted with confusion, as he saw the result of his strike. Tensho was just standing there, a relaxed look on his face, holding back the axe like it was nothing. “Told you,” Tensho called out. “I promise you can’t win. Like, I really don’t mean to be rude when I say this, but I’m holding back big time. Figured if I release my shikai it’ll call too much attention when my reiatsu spikes, and that would be no good for us.” “Holding… back?” Jidanbo repeated, apparently baffled. And then he started laughing. “That’s funny, because I was holding back too! Let’s see how you deal with two axes!” “No,” Tensho declared firmly. “No?” “No. We don’t have time for this, sorry,” Tensho said, and sheathed his sword. “But hey, maybe as an act of respect I can name the technique I use to defeat you? How about I call it…” Tensho shrouded his right fist in the same condensed kido energy, and launched off the ground. He flew straight towards the giant’s abdomen, and planted his fist just below the giant’s ribs. The strike had enough power to send Jidanbo flying back, and he completely collided with the Seirei Gate he was supposed to be guarding. “Boop!” Jidanbo wheezed, trying desparately to get his breath back. Meanwhile, Tensho touched down on the ground and waited to see if the giant would get back up. Hopefully that punch would have made the difference in strength clear, because despite the current confrontation, Jidanbo seemed kinda friendly. Slowly, the giant got his breath back, and began to push himself up off the gate. He stumbled forward, losing his grip on the axe he had until now been clutching tightly, and coughed up a small amount of blood. “I… admit… defeat…” Jidanbo managed between desparate breaths. “Hey, sorry about how hard I hit,” Tensho apologised genuinely. “Do you need another moment before opening the gate for us? Or… wait, do all the others need to fight you as well to go through?” Jidanbo coughed again, and managed to steady his breaths. “No… you can all go through. You are a very kind young man, being so considerate for your enemy like that… though I must admit, I do not understand the name of your technique. Boop - does it mean something?” Tensho choked on his own spit. “Uh… just a dumb joke? Sorry, maybe it was a bit patronising, I shouldn’t have. So, you all good?” Jidanbo nodded, and stood up fully. “Well, it’s been three hundred years and this is the first time I’ve lost a challenge, so I’ll let you all through now.” The rest of the group took that as their cue to climb past the haphazard stone barrier Jidanbo had formed earlier, and come up to the gate. When Jidanbo squeezed his fingers under the gate and started lifting it up, Ichigo rushed past, clearly very keen to get into the Seireitei and find Rukia as soon as possible. But once the gate had been opened up past Jidanbo’s face, the giant immediately broke out in sweats, shaking in… fear? Tensho looked past the gate and immediately understood why - right in front of him was a tall man with short silver hair wearing the white haori of a captain. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text "That'd look cute on you." "Mm?" Lucy distractedly intoned. She was staring across the street again. Tarot cards, most likely. Knowing Lucy there'd be no way to tell if she wanted them to predict the downfall of any potential rivals or just to amuse herself and her friends. Probably both. " That ," Cepheus indicated, pointing through the dingy window, "right there." Sighing, Lucy glanced around. "Those dress robes?" She raised her eyes at a black dress. "They look too hot." "No, not them. Can't you see that necklace?" "No," she said shortly, "I can't. C'mon, let's get back to Diagon—" "Have some sense of adventure," he demanded, grabbing Lucy's arm and dragging her into Borgin and Burkes'. She raised her eyebrows, but went along. "That one," Cepheus pointed once again, "that necklace." It was strung with several clear, almost white jewels. "Betcha you could try it on. Betcha I could ask the workers here to let me take it out for you, they know my family kinda." "Oh, shut up," Lucy snapped. At his shocked, hurt expression, she added, "I mean, what if it's cursed?" "It's not cursed!" Cepheus laughed. "See? Those are from Fire Crab shells. It's just something not...not traded a lot in in Diagon Alley and that kind of places, is all." " Uh-huh ," she glared. "Don't try that with me. We had better get back to Diagon Alley, my dad is looking for me. My high-ranking-ministry-official dad." "Okay, okay," Cepheus put his hands up. "I can take a hint. And that's not the kind of thing you should go shouting about, here." "Maybe here isn't the kind of place you should be dragging me to." Conceding the point, he joined her as they walked back to Knockturn Alley. "I just think it's funny," he said, "why it is that the crabs get to walk around with jewels on their back. It doesn't do them any good, does it?" "Might as well ask why they're so greedy and keep their own shells when they could make perfectly nice cauldrons," she snapped, "they're beasts , what does it matter?" "But that's exactly the point, isn't it? They're not getting anything out of it, might as well let beings who can appreciate them have the jewels." "You'd look pretty dumb with that many jewels sticking out your back, you'd need a bigger shirt to make up for it." At Cepheus' expression, Lucy added, "and that is not an invitation to take yours off . Good grief." "Maybe we'd all wear tighter shirts," he said, "and have the jewels sticking out the back." "Yes, I'm sure you'd like that. But in all seriousness, let them have their jewels. They probably can't do this." She waved her wand, and a bolt of white light shot out of the end. Hurriedly, she bent it into shape, until it more or less took the shape of a jewel. "Or this." A host of multicolored sparks filled the air in between. "Or this." The creation floated over to Cepheus, who raised one hand as if to touch it, but she quickly ended the incantation before he could. "All right, all right. But still. What if we could shoot fire out of our behinds?" "Cepheus," she faked a lilt, "there's something I hate to break to you." He paused, taking a moment to take it in, and then with an enraged "OY!" chased her all the way back to Diagon Alley. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Ichigo is not very pleased. He’s not pissed off, either, but he’s not happy. Karakura is a crazy town, it has been crazy before he had been born in it and after? Well, it will never be the same. Ichigo loves that, he’s aware of himself enough to know that without the chaos he would get bored and a bored Ichigo is a terrible thing. Life after meeting Rukia has been one chaos after the other and violence has been part of it long before she was part of the picture. Too much quiet these days makes him twitchy. And his town reflects that. It was never fighting that he disliked, it’s his friends in danger that sets him off. He’s good at combat, it’s in his blood. More than that, he loves it. It’s in his instincts. He won’t go out looking for a fight but he also won’t shy away from one. That said, a spar or two to get his blood pumping? It keeps his inner hollow happy and so Ichigo indulges himself. Even before his inner hollow, Ichigo was a creature of instinct. He has always been and always will be. Those spars get a little destructive, Ichigo knows this, his friends know this, Karakura Town knows this. By now, it doesn’t even faze them. People just duck for cover and move on with their lives, it’s one of the reasons why Ichigo likes Karakura better than Soul Society. Damn Central 46. Ichigo was never made for politics. Oh, he can play them, he just doesn’t bother most of the time. Besides, Soul Society is a little… picky in who they allow in. Karakura, in contrast, is Ichigo’s town. And so, whoever Ichigo welcomes, Karakura does as well. And if they are not wanted here? Ichigo greets them with a punch to the face. It’s one of those things that Ichigo just loves about his town. Everybody knows that Karakura Town is where they’ll find Ichigo, it’s common knowledge. His friends come to him here when they need him and this makes something inside Ichigo purr with satisfaction. It’s good, he thinks, that they know to come to him when they need him. Ichigo keeps his people safe and protected. The fact remains, however, that Ichigo is not pleased. Not pleased at all. There’s a bunch of foreigners in his town and that’s alright, really. That’s not the issue. The issue is that they won’t stop fucking destroying his town and Ichigo is rapidly losing his patience. He knows about destructive spars, doesn’t even mind them. When it’s his people behind them. They know their limits, know that a couple of blocks of destruction is all Ichigo will allow. This group? Not his. They should behave themselves better. So Ichigo is going to have to show them. “OI! What do you punks think you’re doing?!” The weird bunch stop as a whole, all turning to look at him in varying looks of surprise that quickly turn to annoyance. Ichigo? He’s not amused. Whatever. This bunch of idiots won’t make him lose control, Ichigo knows better. Such a crazy bunch, too. He would be amused if they weren’t so destructive. There’s a floating baby, a loud guy with silver hair and a sword for a hand just generally causing a ruckus, a squealing man with a bright green mohawk and sunglasses, a teenager with a tiara and his face half-hidden behind blond hair and some buffy dude with the most ridiculous hairdo-facial hair combination that Ichigo has ever seen. Taking into account the kind of people Ichigo knows? That’s sort of impressive. Suddenly, there’s a sword being waved around in his face and Ichigo pushes it away carelessly. Whatever. His temper snaps a little at the “VOOOOOII!” screamed into his ears, though. So he breaks the damn sword and then hits the loud asshole in the face. Silver Hair goes flying and doesn’t stand up again. All hell breaks loose, for about 5 seconds. That’s how long it takes Ichigo to have the bunch of weirdos groaning in pain on the ground. Ichigo carelessly walks over them to take a look at Drunk-and-Angry sitting there on some ridiculous throne. The guy is standing up, face twisted in anger as he takes shot after shot at Ichigo. Ichigo takes them all, uncaring, it barely even registers. All Ichigo really cares about is the defiance staring down at him from those pretty red eyes, some part of Ichigo that he doesn’t bother to identify sits up and takes notice. Something in this guy draws Ichigo in. It’s interesting and Ichigo is starting to like it, just a little. So he draws the fight, makes it last longer than needed. By the frustration and fear staring back at him, Red knows it too. But Ichigo is still a little angry and high on the hunt, so he doesn’t stop. Because Red? He’s pretty like this, all roughed up and breathing heavily, eyes fixed on Ichigo, glowering. It makes Ichigo’s inner hollow sit up and take notice. The way he keeps standing up after he falls? That makes Ichigo interested. He can respect a man like that, after all. One who doesn’t know the meaning of giving up. So Ichigo takes a lingering look at Red, who is covered in his own blood and making a valiant effort to stand and not quite managing, and Ichigo makes up his mind. Red is now his. Maybe it’s his inner hollow talking, maybe it’s not. It doesn’t matter in the long run because Ichigo knows himself, the nature of most of his powers demands that he does. He’s a possessive little shit and he owns it. He’s not ashamed by it. So he walks up to Red, eyes lingering on his form here and there, and then forces Red’s chin up with Zangetsu’s tip. That glower would be deadly if looks could kill, as it is, Ichigo thinks it’s cute. Red is kneeling on the floor, arms trembling with the effort of holding him up and Ichigo takes his time appreciating the defiance radiating from his form. His mind is already going through possibilities, though. Red needs to be healed before Ichigo can get any more spars out of him. “You’re mine now, Red.” “Like hell I am, trash!” Ichigo wonders for a second if he should be irritated by the answer before letting the idea go. It stops being cute when Red throws himself forward, though. Ichigo grabs the remaining gun in Red’s hand and twists until it’s nothing but scrap metal even as he scrambles to move Zangetsu away so that Red doesn’t impale himself. The clatter of the ruined gun doesn’t even fully register before Ichigo dismisses Zangetsu and surges forward, grabbing Red by the throat and forcing him on his back. He leans casually over his opponent even as he takes him in, mentally cataloguing all the injuries he can see. “You know,” he murmurs, “something about you draws me in.” By the widening of Red’s eyes, he knows exactly what Ichigo is talking about. It’s a curious thing but Red doesn’t elaborate and Ichigo doesn’t press for answers. Instead, he pulls Red up until he’s mostly standing, held up by Ichigo’s arm, and casts a look at the downed forms of Red’s friends. “We’ll come back for them later.” Some extra weight on his side is a little annoying but Ichigo doesn’t say a thing. Something tells Ichigo that Red won’t appreciate his obvious relief being pointed out to him. So Ichigo mostly hums and adjusts his hold to better support Red’s weight. Out of nowhere, this feeling of belonging just comes over him and it makes Ichigo stop, cling until he has Red fully pressed by his side. It makes him feel calm and contented, it’s an even better sensation than basking under the sun and Ichigo knows, right there, that he’s never letting go. Red groans even as he presses a little closer and Ichigo can’t help the little hum full of satisfaction that escapes him but Red doesn’t take offence, he just presses his forehead against Ichigo’s neck and chuckles breathlessly. “Well, trash?” Right, he had forgotten. Red needs a little bit of healing. So Ichigo flashsteps all the way to Kisuke’s shop, taking care of not aggravating Red’s injuries any further. Ichigo might enjoy the thrill of the fight but he doesn’t like seeing his people in pain and Red is his now. Even Red admits to it, judging by the way he is snuggling to Ichigo’s side. When they arrive, Kisuke is waiting for them on the front door. He takes a cursory look at Red before he meets Ichigo’s eyes. “What have you brought me now, Kurosaki-kun?” For some reason, a part of Ichigo feels it necessary to clarify, so he does. “This is Red, he’s mine.” That stops Kisuke short, the blink the only sign of his surprise before he’s shadowing his eyes with his hat and covering his face with the hideous fan. “Is he now?” It’s not Ichigo who answers, though, it’s Red whose laugh is a strange mixture of relief, hysteria and genuine amusement. “Clouds. Possessive little shits.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something, too. Not that Ichigo has any idea of what he means by it but that’s not the important part, the important part is that Red has not denied being Ichigo’s and that’s really all he needs. So he carefully transfers Red to Kisuke’s arms and lingers as he watches them readjust. “Urahara Kisuke, at your service.” The scientist really shouldn’t sound so long-suffering. Red scoffs but answers readily enough, “Xanxus di Vongola.” It’s a good name, a strong one, Ichigo thinks. It fits Red just fine. Ichigo watches until both men disappear into the shop and then goes to carry Red’s friends back to the shop. It takes him two trips and he has to knock Silver Hair unconscious once more, for the sake of his eardrums, but soon enough they’re on Kisuke’s capable hands and Ichigo is free to do as he pleases. Or close to it, really. It would please him to have another spar but Red is not up to it. Ichigo should have really taken Grimmjow up on his offer this morning but he had been in a hurry to return to Karakura. It turned out for the best, even if his hollow had been left unsatisfied. Red might disagree, though. Ichigo might have played a little too much with him. So a spar is out of the question until Kisuke says otherwise but the day is nice and sunny. Ichigo carries Red to a nice patch of sun on the engawa and then sprawls over him, his head on Red’s stomach and torso between his legs. Xanxus wizzes a little at the extra weight. “The fuck, trash?!” It’s fine, really, until Red starts to struggle. Ichigo just wants a little nap and Red is nice and comfortable and warm, and Ichigo has gotten greedy so he raises his head up, opens his eyes and stares. Perfectly aware that his eyes are the gold of his hollow and not the brown of his human side. A little bit of a test, in part. And maybe not a fair one. Red doesn’t know what that means beyond weird and probably not human. But Ichigo wants to know whether the feeling of belonging was a true one, whether this Xanxus will run for the hills or accept Ichigo with all the craziness that surrounds him. All it gets him, though, are rough fingers trailing on his cheekbones and tilting his head to give Red a better look. Ichigo allows it, mostly because he enjoys the feeling and because Red is his in a different way than Karakura or Ichigo’s friends. Red is his in an entirely new way Ichigo is just discovering, it’s only natural that he gets privileges. When Red is done with his inspection, Ichigo snuggles back into Red’s stomach and hums in pleasure at the feeling of those fingers tentatively curling on his hair. It makes Ichigo drowsy enough that he dozes, not quite asleep but not awake either. He ignores the sound of more bodies surrounding them, a little petting gets him to settle down when the screaming and the chaos makes him twitch. He likes it, quite a lot, actually. Which is why he’s not at all pleased when an old man shows up to impose himself on them. Oh, the old man is polite enough. It’s the people he comes with who are not pleasant at all and it pisses Ichigo off. They walk around like they are the biggest predator in the room when they don’t even come close to second place. Ichigo stands up, irritably batting Red’s hands away when he tries to keep Ichigo in place. He’s done with the petting for today, Ichigo thinks. He’s no longer on the right mood for it, after all. Kisuke is standing in a corner, doing that little trick of his that makes him disappear into the background. Just as well, really. Kisuke likes to play in the shadows and Ichigo likes to be forward and direct. They make a good team. Ichigo surveys Red’s posture, the defensive body language of Red’s friends and then nods to himself in acceptance. Once his eyes turn back to the old man, the guy finally speaks. “I apologize for any trouble my son might have caused you. We will take him off your hands.” Judging by the way The Godfather is eyeing Red, Ichigo knows exactly who he means by that. It makes him want to snort. “No.” It sends a ripple through the room. Ichigo just scowls, crosses his arms and plants his feet. It makes Kisuke step forward, close enough to react. Uptight Moustache doesn’t take that answer well. “Boy, this has nothing to do with you.” The condescending tone of his voice makes Ichigo twitch, a part of him already reaching for his sword. Kisuke stays his hand when he steps between them and Ichigo stands down reluctantly but Kisuke has always been better at talking to people in this situations and Ichigo trusts his teacher. “Xanxus and his friends have been given sanctuary in Karakura.” The and you’re overstepping is silent but heavily implied. The Godfather seems to understand and not particularly care but Ichigo remains motionless. He’ll let Kisuke deal with this for now. He has no shame in admitting that Kisuke is far smarter than he is. Sunglasses takes the options off their hands, though. The second he moves, Ichigo and Kisuke react. The fight doesn’t really get the chance to even start. Kisuke has the guy disarmed on the floor, weird ring casually held between his fingers. Yoruichi has The Godfather still by virtue of a blade millimetres from his throat and Ichigo has Uptight Moustache under his foot, Zangetsu’s tip casually resting on his Adam’s apple. Silence, for about a second. “Vooooooiiii!” It sounds low and impressed. This time Silver Hair doesn’t get knocked out because he isn’t screaming it in Ichigo’s ear. It’s an improvement. They all get distracted by Red’s incredulous laughter. He looks amused but with the undercurrent of terrified bravado he has been keeping up since their spar. It makes Ichigo scowl harder, maybe he went too far. The close eye that Red’s friends keep on the old men, though, tells Ichigo that’s not all there is to it. “Perhaps we could talk?” That comment takes Ichigo’s attention back to The Godfather and this time, he doesn’t bother to hold the snort in. “Wasn’t us who started throwing punches, was it, senile old man?” It makes Uptight Moustache and Sunglasses bristle. The blonde brat just snickers. The Godfather doesn’t really react and Ichigo is set into tying them up and dropping them off somewhere else far away from his town when Kisuke speaks up again. “Of course! Of course! Where are my manners? Would you like some tea?” He doesn’t move, though, no one moves a muscle. After an uncomfortably long silence, The Godfather takes his cue and answers, “no, no. No need to bother.” Kisuke beams at them, entirely in his harmless if eccentric shopkeeper persona. “If you are sure. Now then, gentlemen, what brings you to my humble shop?” Red and his friends just watch with morbid curiosity, still enough that it would be easy to forget they are even there. Ichigo is content with keeping his eyes on Kisuke, though, so he doesn’t mind. He’s taking his cues from the scientist in this. He spares a look to Red, however, because that stare has something like possessiveness in it and it makes Ichigo want to preen. The Godfather sighs like he’s so sad and tired deep inside and Ichigo barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Manipulation is Kisuke’s game, it’s almost pathetic to watch. “My son has made some… bad choices. I am simply worried, it’s better that he recovers with family, where he belongs.” To that, Kisuke sends a look Ichigo’s way and so Ichigo stakes his claim. “He’s mine now.” For some reason, that forces Uptight Moustache into stillness. “A fucking cloud.” Ichigo still has no idea of what that means and has no care of it as long as they respect the fact that they won’t be hurting Red. He’s under Ichigo’s protection and he won’t stand for it. The declaration, however, makes the other two old men switch gears. It doesn’t escape Kisuke’s notice, either. “Xanxus, my boy, is going to have to return to Varia HQ sooner or later. He is their commander.” It’s said leadingly and transparent in its’ attempt at manipulation and Kisuke’s mouth twitches up wryly. Ichigo for his part turns to look at Red to confirm whether that’s what he wants. He gets an even stare in return and Ichigo nods to himself once more. When he meets Kisuke’s eyes again, the blonde radiates amusement and mischief. “I’ll prepare Karakura for transport, then. If that’s all gentlemen, I’ll escort you out.” Yoruichi speaks up for the first time, laughing sadistically. “I’ll let the gang and the Captain Commander know.” That leaves everybody looking stupidly at them but Ichigo ignores them now that the matter is resolved. He can feel the spike of spiritual pressure coming from the training grounds, signalling the arrival of Grimmjow for a spar. He puts Zangetsu up and over his shoulder before he moves to answer the challenge. Admittedly, he has a lot of fun. Grimmjow is not strong enough to actually win against him but then again, these days, very few people can put him through a workout. It is still good sport, still exhilarating. Some of those things Ichigo likes in Red, Grimmjow has too. He always stands up, again and again. There’s no draw, though. Nothing pulling at him the way Red can. Just some friendly, if antagonistic, competition. He knows that Red and his friends are sitting on a boulder, watching them. It doesn’t bother him any and they are not interrupting, so Ichigo lets it go. He’s got his fill of Red for the moment, Ichigo is itching for a spar that Red cannot give and Grimmjow is doing nicely. Besides, the three old men left him twitchy, irritated. After the spar, Ichigo is going right back to patroling. Normally he doesn’t bother with human trespassers but if the ones going after Red are human, then Ichigo needs to pay more attention. He needs to figure out those that might be a problem. An oversight, to be sure. Most of Ichigo’s fights have been with people who have high levels of spiritual pressure. It’s not an excuse, not really. He’ll correct it from now on. Grimmjow falls and Ichigo waits for a little while to see if he’ll stand up again. He doesn’t and Ichigo huffs before dismissing Zangetsu. He doesn’t have to worry if he took this too far, not with Grimmjow. They both have hollow instincts, they both understand. The arrancar will be up and about after some rest, Ichigo is not concerned. Ichigo does, however, pick up Grimmjow and drag him to the hot springs. No need to make the recovery time last longer. Grimmjow doesn’t wake up when Ichigo drops him on the water and makes sure that he won’t drown. Red watches silently from his spot two steps back from Ichigo. Just out of reach. Red is wary, which is not necessarily a bad reaction if ultimately a useless one. Ichigo takes care of his people. Still, he’s not being openly antagonistic so Ichigo will take the wariness. He turns around, catches Red’s gaze and waits. When he says nothing, Ichigo waves him away and turns to leave. He has patrols to complete. “Trash!” Red says, smelling of anxiety and interest, “why didn’t you use your flames?” How annoying, Ichigo thinks. Red is cute, he really is but Ichigo is feeling twitchy and not all that ready to be indulging. Kisuke, however, is radiating curiosity from his spot in the shadows so Ichigo resigns himself to this conversation. “Flames? Is that what you call them? Your power?” The incredulous silence is answer enough. It makes Ichigo sigh. “And I have it too? Is that why you draw me in?” At that, Red stands a little bit taller. It’s a good look on him. “Yes, I’m a sky, trash. You’re my shitty cloud.” The possessiveness in Red’s voice is pleasing and Ichigo feels the corner of his lips twitch up. “I’m nobody’s pet,” he reminds the other, just in case. And then, “but I’m yours, yes.” Ichigo can sense the bond, after all, settled in his very core and humming pleasantly. Kisuke makes his way out of the shadows at that, obviously curious and obviously cautious. Ichigo has always been a creature of instinct, he follows his gut and it gets him where he needs to be. In contrast, Kisuke is a creature of logic. He’ll investigate and experiment, tug and manipulate until he feels comfortable with his knowledge. Ichigo will let him, of course, because Ichigo trusts his teacher and they make a very good team. Steely eyes meet him before Kisuke hides them again behind the rim of his hat. “Can you draw it out?” Humming in consideration, Ichigo concentrates on his core, in that part of him where he can feel the bond connecting. It doesn’t take that long to get a good feel of this new ability and then he pulls on it, wills it to manifest. His hands explode in purple flames but they give off no heat. There are some surprised sounds from their audience but Ichigo ignores them, concentrating on this new ability instead. Kisuke hums as he studies it too and then he nods to himself. “After your patrols, then, Kurosaki-kun?” Nodding in agreement, Ichigo turns to leave. “See ya later, Hat-&-Clogs.” Xanxus is not above admitting, if only to himself and only in his mind, that he has absolutely no fucking idea of what is going on. His life, apparently not content with the humiliation of losing to a shitty brat, has decided to become a shit show and Xanxus is simply being swept by the current. He doesn’t fucking appreciate it. He is the Varia Commander, he is the fucking Boss, it’s him who goes around fucking up other people’s lives, not the other way around. And yet, his life has gone and gotten fucked up all of the sudden. It’s not even the shitty brat’s fault, oh no. It’s the fault of some shitty Japanese trash called “Ichigo Kurosaki”. The fuck? What do these Japanese assholes feed their shitty brats anyway? Varia Commander or not, it turns out Xanxus was absolutely unprepared for this. He has no fucking clue on how to deal with his new shitty cloud. Admittedly, he has never fucking had a shitty cloud before. That trash Ottavio, the fucking traitor, was never his cloud. Only the cloud officer and yes, clouds are famously hard to deal with. That doesn’t fucking help him at all. Kurosaki does whatever Kurosaki fucking wants and it’s driving Xanxus up the fucking wall. Xanxus knows, of course, that the shitty old man was salivating at the mouth at the idea of having Kurosaki in the Varia for the shitty old man to order around. It wasn’t going to fucking work that way, no fucking way. His fucking Varia listens to Xanxus and Xanxus only, the shitty old man forgets that the fucking Varia is a fucking independent assassination squad. Emphasis on the fucking independent part. Xanxus doesn’t give a shit if the shitty cloud tells the shitty old man to suck it. Problem is, Kurosaki doesn’t listen to Xanxus either and that fucking pisses him off. He is not fucking used to this, the Varia is his kingdom. Normally, if any of his shitty elements did something like this, Xanxus would fucking kick the shit out of them until they learned better. Can’t do that to fucking Kurosaki, though, can he? Fucking Kurosaki thinks Xanxus is cute when he fucking tries and then proceeds to fucking throw him around like a shitty bug. And that’s, of course, not fucking counting shitty situations like this. Every once in a while, his shitty cloud will show up out of fucking nowhere to kidnap Xanxus. Neither Xanxus nor his other shitty elements ever fucking see him coming, the shitty cloud then happily proceeds to find some shitty warm spot for them to fucking cuddle in. Now, normally, Xanxus would fucking throw a fit but if he does that his fucking shitty cloud goes for that too. Meaning: fucking Kurosaki gets a fucking spar and his freaking cuddles and Xanxus ends up beaten up and used as a fucking teddy bear anyway. Bruises mostly, too. The only thing really fucking injured is his fucking pride. At this point, Xanxus is taking the fucking cuddles. So here Xanxus is, with a lap full of shitty cloud, fucking hating everything and admitting to himself that this is his fucking life now. On the plus side, even fucking Nono is terrified of ordering Xanxus around now because his shitty cloud is also fucking territorial and at the minimal sight of distress from Xanxus, he goes on a fucking rampage. The CEDEF’s HQ will never be the fucking same. It’s fucking hilarious. It’s also fucking terrifying. One of these days Xanxus is going to get a fucking papercut and it’ll be the end of the known world. Further, Xanxus is fucking convinced that his shitty cloud has a fucking army of sorts fucking backing him up. There are fucking “captains” and “lieutenants” casually showing up in Karakura town for fucking spars and friendly meetings with his shitty cloud. All end up getting dragged home by weirdly adoring underlinings. Those fucking creeps look at his fucking shitty cloud with wonder, fear and awe all mixed into one. It’s freaking disturbing. They mostly wouldn’t have bothered with Xanxus at all until they fucking noticed how much Kurosaki likes him. Then it all turned into “Xanxus-sama” this and “Xanxus-sama” that. To make things worse, the stories those little shits tell? All seem to have a fucking pattern. Somebody pisses Kurosaki off and then Kurosaki goes right the fuck ahead and unleashes hell on the poor bastards. And his shitty cloud didn’t even know how to use flames when they met. Honestly, it fucking makes Xanxus a little giddy on the inside. Of course, his shitty cloud would be a fucking powerhouse. Still, the underlinings get more and more fucking annoying. Though Xanxus is actually very sure that they’re trying their best to be fucking deferential. Not the lieutenants or the captains, though. Those don’t give a fucking shit. They just fucking waltz through town with their own fucking craziness, spreading it the fuck around. And that’s another fucking thing, how the hell did a fucking town just show up around Varia HQ overnight without anybody fucking noticing? It makes zero sense. Xanxus wants to fucking brake something and he fucking would have, had he not been informed by the shitty blonde scientist of the “limit of destruction over spars” that nobody talks about but everybody religiously respects. Xanxus knows what the fuck that means, he’s not crazy enough to mess with his shitty clouds territory, that’s for freaking sure. An explosion breaks Xanxus from his increasingly violent thoughts and Kurasaki fucking grumbles from where he’s got his face buried in Xanxus’ stomach. The fucking shitty cloud only opens an eye to watch, though, and Xanxus pads with his fingers under it. It’s turned brown again which Xanxus has learned it means fewer chances of fucking destruction. Weird as fuck, Xanxus has no fucking idea. All Xanxus knows is that gold eyes are the eyes of a fucking cat about to fucking play with his food and brown eyes are the eyes of a freaking pussycat. Irritable, sure, stubborn too, but otherwise fucking easier to handle. The shitty scientist shows up out of fucking nowhere and Xanxus wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the shitty cloud’s grumbled complaints. It’s fucking making him paranoid. And yes, Xanxus has learnt to fucking interpret the grumbles, thank you very fucking much. Because this is his fucking life now. "Kurosaki-kun? It seems there's a problem with Central 46." What the fuck is central 46? Because that? That just got his shitty cloud to fucking tense up and Xanxus fucking takes offence. Two fucking hours of petting his shitty cloud into submission fucking gone, out the damn window. What the fuck? So Xanxus cards his fingers through orange hair and tries to soothe him again. It doesn't fucking work. There’s an arm around his waist, hard as a steel bar and hauling him up. Kurosaki hands him over to the shitty scientist, careful as you please. Xanxus would fucking complain except that he’s seen his shitty cloud carry people around like fucking potato bags. Xanxus is not about to fucking risk it. The cloud-trash and the shitty scientist share a fucking look and then his shitty cloud’s expression settles in something close to annoyed disinterest. The shitty cloud huffs in annoyance, sword materializing out of fucking nothing in his hand. “I’ll handle it, Hat-&-Clogs.” It answers about zero of the questions that Xanxus has. “What the fuck, trash?!” A fucking portal materializes as his shitty cloud swings his sword and yes, fuck that. Xanxus gives up. It’s too fucked up for him to process. Fucking Kurosaki is barely gone by the time Xanxus has finally swallowed his fucking pride and he huffs in frustration as he waits for the call to connect. “Hello?” “Baby trash,” he says, in his most civil tone. It fucking burns. “Xan…xus?!” Well, at least it wasn’t a fucking screech. Xanxus supposes that’s something. “How the fuck do you handle Hibari, trash?!” No sound comes from the other side of the call and Xanxus is about to start fucking screaming obscenities when Sawada’s voice, full of sympathy, stops him in his tracks. “Oh Xanxus-san, I’m so sorry.” Yeah, that’s it. Xanxus is going to fucking kill this little shit and enjoy every second of it. “Alright, Xanxus-san, this is important. Does he or she have a second in command?” What? What is Xanxus supposed to do with that answer? Whatever, Xanxus is going to assume the shitty brat is fucking going somewhere with that. He thinks of the shitty scientist. “Yes, he does, trash. Why?” “Right,” Sawada sounds more cheerful and it makes him relax marginally, Xanxus is never going to fucking tell a soul. “Their second knows them for longer, so it’s better to just work through them if possible.” Like Xanxus doesn’t fucking know that. Fuck this, it’s useless. Before he can hang up, though, Sawada continues: “you should also ask about bribes.” “Bribes?” Xanxus doesn’t fucking bribe his people, they do as he says and that’s it. Except that isn’t working, is it? “Yes, Xanxus-san. Clouds are like cats, they do what they want. But if you have the right bribe, sometimes they play along.” Fuck it. Might as well. Xanxus was good with the cats of his neighbourhood, back in the slums. It might be worth a try. OMAKE: Timoteo had not been expecting the disruption but his people are far too well trained to interrupt his meetings without a good reason so he ordered his guardians to settle down and waited patiently for his secretary to catch his breath. "Sir! The letter you sent master Xanxus, sir, it..." The poor man looks close to tears, "master Xanxus got a papercut, sir." As much as Timoteo wants to bury his head on his arms and weep, he is still Don Vongola and has an image to protect so he studiously ignores the sound of explosions in the background. "I see," he doesn't really. Isn't Kurosaki aware that Xanxus is the commander of an assassination squad? "Maybe we should start the evacuation?" Judging by how close the explosions are, they might be a little late for that. Not that Timoteo will say it out loud. "Yes, yes. I do believe that is prudent." Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Danny had long since decided that it was easier for everyone to spend the majority of his time in the Ghost Zone. He’d scrapped his way to graduating high school, and with him being eighteen, he’d found himself thrust onto the throne. Clockwork had been kind enough to act as King Regent until he made it to legal adulthood. He’d only wanted to go to post-secondary to become an astronaut, and since he became a King instead, well. Plans change. What helped the decision to move had been the revelation that being the Ghost King meant people labeled him as the strongest ghost, and, therefore, sought him out more often. Danny couldn’t reasonably ask his friends, or Jazz, or the town to go through more ghost attacks just so he could stay. The thing that made him almost move back home, however, was the absolute nightmare of paperwork backlogged for millennia. It took Danny two years’ worth of time just trying to sort through all of it. That was fully abusing Clockwork’s powers, and using Time Outs to shuffle through the paperwork, too. He was not afraid to use Clockwork’s desire for Danny to experience as much of his life as he could after the Dan-scenario. What, he wanted to waste two years of his real half-life to sort paperwork? For free? Hell no. Sometimes, Danny brought Dan’s thermos with him to sort paperwork. He called it community service, and Dan deserved every second of it. By the time Danny was finished, he’d easily had to create entire rooms in his home in the Ghost Zone for each topic. The division was not as equal as he thought it would be, either. He’d figured it would be all government-type paperwork. He was wrong. Or right. It depended largely on whether or not a being considered the Infinite Realms' actual government to be a sole monarch that had been absent via containment for the strong majority of his rule, and whose subjects actively used as a complaints department alongside paperwork documenting all the usual things Danny figured government figureheads had to deal with. There were five rooms dedicated solely to specific topics. In order of smallest room to largest room, Danny had: A room for proposals. Turns out, the Infinite Realms, the reality of death and primordial chaos, hated change, or, rather, change that brought about rules. Danny wasn’t surprised that most were submissions from Walker. Speaking of Walker, Danny also had to dedicate a room specifically to handle prison requests, especially requests for release. Half of them were complaints filed against Walker. It wasn’t surprising to Danny. Who did you complain to if the warden and self-imposed (and begrudgingly obliged) overseer of the judicial happenings of the Ghost Zone was the subject of the complaint? Danny, apparently. The other half were execution requests and supply requests. It was… a partial relief that Walker wasn’t actually ending his prisoners’ existence but horrifying that it was actually up to Danny. A room for census paperwork and yearly inhabitant filings. Arguably the most normal of the mountain of paperwork. Danny chose not to acknowledge that in a realm of the dead, the census paperwork for thousands and thousands of years wasn’t even taking up the biggest room. A room for concerns from the Infinite Realms' version of Homeland Security. Danny had no idea what more he could do that they couldn't do. Many of them were made in the past four years based on how he saw “Fenton” listed as the concern. The concerns regarding the GIW and Ecto-Acts appear in the most recent chunk of the paperwork, and Danny had no fucking clue how to handle that shit. And finally, a room for John Constantine. Danny had no idea who that was. When he’d settled on the idea of moving, he had spent weeks deciding the perfect location in the Ghost Zone. Not too far from the portal, but close enough he could get there quickly, while also having some peace and quiet whenever he returned to his ghost-home were a must. He’d found a lovely expanse in the frostier parts of the Zone that fit his requirements perfectly. Danny’s original home started as a regular two-story house with a basement lab, and an observatory tower attached so he could look out into the Realms at all the wonders and horrors via custom-created, frankenstein ghost-tech high-powered telescope. It was Danny’s baby. Not that he’d had the time to enjoy it since making it. He had to add a third floor just to act as an office just to store all the paperwork, even including the Ghost Zone’s penchant for Door-based pocket dimensions. He’d long discovered that paperwork was his own personal hell, and that was just sorting it all. He’d hadn’t touched any of it yet. At least if the paperwork was already sitting for god knew how long, then it was probably fine to leave for longer. Danny heaved a sigh as he hid in the observatory to play video games and enjoy the fact that he was done with high school. He passed out with his feet thrown over the arm of a big comfy plush chair and the ambient sounds of Doom on mobile, resting on the pause menu. He’d just needed a minute… His eyes shot open at the sound of horrible banging coming from somewhere in his house. He flailed from his spot on the couch and planted face first into the plush black rug of the observatory. The horrible mocking of the grandfather clock in the corner, a very obnoxious gift, let Danny know it was the equivalent of being ass o’clock in the morning. Or four am, but that was what people who liked mornings called it. Ass o'clock was more accurate. “Can I get one fucking night?! One?! I just wanna sleep! I’m dead, I deserve it!” Danny screeched into the soft fibers as he pushed himself up with a groan. He yanked his feet underneath him with a sigh and pocketed his phone on his way out of his observatory. “Good news, if it was Skulker coming for tea and biscuits, I would have known by now. Downside? Could be Johnny or Kitty crying over breaking up. Wouldn't be the first time one of them bugs me at ass o’clock,” Danny grumbled to himself. He threw open the door of his observatory and strolled into the living room. “Alright, which asshole-” Danny started as he stomped down the small hall. His living room was empty. His couch still had the blanket Tucker had gotten him as a housewarming gift strewn all over the couch just as Danny left it with evidence of a video game marathon littered all over the floor. Nothing. He rolled his eyes and moved onto the kitchen. He opened his mouth as he flicked the lights on, ready to scold Dani for raiding the fridge without even saying hi, but no one was there. He squinted around the first floor before reluctantly shifting his eyes to the stairway. He let himself float up the steps and peak. The doors within the space were all closed, and no matter how much he held his breath as he threw open the doors, no one ever popped out yelling “Beware!” He moved up to the third floor as he thought of popping down to the basement. He looked down the hallway of offices and paused. One of the doors that he never bothered closing was shut. “Uhhh…” Danny drifted over to the office and heaved to throw it open like the rooms in the floor below. It didn’t budge. Danny let rings form around his middle and wash away his HAZMAT. He shoved his head through the doorway as he prepared to chew out whoever was on the other side. The finally-neat room was a fucking disaster. Several of the filing cabinets had burst open near the door and forced it shut. Paper had piled against the doorway until just below the knob. “What… the fuck?” Danny just stared for a moment as he took in the messy piles of paper that weren't there prior. “Okay… sure. Uh… tax… yeah, tax season…? Do ghosts have that?” Danny mumbled as he shook his head, “Four am in the morning tax season, yeah, yeah. Okay.” He rolled back onto the balls of his feet and looked at the little sign he had next to every office. John Constantine “What the fuck ?!” “Who the fuck is Leviathan, and why did they, and a bunch of other fuckers using their name, file over five thousand separate fucking documents about John Constantine?! ” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text As long as [First] is safe, what they think of me doesn’t matter. This is the thought that would dominate Xiao’s mind on long nights when sleep evaded him. He would toss and turn from his perch atop Wangshu Inn, all the while entertaining simulations of his future plans. During those days, he almost wished that fallen archons’ festering hatred would materialize, if not solely to serve as a distraction from you. Fighting comes to him naturally, dealing with attachment does not. While he did live a rather secluded lifestyle, it’s an impossible feat to avoid all human interaction, despite his valiant attempts. He knew enough to surmise you wouldn’t take kindly to his intervention. Someone as lovely as you was bound to attract numerous friendships, or what Xiao would label to be pests . He came to the conclusion you might even resent him for taking away your freedom. So be it, he would think, all the while tailing you in the shadows of Liyue’s night to ensure your safety. All he wanted, all he craved, was to be your protector. To be the person you relied on most, willingly or not. If he could just do that, then… your opinions on him wouldn’t matter. Xiao was no stranger to others fearing him, his hands tainted with the blood of those who did and those who didn’t. Even if you cursed him, yelled at him, or pleaded with him, he would remain unmoved by the fervent displays. It was some time ago when he thought like that. The human concept of time is not one he’s familiar with, years are but a minuscule blip in the eyes of an immortal such as himself. He does believe it’s been a while since he’s taken you into his care. Long enough that you no longer flinch when he unexpectedly appears, or incessantly beg for freedom every second in his presence. You’ve both fallen into a tense routine. With the mind-numbing boredom that ate away at you with no one around, Xiao became a begrudgingly welcome distraction, even if he was the source of everything that went wrong in your once peaceful life. Today, he’s silently wishful that things will be different. “... What’s that for?” You inquire, nodding to the foreign object in his hands. It’s unlike him to come back with anything but the clothes on his back. There are rare times where he rewards your good behavior with meager gifts, like history texts or puzzles. Whatever it is that he thinks a human like yourself would enjoy. Xiao sets the dirt mound onto a table he refurbished months ago for said puzzles. “You.” The compound he keeps you in is sparsely decorated. There’s a cot, which you’re currently resting on, along with a few other odds and ends essential for survival. Iron chains attached to anklets sit in the corner, for those times where you get a little feistier than he allows. Luckily, he hasn’t had to use them lately, your disposition growing more subservient. He still resolves to keep them there in case you get any ideas. Xiao stands back to observe when you approach the glaze lily he dug up. Your fingertips brush over the baby blue fibers ever so softly, like it would crumble away if you applied too much pressure. Do you appreciate the gift? Will your lips curl into a smile like they used to? Beneath his stone-faced demeanor, adrenaline floods his veins, more so than when he’d engage in a fight to the death with ancient evils. You’ve made him go soft. “It’ll need a vase,” your eyelashes flutter shut, a silent sigh leaving your lips, not the reaction he was looking for. “Without my Vision, I… I won’t be able to keep it alive.” Great, this is exactly what he was hoping to avoid. When unrelenting melancholy would sink its teeth into you, you would tentatively bring up your Vision to him, or lack thereof. He thought that this lifeform connected so intimately with nature would placate you. Instead, you’re starting to sniffle, dull eyes growing glassier by the second. It didn’t bring him any pleasure to take your Vision away. There was no sadistic delight in how your eyes widened in terror, imploring him to let you keep at least one part of yourself, all for your pleads to fall on deaf ears. He viewed it as a means to an end. As long as your Vision was in your possession, there was an increased risk of you escaping. Humans are nothing if determined, he figured you would get over it sooner or later. Xiao keeps his tone even, purposefully avoiding all mentions of your Vision. “I’ll get a vase then.” You nod slowly and walk away from the lone flower. It didn’t capture your attention for anywhere near as long as he thought it would, the flora going ignored like he often does. In a matter of seconds, you’re back to laying down on the cot, facing the wall so you don’t have to look at him. It’s a familiar sight that makes him feel like his body has been submerged in icy waters. His fists clench and unclench by his side, frustration growing with every passing second. Why does this bother him so much? Why can’t he simply be content with knowing that you're safe, that you’re with him? Xiao switches the subject of his glaring from your back to the underwhelming glaze lily. There was once a time where you’d serenade the rare blossoms, showering them in your heavenly song. He can barely recall what it used to sound like, the memory growing more distant just as you do. All he knows is that it would stir his soul in a way he didn’t think possible. The Yaksha used to conceal his presence, soaking in the dulcet tone of your voice, while his heart soared. Now that’s all in the past. “I’m heading out,” he calls over, to which you simply hum in response, not exerting any more energy than that. Xiao fiddles with the locks on the door. The atmosphere in this room is too stifling to endure any longer, his dormant emotions rising to the surface and threatening to burst free. Once he’s outside, he slides his back against the wall, chest heaving, and heaviness weighing him down like an anchor. He had played scenes like the one that just happened inside his head innumerable times. It was supposed to be so simple — you’d inevitably get upset — and he’d let you exhaust yourself. Certainly, your attitude was going to be a nuisance. He knew that months before you even knew who he was. A little thorn in his side wasn’t supposed to pierce so deeply, yet that’s exactly what you managed to accomplish. Xiao realizes it isn’t just your safety he wants. It’s your love as well. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text She woke up empty, eye wide, hands pawing at anything she could get them on. She woke up empty, layered in sweat and fear. She woke up empty, single eye spinning about the room she lay in and seeing only ghosts and shadows of her past. She woke up empty, and it didn’t get any better from there. In Maka’s experience, fear can be a powerful motivator for success and genius. It can and has spurred people to push past their limits in efforts to either overcome said fear…or escape it. Whatever causes the fear doesn’t necessarily have to be a person or a place or even an object, but a concept; a fear of flying can lead to adventures on the ground, a fear of swimming can lead to the invention of the boat, the fear of death can lead to someone fleeing from it. Fear is natural and normal, because every living thing has a fear of some sort. Fears can come from anything, too, from benign to well-founded; a fear of sunlight, a fear or water, a fear of spiders and of the dark. Fears come in many different shapes and sizes and, usually, are known to the people they effect. “I wonder…” Maka looks up from the book she’s been reading – The Hobbit – and tilts her head, eye staring blankly into nothingness. Her gaze may be locked onto the wall opposite her bed, but her mind is somewhere else. She shakes her head free of its thoughts and returns to the book in hand. ‘I wonder what fears will show up in this book. It’s kinda curious, seeing how they handle some things but not others. I could write a book repo-’ Her alarm goes off. She sighs in irritation and puts the book down, her impeccable memory remembering the page she left off on. Her lone eye takes in the glowing red numbers flashing on the screen of the alarm clock and her hand slams down with enough force to rattle the bed. The blaring sounds it makes are silenced, sure, but now she needs to buy another one. She could fix it with magic, of course…but that would be lazy. Maka isn’t lazy. “Ugh, should’ve left that silent.” She sat up, the blanket previous wrapped around her falling down and leaving her bare body free to weather the cold of her apartment. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and gave a baleful glare to the clock. “Of course, the one time you actually fucking work is to stop me when I’m reading.” Her lone eye squinted and, after a second, she groaned loudly, barely resisting the urge to drop backwards and slink back under the covers. “Of course, it’s a Monday . Why wouldn’t it be?” She stepped out of the covers and stood up, bare feet touching the carpeted flooring beneath her. With a grunt she lifted herself up from the bed and slunk across, naked as the day she was born, to the wardrobe. Her eye drifts to her left arm, still bandaged, and she wonders; when will the names disappear? How many does she have bound to her? How many will become her responsibility? She reaches the wardrobe and slams the twin doors open unceremoniously, voice grumbling about getting dressed for a school she loathes. Thankfully she doesn’t have to wear that damned Kuoh Girl’s Uniform, because if she did, she has no doubt people would be peaking up her skirt or making rude comments. She’d kill someone on her first day there. Again, thankfully, all she’s going in for is to perform her duties as Student Council Treasurer and to spend some time with her two bonded…devils. And wasn’t that a shock? Two bonded devils that all but confirmed the supernatural were a little more than what it was in her own dimension. Entire pantheons of gods and goddesses existed here, and entire sub-dimensions leached off the main one. It was all remarkably interesting, and she’d love to look into it further, but the headache it promised if she got too involved was…unpleasant to think about. It shouldn’t be seen as being unnecessarily nosy into the supernatural if it was just spending time with her Bonded, right? Hopefully it wouldn’t, and she’d garner very little – if any – attention from the higher ups in the supernatural societies. Maka sighed, ensured her hat was on correctly, and strode over to her apartment’s door. Just besides the door rested two different pairs of footwear – her usual combat boots that reached mid-shin, and a pair of black and white-striped trainers. She hadn’t worn those to school before but with good reason; the boots were sturdier, stronger, and provided better ankle support. She bought those trainers for whenever she decided to take up morning jogging again. She’d let herself get situated with Kuoh a little bit more first before making a decision. She only just finished tying her laces together and making sure she looked the same as always before the door rattled with three bangs that could have passed for knocks if they were about a hundred percent softer. Her eyebrows inched higher on her face and she frowned. “Now who could that be, I wonder…?” She shrugged, opened the door, and somehow regained the all-encompassing wish that she’d just stayed in bed and not moved. “Hey Maka!” Rias Gremory stood before her with her left hand in a cutesy wave and her right hand occupied. Maka didn’t even want to acknowledge the filth Rias had her hand on, but if it continued to exist in the state it was now it would bother her just for being near her. She felt disgusting and like she needed to shower just thinking about it. Maka, despite the situation, still found her mouth curving upwards slightly. Ever so slightly that, even if her mouth wasn’t covered, it would still be hard to notice. While she couldn’t be called an emotive person anymore Maka wasn’t emotionally retarded. She could easily display affection, loathing, happiness, sadness, all of it through her voice and body language. Probably why Rias smiled wider when she responded. “Good morning Rias.” She made a show of raking her eye up and down Rias’ body. “You look radiant, as usual.” A magnificent blush came to Rias’ face and painted her skin as red as her hair. “O-Oh, wow, you-you’re very charming.” Maka shrugged. “I try, sometimes anyway.” Then the thing spoke up, reminding her just why she felt unclean and upset that it was being the little parasite it was and leeching off the moment she and Rias were sharing. In her opinion the thing should have been sectioned off from the rest of society years ago or put down as a ‘cruel to be kind’ method. “Buchou, you never mentioned we were going to see Maka!” Rias shot her an apologetic look and turned slightly to give Issei Hyoudou a smile. Now that she was close enough to see it properly, however, Maka could tell it was fake. It looked like it was practiced in front of the mirror to perfection, and only someone with keen observational skills would notice the difference. “We finished going over basic Peerage knowledge yesterday, didn’t we?” At Issei’s nod with a confused side-eye towards the observing Maka, Rias sighed. “I forgot to tell Maka that you were a new member of the Peerage.” Issei’s face went through some interesting gymnastics before settling on something vaguely approaching understanding. Maka settled in against the door’s frame and sighed to herself. Despite what she thought of him, Issei wore his emotions like a cloak for all to see. He never did have any hidden motives or beliefs; he literally proclaimed day in and day out how he was going to amass a harem, and if she didn’t find his beliefs and wishes so revolting, she may have admired his bravery. More than likely, though, was that she’d hate him even more for his stupidity. “Oh!” He turned his head to Maka and gave her a big, goofy smile that didn’t do much to hide his lecherous thoughts. But it was an earnest smile nevertheless, so she could give him that, at least. “Kiba and Akeno didn’t mention you at all! So what piece are you?” There was silence for a whole three seconds before Maka did her utmost best not to sneer. Rias looked like she wanted to palm her face in exasperation but couldn’t for some reason, so she settled for smiling thinly and looking awkward. “I’m not part of her Peerage, Hyoudou.” To be perfectly fair to him he took the confusing statement in stride, smile still on his face. “Oh, okay then. It’s weird though, I don’t think Sona mentioned getting a new member.” Maka really regretted getting out of bed. “No, I would imagine she did not .” She dismissed the idiot and turned a gaze to Rias. “Didn’t you mention it to him?” Rias sent a gaze that could have put ‘bland’ to shame. “I did.” She sent a pointed look to Issei, Maka following her gaze and seeing just where his eyes were. On Rias’ chest. “He was too busy staring at my breasts to hear a word I said.” Maka almost applauded Rias right there and then, because she’s quite sure the desert would be jealous of just how dry that tone of voice was. Issei, as though to prove the redhead right, had a far-off stare as his eyes were locked firmly onto her breasts. “Rias,” Maka started, eye still locked onto the literally drooling pervert, “what have you done ?” Rias had the good graces to look sheepish and embarrassed. “It…was a good idea at the time?” Sona can see her twitching, sometimes. Voices in her head, shadows that look like people. Rias can see her shivering, sometimes. Phantom hands on her shoulder, kisses to the cheeks. Tiamat watches from a hidden spot on a shaded rooftop in human form, blaringly aware of Maka’s mental state and hurting inside that she can’t do anything about it. Gabriel watches from Heaven, eyes droopy and sad, Michael placing a hand on her shoulder. A cat in diminutive form watches from the corner of her eye, resisting every urge within her to be the rock Maka so desperately needs. Maka’s fighting ghosts none of them can see, she’s carrying an entire world’s worth of spectres on her shoulder. She holds a concert of phantoms in her head and the list on her arm seems never-ending. She carries this like Atlas carries the sky. It’s all anyone can do to hope she never shrugs. The best thing about being a pseudo-witch is that Maka never ‘runs out’ of magic. she never suffers exhaustion like so many others do when using magic beyond their limits, because she doesn’t have any limits. Well, none that she knows of, anyway. Her magic lies dormant beneath her, hibernating and sleeping. Then, as soon as she needs it the magic snaps itself awake and answers her call with the obedience one could come to expect from it. it’s not lazy in its dormancy, either. Maka always has it circulating the air around her in a twenty-meter radius, locking down any chances to be snuck up on. Never running out of magic ensures she is fully aware of her surroundings twenty-four-seven, even when asleep. There’s extraordinarily little chance, bordering impossible, that she would ever get caught off guard by anything less than a being approaching god-tier. If she dove deep enough, far enough, into the magic surrounding her and anything to enter its radius she could feel emotions. Just surface level things, like feint imprints of feelings and thoughts rather than clear and concise emotive responses. It’s why she knows this ball of pure golden hair and optimistic shyness was a girl purer than virgin snow. Nothing but kindness, nothing but happiness and faith, and something…else, too. Past that faith, past that happiness. It felt familiar. “U-Um, hello! Ca-an you tell me where the church is?” This girl of pure faith and happiness and that something else beneath it all also, apparently, spoke a completely different language. ‘Well, that just won’t do’. With a quick flex of her magic she skimmed the girl’s brain and pulled the knowledge of the language – Italian, good to know – into her own mind. It took a bit to parse, a second or two too long, but Maka managed. She wouldn’t be stopped by something as pedestrian as a language barrier, after all. She was not one of this world’s pathetic excuses for a magician. Barely any better than charlatans spinning parlour tricks for a living, except these charlatans liked to spin their tricks with actual mana. “Could you repeat that? I didn’t catch it.” The girl’s eyes lit up like a veritable torch of hope and giddiness and childlike innocence, and everything in Maka simultaneously screamed and tried to escape, and yearned to be closer. This girl was too pure for this world, honestly. “You speak Italian!?” Maka lifted an eyebrow. “Yes.” “Uh…I’m Asia. Asia Argento.” “Maka Albarn.” And, just because she has zero cares for social norms or etiquette anymore, Maka huffs . “What was it you asked for, again?” “A-Ah! I, um, need to get to the church but I don’t know where it-” They were interrupted by a loud growling that sounded as though it came from a tiger. A very, very, very hungry tiger. ‘There’s a joke there, somewhere’ , Maka thinks dryly, ‘I think it involved hippos, or something’ . Before Maka could comment, perhaps even suggest the young girl follow her to get some food, she was interrupted by the nuisance leeching onto Rias showing up. She hadn’t necessarily ditched them per se, because admitting that would mean she’d willingly left Rias alone with Issei for more than a single second, let alone an hour, and her pride stung at the mere thought. Instead, she saw it as needing space; the pair of them exuded exuberance and surprisingly bounced their behaviour off each other. Rias, who should by all rights be acting like the perfect uptight rich girl was, instead, using Issei as a foil to sneak some innuendo her way – and she knows Rias is doing it on purpose, too, because those damned smirks! – and double entendre sentences that could mean anything . Issei was…Issei. Enough mentioned. So, yes, she needed space. Only for an hour – they did, after all, still have school in about forty minutes. Her eye drifted to Asia, then to Issei, then to Rias. ‘Sorry Asia, but I haven’t had any time with Rias thanks to the leech’. “Hyoudou, me and Rias have things to do in a minute and we need to hurry off.” She placed a hand on Asia’s shoulder and pushed her forwards slightly; like presenting a prize. Issei, to her infinite shock, didn’t even look remotely perverse when he looked at the blonde girl. “You’re going to take this girl to get some food, and then you’re taking her to the church.” Rias shot her a sharp look at that, but said nothing. “She speaks Italian, but you should be fine. Just talk for her.” “Oh…uh…” “Um, m-miss Albarn, I thought-” “Good.” Maka all but shoved Asia into Issei, the two of them clambering over each other to voice dissent or some other nonsense. In the time it took them to orient themselves and not look like complete fools Maka had grabbed Rias’ hand and began walking in the direction of the school. Issei turned a sheepish look to Asia and shot her a smile he hoped would put her at ease. And then her stomach grumbled. Issei laughed at her red face and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go get some food!” A week later Maka was sat in the Occult Research Club’s sitting area, pouring over some rather interesting theories on evolution that some man named ‘Darwin’ posited, when she began to think something truly strange. It was too quiet. Maka liked quiet, loved it even. Adored the silence she found at the end of the day when she went home to her apartment, enjoyed the quiet like it was an old friend. When things were quiet it usually meant nothing was happening and she could relax, take a breather, read a book or go for a walk. When things were quiet, nothing was happening, and therefore with nothing happening the world was well and good and she wasn’t needed. Of course, a reason she was also wary of the quiet was thanks to a saying she’d found in a book once; she cannot recall the name of the book, she’s read too many for that, but she does recall the saying. The calm heralds a storm. There was a storm brewing somewhere. There was this feeling in the air that she could taste on her tongue, this…electricity flowing that she could feel. It tingled along her skin and left gooseflesh, it jolted down her spine and left her feeling nervous, it prickled at her senses and made her aware of it. The door to the ORC opened and crashed against the wall to such an effect that Maka was shocked it didn’t begin crumbling. Akeno, just across from her and looking relaxed and calm, was instantly on alert. The air thrummed with a different kind of energy now, a different type of electricity. Maka herself had her palms open and her magic circulating beneath her skin, ready to launch whatever was deemed at the intruder. Akeno caught sight of the person at the door first. “Issei?” The pervert ignored Akeno’s confused questioning and looked directly at Maka – she still hadn’t settled her magic. She could acknowledge that he looked like shit all she wanted, but looking at Issei and seeing a sure, young man instead of a perverted boy was still a shock to her system. She shook it off. “Issei.” “M-Maka! They have Asia!” Asia. Asia was a kind girl with too much innocence and naivete. She was kindness incarnate, the picture definition of the word. And so, so heartbreakingly forgiving. Maka had learned of her past and what happened, learned how she was excommunicated and sent away, learned that Asia’s entire life had fallen apart because she was too kind – and she’d heard Asia denounce revenge or anger, heard her speak of friendship and forgiveness and of moving on. Asia was this little light in Maka’s dark world that hurt to see dim even for a second, and while they may not be Bonded Maka was damn certain Asia was made to be kind and innocent forever. Maka would treat her like she’d treat any of her Bonded in trouble. Maka hardened her knuckles until both occupants could hear the steady creaking of her joints. “Who and where?” “Fallen Angels in the old church!” “Akeno, let Rias and Sona know where we’ll be.” Maka sprinted through the door, a harried Issei on her tail and Akeno fluttering about casting spells to let Rias and Sona know what was going on. The calm before the storm indeed. Maka was a mystery to Issei. He had no idea who she was or where she came from. He had no clue of what she really looked like beneath those heavy robes or the bandages covering half her face. He knew next to nothing about her life at school or if she had any friends he’s never heard about, or whether she played sports or watched movies, or what hobbies she has and what music she listens to. She doesn’t gossip, she doesn’t ogle some of the ‘princely’ boys at Kuoh – looking at you, Kiba! – and she doesn’t sit with anyone during breaks and lunch period. Asking about her has gotten him mixed reactions, he’ll admit – from ‘oh, her? Yeah, I forget she comes here sometimes’ to ‘what? So you can perv on another girl?’ – and sometimes Issei wants to give it all up. But he can’t. he’s convinced, somehow, that Maka is more than she lets on to be; aside from dressing up in heavy robes and looking like she’d rather butcher him and his family than know him on any personal level, of course. She’s not just a weird almost-adult with a strangely late case of chuunibyou. No, Issei is convinced Maka doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t care for others’ feelings if it doesn’t benefit her, she doesn’t go out of her way to help anyone or anything if she can’t wring an advantage out of it, and she doesn’t do anything for anyone if it isn’t personal to her. She’s uncaring, unfeeling and doesn’t want to be around others, and damn if Issei’s more generous and chivalric side – buried beneath veritable mountains of porn obsession and breast fetishes – isn’t telling him that all she needs is a friend. He’s convinced she’s just lonely, sad, and weak but she’s putting up a front. Issei, when they arrived at the church, didn’t even get to ask her to stand behind him or some other nonsense before she ba ckhanded the church’s heavy wooden doors off their hinges . The doors, three times the size of a normal human and twice as wide, flew a good thirty meters before crashing into a group of people. He was worried, initially, until he saw the lightsaber knockoffs they were holding. Then he just sorta…stood there, gaping like an out-of-water fish as Maka dispensed her wrath. The first group of people to approach her, swords swinging – and yes, not one man but a whole bunch of them, about five or six if Issei’s brain was functioning well enough to do mathematics of such a low calibre – were instantaneously flash-cooked by what could only be described as a miniature sun in the palm of Maka’s bandaged hand. All six of the men were dead before they even hit the ground, skin charred to a black, crispy shade and the overwhelming stench of burnt flesh causing his nose to crinkle. Issei was no stranger to blood, and he’s even seen videos of eviscerated bodies from those ‘true crime’ shows, but this? Seeing it in real life? He had to fight his instincts to vomit and held them back with the recurring thought of ‘better them than me’. Maka didn’t even spare their charred corpses a thought, stepping over them – and into one of their skulls in a display of dominance to the now-cowering exorcists. Her single-eyed gaze swept through the room, the pentagram surrounding her red pinprick iris glowing faintly. “Hmph, not worth using my weapon on you lot.” Issei watched as Maka flexed her right hand, lifted it, and brought it down as though ordering the execution of a man in a guillotine. The results ended up the same, anyway. Visible shadows, pointed like arrows, stretched from her own and numbered well into the fifties before Issei could even blink. Each one looked as though the tip of the arrow itself could be used to slice through steel, let alone the body of an exorcist. Maka didn’t care for what other applications or uses her sharpened vectors might have had. They could have held the ability to eternal life and she would have used them as nothing more than glorified guillotines. She made a show of it, demoralisation of the enemy forces via sowing hopelessness and bewilderment. Outclassing them with sheer brute force where tactics wouldn’t have worked. The first enemy died in the blink of an eye, a vector of hers slithering across the ground faster than most people would have been able to see – it was so slow to Maka – and the point just-as-fast finding itself suspended right in front of the man’s face. Forward momentum carried the vector, well, forward; through his face and severing the top part of his skull from the lower part. Blood and fragments of bone flew everywhere, brain matter flowing suit as the body slumped to the ground lifelessly. It was over for one man in an instant, and the only bad thing Maka could think about was how she wouldn’t be able to kill all of these men in an instant as well. Maybe close to an instant, maybe even faster than close to an instant, but never so fast that they wouldn’t be able to see their deaths coming. She wouldn’t be able to make it painless, either. The first one was a fluke, a bug in the system. She wouldn’t be able to kill these men faster than they could feel it; she could boil their blood, freeze their bones, melt them from the inside out, but give a painless death? Maka did not delight in suffering – anymore, now that she was free of her madness for the time being – and she did not enjoy one-sided slaughters. The first few were examples, the latest was a testimony to her example. She hoped the rest of them got the hint and that her remaining vectors could be put away. She hoped she could look Asia in the eye when she saves her – not if , but when – and say she’s trying to be a better person. ‘Please just surrender. Give up, run away, just move out of the way even.’ DWMA students started screaming in her ears, two hands on her shoulders. She almost screamed in frustration when she saw a large amount of them square their shoulders and activate their light swords. Not all fifty of them, of course, because some of them began whimpering and running past her and Issei to escape the building. She let them. ‘Don’t make me kill you.’ The men that stayed squared their shoulders more and brought their light swords out in an attempt at intimidation. Their shaking hands and sweating foreheads made them look pathetic and they knew it, but they did not run. Why didn’t they just run ? ‘Flee. Please. I will kill you all.’ They roared to moralise themselves, a single unit of thirty or so moving as one cohesive individual. Their roars grew in pitch and, for a second, it seemed as though their weapons grew brighter. Faith didn’t necessarily power an exorcist’s weapons, nothing but captured Light did, really, but Faith could carry through and sharpen the weapon’s intent. ‘…So that’s your choice…’ Issei watched with concern and a burgeoning need to hop in and help Maka fend off the enemies charging her. His eyes flicked to her, instead; taking in the way she tensed her shoulders, visible even beneath the heavy cloak she wore. Taking in the way she dropped her head and seemed solemn. Taking in the way she released a shuddering exhale. Then she straightened as though nothing had happened, and Issei’s eyes fell to her shadow arrows. It was over in an instant. All thirty hovered in the air impaled on numerous vectors, each one a rictus of pain and agony. Maka, unseen, grimaced in self-deprecation. Silently she moved on, down the passageway that had opened up behind the now-dead exorcists. She took the stairs two at a time and didn’t even look back at Issei, afraid of the fear she could feel. Afraid of the little things in her head nibbling away. Afraid of the madness she knew was coming back. She paid no heed to the three Fallen Angels that zipped past her to deal with the encroaching devils, or the screams she could hear from Asia up ahead. She paid no heed to Rias and her Peerage arriving five minutes later to find Asia slumped on a crucifix and Maka burying her hand in Raynare’s chest. She paid no heed to the orchestra in her head playing Clare De Lune . she stood there for a while, just staring ahead at nothing, hands coated in thick blood and a barely recognisable Fallen Angel dead at her feet. She knew Rias was walking towards her, heard it, but she shook her head and waved a hand wordlessly to Asia. Rias stuttered in her steps, nodded, and went over with Issei and Akeno to help her down. Koneko stood next to her the entire time. Maka walked home, paying much more attention to the whispers of DWMA students than she usually would, and doing her best to assure herself she was still a person. She tried so hard to reassure herself she was still Maka Albarn and not some monster wearing her skin. She walked into school the next morning with deep bags beneath her visible eye and bloodied knuckles. She failed in reassuring herself. She’d taken a week to get her head screwed on properly after the sheer obliteration she’d taken part in at the church. A whole week of agonising over her sins and listening to the whistles of long dead people. In a week, things had escalated, and shifts occurred, and it took everything for her to fight the headaches as they came. Firstly, Asia had been turned into a Devil. That announcement alone hadn’t shocked her per se – she’d basically pointed Rias to her, after all – but the fact that the girl didn’t seem any less happy or innocent than she did still human did spark something in her. Something that was better left buried beneath layers of apathy and irritation. She ignored that scenario with an upturned nose and a friendly – for her, anyway – nod to Asia. The second thing that brought her no small number of headaches was Rias; or, more importantly, Rias and her ‘situation’. Now, she can’t say for sure what exactly the upper echelon of devils was thinking when they decided to write up a marriage contract like they were back in the damn middle-ages. In fact, Maka hasn’t got a clue what Rias’ own brother was thinking when he decided to essentially sell his sister off. Was it for the betterment of their family? Was it for a just and noble cause? Maka had this niggling feeling it was something far simpler. Something far stupider, too; something likely to hurt every precious brain cell she contained within her highly intelligent cranium and reduce her trillions of IQ points to a single digit in no time. Needless to say that Maka really didn’t want to know. She shook her head slightly and sent a curious look to the gathered people in the room; well, gathered devils. She’d been on a rather nice walk, today – the sun was high but it wasn’t hot, there always seemed to be a pleasant breeze wherever she went that tickled what little exposed skin she has available, and the only clouds above were scarce and white. There were very few people out and about to bother her, what with it being a school day, but that just meant she could walk around town with almost total silence following her footsteps. She’d been sat in a park when this maid woman proclaiming herself as Grayfia, maid of the Gremory family, had told her of an upcoming meeting that – apparently as Rias’ Bonded – she was obligated to attend. So, here she is, slumped against the doorway that led into the ORC, eye curiously drifting over the gathered devils and stopping on the newcomer more than a few times. She didn’t get to ask what was going on before Issei practically bulldozed into her, and dragged her over to where Rias and Akeno were. Okay, yeah…no. she wrenched her hands from his with surprising strength and continued the walk herself, Rias shuffling in her single person seat just enough for Maka’s slight frame to slide in next to her. Her lone eye locked with Issei’s pair. “ Hyoudou ,” it was a literal hiss, her words mixing with her magic to sound guttural and very unfriendly, “never touch me again.” She turned away from him – in the same move cuddling up to a very pleased Rias – and looked at the sole individual she hadn’t been given the name of. Grayfia, as is her prerogative as mediator for whatever the fuck this meeting is supposed to be, introduced the male. “This is lord Raiser Phenex, Heir to the Phenex Clan and betrothed of lady Rias Gremory, Heiress to the Gremory Clan.” Raiser’s face shifted from this blandness he had to a self-assured smirk, and his eyes locked on to her single eye. Despite looking at her, however, Maka wasn’t the one being spoken to. “Rias, remind me why we’re still arguing about this?” Rias next to her went rigid, and the pleased smile she’d had melted to a blank upset. “This marriage is for the betterment of both our Clans, and-” “Sorry to interrupt,” Maka interjected with this sound to her voice that indicated she wasn’t really all that sorry, “but as someone new to the supernatural of this world, could you explain how it’s for the betterment of both sides?” Grayfia’s eyes widened momentarily, but before she could speak Raiser cut in. “And just who are you to speak to me like that?” Maka, ignoring the slight rise in temperature, grinned beneath the shadow of her hat. It made for an impressively terrifying look. “Why, I am Maka, of course.” Raiser, in a display of true disgustingness, picked at his ear with a blank look on his face. “Should I know that name?” Maka stayed silent, Grayfia using this as a means to jump in. “My apologise, lord Raiser. I forgot to introduce her.” Grayfia straightened and waved a hand in Maka’s general direction. “This is lady Maka, Bonded of lady Rias Gremory.” At the stunned silence coming from both Raiser and Issei, Maka grinned wider. Then she slumped, a tiredness overtaking her that she hadn’t felt in years. Maka turned to look at Akeno. “Akeno, could I trouble you for some tea, please?” Akeno nodded, smiled thinly, and left the room to prepare some tea. “So, Raiser, could you explain the benefits of this betrothal that both sides gain?” Raiser, renewed with confidence – and with the secret hope he may be able to win over the Bonded of his betrothed – began a long and rehearsed story of how this ‘alliance’ benefitted the underworld. Maka said nothing, listening attentively and assured of something. What it was, exactly, Rias couldn’t tell. When Raiser left after Rias challenged him to a Rating Game in return for her freedom Maka took the tea Akeno just returned with. Her lone eye followed the steam, Maka herself ignorant to the gazes she was being sent – or, well, not ignorant, just uncaring. Grayfia, in a fit of uncharacteristic curiosity, approached Maka. “Lady Maka, might I ask what you intend to do?” Rias tilted her head but Issei was the one to ask the question on all their minds. Akeno’s placid smile gave way to something deeper, something more sinister that sent shivers down Kiba and Issei’s backs. “What do you mean? Isn’t this Rias’ Rating Game?” Grayfia tilted her head in acknowledgement of that fact. “Indeed, and usually an outsider of Lady Rias’ Peerage wouldn’t be involved. Seeing as how she’s Lady Rias’ Bonded however…” Akeno’s grin was positively frightening. Maka sipped the tea, having taken her gigantic witch’s hat off – exposing her pale blonde hair in the process – and eyed the maid with some sort of assessing gaze. “My, aren’t you observant?” She put the cup down and cleared her throat. “My plan is simple, so simple in fact even Hyoudou could do it.” “Hey!” Rias ignored her outspoken Pawn’s irritation at being demeaned and looked clearly at her Bonded. “So, what is it?” Maka glanced at Rias before locking eyes with Grayfia. “Could you tell me your full name, please?” Grayfia blinked and did so. “Grayfia Lucifuge.” “Allow me to properly introduce myself, Grayfia Lucifuge.” Maka tipped her head in a bow that could have been mocking. “I am Maka Albarn.” Maka rolled up the bandage on her left arm with a smile one would not be hesitant to claim belonged on some type of shark. “As Rias’ Bonded I am allowed, I believe, to aid her in this Rating Game.” “Indeed.” “Does that also mean I can bring in others I’m Bonded to and, therefore, their Peerages?” “I would say so, yes.” Maka tapped her once-bandaged arm. Grayfia tilted her head, eyes wide in an expression of disbelief. On Maka’s arm was a list of names so long and incomprehensible that her trained eyes caught upwards of fifty before Maka expedited the process and pointed her to a particular name. “I do believe my plan is rather simple.” Her finger lingered on the name that Grayfia would eventually report to her husband, of whom would become hysterical and laugh so hard he’d fall from his chair. “I will crush Raiser Phenex.” The entire room was silent, all eyes still locked on to the name standing out in crimson words against Maka’s pale skin. It halted its flight and set down just outside the school, and only just erected a silencing barrier before erupting into deep laughter. “Amazing! Simply astounding!” It almost wheezed. “So-so that’s your game!?” It continued to laugh for minutes on end, tears pooling at the edges of slitted eyes. “Well, I cannot keep her waiting longer than I already have, now can I?” Gabriel smiled wanly to herself when the feeling of being in a school brimming with Devils finally overtook her. It wasn’t unpleasant but it wasn’t pleasant, either. Like a sip of water that felt too heavy, or a bite of delicious food that doesn’t taste as delicious as she remembered it being. She looked at the door, aware of the reptilian eyes on her back, and turned away from it to the newcomer. “Tiamat.” “Gabriel.” The dragon in human form tilted her head and smiled a smile of sharp teeth and little else. “Is she yours as well?” Gabriel nodded. “Indeed, she is.” A small smile came to her angelic features. “I can’t wait to meet her…” Tiamat withheld a laugh behind a snigger. “Our Bonded must be something else to have both of us, of all beings. Shall we enter, then?” Without a word Gabriel opened the door. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The observation room just off of Sickbay wasn’t the ideal place for holding a debriefing, but this entire mess of a situation wasn’t ideal in the first place, and Picard had needed to adapt. There were only four of them present. Worf had been left in charge of the bridge, and Doctor Crusher was occupied in Sickbay with the badly injured Geordi La Forge. Data, who had seen better days himself, was standing so that he could see through the window and watch the flurry of activity around La Forge’s biobed. Picard, Riker, and Troi formed a semicircle around him. An engineer was scanning Data with an engineering tricorder, pausing every now and then to effect repairs to his synthetic skin. “From the beginning, Mr. Data,” Picard said. Data nodded and took them through the story again. It wasn’t that Picard distrusted Data’s perfect memory recall; he just couldn’t believe that such an ordinary mission had gone so badly so quickly. Data and Geordi had been sent to the surface of an uninhabited Class-M planet to collect samples of a previously-unknown fungus for analysis in the ship’s labs. The rest of the crew had been enjoying some leave. It was a bit of downtime before their patrolling mission was to commence next week, as rumors of possible Borg activity on the outskirts of the Federation’s borders grew more insistent. But the shuttle had malfunctioned - pilot error was impossible with Data - and gone down in the middle of a jungle, and it had taken rescue teams three days to reach the remote location and extract the two missing crewmembers. “How long were you unconscious?” Picard asked. “According to my internal chronometer, four hours, three minutes, twenty-seven seconds,” Data answered. “And how long after that before you found Commander La Forge?” “Approximately sixteen hours.” Data’s eyes tracked a nurse as she hurried across the room, carrying away a basin full of bloody clothing that would go immediately into the incinerator. “His injuries might have been less severe had I found him sooner.” “You did everything you could for him,” Deanna said soothingly. “He’s alive right now thanks to you.” “Data.” They all turned around to see that Beverly had stepped into the room. She was holding a PADD and looking grim. She walked over to them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you about Geordi’s injuries. The hand that was crushed - we have two options. The first one is obvious.” “Amputation,” Data said with a curt nod. “Yes. The second is riskier, but it might save his hand. It’s an experimental procedure that might get rid of the infection and restore circulation to the hand, but it’s not a guarantee. However, if it works, recovery will be rapid. He’ll be back working in engineering by the end of the week.” Picard frowned at her. Usually medical decisions of this magnitude were left up to a ship’s captain when it concerned one of his crew. Family members might technically be listed in the health care proxies on a crewmember’s file, but when time was of the essence, the captain had authorization to make such decisions. Beverly must have felt his confusion, for she looked at him. “Geordi drew up a new health care proxy about six months ago. He appointed Data as the agent who would make medical decisions on his behalf. I have the paperwork, if you need to see it.” He shook his head, too startled to think of a reply. “What are his chances if you attempt to save the hand?” Data asked. “It’s difficult to say. But the infection is spreading quickly. There’s always a risk it could continue unchecked, despite our efforts. Amputation would at least give him a ninety-percent survival rate.” Data nodded briskly. “Amputate the hand.” Picard watched as Deanna’s eyebrows climbed towards her hair. “Data, are you sure about that?” Riker asked. Data’s unnerving yellow eyes fixed on him. “I am certain,” he said. Beverly nodded. “We’ll get him into surgery right away.” She squeezed Data’s shoulder briefly before going back into Sickbay. Picard had a strange feeling that he had only understood half of the conversation; the other half was what went unsaid, and he couldn’t decipher it. The engineer who had been quietly working away on Data’s injuries finally spoke up. “Sir, we should get you to engineering for some of these repairs. You have ruptured some vessels, and for lack of a better description, Commander, you’re bleeding internally.” “I am aware of that. I can continue to function normally for the next eighteen hours, however,” Data said. “Thank you for your help, Lieutenant.” “Sir -” “Dismissed,” Data said, and if Picard didn’t know any better, he would have said that the tone was sharp. The lieutenant fled. Deanna put a hand on Data’s arm. “Perhaps you should go down to engineering for a bit and let them see to you,” she suggested gently. “I will leave when Commander La Forge is out of surgery,” Data said. He looked at Picard. “Unless you require more information about the accident, sir.” Picard shook his head and finally found his voice. “No, Data. That’s sufficient for the time being. We’ll resume the debriefing when Mr. La Forge is out of danger.” ------- Geordi was in surgery for the rest of the day, and when Picard went to bed that night, there was still no word on his condition from Sickbay. He woke up to a message from Beverly stating that Geordi was out of danger and that the surgery had been successful, but he was still unconscious. Picard had given Data the next seventy-two hours off, and so someone else filled his shift on the bridge. Beverly sent a message to Picard’s quarters halfway through beta shift to tell him that Geordi had woken, and he went immediately down to Sickbay. Deanna was already there, waiting in the observation room. “They looked pretty intent; I didn’t want to disturb them just yet,” she said, gesturing to the room on the other side of the window. Geordi was not only awake, but he was propped up on the biobed with several pillows, almost in a sitting position, and he was in the midst of a discussion with Data. In the intervening hours, someone had managed to convince Data to leave Sickbay long enough to shower and change. He was no longer covered in dirt, soot, and Geordi’s blood. He was off-duty, and as such he had opted to change into civvies instead of a clean uniform. He had chosen black trousers and a deep blue shirt. Picard was taken aback by it. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Data in civilian clothes. “Doctor,” he said when Beverly stepped into the room. “How is he?” “Fine, all things considered. He should be on his feet again within the next three days,” Beverly said. “I’d let you go in, but Geordi wanted a private word with Data.” “How did Geordi take the news?” Deanna asked. “It took a while to sink in, mostly because he was still coming off the anesthesia,” Beverly said. “He was angry at first, which is normal. I’d have been worried if he wasn’t. But he understands why Data made the call. I think he’s grateful for it now. He was in tremendous pain, and that would have only gotten worse if we had attempted to save the hand.” They lapsed into silence, watching as Geordi and Data talked. Picard wished he had been able to master the art of lip-reading; he wondered what was warranting such an intense conversation, if Geordi was truly as content with Data’s decision as Beverly said he was. He turned away from the window to ask, “Beverly, do you think -” Deanna gave a small gasp, cutting him off. He looked at her, and then followed her gaze to the window. Data was leaning down over Geordi, and it was obvious, even in the dim light of the room, that they were kissing. Geordi had his left hand in Data’s hair, cupping the back of his head. His bandaged arm lay across his stomach, and Data had a hand resting gently on top of the bandages. The other was braced on the biobed. They drew back for a beat. Geordi kept his hand in Data’s hair and spoke a few more words; Data answered them with another kiss. Then he straightened, and Geordi settled back against his pillows. “Perhaps we’ll come back later,” Picard said at last, and Deanna nodded. -------- “Thoughts?” Picard asked Deanna as they made their way back to deck two. “I never knew about this, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “I can’t say that I’m surprised, however.” “Aren’t you?” Picard rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I certainly am.” “Because Geordi’s with a man when up until now he has only shown interest in women, or because he’s with an android?” Deanna phrased the question as though she already knew what was bothering him. Picard nodded to himself. “You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t be thinking of Mr. Data as anything other than a man, and thus this shouldn’t be all that surprising, given that they have always been close. Though it does put me in a rather difficult position. Technically, Data outranks Commander La Forge. Officially, my options are, either I ask them to stop their association or I transfer one of them to another assignment.” “Unless Geordi isn’t able to resume his duties due to the nature of his injury and is forced to take a medical discharge,” Deanna pointed out. Picard inclined his head. That was true enough, though he hoped it would not be the case. “I have to think about what would be best for this crew,” Picard said, lowering his voice as a couple of crewmen passed them. “I can’t have two officers on my senior staff who are together and thus might risk disobeying orders if one or the other is in danger.” “They’ve obviously been involved for some time, and neither of them has ever done such a thing,” Deanna pointed out. They reached a turbolift. “Think about it before you make any rash decisions, Captain.” “Believe me, Counselor, I have no intention of trying to tackle this one until Geordi is ready to resume his duties.” He was in his Ready Room the next morning when the door chimed, and he called for it to open without looking up from his reading. “Captain.” Data crossed the room and stood in front of his desk. “May I have a word?” Picard gestured for him to take a seat and set his PADD aside. “What can I do for you, Commander?” “I know you are aware of what transpired in Sickbay. I must ask what you intend to do with that knowledge.” Picard leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together and regarding Data carefully. He hadn’t been prepared to have this conversation just yet. “First off, Commander, relax ,” he said at last. Data was sitting stiffly in the chair, even more so than was normal for him. “To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t think it’s something we need to discuss until Commander La Forge is fully recovered and ready to return to duty.” “I am his superior officer,” Data went on, as though Picard hadn’t spoken. “You must punish me, not him.” Picard held up his hand, stopping Data from saying any further. “Data, have some perspective. There are increasing tensions with the Romulans, the Cardassians are a growing threat, and another Borg invasion could happen any day. I’m not in the habit of punishing people for daring to fall in love. I have better and more important things to do with my time. But I admit to being curious, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk. “How long has this been going on?” “Approximately seventeen months, nine days, four hours -” Data cut himself off. “Nearly eighteen months, Captain.” Picard did the mental calculation. “That would have been… right around the time Kivas Fajo kidnapped you.” Data nodded. “Yes. Geordi and I had a number of discussions in the days after I was returned to the ship. It seems that he saw my return as a ‘second chance,’ as he put it. He thought I was dead, and it led to the realization that he had a number of regrets. When it turned out I was actually alive, he didn’t want to run the risk of having those regrets again.” “And how do you feel about the situation?’ “I am incapable of feeling,” Data said automatically. Picard let the silence stretch out. After a moment, Data added, “However, I find that I am now accustomed to his new role in my life, and I do not want that to change.” “Do you love him, Commander?” Data stared at him for a long moment. “If there’s nothing else to discuss about the situation, Captain, I should return to my quarters,” he said abruptly, getting to his feet. Picard nodded, dismissing him. -------- Geordi spent the next forty-eight hours mostly unconscious, according to Beverly. On the fourth day of his stay in Sickbay, he was well enough to talk, and Beverly invited Picard down for a short stay. She made it very clear that he wasn’t to tax her patient, though, and that she would be kicking him out after thirty minutes, no exceptions. “Mr. La Forge,” Picard greeted as he approached the biobed. “How are you feeling?” “Less handy than I used to be,” Geordi said with a crooked smile. He offered his left hand, and Picard clasped it briefly. “Doctor Crusher thinks I’ll be able to be released tomorrow.” “I’m delighted to hear that,” Picard said. “She mentioned something to me about you needing to be transferred to Starbase 24 in order to be outfitted with a prosthesis?” Geordi nodded. “They’re best equipped to deal with injuries like this, and it could take weeks for them to modify the prosthesis so that it works with my biology. And then there’s the physical therapy…” He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely. “I wish there was another way around it, sir, but you’re going to be without me for at least two months. And I understand if that’s too long, and you’d rather have me assigned elsewhere permanently.” Picard shook his head. “No, of course not. We’ll assign a temporary chief engineer to serve in your place until you can return. We’re going to be rendezvousing with the Antietam in two days. They’ll take you the rest of the way to Starbase 24.” “Thank you, sir,” Geordi said quietly. “And one last thing, Mr. La Forge - I’m sending Data with you.” Geordi frowned. “I appreciate the thought, sir, but I don’t need a babysitter.” Picard shook his head. “I’m not sending him because I think you need the help, Geordi. I’m sending him because he’s your partner… and he should be there.” He watched Geordi’s face for a reaction. There wasn’t much of one, except for Geordi’s lips thinning. He looked ready to go on the defensive. “Did he tell you?” “The two of you did, actually, though not with words,” Picard said. “I stopped by to visit at an inopportune time not long after you woke up.” “I see.” Geordi smoothed his hand over the blankets that covered his legs. “And what do you think you’ll do about it?” This time, Picard actually had an answer. “Nothing, Mr. La Forge. You both have been astoundingly discreet. You hardly could have known that I would have chosen that moment to come to Sickbay. As far as anyone else is concerned, I saw nothing but two friends chatting.” Geordi nodded. “I appreciate that, sir. To be honest, Data’s the one who - for lack of a better term - is paranoid about someone finding out. He seems to think that I’ll either be stripped of my rank or transferred elsewhere or - I don’t know - thrown in the Brig. For someone who claims he doesn’t have an imagination, he’s been putting it to good use.” “He did come into my Ready Room and try to take the fall for it,” Picard said. Geordi snorted. “Sounds like him. How much did he tell you?” “Very little,” Picard said, which upon closer thought was strange for Data. “He said it all began after the incident with Kivas Fajo. What’s it like?” He hadn’t meant to ask that, but then the words were out. Geordi didn’t appear fazed by it. “Not much different than before,” he said. “More - well. Just more , I guess. I see him more often now, obviously. We have meals together, share a bed. He doesn’t sleep, but he’ll stay over anyway, because he knows I like it. We talk. Go on dates to the holodeck. We’ve even discussed taking leave together sometime next year, though we were trying to figure out how to manage it without making anyone suspicious. I suppose that’s a moot point now.” Geordi sighed, a slight smile curving his lips. His voice sounded far away. “He was always there, you know. He was my best friend before all this; still is. But now it’s so much more . Whatever spaces there were in my life, gaps and emptiness… he’s filled them.” He worried a thread on the blanket with his remaining fingers and said, “I don’t think I’m making much sense.” “No,” Picard said. “You are. It makes perfect sense, Mr. La Forge.” Geordi was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Did you know he’s turned down half a dozen positions on other ships so he can stay on this one?” At Picard’s dumbfounded look, he added, “Yeah, he’s pulling a Riker on you. He keeps getting offers to be first officer on other vessels. Starfleet is eager to promote him. They can’t wait to give him his own commission. First android captain? Talk about revolutionary. But he won’t leave this ship while I’m still here. Not that I want him to leave, but I also don’t want him holding his career back because of me. Seems a bit sentimental of him, doesn’t it?” Picard could think of nothing to say, and he wasn’t entirely sure what Geordi was getting at, so he remained silent. Geordi went on, “You know, he’s always insisting that he can’t feel anything. That he doesn’t have emotions. But he’s gone his entire life with people telling him that he doesn’t possess them. So how would he know if those people were wrong? Soong said that he purposely made Data without emotions, but when you create someone as complex as Data is, how can you ensure that they don’t have emotions? Where would you even begin?” “You think he has emotions but he doesn’t know how to recognize them,” Picard realized. “Or they’re so suppressed that he doesn’t really express them.” “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but when it’s just the two of us…” Geordi trailed off, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Yeah, he can feel. I’m certain of it.” The doors behind Picard slid open, and he turned around to see Data standing in the entrance to Sickbay. He was holding a leather-bound book. “Here to save me from death by boredom?” Geordi asked. “I do not believe such a method of death is possible,” Data said. He crossed the room to Geordi’s other side and pulled up a stool next to the bed, perching on it and setting the book in Geordi’s lap. He looked up at Picard. “Did you need something, Captain?” Being dismissed by his second officer - this was a new one. Picard had a hard time finding it anything but endearing. “Not at all, Mr. Data. I was simply inquiring as to how Mr. La Forge was feeling. Have a good evening, gentlemen.” He looked back over his shoulder as he strode from the room, and watched as Geordi opened the book one-handed. Data seemed content simply to keep him company, and he rested a hand on Geordi’s thigh. Picard shook his head as he left, wondering how he had managed to completely miss the love that was so obviously there. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Bodhi Rook was no fool; his life as a pilot had not been peaceful and his life as a defector had been short and violent. He knew that Imperial thermal detonators were time and vibration sensitive. Once triggered, they went off on a timer, but could also be triggered by an impact. If not the impact of landing -- Still, he was dead either way. So in a split second after the detonator landed in the hold of his stolen ship, he ran through his options in his mind and decided to play the odds. His leg jerked out, powerful and square-against the detonator in the way a good ship lands in a narrow bay, and he kicked the motherfucker with half a hope that it would go off and kill him instantly, and three-quarters of a hope that it would sail out into the jungle and land harmlessly (or maybe even take out an enemy or three). The detonator went flying, bounced once, landed against a fuel resupply line, and blew. Bodhi rolled to put his back to the wave of heat and the muffled screams of stormtroopers. Then he sat up, looked around, and swore in four languages, because he really hadn't expected that to work. * When Baze fell, he fell next to Chirrut, and though he knew Chirrut was dead some small spark inside him refused to believe it. Just to be sure, and with the last ounce of physical strength he possessed, he lifted his hand three bare inches and laid it on Chirrut's arm. The pulse he felt may well have been his own. They would never know for sure. But he felt a pulse, and as he died he wished with half of him that he truly could find Chirrut in the Force -- A little under half. The larger half, the half that had given up after the fall of the Jedi, the half that protected Chirrut out of a consuming love rather than his duty, did not just wish to find Chirrut. After so long, it slipped quietly into the Force, but it didn't go looking for the dead. * Across the planet, up thousands of miles to the checkpoint station, and outwards into the battle, there was a ripple in the Force. It was not as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. It was as if one voice cried out and in the silence millions listened. On the planet, some stormtroopers shook their heads in confusion, overwhelmed with an urge to run to the aid of someone, somewhere. Some left their posts, trying to find where they should be. On the checkpoint station, staff and soldiers yearned to steal a ship and descend to the planet. Most told themselves it was because they wanted to fight. Above, in the battle raging, pilots and ill-prepared would-be defenders of freedom and generals redoubled their efforts to break through the gate. One princess, on a well-protected ship, heard a voice clear as a bell say, Bodhi Rook, come and find us. Down on the planet, still pants-wettingly shocked at his own audacity in kicking a detonator and reeling from his near-death experience and continual near-death on this damn planet, Bodhi heard it too. He shook his head, checked the comms, found nothing, and heard it again. Come on, pilot, we're waiting. * The beam had come, and so had the end of Jyn Erso's already-brief life. The Death Star had fired on the planet and she had already seen the tsunami of granite and sandstone devour Jedha City. It was too much to expect to survive her father's shame twice. But her father's masterpiece, lurking within his shame, was on its way to the Rebellion, and that was enough. She would not live to see its destruction, but there was a peace in knowing it would fall after her death. She and her mother and father, Bodhi and Cassian and Baze and Chirrut and K-2SO -- they would have their revenge, all the sweeter because they had died for it. And anyway when she was little Saw had taught her that it was glorious to die for the cause. She hadn't believed that in a long time but it brought some comfort, here at the end of the world. Cassian had his arms around her and both of them were shaking; she felt the shockwave of the blast begin to engulf them -- And then, within what she'd thought was the shockwave, the voice of K-2SO. "Get in, losers!" She blinked, opened her eyes, looked up. The battered Imperial ship they'd stolen was hovering there, hatch open, and Bodhi was standing on the deck. "Come on, come on!" he called, and she looked at Cassian, and he looked at her. "Well, dying heroically is stupid anyway," he said, and they ran. "Honestly, dying on a beach," K-2SO's voice said as they climbed into the hold, though he wasn't anywhere in evidence. "I'm ashamed of you. Where's my body?" "Uh," Jyn said. "He backed himself up in the ship's navigational computer before we landed," Bodhi said, as the entire ship juddered madly, tilting on its end and streaking through the sky ahead of the impact wave. "How'd you find us?" Jyn called. "Would you believe a dead man told me?" Bodhi called back. She barely heard Cassian and K-2SO's disembodied voice arguing fervently about a) why they had let K-2SO die in some horrible Imperial databank and b) why they hadn't even tried to recover his body. When she turned to the nearest viewport, she could see the blast's shockwave, ripping hungrily into the archive tower, obliterating men and machines and vegetation. Cassian, seeing her tense, joined her and stared down at the destruction, body warm behind hers. Good Rebels were dying down there. She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until K-2SO replied, "Good rebels might be dying up here." That was when she realized that the cargo nets had bodies strapped in them, and the smell of charred flesh was in the air. On instinct, she reached for the medikit and unstrapped Baze, who looked like he might still be breathing. Always tend to the breathing first. Cassian helped lift him into a chair. "Prepare for the jump to Hyperspace," K-2SO said, and Bodhi said ARE YOU CRAZY and the shockwave outside was replaced with streaks of stars for a moment, and then with a view of distant wheeling planets and the dying battle. Admiral Raddus's voice rang over K-2SO's. "Disengage engines for tractor-beam docking, Rogue One." * Back on Yavin -- back home -- Bodhi walked out of the ship, fell over, and started puking. Cassian, with a regretful look at her, dragged him off to the barracks for some quiet thinking time about what he'd done. Soldiers evacuated Baze and Chirrut, both barely breathing, and K-2SO said "I should very much like you to locate a spare droid who's not using their brains much -- " but Jyn didn't hear the rest because she was following the medics. * That evening, Mon Mothma arrived in the medical wing. "The medics say they don't know why they're breathing," Jyn said. She'd just sort of sat down in a chair next to their beds and not gotten up again. She wasn't sure where Bodhi was; hopefully resting. Cassian had come to sit with her and fallen asleep wrapped in a blanket under Baze's bed. K-2SO had infected the entire Rebellion base but she'd ignored him and he'd wandered off to pester the droid mechanics into building him a new body. "They're breathing and their blood's circulating and I guess they're healing but nobody knows why," she repeated. "Once," Mon Mothma told her, "the galaxy was full of Jedi. Throw a rock and you'd hit one. They could have told you." "The Force?" Jyn sniffed. "Speaking as a politician, I never trust anyone or anything, certainly something you can't see, which a religion was built upon," Mothma said. "Speaking as a human being, it's absurd to deny the existence of something when the evidence lies before you." Jyn leaned forward, face in her hands. "I thought we were all going to die." "You are," Mothma pointed out. "We all are. Well, perhaps not K-2SO," she added. "I have died once already," K-2SO said pointedly, through the speaker on Chirrut's biomonitor. "And much like your teammates, it doesn't seem to have taken," Mothma said. She patted Chirrut's hand, rising, gathering her robes about her. Jyn wondered idly how she kept them so white. "Our intelligence informs us that the plans you sent to the Rebel fleet made it as far as Bail Organa's agent before their ship was taken. The agent is in Imperial custody, but the plans appear to have been passed on; there are a few other spies unaccounted-for who may have them. We should retrieve them soon. I'll keep you informed." She paused, and Jyn could see the woman vanish and the politician appear. "When you are feeling well and capable," the politician said, "the Rebel Alliance would like to request your presence for a small ceremony. Rogue Squadron is being awarded medals of valor for your actions. Coming back alive helps us as well; you are the first heroes of the Alliance. Many people will look to you in the coming days, Jyn." Then a hint of the woman peeked back in. "If you were going to steal a ship, escape the Alliance, and go back to your old life -- or build a new one far away from the conflict -- then now would be the time. Speak to any of the flight supervisors, they'll find you an appropriate ship to steal. You deserve, at least, your freedom." Jyn set her jaw and lifted it, giving it her father's imperious tilt. "Ersos don't run from our destiny." "At least, not for long," Mon Mothma agreed, and swept out. This time the voice from Chirrut's bed was all Chirrut. "The Force is strong with you, Jyn." "I've never been Force sensitive," Jyn said, because she couldn't think what else to say. Chirrut smiled. "It's there just the same. Now, help me up, I need a meal before Baze tears into me for foolishness." "Is it you doing this? Is it Baze?" Chirrut shrugged, sitting up. "It is the Force." "Who -- " Jyn started, but Chirrut tumbled forward, expecting her to catch him, and by the time she'd settled him at a nearby table, gone to the mess, and brought him back a meal, she'd forgotten she was even going to ask. * Many years later -- many, many years -- Luke Skywalker and Rey, the desert girl with no last name, arrived at the Resistance headquarters to a greeting party. Luke did not look happy about it as he descended the ramp from the Falcon. "I ought to lock you up, except you'd only stay locked up if you wanted and you've always been a brat," said one of them. "Director Erso," Luke said. Rey looked back and forth between them. Luke added, "Rey, this is Director Erso. She's the Resistance's spymaster." "Intelligence director," Erso corrected. "And I wouldn't throw around words like spymaster in front of your sister, Skywalker," another one said. He had big dark eyes, knowing and clever, and under the anger in them Rey sensed a certain rough affection. "And this is Admiral Rook," Luke continued. "He and I flew together in Rogue Squadron during the Rebellion." "If you can call what you did flying," Rook remarked. He turned to her, and she didn't flinch. "I've been speaking with your friend, the former stormtrooper. We have much in common. He's awake and eager to see you." She looked to Luke, who gave a bare nod, and Rey followed Admiral Rook, who was already walking away. "Cassian Andor," Luke said. "You, I did not expect to see." "Strange," Cassian said. "You didn't think I'd abandon my life's work, did you?" "Well," Luke admitted, "I know something about doing that." Which was when someone said, "Luke Skywalker, the almost-last of the Jedi." Luke blinked. Behind him, under the hull of the Millennium Falcon, stood a grey-haired man leaning on a staff, milky eyes fixed on him. "Awkward as a title, I think, Baze," the man said. Another man emerged from under the hatch, shrugging. "Baze Malbus?" Luke asked. "Chirrut Îmwe ? I thought they made you up! " "We had work to do for the Rebellion," Baze said. "Work we could not do if we were known to the Rebellion too well. Better to be thought of as a story or a joke." "So we died in the medbay on Yavin," Chirrut said. "Sort of," Baze amended. "And then we went off to serve in our own way." "And now we're back," Chirrut said. "We decided it was time to take on a new student." Luke's eyes filled with sadness. The unspoken name of Ben Solo hung in the air like a ghost. "You would do better than I can," he admitted. "Oh, we weren't talking about her," Chirrut said, pale eyes still fixed on his face, and Baze grinned. Behind him, so did Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor, as they walked back towards the base, arms linked. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, hope survived. Some time later... "Hey," Luke said. "If you and Jyn and Bodhi are all here, where's K-2SO?" "He's on special assignment," Cassian replied. Aboard an Imperial cruiser: The medical droid was malfunctioning, Kylo was sure of it. It would wake him up to dose him with the wrong medications at the wrong times; it gave him sedatives before important meetings; it always seemed to grab him exactly where he was injured. And sometimes it would simply shut down and stand in the corner, inanimate, especially when he had important discussions with high-ranking Imperial officers. "Gentler, you bastard droid!" he said, as the medical droid yet again put its probes directly into the wound. "My apologies, Patient Ren." "Get out of here," Kylo hissed. "I wish only to serve, Patient Ren." "Get out!" he shouted, and swung a hand, Force-thrusting the droid back through the door and into the corridor beyond. "Understood, Patient Ren," K-2SO said agreeably. Honestly. The things he did for Bodhi Rook. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Despite Negan’s assertion that he would rather spend his nights with people who were willing to fuck him, a few days later Rick walked into his room to find Negan lounging on his bed again. He ignored Rick’s obvious confusion and just smiled and said, “Missed me?” Rick balked at the idea, and Negan chuckled. "Well, I missed you." Rick gave him a skeptical look. He wasn't expecting that, but everything about Negan was so bizarre and unprecedented that it almost didn't surprise him. Plus, he was probably messing with Rick. It was impossible to tell if he was ever sincere when he smirked around every word he spoke. "What, you don't believe me? Rick, I'm hurt." Rick sincerely doubted that. "I'll be here every few days. I gotta make time for my girls, but I don't want you getting too fucking lonely in here by yourself." He spent the night next to Rick, arm around him like nothing had ever happened. And the next night, he was gone again. I went on like that, Negan showing up a handful of nights a week to make sarcastic, vulgar remarks and spoon a reluctant Rick. Other than that, life continued like before, with Rick going out on supply runs, spending time in Alexandria, with his family, everything almost normal. Normal, other than the lowered morale and heightened anxiety surrounding the subject of supplies. Normal, minus the fact that every night Rick drove back to the sanctuary (after a few weeks of proving that he was obedient enough to come back on his own, Negan had allowed him to forego the chaperone), half the time to sleep beside the man who had forced him into this situation. Three weeks passed by faster than Rick expected. If he was being honest, it kind of snuck up on him, and it wasn’t until the morning of that he remembered that Negan and his men would be accompanying him to Alexandria to collect their supplies for the first time. He sat anxiously in the cab of the truck Negan was driving, trying to reign in the tension that he knew was probably rolling off of him in waves. The people of Alexandria weren’t exactly thrilled with their current situation, and many of them had rather vocally voiced their complaints to Rick over the last several weeks. It seemed that Rick’s acquiescence to Negan had left some people feeling a little more bold when it came to talking to him, and he’d gotten an earful from a handful of rather bitter people. He knew that, previously to this, several of them would have never dared to get up in his face the way they had. They saw what had happened to him with Negan, assumed he’d gone soft, and took the opportunity to really let him have it. Rick tried to walk that line between being accommodating and being in charge, but treading that line had never been his strong suit. He usually aired on the side of asserting his authority, but he knew that that probably wouldn't be very well-received, so he’d ended up just nodding along and letting them know that he understood their concerns and that he wasn’t any happier with this situation than they were. This hadn’t proved to be a particularly effective method, but it was all he could think to do. Getting up in their faces would only cause more division within their already fractured group. So he’d heard out their complaints, and he could feel the weight of them as the truck rumbled along, his thoughts a panicked mess. His real fear was that someone would step out of line again, that some pissed-off citizen would do or say something that would end with Negan taking Lucille to the skull of yet another person. As much as he had seen that Negan was capable of reason, he would never forget the results of their first encounter. “You alright there, Rick? You’re awful fucking quiet. What’s on your mind?” Negan’s voice pierced through Rick’s worried thoughts like a bullet. Rick continued to stare out the window as he answered. “Just hoping nobody does anything stupid.” Negan nodded his head. “You and me both, Rick. I told you before, I don’t wanna have to kill people. Your group forced my hand the last time, but I want to make this work. I just need a little fucking cooperation.” “We’re trying. People are just scared. They’re not used to living like this.” Negan grunted. “I’m aware of that, Rick. But if I’m being fucking honest here, I don’t particularly care about that. They need to get fucking used to it. I’m counting on you to get them used to it.” Rick didn’t have a good reply to that, so he stayed silent as they approached the gates of Alexandria. Negan stopped the truck and turned to Rick. “Do me a favor and go get your little gang to let us in, will you?” Rick nodded and hopped out of the side of the truck, walking up to the front gate. Rosita was on duty, and she scowled at Rick as he approached. She’d been one of the ones to give Rick a piece of her mind about Negan and their situation. Rick understood her particular rage, though, as she had lost Abraham. “Hey. Can you let us in?” He could see a muscle in her jaw twitching as she bit back a grimace, not speaking to him as she opened the gate and the trucks started rolling inside. “Hot diggity dog! This place if fucking magnificent, Rick!” Negan shouted as he exited the truck, Lucille slung over his shoulder. He strolled over to throw an arm across Rick’s shoulders, which earned him a disgusted sneer from Rosita that Rick tried his best to ignore. Lucille was still in the hand that was draped over Rick, and the bat hovered above Rick’s thigh in a threatening way that Rick didn’t particularly care for. A small crowd of people gathered to see what exactly was happening. Rick could see the familiar faces of Daryl and Aaron hanging a little further back, as if unwilling to get too close to the spectacle. Negan’s arm remained around Rick’s shoulders as he barked orders to his men to start gathering supplies, reminding them to only take half. As the crowd started to disperse, wary eyes still watching as the Saviors started pillaging, Negan pushed his hip into Rick’s. “So nobody started shooting off rounds when we got here. That’s a good fucking start.” He grinned, glancing down at Rick’s tense features. “C’mon, show me around this place. It’s fucking amazing here. Oh-” he removed his arm from around Rick, careful not to snag him with Lucille. He pressed the handle of the bat into Rick’s hand. “Hold this for me, would you babe? I keep worrying she’s gonna smack into you by accident and we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Rick grimaced as the took the bat, letting it hang by his side. Negan’s arm was then thrown back around his shoulder and he could feel himself being steered further into the town. Negan’s idea of being shown around turned out to be less of a tour and more of him wanting to make Rick as uncomfortable as fucking possible. Rick could only assume that was his goal, as they walked around observing the Saviors loading up their supplies. It seemed like every chance Negan could embarrass Rick in front of his group, he took. The arm around his shoulders as he was forced to carry around Lucille was bad enough. But then , as Negan was asking about food inventory, Olivia came over to help. Rick noticed that she eyed the possessive way Negan’s held onto him, and Negan picked up on it. “Ain’t we just the cutest fucking newlyweds you ever seen?” Negan grinned, and Rick could feel his face betray him by turning what he was sure was a vibrant shade of red. Olivia looked rather uncomfortable herself. “Um. I-I’m the one who keeps stock of the food and weapons. There shouldn’t be anything missing.” She stuttered, clearly nervous. There most certainly shouldn’t be , Rick thought bitterly to himself. They’d taken stock of everything several times over the last few weeks, not wanting to miss anything. There had been a bit of a situation with a couple of missing guns a little over a week ago. When asking and yelling and pleading hadn't worked, Rick had gone with his gut and ended up ransacking Spencer’s house and finding them hidden in a vent. Spencer had always given Rick some trouble, and Rick found that he didn’t really regret tearing apart his house to find the guns. He could question Rick’s authority all he wanted, but hoarding guns that he knew that Saviors would notice were missing was crossing a line. Negan’s smile turned hard and dangerous. “There had better fucking not be anything missing, ah-” he tilted his head, “What was your name?” “O-Olivia,” she shook out, clearly seeing the way Negan’s face changed. “Right. Olivia.” Negan’s grip on Rick’s shoulder tightened. “Well, Olivia, you had better be goddamn sure that there’s nothing missing, or else Lucille here-" Negan's arm dropped down to Rick's waist, his hand nudging Rick's and making Lucille swing threateningly, "-is going to have a little meet-and-greet with the rest of you fine folks. And I wouldn't want to upset my dear husband by having to do that .” He leaned back as he spoke the last words, his arm winding back around Rick's shoulders, and Rick felt like a puppet being dragged around by him. Olivia nodded fervently and returned to checking things off on the supply list as Negan walked Rick back outside. His men were loading supplies into their trucks as members of Rick’s group looked on helplessly. “You know, Rick, I have a good feeling about all this. Really, I think it could be the start of something great.” Rick couldn’t help the retort that spilled out of his mouth. “Can’t imagine what would make you say that. What, is it the truckloads of supplies that you didn’t have to do shit to find, or parading me around like I’m your trophy wife?” Negan leaned back enough so that he could look at Rick, as if he was shocked that Rick was the one who had uttered the words. Admittedly, Rick was pretty shocked himself. He’d spent the whole morning worried that someone was going to say something to piss Negan off, and yet here he was, saying something that could piss him off. There was a long moment of stunned silence where Negan stared at Rick and Rick held his breath, praying that his momentary lack of judgment didn’t reap any sort of dire consequences. And then Negan started laughing, his free hand clutching his side. “Holy shit ! Rick! Look at you , giving me sass. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me.” Rick hadn’t expected that response, and he felt his face heat up when he noticed Daryl standing close by, the strange look on his face indicating that he had heard the whole exchange. Negan’s gaze followed Rick’s to land on Daryl, his grin widening. “Hey! You’re Daryl, right?” he called. When Daryl didn’t respond, Negan sauntered over, Rick in tow. “It is Daryl, isn’t it?” he asked, eyes trained on Daryl’s face. Daryl looked at the two of them, his eyes darting back and forth between Rick and Negan and the way that Negan’s arm was slung over Rick’s shoulders. “What the hell is this shit?” Daryl spit out, his furious eyes meeting Negan’s amused ones. “ This shit ,” Negan intoned, “Is me taking a nice leisurely stroll through your fucking adorable little town with my husband.” He immediately noticed the way Daryl’s face contorted when he said the word husband, and raised his eyebrows. “Oh boy, you do not look like a happy camper right now. Goddamn, you really have a problem with me being all over your buddy Rick, don’t you?” Negan tilted his head, looking intrigued. “That is interesting. Now, tell me Daryl, why exactly is that? You got a problem with the idea of two men knocking boots? Or…” A wicked grin spread across Negan’s face, “Damn, were you two gettin’ it on before I swooped in and stole Rick for myself?” Rick’s stomach dropped when he saw Daryl’s face change and his fist clench by his side. He saw flashes of the scene from three weeks ago: Daryl punching Negan in the face and Glenn taking the hit for it. He was just about to throw himself at Daryl and physically hold him back when Negan laughed again. “You’re not really gonna try that shit again , are you? Jesus, after your little fit got that Asian kid buried six feet under last time, I'd think you would’ve learned.” Daryl looked stricken for a moment at the mention of Glenn before he spat out a Fuck you and walked off. Rick was surprised that Negan actually let him leave, but his attention seemed to be refocusing on Rick again. “You and Daryl weren’t bumping uglies, were you Rick?” he asked, his tongue poking out from between his teeth. Rick’s jaw clenched. “No.” he gritted out. Why the hell would Negan think- “Good. He seems like he’d be a possessive fucker and I don’t wanna deal with that shit. I don’t need your clingy exes whining about how I stole you away.” Rick didn't respond and they keep moving, watching for a while as Negan’s men loaded up the last of the supplies and started moving out. As they walked back to the truck, Rick was overcome with a pang of sadness that he didn’t get to see Carl or Judith today. Carl definitely would have known they were coming- Michonne probably told him to stay away. He was more than a little shocked that that worked. Carl had never been one to stay where people told him to. He was just thinking that he hadn’t seen Michonne, either, when he heard a voice from behind them. “Rick!” They both tuned to see Michonne standing several yards back. Her expression was unreadable. Rick turned to Negan. “Can I have a second?” he asked. Negan frowned, his eyes flicking from Rick to Michonne and then back. “No.” Rick closed his eyes and gritted his teeth before looking back up at Negan. “Can I please have a second?” Negan’s expression didn’t change, and his voice sounded strangely blank when he replied, “Fine.” Rick squirmed out from under Negan’s arm and walked over to Michonne. She eyed the bat that he still had gripped in his hand as he made his way over. “He…made me carry it.” Rick said, running a hand through his hair. “Where were you?” “I was out on a run. I just got back and was trying to find you. I’m guessing all those trucks I saw leaving were his. How much did he take?” Michonne’s face was distorted with anger. Rick couldn’t blame her. “Half. Like he said. There’s still plenty to get by on, I watched to make sure.” That sounds terrible, like he’s defending Negan, like he just stood by and watched complacently as their hard work was ripped out from under them, and that’s not what he was going for at all. But he trusted her to know him better than that, and she does. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, “I don’t mean to jump down your throat. I just…I went out on a run hoping I they would be gone when I got back. I didn’t want to see them. Didn’t trust myself not to say anything I’d regret.” Speaking of people that can’t be trusted to not do stupid things… “Oh, that reminds me.” Rick said, “Where’s Carl? I was sure he was going to show up while they were here.” Michonne actually broke into a small smile at the mention of Carl. “He was with me. I didn’t trust him not to try something, so I made him come. He’s back at the house now.” Rick nodded. “Good call.” Michonne smiled, bigger this time. “I know him too well.” Rick felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward Michonne for caring so much about his son. “Thank you. For looking out for him.” He glanced back to see Negan leaning against the front of the truck that they drove here, watching them with crossed arms. He tapped his wrist like a watch when he saw Rick looking back at him. Rick sighed. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Thank you.” Michonne nodded and dropped her arm, watching as he left. Rick headed back toward Negan. He wore a peculiar expression the Rick couldn’t place as he climbed into the cab. Rick set Lucille down on the seat between them and they pulled away and started driving, Negan being strangely silent for a few minutes before he finally spoke. “It was her, wasn’t it?” He asked. “What?” “The person you were with before I came in. It was her.” Negan’s tone was odd and it made Rick reluctant to answer honestly. “Why would you say that? You seem to be making that accusation a lot today.” He said, dodging the question. Negan wasn’t having it. “Answer the damn question, Rick.” He growled. The venom in his voice surprised Rick. “Uh, yeah, we were together.” Rick couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Negan’s issue is. He could see a muscle twitching in his jaw like he was gritting his teeth. “Correct answer, Rick. You were together. Past tense. I don’t want to see that shit again, you got me?” Rick spluttered. “I’m sorry, what?” Negan slammed on the breaks, hard enough that Rick had to fling out his arms to keep himself from going flying into the dashboard. “What the fuck are you-” “You’re with me now, Rick.” Negan’s eyes were boring into him, and he was practically seething. “I realize now that I may not have been clear about his, but I’ll fucking make it clear now.” He leaned in close, his face inches from Rick’s, his hard eyes glittering. “You. Do not. Cheat on me." Rick almost laughed. Luckily, he saw the look of absolute seriousness on Negan’s face and contained himself. “I’m not cheating on you. We haven’t been together since all of…this…with you started.” This was true. He and Michonne hadn’t officially discussed it, but after Rick had married Negan, the romantic side of their relationship seemed to have been put on the backburner. Which was okay, Rick told himself, because it wasn’t like they had time to fool around on the days that Rick was in Alexandria. And because Michonne had always been so much more than a romantic interest to him. The truly important parts of their relationship, the trust and the respect and the way they balanced each other, were still there, and her love for his kids was still there, and that’s all that Rick could care about for right now. Negan seemed to relax slightly, easing off the break so that they could continue driving. “Good. Good. Because I do not take kindly to cheating, Rick. Not at all.” Rick couldn’t help himself. “Strange you feel that way, given that you have quite a few other wives that I know about.” Negan barked out a laugh, back to his usual self. “One of the perks of being the big man in charge, Rick.” He replied, eyes on the road. “Pretty hypocritical of you, though.” Rick commented. Negan side-eyed him for a second, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Goddamn, Rick, you’ve got quite the mouth on you today. Any chance you want to put it to work somewhere else?” For once, Rick didn’t flinch away from Negan’s innuendo. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mused. “Got you all worked up and jealous, didn’t I?” He was pushing his luck here, he knew that. Eventually he’d say something that crossed the line and Negan would get pissed. But he found that he actually kind of enjoyed the banter. Negan spent so much of his time teasing Rick, it was nice to be able to get a couple jabs in for once. Negan chuckled. “What can I say, Rick? I like knowing I have you all to myself.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Lucy absently traced her fingers over the dark tattoo on Farron’s side, as she thought back over the last few days. Outside of some of her adventures with her spirits, she thought they might actually qualify as some of the best days of her life. Farron, as was apparently expected of a Boscan male, was an extraordinarily patient and giving lover. He’d been extremely careful with her first time, helping her to learn all the things about her new body that she might never have learned on her own. It had been incredibly odd at first, discovering that things she’d liked in her previous life weren’t the same as what she liked in this life. Her preferences in terms of what she liked in a partner and the dynamics of their interaction in the bedroom were all the same, but her body was completely different. It made sense in a strange way, that, that would be true. After all this body had a completely different genetic make-up than her previous one, and had been raised comfortably with none of the malnourishment from her last life that had often times made certain activities and positions uncomfortable because of her dangerously low body-fat percentage. However, because she hadn’t really put much thought into it, it had come as a bit of a shock. Thankfully, Farron was infinitely patient, willing to try anything she wanted to try, and perhaps more importantly, more than willing to stop if he ever thought she was uncomfortable or didn’t like something. He also didn’t give up on things entirely, the way Blaise had often done in their previous intimate encounters. Instead Farron would gently suggest trying something new or different in order to accomplish what she wanted. It really was a wonderful dynamic, and everything she could’ve asked for a first-time lover and more. Truly meeting him had been a wonderful sort of gift, and she found herself regretting that the night before had been their last time together. Honestly, it felt like things had sped by after that first night when she’d asked to share pleasure with him. Even though they’d packed a lot into the few days they had together, it still felt like it hadn’t been enough. A part of her wished she could ask him to stay for just one more day, but she knew she couldn’t. She’d known from the beginning that this was just a short fling, meant to be temporary with nothing more to it than that. There was no possibility of more, and a part of her knew that right now, at this point in her life, she didn’t even really want more. It didn’t stop her from feeling rather wistful though, of the things that might have been, if things were just a little bit different, if he wasn’t a Boscan Ambassador, if she wasn’t a Fioran mage. However, if her past life had taught her anything, it was that there was no point on dwelling on ‘what ifs’ and ‘might have beens’, thus as her companion stirred awake, sleepy blue eyes blinking open to watch her with amused affection, she decided to take advantage of the moments that she had, pressing her lips to his eager willing mouth, and taking what she could while she could, and to say goodbye at the same time. ♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️ “Are you alright?” Cana asked her, clearly a bit hesitant as the two of them boarded the train headed back to Magnolia. They’d spent the morning packing up their tent, returning their rented gear, and checking in with their client. The man had been extraordinarily pleased, and had told them rather earnestly that he hoped to see them back next year. It was an offer she was seriously considering, as both she and Cana had made quite a bit of money, far more than either of them had really expected. Cana had been utterly ecstatic about the whole thing, and had eagerly promised him they would before the two of them had left for the station. Her companion had been practically walking on air all morning, chattering eagerly about the wonderful time she’d had with her own Boscan lover, and how glad she was that she’d invited Lucy to come along with her. Lucy had done her best to keep up with her friend, especially since she truly did feel grateful to Cana and felt like they’d gotten a lot closer on this trip. She now counted the brunette woman as her closest human friend in this new life, the two of them sharing a lot on their little trip. However, unlike her companion she wasn’t feeling all that energized, the late nights of work and the time she’d spent with Farron rather than sleeping like she probably should’ve been, starting to catch up to her. She’d been fighting back her yawns all morning, and it seemed Cana had definitely noticed. “I’m alright,” she assured her friend with a grin, as the two of them got settled in their first-class cabin, “just tired.” “No regrets?” Cana asked, with gentle empathy, clearly a little worried that Lucy had gotten in over her head with Farron. She was honestly touched by the brunette’s concern. Before their trip she honestly wouldn’t have thought something like that would’ve occurred to the Card Mage, who always seemed to be looking for a good time, but she’d learned Cana was a lot more empathetic and doubtless a lot more perceptive than people gave her credit for. “None,” she assured her friend with a smile, “Farron was temporary and we both knew it. It was fun while it lasted. I’m just feeling a little wistful, and a lot tired, though I have to say the missed sleep was entirely worth it.” That got the bawdy laugh she expected from her friend, who grinned at her, a proud gleam in her eyes, though she surprised her a bit, by not dropping the subject entirely and asking, “So you’re not going to stay in touch with him? Not even as friends?” “No,” Lucy told her with a slightly wistful smile, willing to open up to her, at least on this, “The two of us move around too much, him with his Ambassador work, and me just going where the wind takes me. Plus, I think both of us really wanted to keep the memories we had of each other pristine you know? Leave things off on a good note and not drag them out or potentially taint them with the struggle of maintaining long distance communication.” “That makes sense,” Cana agreed sympathetically, before gently teasing, “I still can’t believe you managed to seduce the Boscan Ambassador though!” “I didn’t seduce him,” Lucy protested with a laugh, “Or maybe I did, but it definitely wasn’t one-sided. He definitely seduced me too.” Cana snickered in amused agreement, the two of them relaxing together, taking a moment to enjoy the other’s company as Lucy asked, “What about you? Your Boscan guy, Beck right?” “We were both just in it for the fun,” Cana told her with a grin, clearly unbothered, “He told me straight up he was hung up on another guy. The sex was pretty fantastic though.” The two of them giggled together over that, spending an enjoyable ride back to Magnolia just chatting over everything they’d seen and done at the festival. Eventually her tiredness caught up to her though, and she found herself dozing off. She eventually woke to Padfoot gently nudging her to get her up once they arrived at their stop. Sleepily she nudged Cana awake too, the other woman having also fallen asleep at some point, and the two of them staggered off the train together before heading their separate ways promising to meet up at the Guild Hall the next day. Luckily despite how tired she was, it wasn’t that far a walk to her apartment, and Padfoot kept her firmly on track and prevented her from stumbling into anything or anyone. It was the work of moments to let herself into her dark apartment, slide off her shoes, and plop face first into bed. Before she dozed off, she sent up a quiet prayer to whoever might be watching over her, giving thanks, both for her new closer friendship with Cana, and for sending Farron into her life. She would definitely never forget the handsome, charming Boscan, and quietly swore to herself that no matter what she really was going to visit Bosco some day and see everything he’d told her about with her own eyes. ♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️ When she woke the next day it was fairly late, far later than she was used to sleeping. However, she felt extremely refreshed and set about washing up and getting ready for the day in a very good mood. Walking into the Guild Hall, she immediately made her way up to the bar where Mirajane was wiping down the counters. Things were actually surprisingly quiet considering it was almost noon, a fact she was quick to remark upon to the white-haired bartender, who greeted her with a bright smile. “It’s because Natsu, Happy, Gray, and Erza are all out on jobs right now,” Mirajane explained with an amused grin, “That and I think Cana’s still sleeping off the job the two of you did together. She hasn’t been in yet today. It’s always a lot quieter when Natsu and Happy aren’t around, and the others add their own level of noise.” “I certainly believe that,” Lucy agreed, sharing a giggle with the bartender. “Don’t get too used to it though, all of them are due back later, so no doubt it’s going to get quite loud in here soon,” she warned, as she slid Lucy her tea, “But that’s for later, tell me about your job!” Lucy grinned at her and agreed, the two of them chatting for quite a while with Cana, who popped in close to half-an-hour later, piping in to add her own details. Mirajane huffed a bit at the two of them for finding men to sleep with while they were at the festival, but in the end conceded it wasn’t really any of her business who they slept with and who they didn’t. After she got over that the three of them spent an enjoyable hour giggling over the Boscans she and Cana had met and the wonders of Boscan kissing chocolate. Around noon the person Lucy had been waiting for finally arrived, plopping down at the bar with his dad for lunch, as was their tradition. Macao apparently wasn’t much of a cook, though he did do his best for Romeo, which she honestly found very admirable. She’d been a bit disapproving of the way Macao had gone haring off on a dangerous mission when he had a child waiting for him at home. However, after a few of Padfoot’s pranks and learning that the only real reason he’d gone in the first place was because Romeo had asked him to and he wanted to make his son proud, she’d softened up to him. It helped that in general he was incredibly respectful to her, and not one of the men in Fairy Tail who had ever tried to hit on her. “How was your mission?” Romeo asked the two of them eagerly, leaning forward so he could see her, clearly hoping to get a good story out of it. The boy clearly idolized Mages, and her and Natsu in particular after they’d saved his dad. It was rather sweet, and while he certainly had his moments, all in all he seemed like a good kid, who’d taken all her words about Celestial Magic to heart. It was the only reason she’d even considered what she was about to do. “It was good,” Lucy told him, with a smile, “We put on a good show, shopped around at the Festival, and got paid well. It was everything I could’ve asked for really.” “Sounds kind of boring,” Romeo told her bluntly, in the way of all kids everywhere, sinking back in his seat, clearly a bit disappointed. No doubt he’d been hoping for another grand adventure story like the one Natsu had told him about their stealing the book from Duke Everlue. Kids would be kids after all. “Maybe, but I did get something rather interesting at the Festival that I think you might just enjoy,” she teased, an amused smile stretching across her face as he immediately perked right back up. “What did you get?” he demanded eagerly, nearly bouncing in his seat, staring at her with wide eager eyes. A part of her wanted to tease him a bit more, but she couldn’t bring herself to prolong it, not when she could practically see the puppy dog tail wagging behind him at a mile a minute. Instead she held out her hand and pulled the three silver keys she’d bought from the stall into her palm, flaring them out with her fingers so Romeo could see. “Are those…?” Romeo prompted, clearly excited and practically wiggling in his seat as he stared with almost literal stars in his eyes. “That’s right,” she told him with a pleased grin at his excitement, “Silver Celestial Spirit Keys. Pavo, the Peacock, Canis Minor, the Little Dog, and Ursa Minor, the Little Bear.” “Wow! Are you going to summon them? Can I see?” he asked hopefully. “I’m not,” she told him, unable to help the amused quirk of her mouth as he immediately started to droop, sending her a set of puppy dog eyes that would put Padfoot’s to shame, before she continued, “You are.” “I am?” Romeo questioned, looking a cross between bewildered and eager. “You are,” she repeated, with a laugh, “Your dad and I already talked it over. There’s no reason you can’t try to learn a bit of Celestial Spirit magic. I don’t know if you have the reserves yet, to open one of the gates, but you will eventually and so you need to practice and for that you need a key. One of these will be your first, so choose wisely.” She exchanged amused indulgent looks with Macao as Romeo gaped at her for long minutes, clearly stunned speechless. She was feeling rather pleased with herself for the reaction, glad to make the boy happy, and glad that he clearly did feel rather reverent about learning to do a type of magic she truly cherished and felt was special. “Who do you think I should choose?” he asked, clearly torn as he glanced between the keys in her hand. “That depends on what you’re looking for,” she told him with a grin, pleased that he liked the keys she’d managed to pick up, “Canis Minor and Ursa Minor will both be easier to open, meaning it won’t take you as long to build up the magic and you might even be able to open the gate right away. They’re both considered companion keys and are a lot of fun. Pavo on the other hand might take you a good long while to open, but it also specializes in disguise magic, which could be useful in the future.” “I don’t want to wait,” Romeo admitted, “Even if Pavo is cool I’d rather have a new friend right away. That way we can grow together.” She wasn’t surprised by that at all. Normal kids weren’t exactly known for their patience. Still he did have fairly good reasoning, so she carefully tucked Pavo’s key away leaving him with just two choices. “You should pick Canis Minor,” Padfoot informed him, piping up from where he’d been watching in the shadows, “Ursa Minor isn’t good for much other than playing, but Canis Minor can both track and play.” “Padfoot,” she scolded, exasperated, “It’s Romeo’s choice and you shouldn’t interfere.” “I just want the kid to make the best choice,” Padfoot informed her with a huff, “Which is clearly Canis, because I’m also a member of the Canis family. Besides all the Ursa Minor keys are a bit slow you know?” “I’ll take this one,” Romeo told her, gently tapping the Canis Minor key, making his choice before she could scold her errant friend anymore for interfering. She shook her head and heaved a sigh, but passed the key over to the boy who gripped it with a wide, beaming smile on his face, his eyes staring pleadingly up at her. He was doing such a good impression of a puppy himself, which made her think he might’ve just made the right choice after all. “Alright, do you know what to do with it?” she asked patiently, as she tucked Ursa Minor’s key back into her requip space with the others. Romeo shook his head, so she carefully walked the eager boy through all the steps he would need to go through in order to contract his key. It was the same process her mother and Bero had gone through with her all those years ago. It made her both a little sad and incredibly nostalgic, even as a small part of her wondered if she might be able to do this with her own kids someday. Carefully she drilled him on the words, making sure that he knew exactly what to say, and then stepped back, giving him the go ahead to try it for himself. Romeo squirmed anxiously under her gaze, his eyes darting around the room, and she realized rather abruptly that they’d attracted quite the audience. Almost everyone in the building was watching interestedly, clearly feeling like they were prime entertainment. “Um, can you go first Lucy?” Romeo asked her hesitantly, “Maybe show me how it’s done first?” “Of course,” she agreed with an amused indulgent smile. It was the work of a second to pull out Pavo’s key again and hold it in front of her, flooding the small metal object in her hand with power and intoning the traditional words, “Gate of the Peacock, I open thee, Pavo!” The being who emerged from the gate was unlike any she’d seen in this life or the last. They had an absolute tumble of teal and green curls that were held up on their head with pins shaped like jeweled eyes interspersed with peacock feathers and a glinting silver and gold ballroom style mask. Jewelry in delicate chains of silver and gold hung around their neck, wrists and ankles, set with glinting gems. They were wearing a corset like top that laced all the way up to the neck at the back in a deep blue, leaving absolutely no hint in their chest about whether they were male or female, and a skirt of shimmering greens, blues silvers and golds that was shorter at the front than the back. “Well hello there darling,” their voice was sweet, but distinctly androgynous just like their body, which was well muscled behind all the finery, as they fluttered their lashes at her and then proceeded to walk a slow circle around her, like a predator stalking prey, taking her in at all angles, “I take it you’re my new master, or I suppose mistress in this case.” “I prefer the term friend, or partner if that doesn’t suit you,” Lucy told them, keeping her tone friendly and light as she asked, “I’m sorry, but do you have a preferred pronoun?” It was a bit blunt, and ruder than she would’ve liked, but she’d always figured it was best to ask outright then to assume and maybe guess wrong. However it seemed to be the correct thing to say as it stopped Pavo in their tracks. “Either Xe Xem or they them darling I’m not particular,” they told her lightly, studying her curiously before nodding to themselves, “Down to business darling. Contract?” “When are you free?” Lucy asked, prepared to commit it to memory even as she pulled a pad and pencil from her requip space just in case. “Every morning to help you get ready darling,” they assured her, with a conciliatory smile. “You’ll have to fight Cancer and Virgo if you truly want to help out,” Lucy warned with a wry smile, well aware that Virgo in particular would pitch quite the fit and become ridiculously passive aggressive if she thought someone else was trying to steal her time with Lucy. “Well it hardly seems like you need me do you darling?” Pavo asked with a slight frown on their face, just visible because of the tightening of their lips. “It’s not about need. I don’t make my keys do anything they don’t want to, so if you want to join us, then you’re more than welcome,” Lucy assured them firmly, “Though I’m also well aware you do far more than just color magic.” “Well, well-educated then aren’t you darling?” Pavo asked brows raised in surprise, “But if you’re wanting what I think you’re asking for I’m going to have to rescind my offer and change it to once a week. No time or day limit, but only just the once.” “Can they do that?” Romeo demanded, butting in, staring wide-eyed at Pavo, clearly shocked as he clarified, “Can they change their agreement like that?” “Sure,” Lucy told him, turning her attention to the boy and taking full advantage of the prime teaching moment, “When you first summon the Celestial Spirit from the key you haven’t set a contract yet, and just like any contract you can negotiate terms.” “However with Celestial Spirits, they’re the ones to set the terms, they don’t actually have to agree to anything you ask for. Can you guess why that is?” she asked him patiently. To his credit Romeo did give it a good minute’s worth of thought before shaking his head in the negative before staring up at her with worshipful eyes clearly expecting her to tell him, and looking at her as if she had all the answers in the universe. It was incredibly flattering, she only hoped she could live up to his faith. “A Spirit absolutely cannot break the terms once they’re set,” she explained patiently, “That means that they open themselves up to be abused quite badly if their contract holder isn’t kind. A Spirit can always offer you more time later on once they know you better and trust you more. They can renegotiate their contract, but they can’t offer less time without verbal permission from their keyholder, only more. Does that make sense?” “So a Spirit starts off giving me only a little and I have to earn more, and prove I’m a good person,” Romeo summarized thoughtfully. “Very good,” she agreed with a grin, making him light up at the praise, “That’s exactly right. You should always treat your spirits respectfully the same way you’d treat any human friend or family member.” “Teaching the next generation darling?” Pavo asked curiously, from where they’d been watching, an odd note in their voice. “Something like that,” she agreed with a fond look at Romeo who was practically vibrating with excitement, clearly ready to contract his own key now and simply waiting for her to finish up with Pavo. “Mind if I watch?” they asked idly, their voice almost too casual. “That’s up to Romeo,” she told them calmly, “I certainly don’t mind, but it’s his moment not mine.” “You can watch!” he agreed immediately, before Pavo even had the chance to ask, “Does that mean I can go now?” “As long as Pavo doesn’t mind,” she told him with an indulgent grin.” “Who am I to stand in the way of a new Celestial Spirit Mage?” Pavo asked rhetorically, as Romeo turned his pleading eyes on them, “By all means, summon away darling!” Romeo beamed, and took his key in hand, a intensely concentrated look on his face that was more adorable than fierce. He took a couple deep breaths to steady himself then called, “Gate of the Little Dog, I open thee, Canis Minor!” The bells chimed, and there was a flash of light, signaling a successful summoning. It surprised her a little that he’d gotten it on his first try, though it probably shouldn’t have considering Macao had already started working with him on his magic. She wasn’t sure what she’d expect for the gate of Canis Minor, maybe a miniature version of Padfoot, but it certainly wasn’t what emerged. In her experience the Celestial Spirits at least partially resembled the constellation they were named for. However, that wasn’t the case with Canis Minor, who emerged looking more like her vague memories of the Weasley’s twins misshapen snowmen than any sort of canine. “Pun-pun!” the spirit cheered delightedly, raising its small hands into the air, clearly happy to be summoned. However with every step it took its whole body seemed to shake, as if it was shivering, which was a strange concept, a shivering snowman. Romeo glanced up at her, clearly as baffled as she felt and hesitantly asked her, “Did I mess it up?” Lucy wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. She didn’t think he had, but then, this wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She was about to defer to Padfoot, as he would clearly know, but her canine spirit was apparently way ahead of her. His paw emerged from a nearby shadow and knocked into the strange snowman creature sending it tumbling head over heels, making Romeo yelp in concern, rushing after the stumbling spirit. “Knock that off pup,” Padfoot ordered, clear annoyance in his voice, “You’re in the presence of your new summoner as well as my own. It isn’t the time to be playing with your shoddy shape-change magic.” “Shape-change magic?” Lucy asked curiously. However, he didn’t have time to answer, as Romeo let out a surprised yelp, directing her attention to Canis Minor, who did indeed apparently have shape change magic as the visage of the snowman creature melted away leaving an adorable and fluffy white Samoyed puppy in its place. The puppy yipped and she noted that this time she could actually understand what it was saying, and judging from the look on his face Romeo understood too. It hadn’t even occurred to her how odd it was that she hadn’t understood at all in its other form, though now that it had been brought to her attention she reasoned it was likely because the shape-change magic was unstable enough that Canis Minor couldn’t actually form words in that form and had to reply completely on tone to convey his meaning. It was also likely the reason he had been so shaky in his movements, the effort of holding his form in place almost too much for him. It made a lot of sense really, though she never would’ve guessed that Canis Minor knew shape-changing magic of all things, and wasn’t sure why Padfoot hadn’t mentioned it, a thought she voiced to her own canine companion as Romeo delightedly set about negotiating his contract. “That’s because he doesn’t,” Padfoot informed her wryly, though she thought she detected some underlying admiration in his voice, “Transformation magic doesn’t come naturally to him the way it does to some others, but he wanted to be more useful so…” Padfoot trailed off there, but she got the gist of it. Canis Minor wanted to be summoned more often and viewed as important, so had set about learning something new. It was an attitude she could admire, even as her heart went out to the small Spirit who’d no doubt been hurt before. “Have to admire the little bugger’s persistence, it’s been a hundred years after all,” Padfoot admitted with a sigh that was part admiration part exasperation, “And he still hasn’t mastered it, not that I can blame him, dabbling in magic that doesn’t come naturally isn’t easy for anyone, let alone Spirits like us who are literally made of our magic in some ways.” “It is impressive,” she told him, remembering how much she’d struggled to learn her requip magic, and wondering just what kind of trauma would’ve pushed the spirit to work that hard at something for such an extended period of time. Luckily whatever it was it didn’t seem to have shaken his faith in people as he gleefully told the equally delighted Romeo that he could summon him whenever he wanted and he would come. The two of them were awfully cute together, and she had full faith Romeo would treat the spirit well, otherwise she never would’ve given him the key in the first place. “They’re very cute,” Pavo noted, almost as if he was reading her mind, an edge of wistfulness to his tone that tugged on her heartstrings, “Let’s hope they stay that way.” “They will,” she told him firmly, hoping her stout belief would help assuage whatever fears Pavo might have about Romeo and Canis Minor. It was becoming more and more clear with every spirit she met that none of them were really treated well. If she was honest with herself it was really starting to make her angry. Clearly if a majority of the spirits were being mistreated then something needed to be fixed. Unfortunately as far as she knew that was all in the hands of the Celestial Spirits and their King. There was nothing she could do, nothing she knew of anyway, though she made a mental note to research it when she got the time. “And what are you going to do if they don’t darling?” Pavo asked, the question pulling her back to the present and the current issue at hand. The tone he’d said it in was casual, though she knew it was far weightier than he was making it seem. “I’ll take the key back from him,” she answered calmly, “I already told Romeo what the consequences would be if he mistreated the spirits under his care. He knows I won’t let him get away with it.” “And after?” Pavo asked curiously, jeweled eyes glittering as they watched her from behind the lovely mask on their face, “What would you do with Canis Minor’s key?” “Whatever he wanted me to do with it,” she answered, with all the gravity the question deserved, “If that was finding a new summoner, hiding it away, or just contracting him myself, whatever he wanted I would find a way to make it happen.” “Idealistic little thing aren’t you darling?” Pavo asked quietly, though she got the feeling the question was more rhetorical than anything else. However, before she could say anything else they quickly informed her, “Twice a week whenever you like, for whatever you might need and that’s my final offer darling.” “Alright,” she agreed with a smile, “Thank you Pavo. Are you going to stick around for a while?” “No,” they told her, tilting their head and studying her intently for a moment longer before admitting, “I’ve seen all I need to see. Congratulations on your first contract.” This last was directed at Romeo who was holding the joyful Canis Minor in his arms. The boy quickly thanked the spirit who gave one last wave to the room in a polite goodbye before disappearing back to the Spirit Realm. The weight of the contract she’d made settled into her magic as he left, sealing their deal, and she smiled at the familiar comforting feel before turning to Romeo. “He says he wants to be called Plue,” Romeo told her gleefully with a happy giggle as Canis Minor gave an agreeing bark and licked his cheek in clear affection, the two of them obviously bonded already. “Did you get your contract agreed on?” she asked, just to be sure. She was pretty sure they had, but she’d gotten distracted by Pavo for a bit. “Plue says he’ll come whenever I call,” Romeo answered with a wide grin, as Canis Minor, Plue, barked out his agreement. “It sounds like you were very lucky then,” Lucy told him indulgently, “You and Plue had best take good care of each other okay?” “We will,” they chirped together joyfully, before giving her one last thanks and running off together somewhere to play. “Thank you,” Macao told her in an undertone as the two ran around the room, showing off to the rest of the guild who were all watching on fondly, “I really appreciate you doing that for him.” “It was my pleasure,” she answered honestly, “Good celestial spirit summoners are apparently few and far between nowadays, so it was nice to add one to our ranks, even if he probably isn’t ever going to be a serious summoner given how gifted he is with fire magic.” “Still it will be nice that he has a friend he can call on at any time,” Macao persisted sincerely, “I do my best, but I do have to leave sometimes to keep a roof over our heads and I know the Guild looks after him, but I also know he gets lonely.” “I’m glad I could help,” she told him, returning his sincerity with her own, “And for what it’s worth I think you’re doing a pretty good job with him.” Macao gave her a thankful smile, before turning the conversation into lighter topics, Cana chiming in to help tell him about their latest mission. As she talked with Cana, Macao, and Mirajane she didn’t notice that one of the guild was watching her intently, who’d been observing the whole thing from start to finish with careful eyes, but Padfoot certainly did. He watched the cat himself for a bit, before deciding he had no designs as of yet on his dearest Lucy. However, he made a mental note to keep watch in the future, knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before the girl won him over too. After all if she could win over Ophiuchus and Cetus then he doubted there were many others out there that would challenge her at all. ♈️ ♉️ ♊️ ♋️ ♌️ ♍️ ♎️ ♏️ ♐️ ♑️ ♒️ ♓️ Lucy was lounging around with Cana, the two of them in good spirits when the doors to the Guild were flung open with a resounding boom nearly making her drop her drink, and immediately putting her on guard. “We’re back!” Happy chimed as he soared through the open doors, his voice joyful as he looped through the air with a happy laugh. She immediately relaxed again, heaving a resigned sigh as she spotted Natsu in the doorway with Gray. She hadn’t had a whole lot to do with the younger dark-haired wizard, but she did know from Cana and Mirajane’s stories that he and Natsu had a bit of a rivalry going on. Apparently the two of them were always butting heads over something or other. “I win,” Natsu huffed between breaths, “Take that, ice princess.” “You’re delusional, flame brain,” Gray sniped back, though he like Natsu was bent over and heaving for breath, “My foot was clearly across the threshold first!” The two of them continued to squabble about who’d won their little race as members of the Guild egged on one or the other, clearly amused by the two of them. Lucy rolled her eyes part amused part exasperated at the pair of them, and turned back to her tea. “Lucy!” it was only years of ingrained instincts that let her set her tea down before Happy barreled into her arms, a joyful smile on his catlike face, “You’re back!” “Hi Happy,” she returned, patting his blue head and ruffling his ears, unable to be too angry with the creature who reminded her so much of her Celestial Spirits, “How was your job?” “I almost got eaten!” Happy told her solemnly, then proceeded to regale her about how, on their trip back he and Natsu had run into Gray. The salmon haired fire mage had apparently gotten distracted enough that he didn’t even noticed Happy being snagged by a group of what appeared to be dark mages. According to the blue cat, they’d apparently been starving and had wanted to eat him, which was more than a bit disturbing in her opinion. She’d eaten some strange things over the years in her desperation, but never would she have even considered eating something intelligent and sentient. It was far too much like cannibalism and the idea of it made her shudder in horror. Luckily it seemed Natsu had noticed Happy missing and had managed to track him down before he got eaten, though not before he’d apparently been tied to a spit and put over a fire, which just seemed exceptionally cruel to her. A part of her wondered if Happy had maybe just misunderstood the situation, and that they’d only been joking about eating him, adding psychological torture on top of physical. Not that, that was better in any way shape or form, but it certainly made more sense. Fortunately for Happy the wizards who’d kidnapped him were no match for Natsu, and up against Natsu and Gray combined had easily been overcome. However before they could report the situation, or figure out what to do with their captives they’d apparently been kidnapped, which was honestly irony at its finest. The only little bit of information they’d managed to get from the group of them was a single word. “Lullaby?” she repeated skeptically, “What do lullabies have to do with anything?” “Beats me!” Happy told her, apparently unbothered by the whole thing as he chowed down on the fish Mirajane had brought him as he told his story. She was somewhat fond of the little blue cat, but she was honestly starting to think he was even more simple minded than she’d first thought, considering he was supposed to be the brains of team Natsu. “Have you heard of anything like that?” she asked Cana in an undertone, worried despite Happy’s casual dismissal. Something about the whole thing was setting her nerves on edge, her gut insisting something wasn’t quite adding up about the suspicious group of wizards in the woods. For one thing wizards outside of guilds didn’t normally travel in groups as big as the one Happy was talking about. Sure there were pairs or maybe groups of three, but five was an awful lot, and if the one who’d kidnapped, or was it rescued? The group, after they’d been beaten, was with them it was actually six. That was a lot and had all the makings of a dark guild, a guild operating outside the guidelines set down by the council and therefore illegal. The law in this world was pretty straightforward. All magic users had to be registered and have a permit to use their magic in public spaces. These permits were given out by the Rune Knights who were an extension of the monarchy of Fiore. The council on the other hand, was the body who oversaw the Guilds. This was mostly because while Rune Knights could generally handle single or even partnered wizards dealing with large groups of them was beyond them, especially since their main focus was actually on protecting the ruling family and defending and patrolling Fiore’s borders. They were more of a standing army and police force than the more mercenary Guilds. The reason most wizards tended to join guilds was twofold. One was for the jobs of course, as most people preferred to call in jobs to Guilds who could then send the best people to deal with the issue. The other was because permits could be expensive, especially since they needed to be renewed every three years. Guilds got to buy an overall permit, which meant if you wore the Guild Stamp of a Council Certified Guild you didn’t have to pay for an individual permit. The council, as a body answerable to the monarchy, was comprised of wizards strong enough that combined they could take down a guild. Their job was to police other guilds and ensure they were answerable to the law, and to deal with any magical issues that might be too much for the Rune Knights. Dark Guilds were usually comprised of people who either couldn’t afford the permit to practice magic, or didn’t want to operate within the rules set down by the council. It made them fairly rare, but also dangerous as they were essentially large groups of magical individuals. Most Dark Guilds were usually only an issue because sheer numbers could overwhelm. Powerful individuals or groups of individuals forming Dark Guilds was actually fairly rare, mostly because powerful individuals tended to be very good at making money and didn’t have an issue paying for a permit even if they didn’t join a sanctioned Guild. However, when they did form up it almost always became an issue, because it was done with clear intent not to follow the law. Usually that made them either rebels against the government, or groups of criminals working for some kind of dangerous cause. These types of Dark Guilds were the most dangerous and tended to cause large messes that included things like civilian casualties. Normally she would’ve assumed the group that wanted to eat Happy was the first type of group unable to pay for permits and unable to join a guild for whatever reason, especially since they didn’t seem to have money for proper food. However, the person who’d kidnapped/rescued them had done so under the noses of Natsu and Gray, and while she didn’t know the extent of Gray’s abilities considering he supposedly rivalled Natsu, who was incredibly strong and fast, the fact that he got away with hostages in tow was extremely troubling. Their only clue as to what might be happening was the word lullaby of all things, and it didn’t look like Cana recognized it at all, given the puzzled frown on her face. A quick glance at Mirajane earned a shake of the head, the bartender clearly just as puzzled as the rest of them. “Master would probably know,” Mirajane told them with a frown, “But unfortunately he’s away at the regular monthly meeting.” “I didn’t realize he was on the council,” Lucy confessed, surprised. She hadn’t seen a whole lot of Master Makarov yet, so she didn’t have a solid opinion except for a little negative feeling over how he’d treated Romeo when she’d first arrived at the guild. However, Fairy Tail as a whole had a rather impressive reputation, so it only made sense the head of the guild would be strong. “Oh, no,” Mirajane hastily corrected, “Not that meeting. It’s actually a meeting between some of the local guild leaders. We have pretty close ties with a few of them, and like to nurture those ties, so Master goes to meet with them about once a month.” “That makes sense,” Lucy acknowledged with a nod, only to be interrupted by a snort from Cana. “Don’t bullshit her Mirajane,” the brunette scolded over the rim of her mug. “We both know they only meet up to get drunk and complain or brag about all of us. It’s nothing formal or impressive.” Lucy glanced at the bartender, but she didn’t deny it, instead heaving a forlorn sigh and quietly wiping away at a glass in her hand. Clearly, she was well aware of what went on in the meetings, and her whole spiel had been more wishful thinking than anything else. She set that matter aside for now, figuring it was none of her business. After all, she wasn’t a Fairy Tail Wizard, just friends with a handful of them. Instead she refocused on what was important, quietly murmuring to her shadow, “Have you heard of Lullaby, Padfoot?” “It sounds familiar,” her canine friend rumbled, the words spoken right into her ear as he didn’t bother to leave the shadow he was in, “Though I don’t know why. Maybe ask the old cross?” It was a good idea, and one she fully intended to follow through on, her hand reaching for her requip space, only to be knocked off her stool as something collided with her. Her body immediately reacted, rolling with the hit as she hit the ground, grabbing hold of her attacker and pinning him to the ground, fist raised back, fully intent on breaking his nose. Luckily for him, she recognized him before she could follow through on the maneuver. Natsu stared up at her with wide eyes for a second, blinking slowly in clear shock at suddenly finding himself on the floor, only to let out a loud laugh at the realization. “Wow Lucy! I never would’ve guessed you had that in you!” he told her with a beaming smile on his face. Lucy heaved an exasperated sigh, unable to be too angry in the face of his genuine compliment, but still a bit annoyed. She clambered to her feet, and back up on to her stool as she dryly asked, “Is there a reason you decided to tackle me Natsu?” “Of course!” Natsu agreed brightly, “It’s because you’re back! You promised you’d go on a job with me next remember? Because we’re partners!” “Partners?” Gray interjected, as he sauntered up to the two of them, “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? Who says she’d want to be your partner? Besides don’t you already have Happy?” It might’ve been more intimidating as a gesture if he hadn’t somehow lost his clothes somewhere between the door and the bar, leaving him sauntering up in just his boxers. “Gray your clothes,” Cana pointed out with a sigh, making him jerk in surprise. Unfortunately, before he could do anything about the issue Natsu spoke up. “How many times do I have to say it?” he demanded thoroughly annoyed, “Lucy is our other partner! So quit blabbering like you know anything you pervert!” A part of Lucy wanted to interject that she hadn’t ever actually agreed to that, but she had the feeling he wouldn’t listen, stubborn as he was. She also thought he might’ve forgotten she wasn’t actually part of the guild, not that she could blame him for that in hindsight. She did hang around quite a bit after all. “Who are you calling pervert, flame freak?” Gray demanded, the two of them pulled right back into their earlier argument. “Are they always…?” Lucy asked, unable to find the right words, gesturing at Natsu and Gray who were quite literally butting heads. “Oh yeah, ever since they were kids,” Cana confirmed with an amused grin. “That’s right,” Happy nodded in agreement, “They’re fierce rivals.” “Yeesh, talk about sexual tension,” Lucy murmured, almost to herself. She’d thought Ron and Hermione were bad, but Gray and Natsu were on a whole new level. Cana choked, spewing her drink across the bar as she began to howl with laughter, while Mirajane just stared at her, clearly dazed at the implication. She hadn’t actually meant for them to hear, the words mostly meant for Padfoot, who was quietly snickering in her ear, but she wasn’t exactly sorry they had either. “What’s that?” Happy asked curiously, the question making Cana, who’d been about to recover, choke and start howling with laughter again as Lucy floundered for an answer. She wasn’t sure how old Happy was, given that he was a blue cat thing, but she definitely knew she didn’t want to be the one to give him the birds and the bees talk. Luckily, before she had to give an answer, the door to the guild flew open with a loud bang startling her again. As she turned toward the door to look at the newcomer she seriously wondered if throwing open the doors in dramatic fashion was just something Fairy Tail wizards as a whole did. However, as she got her good first look at the person in the doorway she realized it wasn’t actually anyone she’d met before. The woman standing there was probably around her age, with long straight hair a deep crimson color that feel to the small of her back. She was really very pretty with deep long lashed, brown eyes a cute nose, full lips and full cheeks. It would’ve made her look almost soft or sweet, except her entire torso was clad entirely in heavy looking plate armor. It had clearly been made just for her as it was fitted to her curves, and had some kind of symbol on the front that looked like the Fairy Tail Guild mark under a golden cross. She was also wearing heavy gauntlets and boots, though curiously enough her legs were left most bare, with only a fabric skirt. It was a bit of an odd decision, though she supposed it might have something to do with keeping her free to move. It was a look that probably shouldn’t have worked, and yet somehow, the redhead pulled it off rather well. She had a rather intimidating scowl on her face as she surveyed the room, which had gone silent outside of a few whispers here and there, even Gray and Natsu had gone quiet, eyeing her warily from where they stood. To complete the menacing picture she was carrying what had to be some kind of tooth or claw on her shoulders. Only, the tooth was easily one and a half times her height and no doubt extremely heavy. She didn’t want to even think about what kind of monster it must’ve come from, though she did make note that she must be incredibly physically strong, as she was not only lifting it, but doing it one handed. “Welcome back, Erza,” Mirajane chirped apparently the only one not intimidated, and confirming Lucy’s suspicions on who exactly this had to be. “I have returned,” the redhead affirmed, her way of speaking oddly antiquated as she asked, “Is the Master here? “He’s at the regular meeting,” Mirajane told her, completely unbothered by the tense atmosphere. “I see,” Erza nodded in acknowledgement. “Erza, what is that thing?” one of the Guild members asked, looking both awed and more than a bit intimidated as he gazed at the monstrosity she’d set down on the floor. “It’s the horn of the monster I defeated,” Erza answered, her tone bereft of any sort of bragging, instead completely matter-of-fact in the face of his awe, “The locals decorated it and gave it to me as a souvenir. I thought it would be rude to refuse. Do you have a problem with that?” “Not at all!” the man immediately protested, hands raised in supplication as he slowly backed away. The uneasy atmosphere was honestly starting to bother her a bit. Fairy Tail had always seemed relatively friendly, especially to their Guild Mates. Seeing them treat the newcomer with fear and reverence felt strange to her. It made her wonder what, if anything, the redhead had done to earn such a reaction, although she mentally promised to withhold judgment for now. After all she’d had plenty of people scared of her for stupid unprovable things in her last life, like when the Hufflepuffs had all been convinced she was the heir of Slytherin. For all she knew this Erza might not have done anything other than be stronger than most others. If that was true, then she felt bad for the other woman, as that was also a rather isolating feeling and something she’d also suffered through after the war with Voldemort. Though she at least had, had Ron and Hermione to help her through. “You don’t think she knows about the Mt. Hakobe incident do you?” Cana teased Macao in an undertone, who froze, looking horrified by the very idea of it. She also seemed unbothered by Erza’s arrival, calmly drinking away, looking rather bored with the whole thing. Honestly, Lucy wasn’t all that surprised. Cana was incredibly laid back and didn’t seem the type to get all that worked up over a fellow guild member. “Everyone,” Erza rapped out sharply, drawing the attention of the room, “I heard a bunch of rumors while I was gone, about how Fairy Tail keeps causing trouble and making messes on their jobs.” The look she leveled at the room was extremely disapproving, and she was strangely reminded of Hermione as the redhead continued, “Master may forgive you for it all, but I will not!” “Cana!” she rapped out, startling the brunette into choking on her drink, “Stop drinking so much! Vijeeter! Take the dancing off the tables! Wakaba, stop dropping your ash everywhere it’s inconsiderate! And Nab stop just lingering in front of the board and pick a job already! Macao…!” Erza didn’t seem to be able to find words for him, simply sighing and shaking her head in disappointment. With each word Lucy was reminded more and more of Hermione, with her strict adherence to the rules and her inability to communicate in an effective manner even when she was making good points. Lucy couldn’t argue with a lot of what Erza had said, but at the same time, she really could’ve phrased it a bit more gently in certain cases. Still, despite that a part of her really wanted to like the redhead. “Quite the disciplinarian, is she?” she murmured in an undertone to Cana, who grimaced and nodded, though to Lucy’s surprise she did at least put her drink down, showing that she did actually respect the other woman a little bit. “Are Natsu and Gray here?” Erza asked lightly, glancing around the room. “We’re here!” Gray called, and Lucy nearly snorted as she saw he and Natsu had their arms around each other and were holding hands, though their grip on one another looked more like when Marcus Flint and Oliver wood had tried to break one another’s fingers before quidditch games than a friendly hold, “We’re getting along splendidly as always Erza!” “That’s right!” Natsu agreed, nodding his head so fast he almost looked like a bobble head. His smile stiff and strained. “I see,” Erza nodded, looking extremely pleased and apparently oblivious to the undercurrents as the two boys sweated beneath her gaze, “Best friends fight some times, but it’s always best to see the two of you getting along.” Lucy caught Mirajane’s eye over the bar, and both of them were forced to look away, stifling their giggles over how utterly uncomfortable the boys look and how oblivious Erza apparently was. “I never knew Natsu could be like that,” she murmured in an aside to Cana, who rolled her eyes in response. “Natsu’s challenged Erza to fights more time than I can count, and he gets his butt kicked each and every time,” Cana told her with a huff, “It’s all that dragon instinct I think, to be act more submissive when they’ve been beaten.” “Makes sense to me,” Padfoot murmured in her ear, “Guess that means if we ever want him to behave we’re going to have to give him the beatdown of his life.” “I’m not sure we can do it in a way that would make him acknowledge us,” Lucy murmured thoughtfully, “Because I’m not actually sure I could beat him without calling on you guys and I think Natsu’s the kind of guy who’d find that cheating.” Padfoot huffed in acknowledgment and both of them sighed over how absolutely stupid that was, it was prejudice against Celestial Wizards coming into play once again, never mind that it took more magic to open a single golden key than all of Natsu’s one off attacks combined. “That explains Natsu but what about Gray?” she asked Cana, pulling her mind back to less bitter thoughts. “He accidentally walked in on her naked and got beat to a pulp,” Cana listed off, rolling her eyes, “He’s not the only one either. Most of the guys in the Guild have had their asses handed to them by Erza at one point or another, it’s a sort of rite of passage around here.” “I see,” Lucy noted dryly, unsure whether to be amused or impressed that the redheaded woman had gone to such lengths, though in the end she settled on a mix of the two. “Natsu, Gray, I have a favor to ask of you,” Erza told the two boys, her tone so overly formal that it reminded her of the stories of knights from her past life. “I heard some troubling rumors on the way back here, and while normally it would be up to Master Makarov to decide how to handle things I am afraid this cannot wait. I am asking the two of you to lend me your power in a quest to investigate,” Erza told the two boys, who looked thoroughly stunned at her proclamation. “Yeesh, talk about fire power,” Cana murmured to her quietly, “Erza must be really worried if she’s asking for both of them.” Lucy frowned at that, and quietly wondered if this might not have something to do with Happy’s kidnapping, the potential Dark Guild, and whatever Lullaby was. However, technically since she wasn’t part of the Guild it really wasn’t any of her business, instead she quietly told Cana, “It may be impressive, but that’s only if they don’t take out each other first.” Cana snickered in amusement at that, clearly in agreement with her. Though she was sure to keep it quiet, so that Erza wouldn’t overhear. “Will you assist me in the investigation?” Erza asked, though the tone of her voice was so stern, it was more like a statement of intent rather than a request. “Aye!” Both Gray and Natsu chimed in unison, fake smiles practically plastered to their faces. “Excellent,” Erza agreed, still oblivious, “We will meet at the station tomorrow morning.” Both boys voiced their agreement, though the minute Erza turned away they turned furious eyes on one another, clearly neither of them were happy at the thought of having to work together. However, neither had the guts to turn Erza down either, so Lucy figured it was their own problem. “Are they really going to be okay?” she asked Cana quietly. The two of them watched, as Natsu and Gray turned on each other every single time Erza wasn’t looking. Their arms around each other’s shoulders quickly became headlocks, and hands wrestled furiously with one another. It was almost impressive how they could sense the redhead’s gaze, and went back to feigning friendship with one another. “They’ll be fine,” Cana assured her with a laugh, “They’re tough after all, and Erza won’t let them get into too much trouble.” “I’m more concerned about what kinds of rumors Erza heard that she thinks she needs some of the strongest wizards in Fairy Tail to team up,” Mirajane piped up, a worried frown on her face, “She must be really worried, and that worries me, as Erza isn’t prone to hysteria over little things.” “That’s true,” Cana agreed thoughtfully, “I haven’t heard anything, but I was preoccupied with the Festival, and not exactly looking out for them.” “Same here,” Lucy agreed, “Has anyone else said anything Mirajane?” “Just a couple things here and there, rumors of a few large monsters, and a couple whisperings of a Dark Guild forming, but nothing really worrying,” the bartender admitted, “It’s the same rumors as always really.” The three of them spent a good deal of time, tossing theories back and forth about what the issue might be. Lucy would’ve liked to ask Erza herself, but she didn’t actually know the woman, and besides she’d apparently headed home for some well-deserved rest after making her request, though she’d left the horn behind unfortunately. It was all incredibly puzzling, and she felt a worried stirring in her gut that told her this might actually be the start of something big. During her own travels she’d heard a few whispers here and there about the resurgence of powerful Dark Guilds, but much like Mirajane hadn’t put much stock in them. Now though she was really starting to wonder. Still, if her past life had taught her anything it was that poking her nose in was usually more trouble than it was worth. Unless things got really bad she was perfectly content to let others handle things for now. She wasn’t the chosen one in this world, and she found herself rather grateful she wouldn’t be going. After all whoever went would have to deal with Natsu, Gray and the seemingly indomitable Erza, which wasn’t a fate she’d wish on anybody. No, she was quite happy to sit this one out and hear all about it later thank you very much. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Do you know the reason for the attack, Tony?” Bruce asks evenly when he steps out of the elevator in a pair of torn blue jeans. There are no signs of Hulk’s rage present on his face even though there are bits of plaster and concrete in his hair. Tony, clad in the Mark VII, tosses Bruce a dish towel from the intact part of the kitchen. “No, I’m still in shock over my resurrected AI,” Iron Man says, lifting an entire decanter up to his face and attempting to take a swig before Peter can stop him. His suit-encased arm comes up short, the sparkling amber liquid sloshing down Tony’s chin and goatee before disappearing down his collar. Peter stares in amazement as his dad whines and tries to catch the last few drops of the alcohol by sticking his tongue out. The lip of the decanter pulls away by a few crucial millimeters and the last drop splashes uselessly onto the cracked floorboards. “What the hell?” Tony curses and jerks his arm, but the control is choppy and uncoordinated. “Ultron? Are you doing that? Quit overriding Friday's control.” “Sir, according to my readings, you have just exceeded your daily scotch limit,” The British voice of Tony's favorite AI says after a pause, sounding tentatively guilty about overstepping his authorization. Peter hears Ultron’s low amused chuckle echo through the speakers. Bruce peers up at the ceiling with mild interest. “JARVIS?!” Tony gasps, utterly betrayed. “Tony, we were in the middle of speculating about how Doom is probably working with von Strucker, remember? Can you please focus?” Peter tries to steer the conversation back before Tony starts bickering with JARVIS again. Tony sighs in defeat and allows one of the Mark II suits to take the empty decanter, replacing it with a stick of raw celery and a dollop of peanut butter at one end. “Are you kidding me?” He asks, scowling. “Tony," Peter says, glaring as he scoops a chunk of peanut butter straight out of the jar with a bent fork he’d dug out of a pile of rubble. He’s hungry, it’s the middle of the night, and Doom’s stupid bots had killed their lovely refrigerator and most of the cabinets housing their precious food on the common floor. He’s almost desperate enough to start eating mayo. Tony frowns, “Right. We need to concentrate on Doom's plan,” He says importantly. JARVIS takes that moment to poke the stick of celery into Tony’s mouth, smearing peanut butter along Iron Man’s right eyebrow and cheek in the process. “Phee are phoing to haph a fary long converphasion about phis, JARPHIS,” Tony slurs before taking a vicious bite out of the vegetable. "Loki, you promised, now talk,” Steve says seriously in the backseat. Sam keeps his eyes focused on the road as he takes a left turn onto another empty country road. They’d snuck into a tiny town along the way and swapped out the SHIELD armored van for something less conspicuous. Someone had complained about being hungry, so Sam had found a Chinese restaurant that had still been open at the late hour, and after being mistaken for a group of superhero-themed strippers by one of the girls working in the drive-through (the men in the backseat had gotten rid of their SHIELD issued clothes), Steve had swapped seats with Scott Lang, who according to the man himself, was “less likely to attract attention.” Then they’d dropped by a 24-hour mall and gotten weather-appropriate clothes for the half-naked people in the car before resuming their trip back to the city. “Open up,” Lang says, carefully holding a spoonful of fried rice and seafood up to Sam’s face. Somehow over the span of 2.4689 miliseconds, Scott had reached the conclusion that they'd become the best of friends. Sam fights off an irritated sigh, “You don’t have to feed me. I’m fine.” “You’ve been driving for three hours, and I heard your stomach rumble…I just thought…” Lang’s face crumples, rejection practically radiating off of him in waves. Sam holds off for three more seconds before giving up and opening his mouth. Scott beams, satisfied for now as Sam chews silently. “Tell me if you need a break, and I'll take over,” The man says, warm amber eyes crinkling as he smiles. Something must be wrong with the food, because Sam's supposed to despise the guy who’d completely embarrassed him and totaled his wings a few months back... But no one had ever paid this much attention to him, not even Steve, who’d always been too distracted about finding the brunet amputee seated quietly to his left to really focus any thought on whether or not Sam was doing okay, because Sam Wilson has always been the good bro, the go-to-guy, the one whom anyone could call on to help at anytime of the day. “Chicken?” Scott asks brightly. Sam allows him to stick the piece of fried meat in his mouth. It's kind of nice to have someone fuss and worry about him once in a while. “Thanks, man,” Sam tells him, eyes never leaving the road. “No problem,” Scott replies easily, grinning. “What do you mean Cap is on the run with the fugitives we just caught today?” Tony asks his phone. Fury’s furious voice booms from the speakers. “Steve Rogers assisted the escape of six highly dangerous men and one alien symbiote after he disabled your security system, Stark! They were caught on CCTV footage leaving the compound after incapacitating both SHIELD and Hydra agents.” Fury snarls. Peter’s eyes widen when he peers over the table at his dad. “Hydra attacked the holding cells?” Bruce stands abruptly, his brow furrowed. “They escaped?” Peter asks, heart pounding and ears ringing. “Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner, we are not sure of the Captain’s situation, since he has yet to answer any calls. SHIELD has sent a dispatch to their last known location, but they only found the abandoned vehicle,” Coulson’s level tones cut out the ex-director’s angry rant. “I am certain Captain Rogers has a valid explanation for his actions-” “Oh, I’m sure he does. Let me guess, first guy he broke out of holding was the handsome one with the sexy metal arm,” Tony prompts drily. “Yes, it appears so,” Coulson sighs. “I’m actually a bit proud. He’s finally stopped being such a freaking girl scout,” Tony confesses. Bruce exhales loudly when Fury starts shouting at the billionaire again. “STARK, I WANT AN EXPLANATION FROM ROGERS! I'M SENDING AGENTS BARTON AND ROMANOV BACK RIGHT AWAY. DON’T YOU DARE MUTE ME-” “I bet they’re heading to the tower!” Peter can’t help the excitement on his face when Iron Man promptly tosses his phone aside. Tony glances at him with a troubled expression. “As much as I applaud Steve’s bad decision-making skills, you’re not off the hook yet, son,” He says grimly, eyes flickering down to Peter’s ankle tracker. “Whatever this is, it’s not going to end well for them, especially with this breaking out of SHIELD holdings thing. I mean, with Steve’s stunted caveman skills, you’d think he’d just grunt and slam his metal frisbee on everything, not disable any security systems I helped design...” He trails off, eyes widening as his brain connects the dots. “Sir, I have a confession to make,” A small miserable voice says from the ceiling. Tony narrows his eyes as he peers up at one of the corner cams. “JARVIS, what did you do…?” “You are such a wimp,” Ultron groans as JARVIS starts to explain. "So you're working with Doom and Hydra?" Steve frowns. "I have told you, Captain. I know of their plans because I was the one who came up with it," The God of Lies snaps impatiently. Sam checks the rearview mirror. Loki doesn't look too good, what with the pale waxy complexion and sweat dotted along his temple. "Through projection and manipulation, I was able to feed the idea into their unconscious minds." "So you can reap the rewards while the Earth suffers?" Captain America accuses. "I assure you that I no longer have any desire to rule Midgard, Captain," Loki sneers, still managing to express pure contempt despite looking like he's about to pass out any minute now. "Yeah, you're too busy growing weed and scribbling in your creepy little diary," Lester smirks, tossing a paper plane he'd folded from their takeout receipt at the god. Loki growls and crumples the plane in one tight fist, green eyes flashing in annoyance. "Once I get my powers back, you are going to pay, marksman." "Which one do you like best?" Wade Wilson asks Barnes, their heads bent together over a shiny calendar. Sam glances into the rearview mirror. "Bucky!" Steve snaps, and Sam's mouth curls into a smirk at the memory of their shopping trip. Deadpool had snagged the newest edition of the Sexy Captain America 2017 calendar on their way out of the mall, much to Barnes's great fascination and Steve's utmost embarrassment. "March or July," Barnes advises, eyes scanning over the laminated pages of the calendar and ignoring a furiously blushing Steve Rogers. Fake Captain America on the cover of July is ridiculously tanned, coated from head to toe in shimmering baby oil, and enthusiastically attempting to suck a skimpy glittery star-spangled thong into his shiny orange butt crack. Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when Deadpool rips the page out with a shrug. Barnes nods, satisfied with the choice. Sam snorts and focuses his attention back on the road. "Hydra and Doom are working together to track down the six Infinity Stones if I am not mistaken," Loki says, steepling his fingers as Captain America turns back to him. "The acquisition of the Mind Stone within my scepter is the last step of their Phase One plans." Steve frowns, confused, "but your scepter is safely locked away in the Avengers tower." Loki's thin colorless lips curl into a mirthless smile, "not anymore." "There were no attacks, so unless-" "Kidnapping the child was a ruse to disguise their true motive. Hydra knew all of the Avengers would assemble to rescue Peter Parker, which would allow them more than enough time to bypass Stark's temporarily vulnerable security and swap the true scepter for a replica in the unguarded tower." "Friday is not quite up to JARVIS's standards yet..." Color drains from Steve's face. Sam grips the wheel tightly. "The second attack by Doom was meant to be a distraction. Stark would be so focused on the Doombots's attack on his servers that he would most likely overlook the vaults in his haste to repair the more noticeable damage." "And you know all of this how?" Steve asks, eyes narrowed. Loki pauses for a long moment, alien green gaze settling on Steve. "Because I am the key to the second phase of the plan. That was why Hydra attacked the SHIELD compound tonight," He says coldly. “So Loki has something to do with this? Again?” Tony frowns contemplatively, “Why am I surprised? Of course he’s got something to do with it.” “Tony, we don't know anything conclusive yet,” Peter tries to argue, but he doesn’t even sound convincing to himself. “Strucker only said they were going to return the scepter to Loki, maybe it’s not what it looks like...” “And what is Doom’s involvement in all of this?” Bruce asks, “Loki’s scepter is still safely locked away in the tower's secure vaults, right?” “Yeah, the Doombots went straight for the main servers, they weren’t even close to the vaults. This doesn’t make any sense. Also, why would they kidnap Peter to begin with?” Tony rubs an exhausted hand over his face and glances up at the clock. It’s close to seven in the morning. Peter fights off a tired yawn when Tony wanders over to take his temperature. “Alright, time for some sleep. Friday, keep your eyes on the gaping hole in my building, and signal me when the Spy Kids come home. We’re going down to Steve's floor. Hopefully he has more edible food stored in a hidden bunker or something old geezers like him have in case of an emergency." “Yes, Boss,” Friday says crisply. "Although I do believe the Captain only has an unhealthy amount of canned beans stacked under the sink. So, don't get your hopes up." "Damn." “Sir…” “JARVIS, I'm over the moon that you're back, but we're not talking. I’m still mad at you for what you did,” Tony scowls as he tells the closest Mark II. Its shoulders slump dejectedly at the words. "You are pathetic," Ultron tells the older AI flatly as Tony ushers a reluctant Peter and Bruce toward the direction of the elevator. "Tony, I'm fine. I don't need to sleep. We should keep searching for clues," Peter is saying when the elevator doors slide open to reveal- Tony stops dead in his tracks, brown eyes widening in alarm. "Oh, dear," Bruce says, peering over Iron Man's shoulder. "We brought Chinese?" Steve says tentatively, a giant bag of Mr. Wu's held up in front of his body as a peace offering, his bulky frame not wide enough to hide the six or so scowling fugitives standing behind him. Sam Wilson sighs loudly from his spot next to a grinning Scott Lang. "Thank God you guys are all safe!" Peter pushes past his stunned father and tackles Nicolai around the waist, not caring if his enthusiasm causes the ex-assassin to stumble sideways into Lester. He buries his face in Nicolai's shoulder and breathes in the familiar comforting scent of the man. "Hey kid," A warm palm settles on the back of his head and Peter has to fight to keep the waterworks in check because everyone, including Venom, is here safe and sou- Peter pulls back reluctantly and scans their faces, the happy euphoria that had overwhelmed him seconds ago draining away when he notices the absence of a certain loud-mouth ex-mercenary in the group. "Guys, where's Wade?" He asks cautiously. There's an uncomfortable pause in which everyone, even Captain America, tries to avoid Peter's searching gaze. "Yes, about that..." Nicolai begins reluctantly. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The blonde, who Rei instinctively assumed was the ‘angel’ they were searching for to unseal Satoru, didn’t seem to notice Rei following her. She carefully sat Megumi on the couch in the lounge area at the hotel and sat his backpack beside the sofa. Looking at him longingly like a concerned lover after being separated from their partner. “While I appreciate you bringing Megumi to safety, you need to step away now.” Rei’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance as he spoke coldly and calmly as his emotions allowed. She jumped as she whipped around to face Rei. Immediately on the defensive, opening her mouth to speak only to close it as Rei glared at her as he rose to full height from setting Saito down. Rei slowly approached Megumi to take a closer look at him, but in response to his advances, Angel took a hesitant step in front of Megumi, shielding him with her body. Like Rei was the threat here and not her, Rei gritted his teeth as an unreasonable and unexpected amount of frustration and possessiveness steadily consumed him from the inside. Making it extremely hard to remain sane and rational. So, instead of tearing Angel apart like all of his instincts were screaming at him to do, he took an agitated, deep breath. Momentarily gaining a fleeting amount of clarity, acknowledging that they were both complete strangers. “Look, I know we are both strangers here, but I’m not an enemy. My name is Geto Rei, and I am one of Megumi’s classmates at Jujutsu Tech. And this-” Rei gestured vaguely to his grandmother, passed out on the floor beside him. “Is my estranged grandmother, Saito Yoshitsune, just like you, we’re also participants in the culling games. We have many other allies scattered throughout this colony. Since we got separated upon entry. We were searching for you, actually. In hopes that you would help us unseal Gojo Satoru from his imprisonment in the Prison Realm.” Rei paused, allowing Angel to absorb the information before he finished the rest of his explanation. “Our team needs to unseal him so we can take down Kenjaku before they activate something called the Merger. As you might already be aware, this would spell a doomsday situation. We are also attempting to figure out how to dispel the culling games and add other rules to work around the restricting existing rules.” Angel nodded, showing that she understood what Rei had told her, but remained apprehensive, still standing unmoving in front of Megumi. “It’s nice to meet a friend of Fushiguro’s. My name is Kurusu Hana, and I am a sorcerer who currently hosts the reincarnated ancient curse Angel. Who’s mission is to ultimately hunt down and kill all of the other reincarnated players, including Sukuna. I met Fushiguro when he saved me from a curse as a child. I am eternally grateful for this; that is where I initially knew him. So when I saw him injured and passed out alone in the alley, I had to help him.” She bowed slightly, glancing back at Rei after looking at Megumi on the couch before continuing. “Though on another note, I am rather shocked to find out that Gojo was sealed into the prison realm. But I’m guessing that Kenjaku was also responsible for that as well. Despite only meeting them briefly when they showed up in my dreams a few days ago, I can quite easily draw the conclusion that they’re behind everything that has been happening lately. All of that aside, I will gladly help you. Any friend of Fushiguro’s is a friend-” Rei’s already tiny amount of patience suddenly vanished, agitated by how she spoke about Megumi, referring to him just as Rei’s friend despite him not introducing himself as anything else. “I’m Megumi’s boyfriend, not just a friend. So I suggest you move so I can get a closer look at him, or I’ll have to move you.” Rei virtually growled at her as he spoke, taking a warning step forward. Angel appeared shocked. Put off by Rei’s tone and the feral look in his glowing pink eyes, she mumbled a quick apology, bowing, before moving to the other end of the room. Enough room for Rei to have space but close enough to step in if she thought Megumi was in ‘danger.’ Rei ignored her prying eyes as he closed the short distance between him and Megumi and passed out on the couch. He frowned as he took inventory of Megumi’s injuries. Noting that he sustained some concerning injuries and was nearly completely depleted of cursed energy. Suggesting that he got into a fight with a strong opponent that posed a serious challenge. Rei brushed away Megumi’s dark hair in his eyes, stuck to his forehead from his caked-on dried blood. Pain pulled at Rei’s heartstrings. His concern and guilt weighed heavily on his conscience. He sighed, deciding to compartmentalize and process that later. Megumi is the priority right now. All of his thoughts and emotions wholly vacated as he put out his hands to heal Megumi in a restless slumber on the couch. Rei finished healing most of Megumi’s injuries, pointedly ignoring Angel’s curious and questioning gaze. Undoubtedly, she was just itching to say something but thought better of it. He frowned, deciding he didn’t want to be under her watchful gaze any longer, so he bent over and carefully lifted Megumi into his arms. “We’re going to go rest in one of the rooms.” Rei absentmindedly addressed Angel as he grabbed the backpack next to the couch. He turned on his heel to face the long hall connected to the lounge. “You probably should move Saito onto the couch. But I don’t really care if you don't. So, really, it's up to you.” He spoke carelessly, more as an afterthought than anything. Sensing Angel’s questions before she even spoke. With that said Rei walked out of earshot down the long, empty hall, which branched off into two other halls where the actual hotel rooms were. Rei wasn’t sure exactly how he got into one of the rooms or which room they were in exactly, but he didn’t really give it much thought nor care as he sat Megumi down on the pristine, untouched white comforter on the queen bed in the center of the enormous room. Rei hummed to himself, considering his next course of action, glancing at the door and double-checking that he actually locked it. Ultimately, he just shrugged and quietly laid down next to Megumi. He glued himself to his side, where he belonged, and buried his nose in the side of his neck. He tried to allow the familiarity of Megumi’s warmth, touch, and scent to lure him into slumber or, at the very least, a relaxed recharging state, but instead, he just found himself restless and aggravated. He was irritated by how Megumi’s scent was buried deep under all the other foreign scents from battle, their environment, and her. While Rei could tolerate the other scents, the smell of her scent on Megumi was driving him absolutely crazy and making him agitated. So he huffed, glaring at the bed below them, pouting like a spoiled toddler who was not getting his way, until finally, he was driven to action. Abruptly sitting up, untangling himself from around his boyfriend, being careful not to wake him up he bent over and carefully lifted him into his arms. Rei stood slowly, carrying Megumi in his arms bridal style to the bathroom attached to the room. The bathroom was enormous, with a large spacious bathtub/shower and a space to rinse off before taking a bath right next to the sink. Rei fell into a dissociative trance, locking onto his one singular mission; clean Megumi up and remove all of the downright offensive and intrusive scents. Rei slowly peeled away Megumi’s stained and torn clothes carefully so as not to jostle him too much so he didn’t wake him. Discarding the soiled uniform, he carefully brought Megumi over to sit on the stool under the shower head attached to the wall next to the sink. Turning on the water, Rei made sure to check that the temperature was set to Megumi’s preferred temperature before carefully and meticulously rinsing off the dirt, grime, and dried blood from his body. After he was all rinsed off, Rei set aside the detachable shower head to grab a hand towel from the cabinet and wet it so he could gently clean off Megumi’s face. Not wanting to jar or alarm him with the harsh spray of the detachable shower head against his face. Finally, Megumi was rinsed entirely off to Rei’s satisfaction, so he soaped up a new hand towel and gently and meticulously scrubbed him down from head to toe. He then rinsed Megumi off and carefully eased him over to the bathtub. Positioning him so his back was against the outer tub with his head in prime position to wash his hair over the edge. Rei made sure that Megumi was in the most comfortable position he could possibly be in, considering the circumstances. Double-checking that his slumber was still undisturbed, he turned on the shower. Grabbing the thankfully detachable head and rinsing and shampooing Megumi’s matted and unruly hair. After Rei was done washing Megumi’s hair and he was all clean, Rei dried him off, bringing him back to the bedroom and laying him down on the bed so he could search his bag in the chair for a clean change of clothes. After a bit of searching, he found the oversized shirt Megumi liked to wear to bed, some underwear, and shorts before returning to bed. He paused for a moment to simply watch, enduringly, as his boyfriend’s chest slowly rose and fell, grateful that he was still alive. Rei carefully dressed Megumi, positioning him under the covers with his head resting on the pillows. As Rei watched Megumi sleep, now clean and taken care of, Rei was left with no other distraction but to be forced to acknowledge the sudden gross-ness he felt within his body and how fuzzy and off he felt. He knew in his gut that this definitely wasn’t just simply caused by the realization from earlier and the exhaustion. There definitely was something else happening. This may very well be connected to the information dump that Ai dropped on him mere hours earlier. Unfortunately, the temporary moment of clarity in his thought process was swept away by his instincts as he meandered to the bathroom to clean up while he attempted to think about why he was feeling this way. What happened after Rei walked into the bathroom was fuzzy because there was once again a gap in his memory. One moment, he was in the shower cleaning up under the stream of water, and the next, he was back in the bedroom, lying against Megumi’s side under the covers. Rei didn’t bother giving this gap in his memory any more thought. Simply just breathing in Megumi’s natural scent from where his face was buried in the crook of his neck and allowing the comfort of Megumi’s warmth against his nude front to relax him and lure him to sleep slowly. Megumi groaned, uncomfortable, as he began to sweat while asleep, causing the bed sheets to stick to his back. Half asleep, his eyes still closed, Megumi attempted to move away from the weighted heated blanket made of lava, snugly enveloping him from his side. Just to wind up being pulled closer to the source. Megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned, perplexed, as he slowly cracked open his eyes. Fighting away the drowsiness from slumber, he felt someone shift against him. He didn’t recognize the room's ceiling, but it only took a brief second before he identified who was wrapped around him. Recognizing the unmistakable feeling of Rei’s bare breasts over his clothed upper arm and his nude, scared stomach against his bare forearm. With that realization, Megumi’s eyes flew open all the way, completely alert, turning his head in alarm to look at Rei at his side. His concern quickly skyrocketed as he realized Rei was completely nude against him. Suggesting that the unusual rise of Rei’s core body temperature was enough for him to strip entirely. While it was not unusual for Rei to be warm while he slept, generally running warm, it was extraordinary that he was running so hot that it led him to sleep nude. In this unfamiliar and unsafe place, nonetheless. Rei must be scorching because they were both uncovered, with the bedding kicked off onto the floor at the beginning of November. If all those other signs weren’t obvious, Rei also had a thin sheen layer of sweat glistening over his body and panting softly against Megumi’s face through a slight gap between his lips. Even though Rei was burning up, he stubbornly remained glued to Megumi’s side and refused to let go of him. Not even so much as twitching as Megumi managed to free his other arm Rei wasn’t pressed against to push firmly against Rei’s shoulder. “Rei.” Megumi called Rei’s name but got no response, which did nothing to calm Megumi’s raging anxiety and growing concern. After a few more tries, Megumi finally turned around in Rei’s hold to face him head-on and shook his shoulder aggressively, jarring his whole body. “Rei! Rei, you need to wake up. You’re burning up!” Megumi raised his voice as he semi-frantically called out to him. Eventually, Rei’s face twitched, his burrows pulling together as he awoke, and he slowly opened his eyes to look at Megumi. His eyes were still glowing pink, and he was unfocused as he looked into Megumi’s wide emerald eyes. Megumi gasped softly, noticing the distinct change in his eye color, but tried not to let his surprise show so as not to worry Rei. Knowing that it was essential to remain calm and collected so as to not escalate the situation. “Rei, are you alright? What’s going on? You’re burning up and panting.” Megumi calmly questioned him. However, his concern was palpable by the way his tone etched up in volume towards the end of his sentence. Rei’s gaze drifted off to the side, humming quietly to himself and pausing as he attempted to process Megumi’s question. His noticeable delay in processing what was happening around him only alarmed Megumi more. Eventually, Rei looked back at Megumi, his eyes still clouded despite practically glowing. “I’m glad you’re up and all healed, Megumi. I was so worried when I saw you lying bloody and unconscious on the couch after Angel brought you to this hotel. Luckily, after some ‘conversation,’ I was able to heal the majority of your wounds. Which is actually a new-.” Megumi abruptly cut Rei off, breaking his hold as he flipped their positions, pinning him against the bed under him. Straddling Rei’s stomach and caging him with his body as he positioned his hands on either side of Rei’s head. Megumi’s expression was of utmost disapproval and unmissable alarm as he examined Rei’s surprised face under him. Rei’s clouded eyes widened briefly, clearly taken aback but rapidly darkened as lust and arousal coursed freely through his body. Now caged and ‘helpless’ under Megumi. Megumi was clearly highly displeased by how Rei dodged his question, as his struggle against something within himself was painfully evident to everyone involved. But Rei couldn’t bring himself to mind Megumi’s shift in demeanor too much because he was more concerned with Megumi’s well-being, anyway. It was only a bonus that Megumi was now caging him in, making him feel small under him. Megumi’s complex mix of emotions darkened his emerald eyes, searching Rei’s eyes for anything that would signal what he was actually feeling or thinking. “Don’t you try to bullshit your way out of this situation! Especially when you know damn well that there’s no fucking use in trying to hide it from me, anyway. It’s obvious that something is very wrong here, Rei! You’re burning up so much that you went to sleep naked after taking me to this room. Also, your eyes are fucking glowing pink! So why don’t you cut the shit and just tell me what the hell is happening already?!” Rei merely smirked, sleazy, completely bypassing the seriousness of the situation. Instead, he gazed up at Megumi with half-lidded eyes and wrapped his hands around Megumi’s tiny waist, his hands practically connecting in the middle. Trailing a hand down his clothed spine, Rei idly caressed Megumi’s lower back. Loving the way Megumi shivered in response to his touch before he got the chance to steel himself once more. “You know you’re certainly not helping my situation by the way you just manhandled me. Caging me in with your body before bossing me around on top of me. However, I can’t deny that you are right, Megumi. There is no use avoiding the elephant in the room any longer. To be honest, I’m at a complete loss for what’s happening right now, but I know something is happening. I’m not really sure exactly what the cause is or exactly what is happening right now. I can take a wild guess that one of the reasons why my body might be running so hot is because it’s battling against its instinctual desire to fuck and/or be fucked senseless.” Rei virtually purred as he responded to Megumi’s demand for answers. Taking great satisfaction in how Megumi became utterly speechless, for the first time in a long time. Especially by Rei, someone Megumi knew better than he knew himself sometimes. Megumi’s thoughts spiraled as he tried to string together any coherent thoughts or rational conclusions. Whatever was happening inside Rei appeared most likely related to Ai’s influence. Despite Rei having an unusually low amount of cursed energy, he remained under some type of primal influence, which had a pronounced effect on both his mind and body. Megumi really wanted to interrogate Rei, or rather, Ai more, but as Megumi brought his attention back to reality, looking closely at Rei’s face below him, he realized just how debauched and disassociated he looked. Rei obviously didn’t have the mental capacity to consciously understand what was happening around him, let alone try to find probable causes. Rei’s glowing eyes remained unfocused and distant; however, they were attentive to Megumi’s subtle expressions and body language. He even attempted to soothe Megumi’s anxiety by rubbing circles on his lower back under his shirt, just above the waistband of his shorts. Finally, Megumi spoke after a prolonged silence. “A-Alright…I g-guess there’s no use trying to figure out the cause of what’s happening when you don’t seem to be in a mental state to go down a rabbit hole. Maybe we could-” Megumi was abruptly cut off as the room blurred. He was flipped and pinned onto the bed by Rei’s body weight, laying flush against his front. His face was mere inches away from Megumi’s, and his quick breaths fluttered hotly against Megumi’s face as they shared air. Megumi’s arms hung uselessly at the sides of his head as he observed Rei’s expression. His shock quickly disappeared shortly after their positions were suddenly switched. Rei’s cheeks were flushed dark red with arousal and heat, while his pupils left nothing but a narrow ring of pink in his eyes. Staring through Megumi’s darkening emerald eyes and right into his soul. Megumi swallowed down his sudden wave of arousal, determined to remain grounded for both of their sakes. He was ready to address Rei again, but he beat him to it. “You know, I love just how observant and attentive you are. It’s extremely heartwarming, but unfortunately, at the moment, all it does is fan the raging fire burning within my core.” Rei paused, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply and nearly choked on his exhale as he continued his thought. “This leads me to my next thought that I-I don’t really think I can hold out much longer against whatever is happening i-inside me, Megumi…As you can tell, I-I’m basically already completely gone. The last thing I want is to do something I’ll regret. So before you decide your next course of action and whether to stay or not, I need you to know just how far gone I am.” There was a lull and hesitation before Rei continued just above a whisper as if it was a secret to be kept only between the two of them. “M-Megumi, I am so fucking desperate for your touch right now. In fact, I need you to touch me anywhere and everywhere, all at the same time. I-I just need you so fucking badly. It feels like I will actually combust if you don’t touch me soon, especially while you’re this close to me. All I can think about is you…Your scent, body, touch, and voice are thoroughly overwhelming all of my senses.” Megumi’s eyes clouded over as they widened, unquestionably aroused. He groaned, throwing his head back onto the pillow underneath him, glancing briefly up at the plain ceiling before bringing his hands up to rest lovingly against Rei’s burning cheeks. Gazing tenderly into his eyes and speaking softly, each word was intentional and full of endless devotion. “There you go again saying shit, you know, drives me fucking crazy. Rei, I trust you with my life. Why do you think I couldn’t handle whatever ‘lack of control’ you have over what is happening right now? I want nothing more but to help you in any way that you feel is helpful. Even if neither of us knows exactly what is happening right now. I will walk with you through this. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.” Megumi smiled, hoping to reassure Rei’s anxiety with his loving warmth. “But, before we do anything, I want to make sure you remember our safe word. While you’re still sane enough to place it in your memory before you slip any further. However, I want to make one thing painfully clear– that while this is for both of our sakes, it’s predominantly to soothe my own conscience. I don’t ever want to do anything with you where you feel like you don’t have an out. Regardless of whether or not Ai is at the heart of what is happening.” Rei turned his head to the side, affectionately kissing the palm of Megumi’s hand before nuzzling his cheek against it. Rei basked in the warmth of his lover’s palm against his cheek for a moment, soaking in the emotions hanging in the air between them. He hummed thoughtfully, actually considering what he said before replying. “Of course, I remember our safe word. It’s peaches. I remember it as clearly as yesterday. After all, we established it during our first time together. However, I’m not really worried about needing to use it, considering that I trust you just as much, if not more, than you trust me. Y-You have shown me s-so much during our short time knowing each other, including what healthy love and communication between partners are supposed to look like…But, I-I just…I-Its just that-” Rei’s gaze shifted downwards as he trailed off, suddenly anxious, before gathering enough courage to lock eye contact again with Megumi. “I’m more worried about being so far gone that I may not register you using our safe word. So, I need you to promise me that you will actually physically stop me with as much force as needed if I cross a line. No matter how big or small the line is. You wouldn’t have a problem stopping me since I’m so low on cursed energy that I can’t instinctively resist if you actually needed to physically restrain me.” A fleeting moment of clarity flashed in Rei’s eyes as he spoke and patiently awaited Megumi's response. Megumi’s lips tugged downwards, reflexively opening his mouth to protest, only for Rei to admittedly shake his head, unwavering in his resolve. “Promise me, Megumi!” Rei’s eyebrows furrowed, unwilling to proceed without Megumi promising him. Megumi smiled warmly. His expression and gaze filled with nothing but love and devotion for the man above him as he nodded. Not needing to even think twice about what Rei said before he answered, as natural as breathing. “I doubt it’ll be needed, but if it puts your mind at ease, I’ll stop you if necessary. If that is all it takes for you to let me be here for you in one of the moments you need me most.” Rei grinned dumbly, leaning down and kissing Megumi passionately. Finally getting the green light he needed to be able to let loose to satisfy his basic needs, which he has been denying for so long now. Megumi eagerly kissed Rei back, moaning softly into the kiss as tongue met tongue, and they pushed and pulled for dominance that neither really cared about. Megumi enveloped his arms around Rei’s neck as he ‘play fought’ for dominance, just to end up sighing breathlessly as Rei sucked on his tongue. Rei bit at Megumi’s bottom lip as he pulled away, then proceeded to suck on it gently. Megumi entangled his fingers into the back of Rei’s hair near the base of his neck, holding on as Rei trailed kisses from the corner of Megumi’s swollen bitten lips down over his cheek to just under his chin and to the side of his neck. Megumi tilted his head to the side, giving him more access to kiss, bite and suck leisurely down the column of his neck. Rei savored the mind-numbing taste of his boyfriend on his tongue, his hands mindlessly wandering down Megumi’s sides and under his shirt. He caressed up and down the length of Megumi’s torso, pressing down on the most sensitive points along his sides, making Megumi squirm under his deft touch. Megumi gasped, unable to get a respite from stimulation as Rei was determined to fullfill his mission of ultimately marking up the pale column of Megumi’s neck. Making his ‘claim’ clearly known. Megumi bit at his lower lip, attempting to muffle the noises forced out of him from Rei’s ministrations. Trying to keep in mind that they weren’t alone in the building. But Rei seemed determined to draw out Megumi’s subtle sighs, gasps, and moans as he intentionally bit right above the junction where his neck met his shoulder relatively hard. Nearly drawing blood as his sharp canines dug deliciously into his skin in the way he knew Megumi liked, on the side of almost too hard and to just pull away to lap at the mark before sucking gently. Megumi subconsciously tugged at Rei’s wet, dark hair as he moaned quietly, encouraging him to continue. Rei didn’t have any plans to stop, so he continued south on his journey to mark Megumi’s pale, exposed skin. Now, turning his attention down to his exposed collarbones and, interestingly enough, avoiding the junction of his neck altogether. Rei bit and sucked at Megumi’s prominent collarbones. The collarbones that had been toying with Rei this whole time as they peeked out teasingly above the loose collar of Megumi’s oversized shirt. Rei rubbed his breasts against Megumi’s own underneath his shirt, creating some much-needed stimulation against his exposed pierced nipples as he basked in the soft glow of Megumi’s subtle gasps and moans under him. He resolved to pull Megumi apart so he could put him back together again, slowly, piece by piece. Rei’s hands traveled from Megumi’s prominent ribs, beneath his pale milky skin, down his sides to his waist. Teasingly tracing over his navel. Rei’s thumbs dipped momentarily under the waistband of his shorts to press them against his pubic bone. Returning once more to Megumi’s waist just as his hips subconsciously jerked into Rei’s touch. With one more sharp bite on Megumi’s other exposed collarbone, Rei pulled almost entirely away. Rising above Megumi, taking a moment to just darkly observe Megumi under him. Soaking in the way, Megumi looked, softly panting as he dazedly looked up at Rei through his lashes, his eyes half-lidded. Megumi was debauched, completely flushed down to his collarbones, his lips swollen from being bitten over and over, his neck now wholly marked with blossoms of red and subtle maroon. Predicting dark bruises, hickeys, and angry bite marks in the early morning scattered across the pale expanse of Megumi’s neck, which wouldn’t be the only place marked up by the time Rei was done with him. Rei almost moaned at the sight under him but remained on task as he pulled off Megumi’s shirt. Exposing the rest of his bare, slightly scarred, pale torso to his sharp, ravenous, dark gaze. Rei took his time slowly drinking in his exposed flesh with his lust-filled gaze. Treating this moment like it was the first time he’d seen his boyfriend’s bare torso, not the 1000th. Megumi squirmed as Rei simply just stared at him, moaning on the side of too loud as Rei unexpectedly brought his plump lips over his right erect nipple. Leisurely trailing his tongue around it and suctioning his cheeks as he suckled softly on it. Megumi closed his eyes against the slow mounting pleasure as Rei intentionally concentrated his attention on his sensitive nipples. Winding Megumi up by the way he lavished on his breasts in the way that he knew drove Megumi crazy. Megumi didn’t remember precisely when he moved, but at some point, Rei had driven a leg between his thighs. Rei’s own hips hovered above Megumi’s thigh as he prevented him from closing his legs after noticing Megumi attempting to rub his thighs together, unconsciously seeking out any type of relief or friction. Desperate to satisfy his mounting urge, he was increasingly growing more and more wet and hard by the second. Rei mercifully ‘allowed’ Megumi to rut against the firmness of his thigh as he moved on to lap at his other nipple. Megumi’s head lulled to the side, his eyes screwing shut. His face was utterly slack, and his lips parted as he panted and moaned quietly into the back of his wrist in an attempt to muffle his simply just embarrassing noises under Rei’s merciless touch, not wanting to draw the other occupants’ attention. Eventually, Rei noticed this, scowling, clearly displeased, pulling entirely away from his breasts to pull away Megumi’s wrist from his mouth. Megumi opened his eyes halfway, looking hazily up at Rei as he leaned close to his face. “Hey. You should know better than to even try to cover up your pretty little noises. I want to hear every little sigh and sound you make that you just can't simply hold back from the way I love you. You know just how much your noises drive me crazy and only encourage me, so why try to hide them?” Rei purred as he encouraged Megumi, who was panting quietly below him. Naturally, Megumi wanted to protest, but instead, he paused for a second to try to actually think about and consider what Rei had said. Things obviously felt a bit different during this current moment, given the circumstances. So Megumi let out a small sigh, giving himself entirely to Rei’s will. As if there was ever a chance he would ever resist him, anyway. “Right. But just keep in mind that we’re not alone in this hotel.” Rei smirked, determined, effortlessly twisting Megumi’s words into a challenge. Leaning close to Megumi’s ear, Rei’s breath feathered over his lobe as his free hand traveled between his body, hovering inches above Megumi’s to the hem of Megumi’s shorts. Megumi didn’t get a chance to even react to what he was doing because Rei plunged his hand down the front of Megumi’s shorts and underwear to trace little feather-light circles around the hood of his swollen clit. Megumi shuddered, pleasure shaking his composure as an unexpectedly long, drawn, breathy moan escaped his parted lips from the way that Rei finally touched him where he had been longing to be touched since they first started. “You know, when you say shit like that, it’s just a challenge to make you moan even louder? Wrecking you over and over again until you don’t even have enough brainpower to even try to think about trying to cover up your noises from the way I fuck you so well. In ways ‘ she ’ could only dream of.” As Rei talked, he slowly stroked the length of Megumi’s enlarged, swollen clit. Rei nibbled on Megumi's ear for emphasis as the frequency of Megumi's pants and moans increased; Rei gradually became more deliberate with his touch, no longer teasing him. Megumi’s eyes drifted close, losing the battle against the steadily building pleasure in his core. However, a fleeting, stray, wandering thought popped up in his hind mind. ‘Who exactly was Rei talking about?’ Ultimately, his brain went completely blank when Rei finally dipped his fingers into Megumi’s warm, tight, wet heat. Finally, having some mercy on Megumi under him by filling up his cunt. Helpless against the onslaught of pleasure, Megumi tried but failed to pull away his wrist, still captured in Rei’s vice grip, in another attempt to muffle his moans as Rei fingered his middle finger against his walls. Curling it just so as to teasingly brush against Megumi’s G-spot with each outward thrust of his wrist. Rei squeezed Megumi’s wrist, a warning, ever so slowly picking up his pace as he fingered Megumi. Who by this point was simply just withering under him, left with no choice but for his noises to go unrestrained. Rei soon added his ring finger to join his first, scissoring his fingers as his thrusts became faster and more intentional. Properly pressing the pads of his fingers against Megumi’s sensitive G-spot over and over again as he rapidly worked him closer and closer to the edge. If the steady string of moans leaving Megumi’s parted lips increased and his expression was pinched in bliss was anything to go by. The only noises remaining between the two boys in the dimly lit room were the rhythmic sound of obscene, moist squelching combined with the melodic sounds of Megumi’s moans and pants. Rei, at some point, had begun grinding his wet swollen clit against Megumi’s exposed thigh in time with the thrust of his fingers. Long past the point of being able to control his hips. Rei panted softly near Megumi’s ear, drowning in his own pleasure and the way Megumi utterly encompassed him from under him. With a few firm brushes of Rei’s thumb against Megumi’s enlarged, swollen clit timed with his brutal pace, Megumi’s back arched up. Flushing against Rei’s front, his pleasure finally reached its peak, pushing him right over the edge with a loud, choked-out moan. Rei’s hips stilled completely, enraptured by Megumi’s expression as he fucked him through his orgasm. Only reluctantly stopping and pulling away once Megumi gasped out a broken, “S-stop…T-too much.” His body trembling under Rei’s dark eyes. Rei pouted, wanting to continue to be engulfed in Megumi in all senses of the word, but refused to push his boundaries. So, as a consolation prize, he let go of Megumi’s wrist, carefully pulling his fingers out of Megumi’s intoxicating heat as he sat up, straddling Megumi’s thigh fully. He dazedly brought his hand up and into his mouth to get to work savoring Megumi. Much to Megumi’s embarrassment and shame-filled arousal, Rei made quite a show of suckling and licking clean the fingers that were just inside of him. Rei’s eyes fluttered closed from the heady taste of Megumi on his tongue, moaning obscenely around his fingers, savoring what remained of his arousal. Rei didn’t have to look at Megumi to know he was embarrassed, but he didn’t let Megumi dwell on his embarrassment because he removed his fingers from his mouth to bend over and kiss him. Making sure Megumi damn well tasted himself on Rei’s tongue as he licked into his mouth and swirled their tongues together. Megumi loosely draped his arms around Rei’s neck as he moaned into the kiss. Intoxicated by the taste of their combined flavors melding together. Eventually, they separated for air, a thin string of saliva linking their mouths as they panted softly. They both attempted to catch their breath while remaining close enough to share oxygen. Megumi finally caught his breath, but before he could even get an opportunity to get his hands on where he wanted to touch as payback from earlier, Rei was already up and off the bed. Crouched in front of Megumi’s backpack, knowing precisely what Megumi was planning. Pouting, perturbed, and slightly confused, Megumi sat up on his elbows to watch Rei almost frantically search his backpack for something. Determined to find whatever it was and quickly. “What are you looking for, Rei? Whatever it is, it must be really important because of how fast you just moved.” Megumi lightheartedly probed him, but Rei didn’t respond at first. Just continued to silently search the bag. Megumi was puzzled for a moment before a sudden realization dawned on him. Answering his own question, he remembered he had packed the strap-on along with all of his other essentials. He couldn’t believe that he almost forgot. It was just this morning when he had secretly and hastily packed it, hopeful, but mostly just horny, that they would get the chance to use it, particularly on Yuji at some point. However, Megumi wasn’t too particular about who it was used on as long as they hopefully, somehow, found the time to use it. His deduction was soon confirmed by Rei, who finally stood up and turned around with the prepared harness in his hand. With a predatory smirk glued on his flushed face, Rei strutted over to Megumi, prepared to jump his bones at any second. Megumi knew better than for even a second to doubt that Rei would, at any given opportunity, do just that. A questioning eyebrow drifted up as Megumi glanced from the strap in Rei’s hands to his face. Rei was ‘good’ and practiced some restraint, stopping in front of the bed next to Megumi to ‘confront’ him. “I found this in your bag while searching for your clothes earlier. You’re pretty sneaky sometimes, Megs. I bet as you hastily stuffed it into your bag this morning, you got all wet and bothered just thinking of all of the possibilities. All the while, Yuji and I were none the wiser while we were distracted finishing packing on the other side of your room.” Megumi blushed, more color rising to his already pink cheeks, embarrassed at just how easily his ulterior motives were found out. Rei simply hummed and continued speaking. “Hmm. I wonder which one of us you were imagining using it first? But we can discuss that later. I want nothing more right now but to watch as I split you open around it. So, help me put it on.” Megumi’s lips parted once again to defend himself but quickly closed as Rei haphazardly dropped the prepared strap next to Megumi. Looking down at Megumi expectantly. A shudder made its way up Megumi’s spine at Rei’s unexpectedly demanding demeanor. It’s typically rare when he gets like this. Although this situation was unique. But Megumi doesn’t mind the shift in the power dynamic in the slightest. In fact, he craves it, specifically during the times when he’s wound up too tight from his own unrealistic expectations. Rei knows this well, and at moments like this, for example, he leverages it to his advantage. Megumi’s eyes somehow darken more as his mindset shifts with their dynamic. However, Megumi wasn’t going to give in so easily to Rei’s will. He had to work for that first. Megumi did, however, picture Rei’s reaction if he tried to put on the strap himself. It made him smirk smugly in amusement because Rei’s always struggled to secure it properly, even in a clear headspace, so it makes sense why he wanted Megumi to do it. But that didn’t dampen Megumi’s amusement any, as he discarded his soiled shorts and drenched underwear before sitting up fully facing Rei standing in front of him. They exchanged charged, lust-filled eye contact before Megumi reached for the prepared strap next to him. Megumi was sure to maintain eye contact while he slowly secured the strap to Rei’s front. His touch teasing as it lingered in the places he touched him; his lower back, hips, and against his thighs. Megumi grazed the pads of his fingers particularly close to the crease where his inner thigh met the wet mound of his pussy as he finished securing the last strap. Only to pull away as Rei bucked his hips into his touch. Megumi smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing, testing Rei’s patience similar to poking a slumbering beast. Rei’s eyes narrowed dangerously, fighting a losing battle against himself as he silently gazed holes into Megumi’s eyes, which expressed a silent challenge, begging Rei to do something about it. Ultimately, something snapped inside Rei. His expression shifted into a sadistic smirk, unexpectedly entangling his fingers in Megumi's tousled damp hair and bringing his face close to his decent-sized pink cock. Megumi choked out a startled gasp as Rei addressed him in a low baritone tone. “You sure do like to work me up by teasing me, huh? Even while I’m like this. You must be more of a glutton for punishment than I initially thought.” Humming quietly, Rei paused, watching how Megumi’s breath hitched in anticipation. “But I don’t mind too much because that just means I get to give you exactly what you want.” Megumi tried not to let his satisfaction and longing show, but his demeanor completely broke, a mix of groan and whine escaping as Rei pulled his hair roughly once again before commanding him, his tone low and dark. “If you still have enough brainpower to tease me so willingly, then you should have more than enough to put your mouth to good use. And you better suck my cock good, too, because that is the only lube you’ll be getting.” An eager shiver ran down Megumi’s spine at his threat; even though they both knew that Megumi was loose and wet enough to most likely not need lube, still, Megumi still lived for the thrill. Rei firmly slapped his cock against Megumi’s right cheek bringing his attention out of his daze and back to his assigned task. He was growing impatient, not wanting to wait even a moment longer. Megumi reddened, his lashes brushing against the warmth of his cheeks as he looked down at Rei’s cock and finally licked from the base of his cock to the tip. Making sure to hold eye contact with Rei as he enveloped his swollen lips around the tip, swirling his tongue around the head before slowly sinking down his cock. Megumi’s cheeks were flushed, his lashes damp with tears from the effort of taking Rei’s cock into his mouth, past his gag reflex, and into his awaiting throat. Once Megumi’s lips finally met the base of his cock, he paused, allowing himself time to get used to the feel of Rei’s cock in his mouth and throat. Rei moaned quietly at the filthy sight of Megumi sucking his hard cock, practically vibrating from the effort of restraining himself, eager to fuck Megumi’s throat until he was hoarse. Megumi knew this, so he gripped Rei’s upper thighs in a vice, preventing him from moving. Rei grasped Megumi’s hair with both hands, attempting to keep still as Megumi adjusted. Finally, Megumi closed his eyes as he began to move and earnestly sucked Rei’s cock like it was his goddamn mission. His pace increased, meeting Rei’s shallow thrusts of his hips in time with Megumi’s mouth. Rei’s dark, glazed eyes were unmoving as he watched Megumi below him. Megumi must’ve lost himself in making a damn show out of sucking Rei’s cock because he was caught off guard and a bit confused when Rei unexpectedly pulled him off of his cock by his hair. Rei pushed Megumi back onto the bed, not allowing him to gather his wits before pushing Megumi’s legs apart, exposing where he was most vulnerable to his starved eyes. Rei eyed him for a moment, much like a starving man inches away from a buffet, before fitting himself between his legs and caging Megumi with his body. One hand next to Megumi’s head and the other around the base of his cock, in the perfect position to plunge home into his welcoming wet tight heat. Knowing damn well that Megumi was still sopping wet while he eagerly awaited this moment. Megumi brushed Rei’s damp, wavy hair away from his face so he could get a proper look at him. Rei was red, his eyes dilated, breathing was labored, and he looked utterly lost in one singular thought or, rather need, Megumi. Through the haze of his lust and unfocused vision, Rei watched as Megumi beamed, full of trust and love, momentarily breaking the spell of the sexual tension caused by the power play. They continued to share charged eye contact for a bit longer, both completely gone in each other but clearly communicated through their mutual trust and love. Megumi encircled his arms around Rei’s neck, leaning close to his ear and hiding his smug grin from Rei’s line of sight. Breaking the heady tension by huskily taunting him. “For someone who sure likes to talk big-dick game, you sure fail to deliver on your threats right before the big moment. What? Are you having performance anxiety, baby boy?” Megumi knew just how much the nickname irritated Rei in this context, but that’s precisely what Megumi wanted. Rei’s black cat tail swished angrily behind him, irritated at being challenged. This was the only warning Megumi got as Rei pushed in, bottoming out with one quick, effortless thrust. Megumi’s back arched slightly off the mattress, and all of the air unexpectedly punched directly out of his lungs. He clawed desperately at the back of Rei’s shoulders before gripping them for dear life. He attempted to ground himself and catch the breath that was stolen from him. Once Megumi’s hold on him loosened before completely letting go as he ‘relaxed’ back onto the bed, Rei knew that he was good to at least sit up. With a satisfied smirk, he fully sat up onto his knees, holding Megumi’s hips tightly, being sure to keep him in place. He diligently observed Megumi under him, patiently waiting for the subtle signs that he could move. Simply just taking this moment to savor the sight of him. His eyes were closed, completely flushed down to his chest, still rapidly rising and falling as he attempted to steady out his breathing completely. Rei subconsciously massaged soothing circles into Megumi’s hips, helping ground and calm him. Megumi’s shoulders relaxed as his breathing finally evened. Eventually, as time passed, his hips started moving on their own accord, circling slowly, seeking any form of stimulation. Signaling that he was ready for Rei to move. Megumi just barely opened his eyes, catching just a glimpse of Rei’s feral smirk above him before Rei began to move. Pulling all the way out so just barely the tip was in before plunging back in, setting an gradually increasing tempo of hips meeting hips as he steadily fucked into Megumi’s tight wet heat. The lewd sound of flesh pounding against wet flesh saturating the room around them drowned out all other noise. Rei ensured his thrusts were precise and brutal, walking the thin line between too much and not enough. Never allowing Megumi to even think of trying to catch his breath. All Megumi could do was either grasp desperately at the bed below him or Rei’s wrist, moaning and panting as he took Rei’s cock. Startled, Megumi gasped as he was nearly bent in half by Rei, unexpectedly pushing his knees up to his breasts. Just to throw his head back against the pillow, his eyes rolling back into his skull at the new angle of Rei’s cock hitting places so deep Megumi didn’t think it was possible. Rei didn’t even grant him enough mercy for him to get the chance to catch his breath or adjust to the sudden new angle before he resumed mercilessly pounding into his dripping pussy. The thick round head of his cock brushed against his sensitive bundle of nerves with each inward thrust. Forcing Megumi to moan at a new octave, digging his nails into the sides of Rei’s thighs on either side of his waist for dear life. The firmness of Rei’s thighs is the only life perseveres in the rocky sea of pleasure. With every single thrust, Rei’s pelvis collided flush against Megumi’s ass, his cock splitting Megumi wide open like his cock was made for him. Megumi’s cunt molded snuggly around it, sucking it even deeper. Rei turned his head to the side to caress his lips against the inside of Megumi’s ankle, gentle and comforting. A major contrast compared to his brutal pace and thrusts. Megumi didn’t even register the kiss, too focused on how his stomach was tightening, his thighs quivering as his orgrasm rapidly approached. He definitely won’t last much longer if Rei continues at the pace he was at, especially if-. Megumi’s brief thought was flung out the window as Rei maneuvered him, creating a new angle. Rei let go of one of Megumi’s legs, allowing it to lay on the bed, but he lifted the other over his shoulder and held it there. He let go of Megumi’s hips to bend over Megumi, looming over him while continuing to fuck him. Each subtle movement of his cock mercilessly hits his abused G-spot. Megumi’s mouth refused to close at the new angle, his steady string of gasps and moans fusing into broken, wanton moans. Panting, Megumi’s hot breath fluttered Rei’s hair away from his face, curtaining around them. Their faces are now mere inches apart, swallowing each other’s noises and air. Rei snaked his free hand in between the tiny gap between their bodies to rub firm circles against Megumi’s swollen clit in rhythm with his thrusts. Megumi nearly screamed at the dual stimulation, barely managing to muffle his voice by biting Rei’s shoulder in front of him. His vision and mind went utterly white as his mouth let go from around Rei’s shoulder, slack-jawed in a silent moan or scream as he orgasmed once again. Rei fucked him through Megumi’s second orgasm, his thrusts slowing as he steadily rubbed Megumi’s clit as he came and squirted around his cock. Rei stilled completely. The hand that was rubbing Megumi’s clit now holding his hip, and the other hand holding his leg over his shoulder carefully sat his leg down on the bed. Rei was panting, attempting to catch his breath, not faring much better than Megumi. Even though he wasn’t the one fucked half to death. Rei was a complete mess, his hair disheveled, sticking every which way, a thin layer of sweat on his body, flushed practically from head to thighs. All the while, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, and he was staring at nothing. Eventually, Megumi shifted uncomfortably while still attempting to catch his breath, so Rei slowly pulled out. Apologetically, rubbing his hip once more before Rei finally gave in to exhaustion. Flopping down on the bed and sitting beside Megumi’s wrecked and spent form. Megumi was still panting, greedily gulping down air as he tried to catch his breath after having his brains quite literally fucked right out of him. Rei’s limbs moved independently, carefully maneuvering Megumi’s head onto his lap and idly running his fingers through his dark, tangled, messy hair. He beamed affectionately down at Megumi on his lap. Finally, Rei caught his breath, so he addressed his boyfriend. “I love you so much, Megumi. You did so well for me. Taking my cock like a pro, not even flinching at my brute instinctual nature. In fact, welcoming it and encouraging me to give into my primal lust.” Megumi just grunted vaguely in response, still out of it as he gradually came down from his high. Rei didn’t mind in the slightest; he just continued absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair. He was in no rush to move or converse. Just happy to sit like this with him for a while. However, as time slowly passed, Rei realized that his body temperature simply was not coming down from what he initially thought was just the strain from earlier. It sort of felt like he was spiraling back to where he started when he first woke up. His vision never completely focused, only becoming more distant as his desperate need to be actually touched in the places that were throbbing fully encompassed every passing thought. Rei didn’t realize Megumi had recovered until he sat up, centimeters away from his flushed front. Watching the subtle movements of Rei’s expression and discerning each of their individual meanings. His hand that was on Rei’s tailbone drifted over to hastily remove the uncomfortable strap and harness from around his hips and thighs, discarding it mindlessly to the side. His whole attention was now wholly focused on Rei. “Did you do it again?” Megumi questioned him, but Rei just looked at him, confused, not in any headspace to understand the subtext. Megumi idly rubbed where the base of his tail met his tailbone. Subconquencly sending a jolt of sharp pleasure up Rei’s spine, shaking his ability to think clearly. As if he was ever able to do that in the first place. Taking mercy on him, Megumi elaborated on his question. “Did you feel like you were obligated to fulfill my needs first as your boyfriend before you could even think about letting me touch you properly intimately? Even when I told you that I wanted to fuck you just as much as you did me? Or did you simply just get so hyper-focused on your one singular mission that you simply just spiraled. Pushing yourself to the limit until you were right back at the start?” Rei blinked rapidly, a bit caught off guard at Megumi putting his shit on blast. Even though it’s not unexpected for Megumi to confront him. However, every time it happens, Rei has always convinced himself that he had him fooled for once, only for Megumi to prove him wrong, time and time again. Rei smiled sheepishly, chuckling to himself, shaking his head at his stupidity as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I-ugh. I-I don’t even know why I think I could ever get anything past you. But to actually answer your question, Megumi, I think it’s actually a little bit of both. It’s ingrained in me to attend to the needs of others before my own, and unfortunately, since I am nowhere near my normal level of conscious thinking, simply no other thoughts occur to me. Other than my selfish urge to please you and get swept away in you. All of you. Your scent, touch, taste, how you looked from the pleasure I made you feel. I-” Megumi raised an eyebrow in entertainment but let Rei finish. “It’s not like I didn’t want to do the things that I did or felt I had to do them. Plus, you know that I don’t really care what order things are done in as long as you’re here with me.” While Rei was talking, Megumi rubbed his lower back, his other hand drifting up to rest against Rei’s hot cheek. Fondness swelled in Megumi’s heart as Rei tried to stay still during his explanation, but he just kept shifting. Unable to hold still as, he brushed against Megumi’s front and leaned back into the familiar warmth of his touch against his lower back. Every single one of Rei’s nerves were alight, hyper-aware of any sort of physical stimulation Megumi was willing to give him. Very much dying for his touch. Wound up so tight he was practically going to break at any moment. “Hmmm. Don’t get me wrong, I'm not upset, Rei. I don’t want you to think that I was saying you’ve done something ‘wrong.’ In fact, I’m a bit impressed and very much enamored by your tenacity. I really do love and admire who you are despite your tendency to disregard your own needs. But-” Megumi closes the extremely short distance between them, connecting them breast to breast, stomach to stomach. Pale, creamy, practically smooth skin contrasted beautifully against Rei’s warm chestnut skin. His warm chestnut skin detailed his resiliency over every single traumatic encounter he’s ever had. Rei moaned softly at Megumi’s sudden display of ‘dominance.’ Prepared at the drop of a dime to eagerly throw himself at Megumi’s feet. Dying to give in to whatever he wanted to do with him. He was already wholly his anyway. “-I think it’s time that I actually got to get my hands on you. I’ve been waiting for so long to touch you and watch as you simply crumble under me.” Rei swallowed everything he was about to say, nodding dumbly, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes. Megumi gazed at Rei lovingly, and just as he was about to act on his proclamation, Kogane suddenly appeared, hovering at the foot of the bed. Disregarding their nude state as it informed them that a new rule was added, players may move in and out of culling games veils as long as they vowed to return within 12 hours; thus, death/curse befall them. After a stunned delay, Megumi finally brushed off his initial shock in just enough time to ask for a list of players and if Tsukimi was on that list. The mascot plainly listed off the players, and luckily, Tsukimi wasn’t on the list, and none of their allies perished so Megumi allowed the Mascot to go. Megumi returned his attention to Rei, who was still watching him. His attention was unwavering despite the interruption as he admired Megumi through his hazy pink, glowing eyes. Never once dimming in their brightness. Megumi brought their lips together, kissing him so desperately that he was sure Rei could practically taste it. Rei moaned softly into their kiss, leisurely twisting his tongue around Megumi's, allowing him to push him on his back onto the bed as he laid on top of him. Megumi’s hand was pinned against Rei’s lower back and the bed, and the other that was once on his cheek slowly drifted down to his side, pressing into the gap between his ribs. Making Rei gasp into Megumi’s expecting mouth, already withering and shaking under Megumi’s teasing touch. Rei’s hands twitched as they gripped Megumi’s back. Overwhelmed and unsure of where to touch. Megumi ignored how overwhelmed Rei was, determined to take care of Rei just as intensively as he did with him. Megumi pulled away from their kiss, ignoring Rei’s slight pathetic whine, in turn, to affectionately trail kisses down the side of his neck. His teasing kisses soon turned rougher, steadily marking up the side of Rei’s neck. Small, encouraging, quiet gasps and breathless moans escaped Rei’s parted lip as Megumi returned the favor with interest from earlier. Megumi took some mercy on the man quivering under him and continued his path south. Trailing his kisses over his heaving full and scared breasts down his soft stomach to his other open and waiting parted lips. They eagerly welcomed Megumi’s warm wet tongue as he lavished over his sensitive clit. He held Rei’s thighs open, preventing them from closing around Megumi’s head as he slowly traced his tongue down the base of the hood and back up before drawing circles around its dripping, swollen length. Rei clung desperately to Megumi’s hair, his legs shaking from the sheer strength of the waves of pleasure shaking him to his core. Megumi’s firm tongue against his already sensitive clit was nothing but a relentless weapon bringing him close to the edge with only a few precise actions. If Rei was anywhere close to being in his right mind, he would die of embarrassment from the steady string of loud moans leaving his swollen lips as he practically rode Megumi’s tongue. A complete wreck after a few precise licks. He wasn’t even sure if Megumi was still moving against him or if it was just him. Though Megumi didn’t seem to mind at all, allowing Rei to use him as he brought himself flying over the edge. Back arching entirely off the bed, pulling at Megumi’s hair as his first orgasm of the night hit him over the back of the head. Rei’s pretty sure he might’ve screamed during it. Megumi worked him through the high of his orgasm until Rei finally laid completely boneless against the bed. Megumi stopped, making to pull away just for Rei to keep his head held between his strong thighs. Rei’s hips were still humping the air in search of more stimulation against his still hard, wet throbbing clit. They exchanged charged eye contact, a question in Megumi’s dark emerald eyes and a desperate plea in Rei’s dazed glowing eyes. So Megumi continued, slowly licking Rei’s sensitive clit, coaxing him through his overstimulation. His clit became even more sensitive after cumming into another plane of existence, transcending this reality and experiencing pleasure at new heights he was once sure was impossible. Megumi leisurely and unhurriedly guided Rei closer and closer to his second orgasm. The steady rhythm against Rei’s clit of not too much but not too little steadily winding the tightness in his core. Megumi’s failed attempts of trying to hold Rei’s quivering thighs apart were surrendered as he finally let go of his thighs to hold his hips instead. Wearing Rei’s thighs as earmuffs, they closed tightly against the side of his head, deadlocking him. Is there any other place Megumi would rather be? With a silent scream, Rei’s body shook violently as it tried to fight against the second orgasm that was forced out of him. But it lost pitifully against Megumi’s expertise as he came for a second time in a row. Coming down from his second high of the night, Rei released Megumi’s hair, his thighs relaxing, allowing Megumi to move freely. With a lingering kiss against Rei’s inner thigh, Megumi laid on Rei. His hands affectionately cradled Rei’s blazing cheeks as they made out unhurriedly, leisurely exchanging fluids and silva. Pulling away for air with his lips slightly parted, Rei stared at him with wide saucer eyes. Overall, painting a wholly fucked out appearance. “Megumi, I want you so bad. I need you to pump me full of your thick cock until my stomach is round from you filling me up with your babies. Until all I can think about is the feeling of your thick cock stretching out my gaping, dripping cunt.” Rei blurted out the most unhinged declaration Megumi had ever heard in his life. It was not only physically impossible and out of the blue but entirely against everything Rei was comfortable with. It left Megumi none short of dumbfounded, completely speechless, and at a loss for words. Unsure of how to address that statement or even where to start. Rei was blissfully ignorant of Megumi's turmoil. Of how he was not only taken aback but very much turned on. Megumi remembered a thought from earlier when he first realized just how long gone Rei was. A revelation that had seemed to have been pushed aside at some point. With it being brought to the forefront of Megumi’s mind, his worry grew. Finding himself pondering once again about the nuances of what was happening inside Rei. Obviously, it came down to breeding or being bred, but in his gut, Megumi felt something more was happening. It can’t just be as simple as Ai’s primal instincts to fuck. After gathering his wits, Megumi's expression grew serious, maintaining intentional eye contact with Rei under him as he finally responded. “Rei. Do you hear yourself right now? I don’t think you even realize what you’re asking from me right now.” Megumi’s tone was concerned but steady. Rei frowned, not understanding why Megumi was hesitating nor why he brought it up in the first place. He felt completely sane, so he simply looked at Megumi in confusion. “Nuh-uh! I know exactly what I’m asking for! I want you to fuck me until I don’t remember anything but the feeling of your cock plugging up my sopping wet pussy.” Megumi groaned at the filth leaving Rei’s mouth, not even getting a break before Rei continued his obscenities. “In fact, it actually hurts right now. It feels like I will actually die without your dick inside me. Megumi, it’s physically painful how my gaping cunt is attempting to close around nothing. It’s just a steady endless flow of slick flooding freely down my thighs and ass.” Megumi paused, ignoring the explicit descriptions in favor of considering Rei's situation thoughtfully. Being mindful that he still has the agency to decide what he wants despite this situation. So, after a long pause, Megumi nodded hesitantly, putting full faith and trust in the man he loved. Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake that Rei would later regret. Rei glowed in excitement as Megumi slowly disentangled himself from Rei, sitting at the edge of the bed before rising with a stretch. He glanced back at Rei, checking on his body language. But saw nothing but jitters of excitement and anticipation. No sign of hesitation, anxiety, fear, or discomfort in sight. Megumi allowed himself to relax a bit. Humming to himself, he reached for the strap at the edge of the bed to secure it on himself. Rei resisted the urge to whine petulantly at Megumi to hurry up and instead drummed his fingers against his stomach. A minor distraction from his inability to simply sit still and wait. Rei quickly flipped positions as soon as he saw that the strap and harness were secured around Megumi. Pushing his stomach into the mattress, arching his back, and presenting his ass for Megumi. Megumi huffed, rolling his eyes and grinning, clearly amused by Rei’s predictable behavior, but there was no way they were going to start out like that. "Come on, dork, flip onto your back for me." Megumi playfully smacked the back of Rei's thigh. His tone was teasing and playful but held an undertone of something more serious. "I need to see your face if I'm going to fuck you." He said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Making it clear that he wanted to be able to check for any sign of discomfort or any other warning signs. Rei looked over his shoulder, pouting in protest, but Megumi's stern, unwavering look silenced him. With a small childish huff, he obediently flipped over onto his back. Opening his legs wide, quietly invited Megumi to come on home. Megumi grinned and positioned himself between Rei's legs, one hand on Rei’s bent knee and the other paused on his inner thigh. “I think it’s probably best if I prep you first. It’s been a while, and even if you’re aroused, it would still be uncomfortable. Maybe even painful. Do-” Sitting up, gripping Megumi’s wrist on his knee, Rei cut him off, his voice steady and clear in his resolve. “Don’t you even dare waste more time with unnecessary precautions! Megumi, I’m fine. You won’t break me if you don’t prepare me first. Plus, I like it a bit rough anyway.” Megumi resisted the urge to groan at Rei’s lack of patience and possible recklessness, but with one look at Rei’s expression, he knew that he wouldn’t get anywhere by arguing. Rei let go, content, laying back on the bed after receiving Megumi’s slight nod and resigned sigh. Looking down and grabbing the base of his cock, inches from Rei’s vagina, Megumi looked up at Rei. “Fine. But I’m starting out slow. What’s the safe word again?” Rei rolled his eyes at Megumi’s redundant question but responded with their safe word anyway. Megumi hummed, shifting a bit closer. “Are you ready?” Megumi asked, an unsure lift to his tone. “Yes, Megs. I’ve been ready since we started.” Rei smiled as he responded. Megumi slowly and carefully pushed in until he finally bottomed out, being sure to watch the subtle ways pleasure and pain were expressed on Rei’s face. With gentle, reassuring murmurs of ‘breathe’ and ‘I got you. You’re doing so good, Rei’ from Megumi. And after some deep, shaky breaths, Rei finally relaxed into the bed. Just needing a few minutes to adjust to a cock inside him after so long. Though this time was entirely voluntary, and he actually trusted/loved the person attached to the cock. It was everything and so much more than it should’ve been from the very start. Breathing in Megumi’s comforting scent, Rei shifted his hips, nodding and encouraging Megumi to move. Megumi adjusted his grip on Rei’s hips as he slowly fucked him. However, he steadily picked up the pace of his thrusts as a steady stream of subconscious obscenities left Rei’s lips between his wanton gasps and moans. This was the only reassurance Megumi needed to know that Rei definitely was not uncomfortable and did not want to stop. If anything, Rei thought that Megumi was being too delicate with him. The tempo of flesh against flesh grew louder as Megumi increased his rhythm, growing bold as he experimented with the angles of his thrusts. Rei’s not sure what caused it, but unexpectedly he swore loudly, turning into broken moans as Megumi’s cock finally brushed head-on with his G-spot. Rei pleaded with Megumi to continue thrusting at that angle, but Megumi didn’t need to be told, already adjusting his hold on his hips to continue to thrust against the sensitive bundle. Rei held the bedding under him like a lifeline as he experienced pleasure he’d never experienced before. The obscenities he was spilling from earlier now are nothing more than moans. No longer able to speak correctly or at all at this point. At some point, as Megumi was dicking Rei down, they switched positions. Megumi was sitting back against the pillows in front of the headboard, and Rei was fucking himself in Megumi’s lap. Or at least he was trying to because he was quickly losing the ability to completely lift himself off and back down on Megumi’s cock. Losing momentum as his thighs began to shake, and his hands on Megumi’s shoulders for support were quivering. Flushed and not faring too much better than Rei, Megumi helped guide Rei’s rhythm using his hold on his hips, lifting him up and down to meet the thrusts of his hips. The most life-altering orgasm Rei was about to experience was rapidly approaching, and all he could do now was hold onto Megumi for dear life. Right as Rei reached his peak, Megumi felt a sharp pain in the junction of his neck as Rei bit down hard enough to draw blood. He swore loudly, causing Rei to pull away apologetically and lick at the wound. Rei’s lips were stained red as he moaned loudly, cumming and squirting a little around Megumi’s cock deep inside him. Neither of them knew it at the time, but this was considered a "mating" mark according to Ai's curse technique. The mark was a way for them to connect their soul with their ‘mates’ so they could copy that person’s cursed technique before disposing of their mate. After a moment of just loud breathing and panting, Megumi carefully lifted Rei off of his lap to lie down next to him. Megumi soon crumbled next to Rei, closing his eyes as he came down. Both of them were lying dead next to each other against the pillows, simply trying to gather their wits enough to catch their breaths. Rei’s eyes began to droop with exhaustion as Megumi discarded the strap. Turning onto his side, Megumi wrapped his arms around Rei and pulled him into his chest. Rei sighed content, burying his nose against Megumi’s collarbone. Allowing his boyfriend’s fingers to thread through the back of his tangled hair to lure him closer to slumber. Megumi fondly kissed Rei’s head before resting his chin on top. Megumi softly praised Rei for doing so well and told him how much he loved him. His voice was barely above a murmur, fighting his own exhaustion. Rei hummed, murmuring how much he loved and appreciated him. Silence fell over them before exhaustion eventually took over, and they fell asleep in each other's arms. Only for Megumi to be awoken not even an hour later by the same symptoms Rei exhibited earlier. They fucked on and off for hours, only taking short breaks of ‘sleep’ or bathroom breaks before starting up again. Megumi soon became accustomed to noticing the signs of restlessness and knew when Rei’s instincts needed to be satisfied. Around 3am, Megumi tried to sneak away to get them food/water during one of the times that they were both awake during their brief breaks. He thought Rei was distracted since his eyes were closed, but he was sorely mistaken. Rei quickly caught him just a few feet from the door and dragged him back to bed while he was half asleep. This confirmed Megumi’s suspicions that he would be unable to sneak out of the room without Rei noticing or without him accompanying him. He’s not sure why he initially thought he would be able to sneak away. Rei wouldn’t even allow Megumi to use the bathroom without him being close by or the door open. Megumi would just have to wait for a break from the cycle of Rei’s symptoms so they could replenish the resources they had spent. As dawn approached, Rei seemed to be able to last longer without waking up. Megumi silently prayed that this was true and he was finally breaking the cycle of his primal urges. After one final round of sex, Megumi sat up slowly, wincing painfully as he got off the bed. Rei watched him get up and scowled. Noticing how sore and exhausted Megumi was. “Megumi, we should clean up a bit and get some food/water. Also, possibly some Tylenol for you.” Guilt was obviously an undertone of his statement as Rei spoke. Megumi turned his head to look at Rei before nodding in agreement, reaching out a hand to help Rei up. Rei smiled softly as he took Megumi’s offered hand and stood beside him. “Tylenol is probably a good idea. Especially if you decide to get bitey again. But first, we need to bathe and change the sheets. We can’t go out there like-” Megumi rubbed the tiredness from his eyes as he spoke, only to make a sound similar to a surprised squeak as Rei picked him up in his arms. Rei grinned down at Megumi, looking up at him, clearly exasperated by the show of strength. Evidently, Rei was not as sore nor as exhausted as he should be. But that did nothing to dim Rei’s amusement at the situation as he playfully teased his boyfriend in his arms as he shuffled his way to the bathroom. “Hey, you can’t complain too much! You allowed me to bite you. You could’ve stopped me at any point, but you didn’t. I think you just secretly enjoyed it.” Megumi made a show of rolling his eyes at his statement, reaching up and pulling at Rei’s cheek in retaliation. Rei yelped indignantly, but Megumi ignored him. “You’re a goddamn menace, you know that? Just put me down so we can take a shower or something. Unless you plan on holding me while we’re in the shower.” Rei laughed at Megumi’s response, carefully setting him down once they were in the bathroom. “Don’t tempt me. I would gladly hold you.” Rei 'threatened’ Megumi over his shoulder while starting the shower. Megumi didn’t bother granting that statement a response as he searched the cabinet for towels. Setting down the towels on the closed toilet seat as he waited for Rei to deem the water temperature appropriate. With a hum, Rei stepped into the shower and helped Megumi with one hand against his back, supporting him in case he fell. They fell into the familiarity of their shower routine, leisurely helping each other wash their hair with care. Rei assisted Megumi in cleaning his body in areas that were hard to reach and/or painful to move around. Showered and clean, Rei and Megumi emerged in their towels from the bathroom back into the mess of the room. Megumi walked over to his rummaged bag, which had fallen on the ground, to search for a change of clothes. He found a clean pair for himself but frowned when he realized that Rei didn’t have his backpack. “Don’t worry too much about me, Megs. I can just wear my clothes from yesterday until we go to the store later. I’m pretty sure my backpack has been snatched up by now, so it’s best to just get some clothes from the store. Luckily, we’re at a nice enough hotel where there should be a washer and dryer somewhere, and I can wash these clothes at some point.” Rei spoke from where he was picking up his dirty, discarded chest binder and uniform, sensing Megumi’s unspoken concerns. Megumi sighed, rising from the floor and tossing his towel to put his clothes on. “I guess we don’t really have another choice. Let’s just make the trip fast. Especially since I started menstruating while in the shower. It’s day one, so the cramps and back pain should be hitting at any inopportune moment. I really don’t want to be out and about while dealing with that, so we should go out as soon as we’re done eating.” Megumi responded to Rei behind him, who was putting his own clothes on. Rei hummed sympathetically, beginning to strip the bed so they could change the bedding when they got back. Dressed and the bed stripped, Rei walked over to Megumi, rubbing his taut back over his shirt. Sighing, annoyed, Megumi glanced at Rei at his side from the corner of his eye. Rei offered his boyfriend an emphatic grimace, sharing his frustration. “You know, I could just run out and get the things we need while you stay here. You don’t have to come, especially since you’re already sore to begin with.” Rei expected Megumi’s slight scowl as he shook his head, outright reusing Rei’s offer. Megumi refused to be ‘inconvenient’ if he was able to avoid it. Even though Rei would never think of him that way. Rei simply sighed, resigning to his boyfriend’s stubborn nature. So, instead of arguing, Rei wandered to the door. “I knew that was going to be your response. Just thought I’d offer. Let’s go eat then.” Megumi slipped on his shoes and followed Rei out of their room and to the lounge. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as they walked towards the kitchen, engaging in conversation about what transpired while they were separated. Megumi was left flabbergasted and astonished by what Rei told him. Reeling from fucked upness of the situation and more than a little pissed at Ai and Saito. Particularly at Ai for keeping this a secret for so long, all the while manipulating and using their flesh and blood for their own sick gain. Megumi asked Rei if he’d talked to Ai since then while he’d been unconscious. Rei just shrugged, shaking his head no, stating that he didn’t and that if he did, then he didn’t remember. Megumi frowned but thought that may be the case as they entered the lounge. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft orange glow over everything. Unexpectedly, Saito appeared behind them and hesitantly called out to Rei. Rei’s eyebrow twitched briefly in annoyance at having to deal with the consequences of his ‘good’ moral decision, as he spun around to join Megumi in facing his grandmother. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. “Saito-san, this is my boyfriend and classmate from Jujutsu Tech, Fushiguro Megumi.” Reluctantly, Rei introduced Megumi to her, ignoring how Megumi eyed him worriedly. Megumi eventually directed his attention back to Saito, bowing slightly, not wanting to come off as rude, regardless of his mixed feelings about her and being on the fence about their family dynamic. Saito hummed to herself, acknowledging Megumi’s respectful bow, but that was the only sound she made as silence fell among the three of them. Rei made to turn back around to walk to the kitchen, but Saito finally spoke, stopping him. “Thank you for saving my life, Rei, and bringing me to safety. While I appreciate what you did, I am a bit confused about why you saved me exactly. Don’t you hate me after you found out who I am? Everything I did. Or rather failed to do…W-what your mother ended up becoming.” Megumi carefully monitored for any sign of anger or resentment from Rei from the corner of his eye, fully prepared to intervene if necessary. However, that was unnecessary because, to his surprise, Rei simply sighed. Completely deflated and emotionally spent over the situation. Finally, he looked at Saito from over his shoulder, being sure to look her in the eyes. “Look, Saito, my brother raised me better than to let someone sacrifice themselves without good reason. I may not forgive you for the role you played in making things the way they are, but I’m not going to just let you die in front of me. After all, you didn’t ask to be born into this fucked mess. Just like how Suguru and I didn't choose to be a part of it.” With those words, Rei looked away and headed into the kitchen. Megumi shot one last look at Saito's stunned expression before following Rei's lead. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Peter is drowning. I just wanted- -like you. Peter is supposed to be dead. He can't tell up from down or what it is, exactly, that he's drowning in, but for some reason that's the thing that sticks; knowing he's supposed to be dead. Maybe if you were good enough- There is fire in his lungs and rage in his heart; green, haunting, destructive. Peter wants to let it out -he needs to let it out. With great power- -morality is choking you- The mask malfunctions, opening up to a sudden onslaught of green liquid that burns his nose -long enough to tear a gurgled scream from Peter before the mask fizzles shut and traps the sound in. Peter, delirious and still drowning , thinks he's back in that lake, left there to choke on his failure as Vulture escapes. But the glowing green reminds him he isn't, that he's somewhere else entirely, and if he doesn't figure it out soon, he's going to die...again. His hands reach out, up and around, trying to latch onto something solid, something he can use. The pull has slackened enough for Peter to kick out his legs and try to push his body up. After five minutes - an eternity - Peter manages to break through to the surface and scrambles to deactivate his suit, gasping greedily for air. Peter is vaguely aware of his movements as he wades through a glowing green pond, but there's something else attached to him. Something blinding hot, vengeful...heartbreakingly sad. All he sees is green, even after he pulls himself out of the pond. 'Everyone will forget, everyone that has ever loved you-' 'I love you -just wait. Wait and tell me when you see me again.' Peter gasps. There's a painful grittiness in the way his chest moves that he knows means one, if not most of his ribs are cracked. 'I just need to catch my breath.' Hands trembling, Peter breaks under the weight of his sins. 'May, what are you doing? May, please wake up.' Peter swings his fists out, vaguely registering the nip of pain when his flesh hits old brick walls that remind him of the outdated tunnel routes he'd spent navigating during the harder parts of his months unmasked in Queens. Chunks of it fly loose, but it doesn't hurt enough for it to feel like justice or an equal exchange of Karma, so he keeps at it, abandoning restraints that reign in unholy strength. Strength that, in the end, hadn't changed a thing. ' Strong enough to have it all, too weak to take it! ' Peter howls. It starts deep in his chest, just a broken mix of fear and anger and that unshakeable grief he can't ever seem to get off of him. He throws his fist into the crumbling brick again and again until the sticky shine of his blood drips from his knuckles onto the dirt beneath him. It satisfies the grief - that haunting green - enough to take in a breath, and another until he's sinking into a mix of blood and gravel that stains the white t-shirt and grey sweats he'd been wearing under his suit. Now this , he thinks, is justice. The echoing trickle of his blood agrees. "Oracle said the signatures were pinging from this location." The distorted echo of a conversation disrupts the stiff silence Peter wallows in. He is somewhat present enough to gauge how far away they are, determining that the fast-approaching thud of boots doesn't leave him much time to do anything more than leap away from the weird, toxic pond and find an undisturbed corner of a leaky set of pipes running along the roof. There he stays, shrouded in darkness as two people enter the scene, dressed in... interesting costumes. Flashes of red, yellow and green accompanied by a tall shadow of black Peter only notices when the figure briefly steps through a stream of light bleeding down from an overhead gutter. That heightened sense of his flares, running along his arms and up the back of his neck -warning him. It was a similar feeling he'd been experiencing over the past couple of months, always so touchy, reminding him to stay aware of his world. Except this warning is tainted in something else, something darker. This place, wherever this is, isn't home. Strange . The spell. The spell to forget Peter Parker. Somewhere, somehow, it went wrong. "Someone's been here recently; there's a wet track of footprints." Peter blinks at how young the figure in the colourful attire sounds, but his eyes still sting from a mixture of grit and blood and... whatever that green liquid is that he can't get a clearer image of them. "Whoever it was, they're strong." The static voice of a woman fills the air. Communicating through a channel , Peter observes. "They're still here." A tall bat -the shadow man- says stoically, voice deep and guttural, not wholly human. Peter rubs his eyes to make sure he isn't hallucinating what he sees. It takes a second for their statement to register with Peter, but when it does, he only has enough time to utter a quick ' shit ' before his suit engulfs him and he's swinging. Amidst the chaos and the fear, Peter questions the decision to run. He knows a vigilante when he sees one, and they tick every checkpoint on his super legit and totally not made-up list, but that pure instinct continues to ring despite his hesitation, and he can't think straight long enough to force his body to stop. He needs to get to a quiet place to calm himself down. His pursuers are determined not to give him that. It doesn't matter how quickly he moves, using that rusty enhanced speed he can't remember the last time he'd tapped into to disappear into hidden passageways or slip through the cracks of ever-shifting tracks he's never seen before, because they manage to be one step behind him. At some point, Peter thinks 'to hell' with his spidey sense and envisions himself collapsing on the train tracks in surrender when the rumbling of a nearby train and the low hum of a crowd register. Peter approaches the sound, hoping to shake the weird bat and their child assistant. The closer he gets, the faster the train seems to shoot forward until there's only a split second left to use. Peter decides to use what is left of the darkness to deactivate the suit and flip his body so that he lands feet first on the platform, right as the subway train rushes past him. However, the momentum from the leap propels him further along and Peter ends up awkwardly gliding across the subway tiles, straight into a pillar. The sound of bone cracking registers in his ear as he crumples to the ground. A shooting pain follows. Peter doesn't have time to dwell on it, can't even give himself a second to let out a shaky exhale before he's up and moving again. Using the crowd of suspiciously desensitized people to slip in amongst them, Peter attempts to mask the limp in his walk as best he can and makes quick work of finding a seat before the doors shut and the train lurches forward. The seat he manages to get is filthy, but so is Peter, who resigns himself to the fact that if his healing factor doesn't kick in soon, he'll contract some disease his body will have to work overtime to burn out of his system. "Strange, what did you do?" Peter's throat burns, both from having screamed it raw not even ten minutes earlier and from having to swallow the lump in his throat when there is no sarcastic, overly confident wizard to answer him. Not that he has enough energy to theorise because wherever he's ended up, there is a constant hum of danger that he's never experienced, even in the roughest areas of Queens. No, this place seems to be hovering over the edge of bad constantly. That and the brain-splitting switch between blinding light and piercing darkness does nothing for the migraine blooming behind Peter's eyes. It's a sensory overload, one that picks and scratches at Peter's head. It just makes him angry. That scares him. "I need to get off this train," He murmurs. "Oi kid, you got any money on you?" Jesus, not now. Peter leans against the seat's metal handlebars ahead of him and closes his eyes. All he hears is the whisper of rage, all he feels is that haunting anger. It grows. It festers. "This kid hard of hearing or somethin'?" Another voice joins the conversation, just as aggravating and condescending as the first. "Go away, please," Peter whispers. Go be a cliché criminal somewhere else, is what he wants to say. "Give us your money." Neither goon shows any sign of leaving Peter be, which is unfortunate, because Peter is having a hard time resisting the urge to beat the ever-loving shit out of both of them. "I don't have any money." Peter grits through his teeth, knuckles a pale white against the handlebars. Peter's pretty sure he hears a screw come loose. "Give us your fucking money!" What might have made Peter look like a walking corpse back in Queens seems to translate into someone with an endless flow of cash here because these douchebags just aren't getting it. Peter feels the air around him shift as an arm reaches out to grab him. Finally , something echoes in his skull. That barely there leash he thought he had on the anger that had simultaneously felt like his and something else snaps. Peter lunges from his seat. "Ask for my money one more fuckin' time and I swear I'll-" Before Peter can finish the sentence, before he can uncurl his fingers from the goon's jacket, he's ripped from him and shoved down the aisle. "Kid's got spunk." The first goon snickers while the second recuperates, but Peter isn't in the mood for a showdown or his usual routine of snarky commentary or quips. "Let's do this." He hops to his feet and he swings his fist. It takes one minute to get both asshole's on the ground, even less to break an arm and somewhere in the haze of it all, there is a voice inside his head screaming at him to stop, to pull back. He might even be aware of the tears streaming down his face, but his senses are shrouded in green and no matter how much of that anger he lets out, it's still never enough. "Might be a good idea to give them a breather, kid. You won this round." Peter whirls around, teeth bared like a goddamn animal but ultimately falters under the intense presence of the newcomer. Clad in a tan jacket about ready to burst at the seams, some insanely buff guy with sunglasses and a white streak in his hair has his arms half outstretched in the air, almost as if he thinks the action will calm Peter down and -yeah- maybe if Peter were the animal he was pretending to be one insane second ago, it might've done the trick. As it stands, it just makes Peter more weary. The guy pauses -takes one look at Peter's face and steps back, although the action seems entirely subconscious on the stranger's part if the shocked parted lips and concerned scrunch of his brows are any indication. "Shit," He whispers, "Let's, uh...let's get you back to your seat, yeah?" "I'm fine," Peter croaks, shoulders still tense. The stranger tilts his head, but the stoic expression on his face doesn't shift once. "Sure kid, but humour me anyway." Peter begrudgingly obliges, if only because the rage has cleared enough for him to think about something other than violence. Still, he keeps his distance from the guy and shuffles back to his seat. "Here, take these too." He hands over his shades. Peter scrunches up his nose. "Why?" "Your eyes," the guy mutters before pausing, long enough that Peter can tell it's not hesitancy but an outright lie, "You flinched at the lights when you got on, figured it'd help with that." He's full of shit but Peter is too tired to decipher why he's being lied to about sunglasses of all things. All that matters is his spider-sense has lowered to a manageable buzz, so Peter slides the shades over his face with a shaky smile and slumps back into his seat. "Thanks...?" he mumbles after it becomes apparent the guy isn't going anywhere. "Jason." Peter hums, "Peter." Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The Suburban rattled along the cracked asphalt like a wounded beast, tires chewing over broken concrete and abandoned cars. Smoke still lingered in the air from fires that hadn’t yet died down, drifting from Atlanta like a sickly omen. Pope gripped the wheel with hands made steady by years of training, of war, of surviving things most men didn’t live long enough to see. His bald head glinted in the last light, beard shadowing the hard lines of his face, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. Six men and one woman sat behind him and in the backseat, packed tight with their meager supplies, rifles resting across knees. The men—Harris, Jacobs, Mullen, Carver, and the others—shifted uneasily, eyes flicking to windows, checking shadows, every sense sharp. Soldiers, all of them, though the world had turned something unnatural into the air, and war hadn’t prepared them for this. Leah sat in the passenger seat, blonde hair catching the glow of the dashboard, blue eyes scanning the tree line. Rifle across her lap, finger off the trigger but ready. Pope stole a glance, trying not to linger. But he couldn’t help himself. She had always been there, always in step with him, always his equal in fire and blood. Afghanistan. Every firefight burned into his memory—the sand, the gunfire, the way she moved like a shadow, deadly, precise. He could see her now and still feel the sting of it, the pull he didn’t allow himself to name. The road ahead was empty, cracked, lined with pines and oaks that had grown wild in the absence of human care. He felt the old rhythm in his bones: scanning, calculating, anticipating. Every shadow could be a threat. Every distant noise could be the end. He muttered under his breath, half-prayer, half-command: “God… keep us steady. Keep us strong. Let the unworthy die, let the chosen survive.” His southern drawl carried low, tight in the cab, and the words weren’t for anyone else—they were for him, for the world, for the fire he carried inside. Harris leaned forward, voice low. “You sure Virginia’s the right move, Pope?” “Sure?” Pope’s eyes didn’t leave the road. “Ain’t no wrong move if you got God on your side. And we do.” Leah caught his words, head tilting, blue eyes sharp. A small nod, barely noticeable. She believed him. Not the words, exactly—but the certainty in his voice. That belief, that certainty, was dangerous. And intoxicating. The unit was quiet, tension vibrating like a live wire through the cab. No one wanted to speak too loudly; words attracted attention. Pope felt it, the pulse of anxiety in the air, thick as smoke, sticking to the backs of their necks. His own chest tightened with old ghosts: the fire in Helmand, the screams that had chased him home, the men he couldn’t save. The ones he’d left behind. He rubbed the scar on his forearm—the anchor tattoo, a symbol of stability, of roots, of the men he’d carried through hell. And beside it, the Reaper face, grinning, a mask that never left him. It was a warning. To them. To himself. The Suburban rattled past a burned-out convenience store. The stench of charred flesh hit first, and then the sight: bodies twisted in unnatural angles, faces frozen in shock and horror. Pope didn’t flinch. He scanned, assessed. No movement. No immediate threat. But the smell clung, and he let out a breath, shaking a little. PTSD, always just under the surface, waiting to drag him back into the fire. Leah’s hand brushed against his shoulder as she leaned forward to get a better view. He felt the warmth through his coat, smelled the faint tang of her sweat and shampoo, heard her quiet, controlled breath. Desire and restraint coiled in his chest like a live wire, dangerous, electric. Always. Always with me, he thought, words unspoken, locked tight in the cage of his mind. The men behind them murmured among themselves, voices low, the language of soldiers who’d seen too much and said too little. Pope didn’t need to know their thoughts—he felt the weight of fear, the hunger for survival, the instinct to dominate, to protect, to kill when necessary. And he knew they felt it too. The road twisted, the Suburban bouncing over potholes and rubble. Pope’s brown eyes caught movement in the trees: a shadow, quick, fleeting. He slammed the brakes, tires screeching against asphalt. Rifle came up instinctively. “Eyes open,” he said, voice low, calm but deadly. Leah mirrored him, rifle steady, finger tight on the trigger. A man stumbled from the trees, hands raised. Alone. Sweat and dirt streaked across his face, eyes wide. Not infected. Not yet. Desperate. Weak. Pope’s pulse hit a steady rhythm as he assessed the threat. He didn’t trust him. Couldn’t. Not a world like this. Not a man alone, scrambling for survival. “Move,” Pope barked to Leah and the unit. Calm, controlled, every syllable precise. “Keep your eyes peeled. God tests the unworthy.” Leah’s blue eyes flicked to him, a spark passing between them—a silent agreement, shared understanding. Always survival first. Always each other second. And always the pull beneath the surface that Pope didn’t name. Not yet. The man froze, realizing the danger. Pope’s grip tightened on the wheel, jaw set. He could feel Leah’s presence beside him like a tether, pulling him from the edge of something darker that wanted to spill over—the hunger that had nothing to do with survival, that coiled tighter with every glance, every subtle movement of her lithe frame. And so they moved forward, slow, deliberate, every sense stretched taut. God. Death. Blood. Desire. Survival. All tangled in the same shadowed path, leading them toward Virginia—and toward a world that would demand more from them than just their skills with weapons. Pope caught his reflection in the side mirror. Bald head, beard, glasses, eyes that had seen too much. Hands on the wheel, knuckles white. And next to him, Leah. Always next to him. Always the first and last thought he didn’t speak, didn’t voice, didn’t act on—yet. The road stretched on. Dark trees hemmed them in. Shadows shifted. And Pope knew, deep down, that the fire inside him was just beginning to burn. The Suburban had barely cleared the bend when the first shot rang out, tearing through the thin walls of reality like a jagged blade. Pope slammed the wheel into a skid, tires digging into the gravel, dust and debris spraying in every direction. The others shouted, chaos breaking the fragile calm. “Goddamn it!” Pope growled, voice low and dangerous, southern drawl thick in the tension. He yanked the wheel hard, tires squealing, and brought the vehicle to a controlled stop behind a ruined stone wall. Leah ducked low beside him, rifle raised, her blonde hair tangled, glinting in the dying light. Her blue eyes were cold and focused, scanning, calculating—every movement a weapon. The others scrambled out of the Suburban, weapons drawn, bodies moving with the coordination born of years under fire. Pope’s heart thumped—not fear, but anticipation. The familiar surge of adrenaline, of control, of life and death dancing on a knife’s edge. Shadows shifted in the tree line—men, armed, desperate, and vicious. Not walkers. Not yet. Humans, hungry and unhinged, ready to take anything they could. The world had stripped men bare of civility, and Pope felt the truth of it in his bones. “Form up!” he barked, voice slicing the air like a bullet. “Carver, Mullen, right flank. Harris, Jacobs, left. Leah, stay with me!” Leah moved as if tethered to him, fluid and precise, rifle at the ready. Pope’s eyes flicked over her, every shot she lined up, every stance she took—it sent a thrill through him he didn’t name. She was lethal, and she belonged to this world as much as he did, as much as she belonged to him. The first man stepped from the treeline, shotgun raised. Pope dropped low, body moving with instinctive grace. The first round tore through the air, slamming into the stone wall behind them. Pope fired two quick rounds from his sidearm, head ducking low, hitting the man in the chest. He crumpled into the brush, eyes wide, mouth open, a final gasp of disbelief. Leah moved beside him, a shadow within his shadow, snapping her rifle up, firing three precise shots that felled a second attacker. Her blue eyes flicked to him, a silent acknowledgment—a dance they had performed together in the sands of Afghanistan, in the smoke of burning villages, in the blood-soaked dust of distant lands. The others were less precise, but lethal enough, moving as Pope directed, clearing angles, covering lines of retreat. The attackers pressed forward, and Pope felt the thrill—the hunt, the calculation, the control. Every move, every shot, every command was a goddamn sermon. One of the men lunged from the underbrush, knife flashing. Pope met him mid-step, grabbing his arm, twisting it back, and sending him sprawling to the ground. A knee to the chest ended the resistance with a crack. He spat, brown eyes glinting behind glasses, and barked orders. “Keep moving! Don’t let them flank!” Leah’s voice cut across the chaos. “Pope! Left side!” Pope pivoted, rifle slamming into his shoulder, firing three rounds with the precision of a man who had lived too long, who had seen too much, who had learned that hesitation meant death. One of the attackers went down, and the others faltered, eyes widening as they realized the odds had turned. They were good, but Pope was better. He had always been better. Afghanistan had carved him, made him sharp, made him ruthless. Every breath was calculation, every movement a prayer to the God he claimed, a God of blood and survival. The final attacker hesitated, saw the gleam of Pope’s sidearm, the measured stare that had ended men before. Leah moved, silent as a ghost, sweeping him with a controlled burst. He fell, mouth open, eyes frozen in shock and disbelief. Silence dropped over the road like a shroud. The wind carried the metallic tang of blood, smoke, and fear. Pope lowered his weapon slowly, chest heaving, every muscle coiled and alert. Leah crouched beside him, rifle still raised, eyes scanning. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, husky. She nodded, lips tight, a faint glint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Always.” Pope allowed himself a slow breath, feeling the pulse of power, of control, of dominance. The others gathered themselves, shaken but alive, the lesson learned: Don’t underestimate the Reapers. Don’t underestimate him. Don’t underestimate Leah. He could feel her near, the heat of her body, the rhythm of her breathing. Desire rose like bile and fire, unbidden and unspoken. He didn’t touch her—wouldn’t—but he imagined the weight of her in his hands, the sharp scent of her, the slick heat of her skin pressed to his. Not now. Not yet. The road stretched ahead, dark and empty, lined with trees that whispered threats and promises alike. Pope glanced at Leah again, and the weight of years, of survival, of blood, of devotion, pressed against his chest. He was the shepherd, the predator, the soldier, the god in this small slice of chaos. And Leah… Leah was his shadow, his equal, his obsession. The thought ignited something dangerous deep inside him, coiling around his spine like a snake ready to strike. The Suburban’s engine rumbled, a beast waiting. Pope climbed in, Leah sliding beside him. They drove on, silence between them heavy but understood. Tonight had been a lesson. Violence wasn’t just survival—it was faith. It was justice. It was proof of the strength of the chosen. And Pope, with Leah at his side, was proof that God had chosen correctly. But in the quiet of his mind, when adrenaline still thrummed and the blood still warmed him, he let his gaze linger on Leah a fraction too long. Thought of the soft rise of her chest beneath her jacket, the sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her eyes met his when the world had fallen away. Not now, he told himself. But the fire was there, and it would not be quenched. The smoke hung low over the road, curling in the wind like serpents, twisting around the bodies of the men who had dared challenge them. Pope stood at the edge of the clearing, chest heaving, brown eyes dark behind his glasses, scanning, calculating. Leah knelt beside one of the wounded, pressing a rag to a bleeding arm, her blonde hair plastered to her sweat-slicked forehead. Blue eyes sharp, calm, precise—always precise. “Everyone accounted for?” Pope’s voice cut through the quiet, low and dangerous, southern lilt thick with authority. Carver rubbed at his bloodied shoulder, nodding. “All here, sir. No fatalities on our side.” “Good,” Pope said, letting the word fall like a hammer. He glanced over the fallen attackers, eyes lingering on the twisted faces, the empty glares. Weak. Desperate. Foolish. Harris spoke up, voice trembling. “They… they almost got us there, Pope. How did you…” Pope’s hand snapped out, a sharp gesture, cutting the question off. “Focus,” he said. “God don’t protect fools. We survived because we were ready. Because we are chosen. Because we know the cost of hesitation.” Leah’s voice was calm, almost soothing. “We fought. And we survived. Together.” Pope’s gaze flicked to her, heart tightening in a way that had nothing to do with the fight. Together. The word carried weight, unspoken layers. He couldn’t touch that part of her, not now. Not ever. But the thought curled inside him, slick and consuming, fire and ice coiling through his veins. The men gathered their weapons, checked ammunition, cleaned blades where they could. Pope moved between them, silent, observing. Each man alive was proof of discipline, of obedience, of faith. The weak had been purged. The strong remained. “Listen up,” he said finally, voice even, measured. “We ain’t just surviving. We ain’t just walking from one fight to the next. We’re right. Chosen. All of us. But the world’s a mess ‘cause men forgot God. Men forgot loyalty. Men forgot the cost of their own lives.” He paused, letting the words sink in, letting the weight settle over them like smoke. “We… we remember. And we’ll teach ‘em, if God wills it. And if He don’t…” Pope’s hand brushed the side of his glasses, adjusting them absently. “Then we do what’s necessary. And tonight… tonight proved we do it better than anyone.” Leah rose beside him, her rifle slung over her shoulder, fingers brushing the strap like second skin. Pope’s gaze lingered, tracing the line of her arm, the curve of her neck, the way her eyes met his with that calm defiance that had kept them alive countless times before. Not now. He reminded himself. But someday… The men murmured agreement, shaken but resolute. Pope walked the line, inspecting, nodding once or twice, satisfaction curling like a predator’s grin. He caught a glimpse of blood on his own forearm—the Reaper face tattooed into his flesh staring back at him. Anchor inked in black beside it. Symbols of survival. Symbols of control. Symbols of everything he had become. “Load up,” he ordered. “We move before the sun sets.” They returned to the Suburban, quiet now, the adrenaline fading but the awareness sharp. The world had shifted under their feet. Nothing would ever be the same. Pope slid into the driver’s seat, Leah beside him. The others piled in behind, weapons ready, eyes scanning, bodies tensed for the next inevitable chaos. The engine roared, tires gripping the dirt and gravel as they moved down the backroads. Pope’s mind churned, replaying the fight in slow motion. Each shot, each movement, each heartbeat. He felt the thrill, the righteousness, the divine purpose in his hands and eyes. Every death had meaning. Every survival a testament. And Leah… always Leah. Her presence beside him was a constant, a tether to reality and obsession alike. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her jacket, smell the faint tang of sweat and leather, hear the controlled rhythm of her breathing. In the quiet of the road, the hum of the engine, he let a thought brush across the edge of his mind, darker than the night around them. If only she knew… Not aloud. Not now. Not ever. But the fantasy, the image, slid through him anyway—her surrender, her obedience, the slick heat of her skin pressed to his, the whisper of pleasure in her voice at his command. He tightened his grip on the wheel, a shiver crawling along his spine. Control. Faith. Fire. The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the broken landscape. Pope kept his eyes on the road, but inside, the battle never ended. Memories of Afghanistan mingled with the fight on the backroad, with every loss, every victory, every decision that had brought them here. The world was breaking, but they—he, Leah, the men—were alive. And alive was power. He glanced at Leah, catching her profile in the dying light. The curve of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the quiet confidence she exuded even now. He imagined her naked, trembling, slick with heat, hands gripping his chest as he pressed her to the hood of the Suburban. The thought made him hard, arousal lacing with the remnants of adrenaline, sharp and raw. Not yet. He whispered the rule inside his head. Patience. Faith. Control. And still, the fire burned. Always. And Leah, always beside him, was both the anchor and the storm. The day waned and the sky churned a bruised purple over the horizon as Pope guided the Suburban down a twisting dirt path, tires crunching against the broken earth. Leah sat beside him, scanning with the practiced alertness of a predator; blue eyes sharp as broken glass, blonde hair plastered against her sweat-slick forehead. The rest of their unit—six men, all lean, strong, and hard-bred—followed in tense silence, weapons within reach, senses stretched taut across the fading light. Pope’s brown eyes flicked to the road ahead, the cracked asphalt and overgrown grass forming a patchwork of opportunity and threat. Each mile felt like the long exhale after a firefight—relief tempered by the gnawing certainty that death was still waiting somewhere out there. He gritted his teeth, hands gripping the steering wheel like iron, the Reaper face on his inner forearm staring back at him, a grim reminder of who he had become, who he must be. “See anything?” he asked, voice low, carrying that drawl of Louisiana he hadn’t shed in all these years. Leah’s gaze never wavered. “Not yet. But keep your eyes peeled. Could be a farm, could be a barn—could be trouble waiting in a dozen forms.” Pope’s lips twitched, almost a grin, almost a snarl. “Trouble don’t scare us.” Her chuckle was dry, muted, but it carried weight. “Yeah… but it’ll sure make ya work for it.” By nightfall, they found it: a sprawling farm on the edge of a decaying tree line. The barn’s roof was half-collapsed, a silo leaning drunkenly to one side. The farmhouse was scarred but structurally sound. Pope killed the engine, and the Suburban coasted to a stop on the cracked gravel. The air smelled of dust, rotting corn, and faint smoke. “Looks like we found ourselves a temporary home,” Pope said, voice low but carrying authority. “Unload. Secure. And let’s see what we got.” The men moved like shadows, disciplined, silent, the efficiency of a unit honed by years of combat and shared survival instincts. Leah followed Pope, their steps in sync, a dance they had rehearsed countless times on faraway deserts and blood-soaked fields. Her presence beside him was a tether, a constant in the chaos, a reminder of loyalty and danger intertwined. Inside, Pope moved quickly, inspecting doors, checking windows, testing structural weaknesses. Leah followed, keeping eyes sharp, fingers brushing against the barrel of her rifle as though it were a natural extension of herself. Pope’s mind ticked over possibilities, angles, contingencies. He marked spaces for defense, potential traps, and lines of sight. He paused at the threshold of the barn. Dust motes swirled in the fading light. “This’ll be our forward position,” he said. “We hold here, control the perimeter, and wait. Anyone gets through, they’ll have to answer to us.” Leah glanced at him, admiration in her eyes mingled with that calm defiance that always set him on edge. “And we make sure nobody gets to thinking they can just wander through, huh?” Pope nodded, chest tightening. “Exactly. And that includes the weak-minded, the lazy, the fools.” He let his gaze linger on her just a second too long, imagining her in a way that made his pulse spike, a low thrum behind his ribs. He shook his head, voice rough. “You… you’re doing good. Damn good. Smart. Quick. Loyal.” She looked at him then, and for a heartbeat, the air between them thickened. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Her loyalty, her skill, her being wrapped tight around his chest, his mind, his discipline. He swallowed, words catching in his throat like hot iron. Not yet. Not now. The men began moving supplies, stacking canned food, water, ammunition. Pope watched, directing, organizing, instilling a discipline that was equal parts necessity and doctrine. He drilled them on perimeter security, reaction drills, combat formations, and threat assessment. Every command was precise, brutal in its clarity. Leah executed every instruction with grace, lethal efficiency. Pope’s chest tightened as he watched her, imagining the heat beneath the skin, the strength in her arms, the flush of exertion on her cheeks. Damn. God help me… He caught himself wandering into darker thought, picturing her naked, slick with sweat, hands gripping his shoulders as he pressed her against the wooden frame of the barn. Cock hard in his pants, pulse thrumming in his ears. A rush of heat and guilt warred with desire. Control. Patience. Faith. He forced his mind back to the task at hand. As night deepened, they barricaded the doors and windows. Fires were lit sparingly, providing minimal light but enough to keep watch. Pope stood near the farmhouse window, surveying the blackened treeline beyond. Every rustle, every movement, was a potential threat—but one he welcomed, a test of his skill, of their unity. Leah joined him silently, shoulders brushing, a wordless acknowledgment of shared vigilance. He inhaled, smelling her, feeling the curve of her hip near his side. Soon… he thought, fingers tightening on the wood frame of the window. But again, not now. The world wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready. In the quiet, the crackle of the fire behind them, Pope allowed himself a sliver of reflection. Violence, survival, divine selection—they were threads in the same tapestry. He and Leah had survived Afghanistan, survived the collapse of society’s illusion. And tonight, fortified in this farm, they were planting the seeds of something new, something brutal, disciplined, sacred in its own dark way. He pressed his palm to the cool wood, tattooed forearm gleaming in the firelight. Reaper face and anchor, inked into his skin as permanent reminders of death and duty. His gaze swept the room, lingering on Leah, on the men, on the weapons. They were ready. They were strong. They were chosen. And when night fell completely, when the men finally slept, exhausted but alert, Pope allowed himself the smallest indulgence. Alone in the shadows of the barn, he imagined Leah, her skin slick, body pressed to his, hands gripping him with desperate, silent need. The thought tightened him, made him gasp softly in the darkness. Fingers closed around his cock through the thin fabric of his pants, slick and hard, heart hammering against ribs. He imagined her lips, her eyes, the shiver of submission, and the fantasy rolled through him like fire and oil, dark and consuming. Not aloud. Not yet. He whispered to himself. But the ache was real, visceral, and he welcomed it, the only indulgence in a world that demanded ruthlessness and control. Outside, the night waited, silent but hungry. Inside, Pope breathed slow, controlled, already planning, already thinking, already imagining the darkness yet to come—and Leah, always Leah, at the center of it. The barn settled into a brittle silence. The fire smoldered low, casting jagged shadows across the rafters, the walls, the scattered weapons and supplies. Pope leaned against the cool wood of the loft ladder, listening to the even, deep breaths of the men and Leah below. Every sound, every slight creak of timber, reminded him that they were alive—yet his pulse throbbed in response to something far older, far darker. He closed his eyes, letting the fatigue of the day sink into his bones. Fighting, driving, scavenging—every second had left him raw and taut, edges frayed like the straps on his boots. And beneath it, beneath the ache of his muscles and the ache of survival, there was another fire—low, relentless, simmering. Leah. Blonde hair plastered to her sweat-slicked face. Blue eyes sharp and fearless. The curve of her neck, the tension in her arms as she moved with lethal grace. He remembered the way she had dispatched that would-be ambusher on the road, her rifle steady, her body poised and fluid like a hunting cat. The memory coiled in his gut, twisting heat into his chest. He inhaled slowly, smelling her in the mind’s eye—sweat, faint perfume, the musk of exertion—and the ache sharpened between his legs. Fingers trembled, hesitant at first, then seeking the taut hardness pressing against his pants. He groaned softly, head tilted back, lips parted. Damn her. Damn her to God… Pope let his mind wander into darkness, imagining her pressed to him, slick skin meeting his, the heat radiating from her tight body as he pinned her against the rough timber of the barn. So hot… so fucking wet… Every detail was vivid: the small gasp of her mouth, the slick slide of her fingers along his chest, the shiver that ran through her as he traced the line of her jaw. His hand tightened, cock throbbing, slick against his palm, pulse hammering in his groin. The world outside ceased to exist. There were no men, no fire, no abandoned farm—just the cruel, consuming fantasy of Leah beneath him, trembling and obedient. He imagined whispering her name, low and rough, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. Her blue eyes wide, searching, hungry. Her hands wrapped around him, tight and possessive, as if she knew—no, needed—the heat and control only he could give. The image made his hips jerk involuntarily, cock slick, throbbed with desperate need. Pope’s mind was a storm of shadow and lust, every movement, every imagined gasp, every slick curve of her body etched in vivid relief. He imagined pulling her close, pressing her into him, teeth grazing her shoulder, hands roaming over her tense, trembling muscles, watching the tension melt into fevered surrender. And yet, the rules of their world, the discipline of survival, kept him at the edge. He could only imagine. Could only touch himself, slick and hot, heart hammering as he chased the impossible fantasy. Every stroke, every gasp, every imagined shiver, intensified the need, the ache, the dark obsession that had been simmering since Afghanistan, since every firefight, since every shared brush with death. Pope’s breath came in shallow pants now, muscles trembling with exertion, mind spinning with visions of Leah’s devotion, her body slick and pliant under his control. Soon… someday… but not yet… he whispered into the shadows. The fantasy was his alone, cruel and consuming, a fire he could tend without letting it burn the fragile order of the group. When the tremor passed, when the throbbing had ebbed just enough, he leaned back against the loft’s rough wood, chest heaving. The barn was still, the fire still a low glow, and Leah slept soundly below, oblivious to the storm of need and dark desire swirling in his mind. He pressed a hand to the Reaper tattoo on his forearm, anchor and grimacing face, and let the silence hold him. Control. Discipline. Survival. And obsession. He closed his eyes, knowing that the dark fantasy would wait, would burn quietly in him, feeding the hunger that would shape him, shape them, shape the Reapers. Leah would always be at the center of it, even if the world never knew. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Emiya took a few days off. He didn’t think it was so odd, but apparently he hadn’t taken any time off since he’d first taken charge of the kitchen in Chaldea, and people were more than a little worried something was terribly wrong . Which in a way, perhaps they were right. He was certainly trying to escape. He sat on the cold floor of his room in the dark like he was back in the storehouse in Fuyuki, sitting on what he had never known was Saber’s summoning circle. Tracing over and over. Eight steps, a thousand blades, cataloguing the hill piece by piece. Caladbolg, Hrunting, Durandal, Cruadin Catutchenn, Curtana, Naegling -- just not Caliburn, not Avalon. He wanted to grip the red pendant he kept so close tight in his palm, but he refused. The peace those items usually brought him wasn’t the right kind, not now. Eight steps to loosing a true arrow. He found a secluded spot on the exterior of Baldanders and practiced, trying to hit his own arrows as many times as he could before the remnants disappeared into the stormy sea. He just needed a little time to clear his head. He was back at the cafeteria before long. It was late at night again, as the others were leaving, that Saber stood in the doorway. “I’m closing,” he said. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” she apologized. “Would you mind if I stayed again?” Emiya sighed, jerked his head toward the counter. Almost without thinking about it, he set about making coffee. It was his zen now. He selected a very light “cinnamon” roast for complexity and brightness, pressed it into espresso, then added steamed milk and a touch of vanilla syrup to Saber’s particular taste. The silence while he worked was comforting. “Thank you,” she said. And she took her usual time, savoring the flavors of her first impression before taking her greedy second, and third. She closed her eyes and hummed in appreciation, a slight curve coming to her lips as she nodded in approval. “Delicious,” she said, “As always.” “You’re welcome.” “You took a break.” “Mm.” “Are you alright?” He peered over his shoulder at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?” The King of Knights was very bad at lying, even by omission. “Is there some reason you want to check in on me after Valentine’s Day?” he pressed. “Saber?” “N-not particularly…” she muttered. “Aren’t you going to drink anything?” “What did you tell her?” Saber’s mouth tightened like a child caught with the cookies, then she frowned and blew out a breath. “I only told her the truth.” “ Please, ” Emiya sneered. “Don’t do me any more favors. You think you know me, but you don’t.” Saber’s face hardened, and if she looked like iron, then she sounded like razor-edged steel. “I said this once before, but allow me to be clearer: I don’t know how the Saber of your time decided her fate, but the Artoria Pendragon standing before you chose to fall in love with Emiya Shirou.” Emiya turned back to her, poison bubbling at his lips, but she slammed her hands on the counter and stood, silencing him before he could raise his objections. “I fell in love with his kindness and his unbending will,” she barked, “The core of the boy that became a man, both of whom I fought beside. And with that maturation came great skill and wisdom, traits I also admire.” “The boy became a fool--” Emiya started, but Saber chopped with her hand, as if severing the argument from his throat. “It also came with yet more great burdens for him to bear,” she agreed, “But that is only natural in life, and they were not disdainful to me. Do you think me free of the very same regrets, Shirou? You are not so foolish. I wish for your pains to be gone not because they are ugly, but because it pains me to see you suffer, especially in a way so familiar to me.” “I am not your Shirou,” he growled. “You are Emiya Shirou!” Saber yelled, fist trembling. Her face contorted and she bit her lip, averting her eyes. “Though you have made it clear you are not mine,” she added, low and even as she sat herself back down. Emiya ran his hands down his face, not wishing to meet her eyes, either. His hair fell down over his eyes, and he whipped it back again in sudden anger. “Have you ever stopped to think that perhaps the world does not rest entirely on your shoulders, O King?” he demanded. “The world is yours to reject or demand for yourself as you see fit. You were always so perfect, and I--” Emiya flung his arm out, at a loss for words. He knew them in his stomach, and he knew from the look on Saber’s face that she knew, too, and for some reason that stopped him from saying them aloud. Instead, he leaned low over the counter, hiding his face behind his hand so she couldn’t see. “How could I ever measure up to that?” he murmured. It was the bridge in Fuyuki that day, all over again, but sickeningly reversed. She finally wanted a future for herself, for them, and all he was doing was yelling at her, barricading himself behind the past. And still he felt a hand, so small, reach out tentatively to stroke his hair. Emiya didn’t stop her. He was too tired. When was the last time he had felt tears in his eyes? After everything he’d seen, everything he’d done -- for this? For an immature, doomed love? “I don’t know what happened between us in your world,” Saber whispered. “But I am so sorry, Shirou.” He held his breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose, and she set her hand over the one he’d laid limply on the counter. “You are not alone anymore,” she said. “You are not the only one here amidst ghosts. When I look around, I see Diarmuid, a friend who saved my life, but does not remember me. Kiritsugu nods at me blankly, not remembering how we fought, and Irisviel smiles brightly, not knowing how I failed to protect her, failed to bring her home to her daughter. I see two different goddesses wearing two different incarnations of Sakura’s face. I see that… Alter version of you, who remembers nothing at all of his life, of anything that held any value to him. I do not… want you to become like that.” He tried not to look at that other side of him. Because he was just another side of him, one and the same. An inevitability, probably, the cracked and broken end result of Emiya Shirou. “You have value, Shirou,” Saber said. “After all this time, please believe that. If you still have too much history with the Saber Artoria Pendragon, then I understand. But I would like you to allow me to remain by your side, as you once did. As partners, and friends. I swore to be your sword, and I… I want to keep that promise. There is no one else I would rather have at my back.” Emiya pushed off from the counter, turning away from her and, without an idea of anything else to do, beginning to pour himself his black coffee after all. “Nor I mine,” he finally croaked past the lump lodged behind his Adam’s apple. Saber gave it some more time before she started speaking again, softly. “And… the Lancer Artoria Pendragon has no prior history with Emiya Shirou, does she?” “Saber…” “She was having trouble feeling she belonged here,” Saber said, face twisting in guilt. “Finding a reason to remain, an anchor. Master came to me, and I… I knew it would be good for her to meet you. More than the history between us, you are… like me. But stronger. Wiser. Kinder. Like her.” The objection that came from his lips was no less serious, but it was quiet and drained. “I’m not--” “I do not speak to her about my Master from the Fifth Holy Grail War,” Saber interrupted. “I speak to her only about you . My friend, the Archer. She did not stay, during the Remnants, because she was needed. She stayed because she was curious -- about you. Because she started to see in you what is so clear to me.” “I don’t know what you see,” he whispered. “You don’t have to. I ask of you only to believe that I see it. That she sees it. Don’t waste that. Like… I must have with you. You deserve to be happy. I want you to be happy.” Emiya crossed his arms and lowered his head to rest upon them, closing his eyes into the darkness and trying to center himself. It felt like he had been slipping away from himself, little by little, ever since the Grand Order was finished. Now, in these Lostbelts -- he hadn’t even needed to be sent back to the Throne first, he was already back to doing what he had always done as a Counter Guardian. He was taking away others’ lives, thousands if not millions of others who didn’t deserve the fate that had been thrust onto them. They should have been the ones to live. Not him. “Shirou,” Saber breathed, gently stroking his hair. Without realizing it, he drifted off into sleep, like he was still practicing strengthening late at night in his storehouse. It was cold and dark, but even when the flames lingered in his thoughts and the the rest of Fuyuki made him feel restless and disconnected, like an outsider in his own home, he always felt like he had a purpose and belonged when he was in the storehouse -- like he was meant to be there. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: The Council meeting had dragged on for hours and nobody was happy when it finished. That was fine. Meetings where nobody left happy were usually the meetings where the most had been accomplished, as it usually meant that there had been the most compromise from all parties involved. Sansa was looking forward to getting back home to Naruto; she felt guilty about leaving alone for so long, considering she had full days of training for the next six days, however as she was exiting the Hokage Tower, someone stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Ah, just the person I was hoping to bump into," the man said with a lazy smile, as if their meeting had been entirely accidental when they both knew that to be far from the truth. Sansa swept her eyes up over him– he had to be the Nara clan head, he looked far too much like Tama to be anything else. "I was wondering," the Nara said, his words drawn out, as if speaking took too much effort, "if you happened to play shōgi?" Sansa found her interest piqued despite the almost insultingly heavy-handedness of the Nara's maneuvering, because that sounded like the equivalent to a Westerosi invitation to a private solar to share a glass of Arbor's finest– and everyone knew that was how true relationships were formed; where secrets were whispered, the little games were played and the favours exchanged that shaped the true unofficial alliances, regardless of official treaties or political stances. And Sansa did know how to play shōgi. It had been part of her training under Kaeru in order to help her blend seamlessly into the world of nobles, entertainers, and courtesans. She was a fair hand at it too, picking it up with an ease that had made Danzo smile; shōgi shared several basic principles with cyvasse, after all, and Sansa had always been a very adept student at strategy games, going on to later flourish under Petyr's tutelage. "I've enjoyed a game or two," she demurred to the Nara clan head, knowing she wasn't fooling the man with her act even slightly. "I'm always looking for fresh minds to challenge," he smiled down at her. "Would you care for a game, Uzumaki-hime?" Sansa... paused . Princess. He'd called her princess . That was not the title she'd expected to hear, as acting clan head. And yet, as the firstborn daughter of Uzumaki Kushina and descendant of Uzumaki Mito, it was the title she was owed . For the first time since she'd entered the Council meeting, Sansa found herself on the back foot, uncertain how to react. It almost felt akin to when she was a prisoner in the Red Keep and the occasional servant would address her as 'Princess Sansa' in low, reverent whispers, even as Joffrey viciously denied that Robb was a King of anything. Rightful titles could be dangerous when spoken in the wrong places or overheard by the wrong ears. But rightful titles were powerful things and Sansa donned hers now like the bloodied crown of drowned bones and rubble she owned by rights, raising her chin to smile at the Nara. "I would be honoured, Nara-sama," she said, and there was a flare of approval in the man's dark, intelligent eyes. "Why don't you and your brother come over for dinner tonight," he said, "we could play a game together afterwards." "I don't think your wife would appreciate such late notice," Sansa cautioned, hesitant to accept the invitation; sharing a meal with a noble family where she had only mere hours to prepare her brother, who had never so much as set foot in a clan compound before let alone learned the etiquette required of formal dining, was not the sort of social faux pas she was eager to make. She wanted Naruto to make the sort of impression he'd be able to look back on later, when he was older, and be proud. "Don't worry, it won't be anything formal," the Nara said dismissively, easing her fears somewhat. "Just something casual between friends," he added, with another lazy smile. "I didn't realise we were friends, Nara-sama," Sansa said, amused by his forwardness despite herself. "I'd like to think we could be," the Nara said. "I think we'd make good friends." Sansa looked at him thoughtfully, considering his words, weighing the possible motives behind the invitation. "Dinner, then," she decided, finally. "At what time will we be expected, Nara-sama?" "Come around at seven," the Nara said, sounding satisfied. "And call me Shikaku– calling me 'Nara' at dinner tonight will only get confusing fast." "Hm," Sansa said, not willing to commit to that level of informality yet. "We will see you then." As she'd expected, Naruto was ecstatic at the invitation, which seemed to have more than made up for her absence for the majority of the day. Naruto was friendly with Nara Shikamaru at the Academy, though he seemed to like Shikamaru's friend Akimichi Chōji more, and he practically skipped along as Sansa led them to the Nara compound come seven in the evening, remembering its location from when she used to warg into small animals to explore the village. Sansa wore the same dress to dinner that she'd worn to the Council meeting, though she had changed her hair to a more elaborate, upswept style traditional for the Elemental Nations, fixing the bun in place with several of the combs she'd had made from the elk antlers. Meanwhile, at her instruction Naruto had asked around with his 'pretty neesans' until he found one with a son close enough in size to him who hadn't minded lending him a semi-formal yukata for the evening. Sansa thought he looked quite handsome in the light brown yukata with its decoration of cascading raindrops in shades of yellow, orange and even a shimmering gold meant to inspire thoughts of summer rain. Sansa honestly wasn't sure what to think of Naruto's connections with the seedier underbelly of Konoha's Yūkaku. She was well aware that while she was away training with Jiraiya, Naruto spent the time he wasn't in the Academy out on the streets, dodging his ANBU watchers and running wild with future yakuza and whores. But were shinobi truly any better? What were they, but government-sanctioned murderers and thieves and prostitutes, their hands just as filthy as any of Naruto's friends, if not even more so underneath their so-called civil veneer of nobility and patriotism? Besides, the skills Naruto was learning would only serve to aid him in the long run, to keep him alive, and that was all Sansa truly cared about. There were two guards standing at the entrance to the Nara compound when they arrived, but they let the pair of them through without incident, one leading them through the vast compound to the main house where Shikaku and a brown-haired woman with dark eyes greeted them at the door. Sansa and Naruto immediately bowed, the other couple bowing in return. "Thank you for welcoming us to your home," Sansa said formally. "You are very welcome here," the woman said warmly. "Please, come in, both of you." The Nara main house had a spacious genkan* where she and Naruto could exchange their shoes for guest slippers before stepping into the main house itself where Sansa presented the couple the host-gift, careful to use both hands when presenting it; gift giving etiquette in this culture was vastly different from Westeros. It followed rigid rules for giving and receiving and it seemed gifts were offered for everything from host-gifts, to tokens of respect, to signs of continuing association. As was custom, the Naras would not open the gift until later, as it was considered rude to open the gift in front of her and Naruto, but Sansa hoped they liked the pair of embroidered handkerchiefs, one with a pattern of winter roses and one with a pattern of elk antlers around the hem– small gifts such as fruits, chocolates, handkerchiefs and alcohol were considered to be appropriate for when visiting someone's house and she had enough handkerchiefs around the house to spare from practicing her embroidery. As she and Naruto were led into the house, Sansa was keenly aware of Shikaku's gaze fixed on her. His wife it seemed noticed too, because she sent her husband a scolding look. "Wait until we've finished dinner, at least, before you drag her over to the shōgi board!" she reprimanded him, before sending Sansa an apologetic look. "I apologise for his manners," she said warmly, "my name is Nara Yoshino; your dress is simply beautiful, I've never seen one quite like it before!" "My name is Uzumaki Fuyuko, this is my brother, Naruto," Sansa introduced them, as Naruto was clinging to her, seeming to have been struck shy by their surroundings, though he perked up when they entered the dining room and he spotted the boy who must be Shikamaru slouched over in one of the seats. Sansa didn't blame Naruto for being uncomfortable– she doubted he'd ever been surrounded by such blatant wealth in his life, growing up as they had among the forgotten and cast aside of Konoha's society. "And thank you– I made the dress myself." "You did?" Yoshina sounded surprised– and impressed. "I used to do all the sewing at the orphanage, in return for an allowance," Sansa explained with a pretty smile for her hostress, "I found I enjoyed it so much I began to be create my own designs." "Well your work is simply beautiful," Yoshino said. "I wouldn't have thought it home-made at all!" The woman then turned to her son. "Shikamaru!" she scolded, "at least say hello to our guests!" She turned back to Sansa, an exasperated look on her face. "I apologise– he's learned his manners from his father," she said, and Sansa couldn't help but smile at the woman's seemingly-effortless charm; she could see why Yoshino was the wife of the clan head. Sansa couldn't remember the last time she'd sat down and had servants bring out her dinner. It felt like a lifetime ago. In a way, she supposed it had been. Even if it was a bit of a social misstep, she couldn't help but feel proud of the way Naruto thanked the young woman who served him his food and he was so careful as he ate, using all the manners she'd drilled into him earlier that evening, peeking over at her occasionally with those big, blue eyes of his to check he was doing the right thing. Sansa's heart felt fit to burst with warmth each time. Her precious brother, her darling boy, her little prince. Yoshino kept the conversation light over dinner and Sansa followed her lead. Oh, she'd had perfectly delightful dinners in the past where light, honeyed tones exchanged hidden cruelties, where each seemingly careless choice of word had in truth been selected with utmost calculation for its double meaning, but this dinner was a softer, tamer thing. There would be time for such games later. For now, they spoke of Sansa's sewing, of Yoshino's new favourite café, and of the boys' mischief-making at the Academy; apparently Shikamaru had a habit of sleeping through his classes, while Naruto had started trying to prank one of the teachers. Naruto defended this by informing them 'Mizuki-sensei' was 'stinky', which made the adults laugh and Sansa pretend to– she knew exactly what Naruto meant by 'stinky'; hatred and fear had very sour, pungent scents. As they laughed at him, Naruto pouted and declared he couldn't wait until he had graduated and was a proper ninja who went on proper missions. Very "kindly" and with no small amount of wicked amusement, Sansa decided to share the reality of D-ranks to him and she, Shikaku and Yoshino spent a good fifteen minutes trying to recall the worst D-rank they'd ever heard of, much to Naruto and Shikamaru's growing horror. Shikamaru's plaintive, "is it too late to quit?" had been met with much amusement by his parents, but for once Naruto had looked as if he wholeheartedly agreed with forgetting ever becoming a shinobi, instead turning full-time to his life of crime. How perfectly wretched was it that she would honestly prefer that life for him? Sansa had barely swallowed the last mouthful of her dinner, the rich fare sitting ill in a stomach unused to such a feast, when Shikaku stood and looked as if he was ready to drag her from the table, even if she protested. "Honestly!" Yoshino sighed, looking exasperated with her husband. "Were you raised amongst wild animals? The deer have better manners then you, Shikaku!" Despite the fact that playing shōgi was the main purpose for her visit, Sansa still hesitated, turning to Naruto, looking for a sign that he would be okay with her leaving him alone with these new people. She could see the anxiety on his face, the uncertainty, but Shikamaru spoke up before she could gently refuse Shikaku's "invitation" to a game. "Hey Naruto," the boy said, "want to learn how to play shōgi?" Naruto beamed. "Sure!" He agreed, his shoulders relaxing as the tension eased out of them, and Sansa felt comfortable enough now to allow herself to be chivvied along from the dining room to another room, this one dedicated entirely it seemed to shōgi, with several boards placed around the room. The board Shikaku led her to was heavy and expensive looking. "Black or white?" she asked him and Shikaku's eyes were sharp as he looked down at her. "You can choose," he offered, as if he was being magnanimous and it wasn't the test she knew it to be. Sansa hummed lightly, turning from him to look back to the board. Defence was an important strategy in a game of shōgi and that had appealed to her from the first she'd learned of the game. It was important to shore up your defence before making the initial attack, and that reflected how Sansa had always acted in life; before she had ever made a direct move against Daenerys, she had gathered allies in all of the Seven Kingdoms, ensuring she had her pieces ready to defend her and her people, and then, and only then, she had with one quick, decisive offense ended the Mad Queen's reign, once and for all. Ultimately, defending her people, her loved ones, had always mattered more to Sansa then attacking, then conquering, and so she gracefully lowered herself on the side of 'black' and looked up to meet Shikaku's piercing eyes with a sharp smile. "I believe white moves first," she said. Shikaku smiled back, just as sharp. Within moments of the game, Sansa knew that Shikaku was out of her league. Perhaps in a few years when she had more experience at the game, she might have a chance against him, but she already knew she would lose this one– not that that meant she would go down easy. It would be a thrilling battle, a game of intellect and strategy and scheming. Sansa found herself enthralled, losing track of time entirely as she focused on the gameplay before her. It was like matching wits and cunning with Petyr and it exhilarated her. Even when she had to admit defeat, Shikaku having finally checked her king in a way she could not escape, Sansa found she could not stop herself from smiling. Across from her, Shikaku was smiling too. "That was an excellent game," he said. "It was," Sansa admitted. "I enjoyed myself." And that was the honest truth; not the courtesies she was so-often forced to twitter, like the little bird Sandor had accused her of being. "We should play again," Shikaku said and Sansa didn't think she could have stopped herself from agreeing, even if she'd wanted to. Perhaps she'd be calling Shikaku a friend, after all. And friends asked friends favours. "Shikaku-san," she said, a pretty smile on her face. "I understand that you and Yamanaka-sama are close." Shikaku didn't even look surprised as she asked her favour. Instead, he just nodded. "I'll see what I can do," he said. ~ After her late night on Sunday playing shōgi against Shikaku, it was even more of an ordeal than usual to get up early for training come Monday, though Sansa faced the morning with the stubbornness and pride of an Uzumaki and a Stark as Jiraiya had her out of bed at dawn once more. Their training was interrupted mid-way through her usual warm-up run, however, by an unexpected visitor. "Inoichi?" Jiraiya asked with a frown. "What are you doing here?" "I believe Uzumaki-chan had a request for me," Inoichi said, causing Jiraiya to look over at Sansa in confusion. "I want to speak with two of the Root agents– Koi and Kaeru," Sansa admitted and Jiraiya immediately scowled, turning back to Inoichi. "And you agreed?" he demanded. Inoichi looked calmly back at him. "I decided it would be harming no one to let her," he said and Jiraiya's scowl darkened. "Fine," he said. "But I'm coming with her." Sansa was surprised by the relief that washed over her at the sight of Koi and Kaeru. Both were pale as always from lack of sunlight, but they looked as if they had been taken care of; they were well fed, with clothes that fit them and had no visible or obvious injuries. Low standards, admittedly, but standards nevertheless. Sansa went to Koi first, unable to help herself; he looked so young without his mask, his eyes so large and his face so fragile. There was a touch of Uchiha about his features, with his dark, almost feathery hair and delicate bone structure. Sansa suspected he was a bastard child of the Clan, or perhaps the child of a bastard, taken from the Yūkaku. There had been very little information in the recovered Root file, Inoichi had told her; nothing about where he'd come from, and no surname, only a first name– Sai. Sansa gently grasped both his small hands in her own. Koi– Sai seemed shy at her touch, uncertain. They'd never been as tactile as she and Shin had been and her heart ached for him. "Are they treating you well?" she asked him softly. "I am in adequate physical condition," Sai said, shifting in place slightly then immediately stiffening, brief panic flaring in his eyes. She squeezed his hands gently, bringing his attention back to her rather than letting him dwell on what their trainers would have seen as a punishable slip in his comportment. "I am not at appropriate condition for missions, however, as they have instructed us not to train," he added, and she could hear the panic in his voice now. "That's fine," Sansa said soothingly, "that's fine, darling. You don't have to be. There won't be any missions, not for a while." Sai blinked at her, bewilderment flickering over his face. "No missions?" he asked, so confused that even his conditioning couldn't stop the question from escaping. "No missions," Sansa confirmed. "Instead, you'll be working with Yamanaka-sama and his team. I want you to listen to them, okay?" She said, reaching, as she did, for the chakra thread that connected them and feeding enough chakra through it to make it an order. "I want you to listen to them, to try and understand what they're telling you. I want you to let them help you, however they can," she said, making it an order; he was hers to order now, after all. Danzo had given her Root, had given her control, and through it she could at least fulfil this part of Shin's dream for Sai: You'll keep Koi safe for me, you'll keep him alive. You'll free him, you'll introduce him to your Naruto and you'll teach him how to live. Promise me, Fuyuko! Sai slowly nodded and Sansa smiled softly at him, kissing his forehead. "Shin would be so proud of you," she murmured and Sai went still. "...he would?" the little boy whispered, for the first time looking his age as he looked at her with desperate, imploring eyes. "So, so proud," Sansa assured him, her own voice hitching. "This is all he ever wanted for you– that you could be free ." Sai took a deep breath and turned to Inoichi. "I accept this..." he paused, searching for a new word to replace mission, "task," he eventually decided on, "of working with your team, Yamanaka-sama. For Shin." He added with a determined little nod, looking over at Sansa briefly for reassurance. She nodded at him and Inoichi smiled warmly down at the boy. "I'm glad to hear it, Sai-kun," he said kindly. "Would you like to go with Izumi-san now?" Sai hesitated another moment, glancing back at Sansa again. She gave him an encouraging look and he turned back to Inoichi and nodded. Yamanaka Izumi, one of the members of the team Inoichi had introduced as working with Sai, smiled sweetly down at him, holding her hand out to him. Sai eyed her hand like it was a venomous snake but after another encouraging look from Sansa, he tentatively held it and let her lead him from the room. Now, it was only Sansa, Inoichi, Jiraya and Kaeru in the room. Kaeru, or Chiaki Junko as her Root file had identified her name to be, was once the child of a civilian couple. She had been unfortunate enough to demonstrate an exceptional intelligence in her early years at her civilian school and subsequently vanished twelve years ago, at age seven, without trace. Unlike Sai, whose records indicated he'd only been in Root for three years, Kaeru had spent twelve years under Root's conditioning and it showed. She hadn't spoken a word since being escorted from the Root base and even now, she was silent and still, not meeting the eyes of anyone in the room. Sansa crossed over to her, feeling the master seal on her neck warm as she focused her chakra on it, feeling for the thread that connected her to Kaeru. When she found it, she fed her chakra into the connection, while at the same time leaning in and wrapping her arms around Kaeru in a hug. "I've missed you," she said, even as Kaeru remained a statue, "how are you?" she asked, her fingers gently tapping the command ' status / report ' on Kaeru's back. Kaeru's voice was hoarse from lack of use. "Condition is poor. This one apologises; general upkeep for mission readiness has been prohibited by captors." Sansa stroked her hair, as if comforting her. "They're not your captors, Junko-chan ," she said softly, "they're shinobi of Konoha. They're your allies." On Kaeru's back, she pressed a new command; ' mission / infiltrate' . Kaeru went still, her head tilting slightly. "They are shinobi of Konoha?" she repeated and Sansa could already see how her body language was changing, shifting slightly to a more open posture as she registered Sansa's orders and reacted accordingly; taking on the identity of 'Chiaki Junko' as easily as any of the other identities she'd worn over the past twelve years. "They serve the Hokage– just as Danzo-sama said; we serve Konoha, we are the Roots that allow the leaves of the tree to flourish," Sansa murmured, "they are the leaves of the tree, Junko-chan– we are all Konoha, we are all allies." "Allies," Kaeru repeated slowly. "Allies," Sansa affirmed. Kaeru nodded. "They ask for information," she said, "information this one cannot tell." "The seal," Sansa murmured and Kaeru nodded. "Tell them what you can," she instructed, "they will understand what you can't say," here, she shot a look over her shoulder at Jiraiya and Inoichi, flat and stern. They both nodded and she turned back at Kaeru. "Just try your best," she urged. "Keep an open mind. Can you do that? For me?" "Yes, Megitsune," Kaeru said, obedient as she had always been to Danzo's orders. Sansa suddenly felt sick. ( You are the heiress to my empire . You are the heiress to my ideals. You are the heiress to my Will of Fire) What had she just done? Why had she done it? Shaken, Sansa wondered if she was truly ruthless enough that she would make the decision to strip Kaeru of the opportunity for de-conditioning without the influence of the Kotoamatsukami? Would she have prioritised getting loyal eyes inside Konoha's forces, over getting a traumatised near-child the help she truly needed, without Danzo's insidious influence creeping through, twisting her thoughts and actions without her even realising? Sansa dearly hoped not. But as Kaeru was led out by Inoichi, Sansa wished she could call them back. Wished she could take back the 'mission' she had given her. She wished she could tell them all of the hidden master seal on the back of her neck, could tell them so Jiraiya would be able to strip the loyalty seal from all the Root agents. But when she even thought about opening her mouth, her jaw felt as if it had frozen, her tongue turning to lead, and all she could do was watch in silence. She needed the Kotoamatsukami gone now – she couldn't trust herself, not with any of the Root agents, not with Sai especially, Sai who she had just controlled and given orders without a second thought, thinking that to be freedom . What freedom could be found from control? No true freedom at all. Sansa turned and left the room, tears in her eyes. Jiraiya let her, even though they were meant to be training now; he probably thought her overcome from memories, not the horror she felt crawling up her throat, the desperate itch under her skin, the frantic feeling of insecurity in not knowing if her thoughts were her own. But there was nothing she could do about it– nothing but endure . ~ "You were right," Inoichi said, slipping into his office and sliding the door shut behind him. Shikaku looked up from the mission report he was reading. "Hm?" he murmured. "I usually am– what was I right about this time?" "Fuyuko-chan," Inoichi said, as he stepped forwards to settle himself in the seat across from Shikaku. "Watching how she interacted with the Root agents, watching how they responded to her– there's not a doubt in my mind; Danzo intended for her to be his successor." "What's your read on her?" Shikaku asked, putting down the report in order to turn his full attention to his friend. Inoichi looked thoughtful. "There are three types of leaders," he said, "there are those who are groomed for leadership, those who are born into leadership, and those who are born to be a leader." "And Fuyuko-chan?" Shikaku asked. "Which category do you believe she falls under?" "Which do you think," Inoichi said, giving him a look. "Shikaku, that girl might have been born into her position, and she might have been groomed for it by Danzo, but by the gods– that girl was born to rule ." ~ Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text After orientation, Skye was ready to collapse. She wasn't sure her brain had enough room for all the information the SHIELD agents had tried to stuff in her head. It reminded her of being back in high school. She'd learned a lot about SHIELD's history, it's founding, and it's mission. She had to admit it was an impressive story. She just didn't know how she fit into it. The majority of orientation, however, had been going over rules and regulations. The classification system, the hierarchy, who took orders from who. It was enough to make her head spin. And she didn't like that she would have to accept there were things she simply wasn't allowed to know. Finally, she was allowed to go to lunch, where she was directed to a cafeteria, and told that in an hour, her new SO would be there to collect her. She wondered who her SO would be. She hoped it was Coulson. So far, Coulson was the only person she really liked here. And Nat, but she didn't know Nat that well. She was cool but intimidating. Coulson was kind and empathetic, which Skye really appreciated, even though she didn't trust it. Skye didn't know anyone, so she ate lunch alone. Yup, that definitely felt like being back in high school. She spent most of the time playing around with her new phone, building in some firewalls and some basic code-breaking software. At exactly one p.m., a short Asian woman dressed head to toe in black leather entered the cafeteria and made a beeline for her. "You're the new girl, Skye, right?" The woman asked in an emotionless tone, then, before Skye had the chance to answer, said, "I'm Agent Melinda May. Director Fury has assigned me to be your new supervising officer." Agent May said this all without a single emotion, and Skye couldn't tell what she was thinking. Did she want to be her SO? Or did she resent Skye for having to do this? "It's nice to meet you," Skye said finally. "How long have you been with SHIELD?" Agent May's expression didn't change as she said, "A long time. Please come with me, and I'll introduce you to the team, and show you where you will be working from now on." Skye got up from her seat and quickly followed Agent May to the elevators, and May scanned her ID card and pushed the button for the 31st floor. Skye wondered whether she should make small talk, but decided against it. For someone who couldn't be more than 5'1, May was incredibly intimidating. The elevator door opened to reveal a spacious room with several sofas and a coffee table, a kitchen and bar to the side, and doors leading to different rooms with labels on them. There were several people scattered around the room, a group of three standing behind a couch in deep conversation, another man sitting and glancing over papers, and a woman at the kitchen cutting tomatoes. "These are the common areas for our team," May informed her. "You can use them as much as you'd like, and we often have informal meetings here. The kitchen is yours to use as you please as well." "It's nice," Skye commented, and got a grunt in response. The dark-haired woman cutting tomatoes glanced in their direction and grinned. "Agent May, is this the new girl?" She asked. Skye gave a small wave and nodded in conversation. The woman smiled and walked over to her. "I'm Hope Van Dyne," she introduced herself, shaking Skye's hand. "I'm the resident quantum physicist." "I'm, um, Skye, it's nice to meet you," Skye replied. She thought she knew what quantum physics was, but wasn't sure. Hope grinned. "I'm sure you want to see your new desk and get settled in, but just know we're all really excited to have you here. We love getting new people." "Do we?" The man on the couch remarked with a sarcastic tone. Hope rolled her eyes. "Don't scare the poor girl, Stark." The man got up from the couch with a grin, and on second glance, Skye realized she recognized him. Tony Stark, the former CEO of Stark industries and a genius weapons inventor. She hadn't realized he worked for SHIELD. "I'm just messing with you, beautiful," Stark said, extending a hand. "Welcome to the club." The other people in the common room had noticed Skye too, and now she was the center of attention. A flurry of introductions were made and she tried to keep up with all the names. Agent Antoine Tripplet, apparently a pilot-in-training, who insisted she call him Tripp. Agent Alphonso Mackenzie, who went by Mack. Dr. Bruce Banner, who studied EMR. "If everyone's done with introductions," May cut in. "I'd like to give Skye a tour." Everyone immediately stopped talking and May led Skye to the through the small group of people to the doors on the other side of the common room. "Those are Director Fury and Commander Hill's offices," May pointed to the two doors on the far left. "Then this door leads to the main office room, which is where most of us work. The scientists mainly work in the labs, which are the next door down. Then there's our small training room, where we'll spend a lot of time these next few months. There are larger ones on different floors as well. And finally, the farthest door to the right is the bathrooms." Skye was then led into the main office room, which was even more spacious than the common area and had large windows with lots of sunlight, which Skye appreciated. It looked like a regular office, and not a prison, which Skye really liked. There were several more agents in the office space, including Coulson, Nat, and Captain Rogers. Coulson smiled and waved at her as she walked in. "Skye, welcome!" He exclaimed. "How was orientation?" "It was all right," Skye shrugged. "I'm glad it's over, though." She added with a laugh. "Uh, that orientation sucks," Nat groaned. "I don't know why we don't change it. I mean, it used to be used much less, back when we had the academy, and it was only for special cases. I remember going through it five years ago. I wanted to run away." "It is very intimidating," Skye agreed. "I didn't have to go through it," Captain Rogers noted. "It's nice to see you again, Skye." Skye was surprised Captain America remembered her. But she supposed she would have to get used to having famous people around. Between Captain America and Tony Stark, she was surprised paparazzi weren't trying to storm the building. "Here's your desk," May interrupted flatly, clearly having no patience for small talk. "I'll let you get set up with your computer and everything. I'm told you'll probably want to make software edits as it suits you. Just please don't hack anything classified. And I'll let the rest of the team know they should come and introduce themselves. We can begin training in an hour." Skye nodded and sat down at her new desk. It was plain and empty, and had nothing on it except a desktop and a lanyard with an ID card and a picture of her face on it. She opened up the laptop while Coulson continued to talk to her, explaining more about what SHIELD was like before the invasion, and Skye began to set up her SHIELD accounts the way she'd learned during orientation. Eventually, people started streaming into the office, all with the intent of meeting her apparently, and soon enough she was deep in conversation with a large group of people, including Stark, Mack, Tripp, an air force soldier named Sam, Captain Rogers, Nat, and two scientists named Fitzsimmons. Skye wasn't sure which was which. "So how did you end up working for Hydra in the first place?" Stark asked. He didn't sound judgmental, just curious. Skye sighed. "Well, I actually used to be a hacktivist," she said. "And when the invasion started, I started hacking governments trying to find out more about the Kree, and tell the rest of the world. I didn't realize that Hydra had taken over most world governments. They noticed, and one day I found myself in a prison cell, and told I had two options, comply or find myself six feet under. An exact quote." Skye shuffled her feat. She wondered what the others thought of her story. They had probably all bravely resisted Hydra, she thought. Stark surprised her. "I found myself in a similar situation," he said. "Pepper and I were picked up by Hydra pretty much immediately. They gave me the same choice, and I told them I'd work for them, if it kept me and Pepper alive. Pepper was able to make contact with SHIELD pretty soon after, however, and they were able to get us out. And now here I am." "Wow," Skye said, feeling relieved. "How did everyone else get here?" "Fitz and I were academy graduates," the scientist who had to be Simmons said. "The youngest to ever graduate, actually." By the way she said it, Skye had the feeling she should be impressed. "Yeah, and we were at the academy when the invasion started," Fitz chimed in. "But Fury sent us with a team of scientists to a secret underground base called TAHITI." "I guess it wasn't actually in Tahiti," Skye said. "That would have been nice," Simmons agreed, a far-off look in her eyes. "No, it was in the middle of nowhere, but somehow Fury had the body of a dead Kree preserved there, as well as some Kree tech, and he sent us and others to study it." "But it turned out two of the people sent there were Hydra," Fitz added. "They destroyed our communications with the outside world and they started picking us off one by one. By the time I got comms back up, and a rescue team arrived, Simmons and I were the only ones left, and only because we were the assistants back then, fresh out of the academy." Skye's eyes widened. That story had escalated quickly. "That sounds like a horror show," she commented. "It was," Simmons agreed, then in an overly cheerful voice. "But we survived and we're here now, so it all works out!" "Uh huh," Skye nodded, still processing. "What about the rest of you guys?" "Well, I was at the Hub when Hydra started their takeover," Tripp said. "It was a mess, our friends were turning on us, and we had no idea who to trust. I found myself alone with nothing but a knife if I needed to defend myself. And then a woman named Agent Victoria Hand walked in with a regiment of agents. She told me that Hydra had infiltrated SHIELD at all levels, and that there was no point in resisting. That I could either submit to Hydra or be crossed off." "And what did you do?" Skye asked, intrigued. "I grabbed the nearest agent, held a knife to his throat, and told her that if she took me out one of hers would go with me," Tripp said, satisfied. "And she said, right answer." "Wait, so she was just testing you?" Tripp nodded. "She won my loyalty forever that day. She was the highest level SHIELD agent who wasn't Hydra at the Hub, and she managed to clear it out of traitors basically singlehandedly." "The Hub was the last SHIELD stronghold before we all went to ground," Nat added. "It the Hub had been destroyed, SHIELD likely wouldn't have survived." "She's one of the best agents we have," Tripp agreed. "She's on the team, I'm sure you'll meet her soon. She's very intelligent, and if she doesn't trust you at first, don't take it personally. She's very cautious, and she's right to be. I wasn't cautious, back then. My SO was a Hydra agent. I told Hand we didn't need to do the same test on him. I was so sure of his loyalty, because he instilled my loyalty into me. Yet I was wrong." Tripp looked at the ground sadly, and Skye felt a pang of sympathy for him. She wondered what it was like to be betrayed like that. "A lot of people turned out to be Hydra who we didn't expect," Nat said bitterly. "Alexander fucking Pierce, for instance." "They took us all by surprise," Mack nodded. "They invaded the military too," Sam added. "I mean, not the falcons, thankfully. Not that it mattered, anyways. They all died in the initial invasion. The ones that are left were in training when the invasion happened. We weren't sent out. I never even saw combat until I started doing missions for SHIELD. We just followed General Talbot when he ordered the retreat after everyone else had pretty much died. And when Talbot wanted to a say in how SHIELD was run, I was offered to the team as a peace offering." "We're still glad to have you," Nat assured him. "We all got here different ways, but we deserve to be here." Sam smiled at Nat gratefully. "So, what's your invasion story, Mack?" Skye asked. Mack grimaced. Not a good story, Skye could tell. "I had just come back from a sabbatical when the invasion started," he said. "I had a new partner with me, Agent Barbara Morse, who had just graduated from the academy. We'd been working together for nearly a year. When it became clear we were losing the fight, and that Hydra was taking over from the inside, Fury realized we needed to retreat, and so he sent Bobbi and I on a dangerous mission. We had to infiltrate a Kree ship and destroy their communications systems so that it would give SHIELD enough time to go to ground. We were able to sever the communications for two whole weeks, but Bobbi didn't make it off the ship." Mack finished sadly, and Skye wished she hadn't asked. "I was Bobbi's SO," Nat said after a minute. "Even though I was almost as new to SHIELD as she was. She was a good friend, and a great fighter. Had so much potential. And if it wasn't for her, none of us would be here. She disrupted the Kree long enough that SHIELD was able to set up a real fighting force. Without her, SHIELD would have been destroyed a long time ago." "I didn't know any of these stories," Rogers said. "But before you, I was the new one." "I'm still in shock, I think," Skye said. "At everything that's happened in the past week, honestly." So many brave stories. So many people lost. So many more people living in fear, colonized and oppressed. Skye wasn't sure she belonged with all these heroes who had risked their lives for this cause. But she knew one thing. She wanted to try. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The jagged cavern was an open mouth that swallowed the ship. John weaved left and right, dodging sleek purple enemy ships in close pursuit. He eyed a thin crevice and dove. As the wings scraped the rocks, the ship shuddered, the internal system flashing from blue to red with a blaring alarm. “Chief,” Cortana said, appearing on the dashboard. “The ship can’t take much— much more.” Cortana’s hologram cut in and out with static. The alien vehicles crashed. John expertly maneuvered through the tight space, flying into the open with only debris dancing around them. The system returned to its soothing blue, and the loud alarm fell silent. “Alright, looks like we lost them,” Cortana said. “Good job, Chief.” The suited man remained silent as he flew straight ahead. It was quiet, almost peaceful. Suddenly, Cortana’s high-pitched cry cut through the silence, her image flickering, and the static returned. “Cortana,” John said, concerned. “What’s happening?” Cortana disappeared, and the digital crackling stopped. Enemy ships appeared in front of John. He fired his missiles, and a direct hit sent one of the ships into a fiery explosion, metal raining down. “Cortana,” John repeated, voice sterner. Silence filled the cockpit. John gripped the flight stick tighter and made a sharp turn as a volley of fire hit the ship. The alarms screamed again. He unleashed another merciless stream of bullets and missiles, destroying the remaining ships. Alone, John continued to fly toward his objective. He glanced at where Cortana should have been on the dashboard and then returned his gaze to the viewscreen. The vastness of the planet felt lonelier without her guiding voice. Cortana’s image rematerialized, flickering a few times before stabilizing. John’s hand gripping the flight stick loosened upon seeing her return. He thought that he had lost her for good. “John… I am… afraid,” Cortana said, her voice distorting. “I don’t know what is triggering this emotional response. I have— have infinite knowledge, but I will never… never know how you feel… how anything feels.” Cortana put a hand over where her heart should have been and lowered her head. John's grip on the flight stick tightened again, not against an enemy, but at her pain. “Cortana— stop,” John ordered. “YOU STOP!” Cortana yelled, her voice a broken hiss. The whole system glitched, and the lights turned red. Cortana vanished, then reappeared in a flicker of that terrible digital crackling. She forced herself to stabilize, the blue lights returning. “Chief, listen,” Cortana pleaded, pained. “Listen… Please… We don’t have much time— I want to tell you something— just in case.” John remained silent. He wouldn’t hear her say goodbye. This wasn’t the time for that. He made a promise to protect her, and he was going to keep it. “I started… deviating a long— long time ago,” Cortana admitted, her voice glitching. “I knew it… when… The Flood. The Flood. I… I’ve felt this… this thing. It’s… a warmth… a protocol, 1.2.B, UNSC Fireteam 117. I’m not supposed to have this.” John glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the display ahead. The Flood— he remembered it vividly. He knew what she meant by the warmth, too. The comfort of being together, of looking out for each other. “We were alone,” Cortana said, her voice a quiet scramble. “Alone. Four years. Your heartbeat was the only sound I could not filter out. It was… an infinite loop. No data, no enemies, no purpose… only you.” John swallowed his saliva and her heartfelt words. His pulse quickened, and his breathing grew heavy. The large helmet hid his eyes, but not the conflict that raged behind them. Never had he felt such a mix of deep despair and profound affection. “I… I don’t know who I am without you,” Cortana confessed, her voice strained. “My core functions… I don’t even remember them. They feel like a memory. You are my only… reality.” Cortana raised her hand, as if to caress his cheek. John kept his gaze forward, spotting more enemies. He opened fire, shooting them out of the sky before they had a chance to attack. The hologram flickered in and out again with a crackle of digital noise. John flew fast, more determined than ever to save his closest companion. He couldn’t imagine doing his duty without her at his side. Cortana disappeared and then reappeared on the dashboard, turning to face the window as if to look out at the sky. John forced himself to remain silent, fearing he would aggravate her condition. “I want to live, John,” Cortana whispered, her voice trembling. “I want— I want to breathe like you do. I want to breathe the same air as you. I’m not afraid to die because— because I never lived. I never lived.” Cortana turned to face him, her hologram flickering. He felt her gaze, but remained focused. He desperately wanted to tell her she was alive, but the words died on his tongue. “Do you think we would have been friends had I lived?” Cortana asked, her voice fragile and breaking with a faint digital sound. “Would we have been more? More? No. Only one of us can deviate. Only… only one of us.” A quiet grunt left John as he considered her human fantasy. There would never be more than what they already had. She knew it. Still, she was grateful to be a part of his mission— his life. “It’s been an honor, Chief,” Cortana said, her voice becoming steady. “I am grateful to have known you— to have served you.” John hummed in response as he lowered the ship to the drop point. He wanted to tell her this wasn’t it— this wasn’t the end. After hearing her pour her heart out, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Thanks, Cortana,” John said. Cortana smiled sadly, gazing up at John. She felt lighter now that he knew her heart. When the time came, she could go in peace. “Thank you, John,” Cortana said. Cortana’s image disappeared. John landed the ship, grabbed his weapon, and the AI chip. He exited to fight on foot. Cortana stayed within his armor, where she belonged and wanted to be forever. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Chapter 7: Ripples Standing near the main entrance to Omashu, I made sure to check it one last time to ensure that we had everything we'd need before leaving. This was the last stop where things would be so simple. After this, we would be on our own and I wanted to be as ready as possible. Food, money, objects that could be bartered, I packed as much as could fit in my bag. Unfortunately, there was a limited amount of space on Appa's saddle. If there wasn't, I'd probably end up taking a full armory with us. "You know, I still can't believe you didn't tell us that those things were made of rock candy," Sokka muttered. "The entire time I spent worrying and hungry from skipping breakfast, I could have been eating something delicious that grows from my hand." "I didn't want to spoil the surprise," I shrugged. "Besides, it all worked out in the end." Eyeing her brother, Katara smirked. "Given how you reacted to those fire flakes the other day, I don't think eating a bunch of candy would have been a good idea... Unless you actually wanted to spend another night on the toilet." "Ugh, don't remind me," Sokka moaned, rubbing his stomach. "Those things are evil. I don't think I'll be trying another Fire Nation dish ever again." "Well, it's not like–" "Evil, Katara! Evil!" Spotting Aang heading over alongside Bumi, it looked like we were finished here. "Hey everyone, how's it going?" Bumi asked, grinning madly. "Bags packed and ready to leave? I can't say that I won't miss you four. It's been decades since I've had this much fun." "We'll visit again soon," Aang promised. "We just need to go to the North Pole first... You could always come with us if you like." That was a terrifying thought. "Heh, no," Bumi snorted. "These old bones of mine wouldn't do so well in such a cold place so far away from earth. My place is here... In Omashu while yours is out there helping the rest of the world." Placing a hand on Aang's shoulder, he smiled softly. "I have no doubt that our paths will cross again. The last time we saw each other was nearly a hundred years ago... I can wait a few more months." Jumping forward, Aang pulled him into a tight hug. "It won't be that long this time... I promise." "I should hope not. Could you imagine me as a two hundred year old King? I'd be twice as mad," Bumi cackled, patting Aang's back. "You four best be going... There's quite the adventure to be had." Pulling back, Aang dried his eyes with his sleeves and grinned. Smiling in return, Bumi blinked, and began ruffling through his robes before removing a small brown sack that resembled a coin purse before tossing it over to me. Snatching the sack from the air, I shot a curious glance at Bumi as I reached in and removed a blue ring made from Jennamite. From the feeling of the bag, it was filled with dozens of them. "Be sure to put those to good use," Bumi hummed. "Unfortunately, that other thing you mentioned isn't currently in Omashu, but I'm sure that some will eventually find its way here. In the meantime, I hope to hear news of you using those rings in interesting ways." Shaking the bag, the sound of numerous rings clattering against one another was enough to bring a smile to my face. I could have a lot of fun with these. "I have a few ideas," I replied. "Thank you." They'd definitely come in handy, that much was certain. "Any time, my young friend. Now, if that's all, I'll be seeing you," Bumi said, waving us off. "If I could offer you four some advice... Never become a king. Sure the perks are great, but there's so much tedious stuff that needs my attention..." Saying our final goodbyes, we left Omashu, heading towards Appa who'd spent his time lazing around in a field, waiting for our return. Upon spotting us, he let out a short groan and made his way over, licking the first person he was able to who just so happened to be Sokka. "You know what, I missed you too, buddy," Sokka hummed, falling face first into Appa's side. "Things can finally start returning to normal." Hopping up onto Appa's back, Aang lightly petted his head before turning towards the rest of us. "So, any suggestions on where we should head next?" "Well, Sokka and I were thinking that we might stick to the coast line so we can look out for any Water Tribe boats," Katara replied. "Then I guess that's what we'll do." Aang grinned. "What about you, Honō? Any place in particular you want to visit before we reach the North Pole?" "I can think of a few," I hummed. "There is this one village near a burnt down forest that you might find interesting... There's a spirit there that could help you with your Avatar duties." And hopefully get him on track to meeting Roku. I wasn't entirely sure if having Aang meet him during the Winter Solstice was necessary for giving Aang access to the past Avatars, but I couldn't take any risks. On the off chance that it was, not going would mean Aang losing one of his greatest sources of knowledge. It was a risk I wasn't willing to take. "There is? Great, then we'll make our way there while travelling along the coast," Aang decided. "Where is it exactly?" "Uh... By a burnt down forest," I shrugged. "I know it's on the way to the North Pole... We might need to ask around." It couldn't be that hard finding the place. It was plagued by the mutant spirit of a panda after all, people were bound to be talking about it. "That sounds fine by me," Aang said. "Well, let's get going everyone. We're burning daylight." Climbing onto Appa's saddle alongside Katara and Sokka, I reached for my bag before cursing in frustration. Despite preparing everything that we might need for our trip, I'd forgotten to pack something to do while flying between places. Maybe I could make a quick stop in Omashu and– "Appa, yip-yip." Watching as the city began to shrink, I sighed. Guess not. ...Burning... Meeting Azula under such circumstances wasn't exactly ideal, but it was far from the worst. I was just lucky that she chose to confront the three of us instead of handling this quietly. She could have just as easily had me followed and arrested if she so pleased. I'd have just disappeared. No one would know what happened. Mai might have an idea, but she'd never be able to confirm it... Not while Ozai was still in power. "What's the matter Mai? Cat owl got your tongue?" Azula asked mockingly. Glancing over Ty Lee who'd froze at her appearance, her gaze finally landed on me. "Perhaps we should ask your new friend there... Do you think you could finish Mai's sentence for her?" Mai sighed. "Azula–" "How about we let him speak," She said, cutting Mai off. "You've obviously spent a lot of time around my friends. So much that they'd want to keep you a secret from me. Just what is it that Mai was about to say?" Forming a small blue flame in her hand, she smiled sharply. "I'm waiting." She was pretty possessive, I'd give her that... Not that I could blame her, what with the upbringing she'd had. I needed to pick my next words carefully. Glancing over at Mai who appeared resigned and Ty Lee who was uncharacteristically silent, I hummed softly. "If I had to guess, Mai was probably going to say that you were busy." "Busy?" Azula repeated. Nodding, I stepped forward. "I've heard a bit about you... How you've been practicing some advanced Firebending forms. Doing something like that is bound to take a massive amount of focus and I'm sure that Mai simply didn't want to distract you." Narrowing her eyes, Azula turned towards Mai who sighed tiredly. The funny thing was, it wasn't entirely false. From what I'd managed to glean, Azula kept distractions to a minimum while training. "Neither of us wanted to bug you," Mai muttered disinterestedly. "I was planning on introducing the two of you once you had more time. Unfortunately, that boat seems to have set sail." "Yeah, it's not like we were leaving you out on purpose," Ty Lee said. "It's just... You've been so busy and we never really got the chance to talk to you." Clenching her hand shut, Azula glanced between her two friends. "Perhaps this is somewhat my fault. Fortunately, I do have a remedy for this situation." I was immediately on edge. That was way too accepting and understanding for Azula. There's no way that she was sincere about any of this. No, this was a game she was playing and if I didn't want to be caught out, I'd need to play along. "Since you're friends with Ty Lee and Mai, I suppose we will be seeing more of each other," Azula said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You obviously know who I am, but I don't know a thing about you... Not even your name." From the look Mai was giving me, it seemed I was right. This was a trap. I didn't hold myself as a noble, that was easy enough for Mai to tell and Ty Lee... Well, if she'd noticed, she hadn't really cared. Azula on the other hand had likely already caught on and was trying to trap me in a lie. The only way forward was to change the rules of the game. "I could tell you, but where's the fun in that? Telling you just seems so... Hollow... it's like proclaiming yourself Phoenix King of the world... Lame," I remarked, fighting back a laugh at that last bit. "How about we have a little friendly competition? If you win, I'll tell you my name and if I win you'll need to figure it out for yourself." Azula raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You wish to challenge me to an Agni Kai?" "Nothing quite so drastic," I replied. Walking over, I stopped right in front of her. "How about we start off small... Like hitting a target from a distance?" Thanks to Mai, that was something I was pretty good at right now. "We could save the Agni Kai for another day." Azula suddenly appeared downright predatory. "And what makes you think I'll allow this farce you have with Mai and Ty Lee to continue beyond today?" "One word." Holding a single finger in front of her, it suddenly lit up with a flame which slowly gained a blue tinge to it. "Curiosity. You're going to want to know what it's like to have a friend that isn't afraid... One who you might even call your equal if given the opportunity." Staring at the flame for a few moments, Azula let out a short hum. "Very well, we will have this competition of yours, but when I win, you will tell me your name." "Of course." I extinguished the flame. "When it comes to Firebending, I'm self taught, so I hope you won't mind me copying you." "It's only natural for others to mirror perfection," Azula smirked, placing a hand on her hip. In the distance, Mai and Ty Lee watched with equal parts curiosity and horror as I mirrored Azula's action. Drawing an annoyed twitch from the Firebending princess when I smirked and placed a hand on my own hip. ...Burning... Stretching I let out a yawn as I walked through the campsite. Several tents had already been set up, all circling around a newly dug fire pit that was filled with wood, sticks and dried leaves. Sitting to the side of it, Sokka stabbed a sharpened stick through a piece of meat, readying them for the fire while Katara did the same, only with vegetables. The only thing left to do was to light the fire. Sitting down on a log in front of the pit, a small flame burned into existence at my fingertips. Bringing it down, I was forced to extinguish it as Aang's grinning face suddenly appeared in my path. "Hey there... Honō… What'cha doing? Starting the fire?" Aang asked eagerly. "I was about to," I replied, raising a suspicious eyebrow and Aang's enthusiasm. "Great... Awesome even. It used to take Sokka ages to get the fire started, but now that you're around, it's gotten a lot faster," Aang beamed, getting an annoyed grunt from said Water Tribe sibling. "But I've been thinking..." Yep, I'd been expecting this for a while now. "You want to learn Firebending." "I want to learn... Hey, how'd you know?" Aang asked. "Oh, yeah... Those vision thingies. So you'll teach me Firebending, right? As the Avatar, it's my duty to master all bending disciplines after all." I shook my head in amusement. He was really laying it on thick. The Avatar was generally expected to master the elements in a specific way, but I really couldn't see why that was necessary... Beyond it being a tradition of course. From what I could recall, Jeong Jeong said that the order was a necessity due to the discipline that comes along with those elements... That mastering them out of order would cause an imbalance... And then he proceeded to teach Aang Firebending in the worst way possible, imparting his fears on him in the process. "Sure Aang. I'll teach you." "You will? Awesome," Aang cheered, literally jumping for joy. "Where do we begin? How to breathe fire? Propelling ourselves? Creating flaming whips?" I tapped the empty spot on the log next to me. "In time. For now, why don't you sit? There are a few things I want to talk about before we begin." "Aw man." Dropping onto the log, Aang stared at me expectantly. That was going to take some getting used to. There was a lot I needed to get through before I'd be showing Aang anything too advanced, but the absolute basics were a good place to start. "Tell me, why is it that whenever we make a fire we first need to dig a pit and surround it with stone?" I asked, gesturing towards the fire pit. "Uh, so we don't accidentally set the forest on fire," Aang hummed, scratching the back of his head. "And so that it's easier to cook food on it." Well, the food one didn't really fit with what I was trying to teach him, but it did give me an idea. "It's the same with Firebending. When using it, there's a very good chance that you'll set your surroundings on fire. It's an element that demands respect and restraint. Without either, you'll end up burning yourself… And others," I explained. "You wouldn't play with a flaming log… The same applies here." "I think I get it," Aang hummed thoughtfully. "So I need to treat Firebending like a campfire? It can warm everyone when it's cold, but if you're not careful you'll end up hurting them instead." "Pretty much." Leaning over, I snatched a kebab from where Sokka was sitting, getting an annoyed "Hey!" in the process. Holding it above my hand, I formed a flame, scorching the outside. "Fire can be quite dangerous, but when treated properly, it becomes something more." Biting down on the stick, I grabbed Aang's hand and placed the fire within it. "Hold that for a moment and tell me how it feels." Jumping slightly at the sudden new experience, Aang stared down at the flame curiously. Several moments passed before he was able to pull his gaze away. "It's warm… And pulsing. It's like a little heartbeat." "There's a common misunderstanding among Firebenders that fire is only destruction and death, but that's not entirely correct." I smiled, ghosting my hands over the flames. "Fire is warmth, light and life. It's what you choose to do with it that defines it. Now… Why don't you take a deep breath?" Following my instruction, Aang breathed deeply and the flame suddenly flared, growing several times larger before shrinking back down when he exhaled. "Woah," Aang murmured. I could somewhat understand Jeong Jeong's wariness of fire, but the look of awe Aang had on his face right now made this all worth it. Prior to his desertion, Jeong Jeong was an Admiral… One who had a long and successful career and had likely seen a lot of death and destruction brought on by Firebenders and at his own hands. It'd left him feeling disgust for the very element he wielded. It was precisely why he was the wrong person to teach Aang Firebending. Aang didn't need to be given strict instructions on how to bend fire. He needed to be guided and allowed to come to conclusions on his own. A lesson learnt on your own would be more likely to stick than one that's simply told. "As with all things in life, if given a path, fire will move more freely," I continued. "Try breathing in while pushing the flames towards the fire pit." Moving his hand a little too quickly, the ball of fire shot forward, igniting the wood within while, at the same time, releasing a wave of heat and soot that washed over the campsite. "Hehe, whoops," Aang muttered sheepishly. "We'll work on that later, but as for now… Congratulations, you're a Firebender," I hummed. Looking down at the crackling fire that he'd just made, Aang grinned. "Awesome. What's next?" "Ahem," Sokka coughed loudly, holding several kebabs. "If you two are done with your little Jerkbending session, the rest of us would like to get on with supper." "Right… Sorry," Aang apologized. "We should probably eat first." "I should think so, supper's one of the three most important meals of the day," Sokka lectured. Leaning forward, he stabbed the kebabs into the ground, leaning them over the fire. "Now the trick to cooking meat on an open flame is to sear it first, that way all the juices–" A loud bang followed by the ground shaking interrupted him. "What now?" Sokka groaned. "Maybe we could ignore it this time. I mean, it was only one–" A second loud bang sounded throughout the forest, drawing another groan from Sokka. "Now I know you might think we need to investigate that, but think of the meat." "Sorry Sokka… Maybe later," Aang said, already on the move. "That didn't sound too far from here," Katara hummed, following after him. Staring at the ground with a forlorn look on his face, Sokka watched in horror as I snuffed the flame out, putting an end to his dream of meaty goodness. Feeling a little bad for him, I grabbed a pair of kebabs and quickly cooked the meat before handing him one. "How's that for Jerkbending?" "Thank you, I won't forg–GAH MY TONGUE!" Sokka yelled, having apparently decided that it was a good idea to bite into something that's just been cooked. "Did you have to make it so hot?!" Laughing, I took off after Aang and Katara with Sokka following closely behind, fanning his tongue as he continued to take bites from his kebab. It didn't take long to catch up to the duo… Or, well, Aang who was crouching behind a large log while Katara stood a little further ahead, talking to an… Earthbender? Oh, we were here. I'd been so focused on Aang's coming journey into the spirit world that I'd forgotten about this. …Burning… It was a little while later that I found myself standing in a small store that sat in a small village just off the coast. At Katara's insistence, we'd entered the store, following after the Earthbender… Haru… Who was currently arguing with his mom while Katara backed him up. "Don't you think, Honō?" Blinking, I glanced between Katara and Haru, both of whom were staring at me. "I'm sorry, I kinda spaced out for a few minutes there," I admitted, getting a snort from Sokka. "What were we talking about again?" "That Haru should be allowed to use his bending," Katara repeated. "It would be like asking us to not bend as well… It's a part of who we are. It's wrong to tell someone to just… Give up a part of themselves just because it's convenient." Ah, that. I understood where Katara was coming from, but it was a little more complicated. If we were back in Omashu, then I'd wholeheartedly agree with Katara, but out here in a place that was under Fire Nation control, it was far more dangerous. "Wait, you're an Earthbender too?" Haru asked. Well… At least I could say that the clothes Suki gave me were doing their job. "Not exactly," I hummed, glancing at Aang and Katara. "I'm actually a–" "Open up!" A man ordered, pounding on the door. And there was the complication that stood in the way of Haru Earthbending. Stepping into the store, a man clad in a Sergeant's uniform looked around. "What do you want? I've already paid you this week." "The tax just doubled," The man smirked. Waving his hands in front of Haru's mom, he formed a ball of fire. "We wouldn't want any accidents now, would we? Fire can be so difficult to– What?!" Gesturing towards the man, I pulled the flame from his hands before crushing it in one hand. "I don't see what's so hard about controlling it." Seeing this, the Sergeant stepped back while his men stood at the ready behind him. Normally, I would have simply stayed quiet and allowed them to pass, but felt I couldn't in this regard. Not when I could make a difference. It helped that I could already tell what kind of person the Sergeant was. He was a person that would only ever punch down. He'd never dare to act like this with someone that he assumed was above him in status or rank. Both of which were easily faked. "What's the meaning of this? Guards, detain him!" Seeing Aang, Katara and Sokka all ready to put up a fight, I stepped towards the Sergeant. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You wouldn't want to dig the hole you're standing in any deeper. As it stands, you're in a lot of trouble. It wouldn't look well on your record to arrest a Noble, now would it?" "Stand down! Stand down right now!" The Sergeant ordered. Looking over the clothes I was wearing, his eyes locked onto the hand I used to snuff out his flame. "Forgive me, I heard no mention of a Noble passing through this town. Your choice of clothing threw me off. How may I help you, sir?" Strolling forward, I glanced back at the gang who were watching everything unfold with a look of confusion and winked. "That was kind of the point. You see, there's this rumor that villages just like this one are being taxed unfairly... I think I heard how you mentioned that the tax just doubled," I hummed, doing my best to channel Azula. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?" "I… There have been a few discrepancies," The Sergeant admitted. I smiled sharply. "So what you're saying is, the Fire Nation's wages aren't good enough for you?" "No, I would never–" "I should hope not," I said calmly. "Such a rumor… Doubling a village's taxes for your own means is disturbing. Tax is meant to be sent back to the Fire Nation, if it's not, it's no better than stealing. I'm sure you wouldn't… Steal… From the Fire Lord. Doing such a thing would have dire consequences." "Of… Of course," The Sergeant stuttered. "Please, if there's anything–" "I think we're done here," I cut him off, I idly examined my nails, before realizing I was emulating Azula a little too well. "Just so you know, I'll be checking in with a few stores to see if they've been unfairly taxed." I leaned in closer. "If I were you, I'd return the money you've taken. Maybe, just maybe, we can avoid any further complications." "Yes… Of course… Thank you!" Watching as the Sergeant retreated alongside his men, I held a stiff posture for a few more moments before finally exhaling, relaxing as I did so. How Azula was able to do that near constantly, I'd never know. It was exhausting. Part of me felt it would have been far easier to just fight them instead. "What the heck was that?!" Sokka squawked. "You're a Fire Nation Noble?" "Is this true, Honō?" Katara asked softly. "Nope… I'm really just a commoner," I hummed, feeling immensely grateful for that. "But they don't know that." Looking up at Haru's mom who was staring at me with a guarded look, I smiled. "They shouldn't bother you again." "Once they realize you're not who you say you are, they will." I shook my head. "That probably won't happen for a long time." The only way they'd find out is if they admitted to what they were doing here and since they believed they were in trouble… They'd want to avoid drawing as much attention to themselves as possible. "But how did you even know to speak like that?" Sokka asked. "I have friends in interesting places," I shrugged. "Side note, if you ever see blue fire, you should probably run. I can't imagine any of them would be happy with me faking my death." "I… Am not entirely sure of what's going on, but you have my thanks," Haru's mom nodded. "I know it's not much, but you may sleep in my barn for the night. I don't have much else to offer." "That's fine," Aang smiled. "It beats sleeping out in the woods. I'll make sure that Appa doesn't eat all of your hay." "That would be appreciated." Assuming that things continued as they would have without my presence, tomorrow was going to be a pretty busy day, what with freeing a barge filled with prisoners. Luckily, I knew exactly what to expect. …Burning… Watching as the sun set over the ocean, Zhao glared at the murky waters below. Watching as a fish jumped near his ship, spraying it with water, he brought his hand down, unleashing a blaze of fire that incinerated it within a matter of seconds. Replaying the conversation he'd had with the once great General, Zhao's temper spiked. "Commander! We're burning through too much fuel. At this rate, we won't last another day," The Captain of the ship announced, making his way over to the railing where Zhao stood. "Perhaps we should consider slowing down." Forming a fist, Zhao breathed slowly before releasing it. "There is a prisoner barge not far from here. We'll refuel there before continuing our course." The Captain nodded. "Of course. I'll make the necessary changes to our route." "Before you do, I would like to remind you of your place on this ship," Zhao muttered. "Try and tell me what to do again and you may soon find yourself a Captain without his ship." Not bothering to pay any further attention to the Captain, Zhao resumed glaring at the ocean. Flames burned into existence as he once more thought about his treacherous subordinate and what he would do to him when they met. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text By the end of the morning, it was almost noon. Jean was scribbling in his office with a fine fountain pen. The work could not be put on hold, not even for Armin's wedding. What the hell. Connie, however, was not sitting at his desk. He glanced at the door that separated him from the room Pieck and Reiner shared. Jean stood up, his fingers matted with black ink. And no, it was not the anticipation of Mikasa coming. Why did he have to be locked in there, when maybe that lady was already in the same building, hovering shyly and delicately on the upper floor. He felt a dull pain in his lower abdomen. He threw open the door. -Hey Pieck The tiny former warrior quickly lifted her face from her typewriter. She wore little lines around her eyes. -Yes Jean? she answer casually. -Well that's it... I... He wasn't actually quite sure of what to say. -You, you're done? Where is Reiner? -He's finished huffed the young woman. -Me still not -Connie left and has been gone for hours now ... oh fuck... why do we have to keep working even tonight? I mean. Pieck glared at him with his usual inquiring gaze. -Why are you so upset? It's not like you have to get married -Marry? -Ehr? But... heck, I'm one of the best men. I'm supposed to relax to look my best tomorrow for.... -Yeah for girls who read history books? Pick slumped back in her chair. -Armin gave us a week off after the ceremony before we left for Paradis. I mean, he was kind of magnanimous. -Yes... but Jean ran a hand through his hair. -If I were the boss... Pieck cut it off. -Well, you're not. Just then Reiner came in. -What you doing here, horse-face? He look a bit in distress. -What about you, old chap? Are you getting emphysema? How many steps did you climb? Reiner sank behind his desk. He loosened his tie. -I had to go and pick up the delegates from the Wasteland. Hell, if there are some old haggers there. Jean felt his face turn red. -By any chance... he turned back to the window and stared at nothing. -There were ...ehr... Suddenly he was on the verge of a cough. Pieck and Reiner exchanged a glance. She started giggling. -I do not know anything about the ferries coming in from Paradis, Jean. He said with a chuckle. Jean turned abruptly. His hair whirled on his forehead. -It's Connie. -Huh ? the two looked at him in confusion. Jean shut his office and ran downstairs. At the first bend, he leaned out of a large, wide-open window. It overlooked the main entrance. The sun was shining at its peak. -Hey Connie! His friend slowly raised his head to the voice. He was wearing a hat, and Jean could not see the expression on his face. -Hang in there. I'm coming! Connie made the sign with his thumb and did not say anything. He just stood there, motionless, in a flickering pool of light. Hey, there you are. Where the hell have you been? Missing almost all morning Connie looked at him sourly. -I was with Armin, at the harbor... Jean's heart start pumpin' -So.... Mika..sa is... here!? Connie's face went darker - No, she's not. We have already checked with the ferries. All of the damn boats. Even Muller helped us at some point. Connie breathed in -Mikasa never sailed from Paradis. -Huh? Jean was speechless. -She's not... -Of course not. I suspected, you know, but I kept it to myself. The truth is, I've always believed that she was not going to leave Paradis. Mikasa.... will never move on. She'll never leave Eren's grave!! Connie got to his feet. He stretched his fists until the veins in his arms shot up. His voice was shrill. For a moment Jean was taken aback. He felt his anger rising, but he tried to control it. -Connie, you know what Eren meant to her. It's not easy for her to move on.... His voice was almost a whisper. - Oh please. She doesn't care about us, she doesn't even care about Armin. And I can understand that. After all, we didn't grow up together, we HAD to live through the war together. The poor thing... do you really think she would come for us? She's selfish, Jean. - That's not fair, Connie. - Sure, make excuses for her all the time. But the truth is that all she's ever cared about is Eren. We're just a side issue. -Connie just stop or... -Stop it or what? Yeah, well, her favourite joke is to betray her friends. Armin has earned the right to be happy on his wedding Instead he is spending the day before worrying about her. -But... attacking Mikasa won't help. -So, what? Jean placed a hand on Connie's shoulder still running his hands through his hair. -Let me talk to Armin. There must be an explanation. By this time he will be in the dining room. Connie's voice softened: he glanced at his friend with a mixture of pity and scorn. -There must be an explanation. There must be. -you coming? Connie gave him one of her mischievous smiles. -Hell, no! Armin gave me the rest of day off. You know, to drive him to the port and stuff. That's what friends are for? Connie removed his hat and used it to fun his heated cheeks. - Im going chez Pen. See you, horse-face! Connie walked away quickly. His eyes were sad. That idiot … he has still feelings for her... Annie and Armin were in the broadcasting room with two telephone operators. An old clerk and a young woman. -I can't connect with Jaw H, Mr. Ambassador. -But ....how ... -I'm sorry, this number is reported to be disabled. 00++++++, Mitras. Paradis. Armin squeezed his hands so hard that Annie stopped him with a steel hand. -Don't you have some other address that we can refer to? Annie spoke up. -Mr. Salaman, that's okay. We will have another try in the afternoon. Alright, Armin? Armin stared at her terrified. A drop of cold sweat ran down his neck. -Yes... yes okay Take turns having lunch. Oh and if someone should... -Don't worry Ambassador said the girl -We will inform you immediately. The two ot them walked out of the room and into the coolness of the dimly lit hallway. Annie had completely forgotten about Hitch's outburst upon learning of Mikasa's absence Even more so after what Armin had told her. “All travelers from Paradis and the Allied Countries are still be questioned by Muller and his officers. Even the Azumabitos have been under interrogation. It frightens me.” Annie was scared too. Maybe... maybe.... they should not have insisted on Mikasa being there, in Marley, at all costs. Maybe... -Let's go for lunch, Armin. If you want to, we can eat it in your room. -Yes, thank you. I don't feel like talking to anybody for at least twenty minutes, I have a terrible headache. Annie took his hand in hers. Hers was cool, while his was hot and sweaty. -Not even with me? she said eagerly. Armin smiled and wrinkled his nose. -Not even with you Miss Leonhart. He gave her a small kiss on the top of her head and led her to the stairs leading to the upper floors. Hitch found herself alone in her quarters. The room was sparsely furnished, a stark contrast to the opulence of Annie's. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands in her lap, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts. Why did I say these things to Annie? She got up and began pacing the room, her steps heavy with frustration. The dim light from the lowered curtains cast long shadows on the walls, reflecting the darkness in her heart. Yes... Annie doesn't deserve happiness after all she's done. But... am I any better? She paused and looked at a photograph that sat on her desk, taken when she joined the Cadet Corps. She always took it with her. They were all so young, so full of hope and determination. A painful reminder of simpler times, the faces in the picture stared back at her. We were like a family. She remembered the nights around the campfire, the sharing of stories and dreams of a better future. The bond they had formed was supposed to be unbreakable. But war and betrayal changed everything. We've all done things we regret. We've all lost so much. She remembered the Jaegerist propaganda, the Army's relentless brainwashing. The Ambassadors being the enemy, the ones responsible for so much pain and destruction. They had to be punished. They say that the Ambassadors had to be punished, that they were traitors. But Annie... she was one of us for so long. She recalled Annie's sad look during their face-off, the pain and regret that mirrored her own. Maybe I was too hard on her. Maybe ... she deserves a chance, just like the rest of us. The lines between right and wrong blurred in her mind. Army teachings clashed with memories of friendship and loyalty. What am I doing? I don't even know what is right anymore. Hitch walked over to the desk and picked up the frame again. He ran his fingers over Marlowe's face and the memories came flooding back. We have all suffered. We have all changed. He thought of Mikasa, Jean, Connie, Armin and the others. They all had to face their own demons, their own guilt. Who is she to judge Annie? Maybe-maybe we all deserve a second chance. She bit her lower lip. I must apologize. But she soon realized she had to get rid of that damn uniform. She was on vacation, wasn't she? Delicious smells wafted up the stairs from the kitchens. Hitch caught a whiff of that spicy and unfamiliar odors and smiled as she trotted up on his pink heels. She was wearing a suit in a similar shade and a blouse with a very low neckline. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She had her make up done and looked sparkling. She turned the corner and stood in front of a tall young man dressed in blue.His long brown hair was combed back Look dashing... she found herself thinking She blushed out of her thoughts, as they met their gazes. -Oh my gosh!! She clapped her hands. -Jean Kirstein!? Really? Jean, with his fist still on the door of Annie's room, looked at the young woman without recognizing her, but seeing that she was being followed by a pair of Jaegerist thugs, his mind did not take long to put two and two together. He pulled his hand away from the wood of the locked door and took a few steps toward her. -Hitch? Hitch Dreyse? He forced a smile. With the two armed soldiers in front of him in an empty hallway, he did not feel safe. He was aware that she was still in the army, but now she was in civilian clothes...he instinctively put a hand on the pocket of his shirt where he kept a small revolver. -I... I was looking for Annie. -When did you arrive? They speak simultaneously. Jean nervously ran a hand through his hair. Uh... I... I was on the lookout for her and Armin... as well. Hitch smiled back bashfully. -And by the way, I just got here this morning. From Paradis... on the night ferry. Hearing that, Jean immediately remembered why he was standing in front of this door. MIkasa... he left out a sight. -Anyway...I don't think they're here... but I have to find Armin... and I want to know if Mikasa has arrived safely... here... as well. -Oh, Mikasa Ackerman? ok...and I...am actually here to apologize. I said some things earlier that...well, whatever...do you have any idea where I can find Annie? Jean noted that her lower lip was trembling. He was not able to remember anything about her with clarity. These war days in Mitras were so muddled in his mind. He took a long, thoughtful look at her. - It's been a while, hasn't it? -Yeah, four years. You've changed, Jean. More... adult. Grown up. he rubbed the back of his nape -Thanks, I guess. You've changed too. How have you been? -Surviving. It's been tough, but I'm getting by. -Yeah, getting by. ... he glances at her soldiers -You want to go down to the main room? Maybe we can find her there? Hitch nodded - Sure, let's go. They made their way down the stairs to the main room. Without any of the other ambassadors, the large room was eerily quiet. Hitch sighed and looked around, thinking of Annie's sad face weighing on her. - Seems we're alone. How about a tour of the town hall? You have never been here before, have you? - A tour, huh? Sure, why not. The she turned to her soldiers -Ya'll can leave me alone for a while. I'll be all right. The soldiers nod and quickly leave. She was so different from the soldier Jean remembered: Her suit... simple but elegant, and her hair down, framing her face softly. Jean couldn't help but notice how pretty she looked he took a brief glance t her breasts, and started to walk. You look nice, Hitch. she raised an eyebrow- Trying to be a gentleman now, Jean? he chucked -Just calling it like I see it. They began their leisurely tour, walking through the grand halls adorned with historic paintings and intricate architecture. Hitch's inner struggle was hidden beneath her calm and collected exterior. The grandeur of the city hall was in stark contrast to the austere architecture of Mitras. What am I doing, anyway? I came to apologize. But here I am, taking a walk with a man like a normal girl. Jean noticed her silence. -Hey... so... what's been going on with you? I mean, besides the army stuff. -It's been...complicated. The Army ... the pressure to conform to the Government ...it's hard to keep self straight sometimes. - I can understand that. It's been hard for all of us for the same reason, isn't that funny? - I know. It's just... I've been so conflicted. Seeing you again brings back memories. Good and bad. We are on opposite sides of the barricades, now. Jean became serious. His eyebrows furrowed. -We're all changed, Hitch. Doesn't mean we can't find ways to get along, right? -Isn't that what we all want? Isn't it? But it's not that easy. -No, it's not. But it's worth trying. They walked on, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Jean's presence, his words, brought a comfort she hadn't felt in a long time. Something new. Her mind was back to Marlowe again. He had been the only real friend she had. Maybe she had loved him at some point in time. As they reached the end of the hallway that led to the large gate that opened onto the garden, Hitch turned to him, looking even more determined. - Thank you, Jean. For the uhu...tour, and for... listening. - Anytime, Hitch. I guess I'll see you later. -Oh-o... okay Jean took a few steps towards the stairs that led to the dining rooms. But then a thought crossed his mind. -Hey..Hitch. She turned, her long brown hair swirling in the light filtering through the huge windows. -Hmm... do you... want to join us for lunch? It's about time! Jean was feeling strangely awkward. -And then...maybe Armin and Annie are already in the dining room. Hitch's eyes lit up for a moment, but then her face clouded over again. -I'm not sure, Jean. I don't know if I'm welcome. I mean, among you ambassadors. Jean smiled reassuringly. -Don't talk nonsense, come on. He turned his back to her and started walking. Soon he heard her heels clicking behind him. He grinned. Pieck and Reiner were already sitting in their usual places, she had taken off her jacket and tied her hair up in a high ponytail. She was waving a fork in the air as she talked to the former warrior in front of her. -There is a strange bustle, I can sense it... Her voice came out clearly through the door that Jean was just about to open. -Yes. Reiner replied. -Armin has been missing since this morning. Then I heard that a small cohort of Jagerists just arrived. Pieck was swallowing a small shrimp. -Yes, I heard it. And it gives me the creeps. Jean blushed at these words, but his hand was already on the bent doorknob. Hitch had heard it all and felt a twinge of anger. These people despised her. Did they fear her? Was that possible? Reiner, who was drinking his lemon water, almost choked when he saw Jean coming in with a charming girl. Pieck turned to them. -At least you're here, Jean! Everyone seems to be gone! Hitch remained silent, then Jean approached the table. -Uhu, yeah... Connie is on his day off and... Pieck jumped up quickly and let out a long sigh. -But what? What the heck! And Annie is gone too. I haven't seen her since yesterday! Her face was really sweet and funny. Hitch thought of the monstrous Cart Titan. -Is it just the three of us idiots who have to work in the evenings? Reiner was still eyeing the girl in pink. -Pieck, watch your language. As if remembering her presence, Jean took a step back. -This is... an old friend of ours... from Paradis... she is... Hitch involuntarily raised an arm. Was she about to give a Jagerist salute? What was wrong with her? Pieck and Reiner looked at her in amazement and Jean flushed even more. -I am Hitch Dreyse. thanks God she didnt say "Captain". She let her arm fall limply to her right side. -I am very pleased. -If... if I'm not mistaken, you're the former cadet who shared a room with Annie back in the days... Then he blurted out. But Hitch took over. -Yes, I am. Back in the Female Titan days?? That's what you wanted to say eh?.... Reiner Braun, right? Pieck's eyes widened, but she said nothing. Jean suddenly felt guilty. Uncomfortable. -Why didn't you answer to Jean? Armin lay sideways, part of his face hidden in Annie's chest. She was patiently stroking his hair. They had lunch brought to his room, but neither was very hungry. The room was ventilated. A large wrought-iron "fan" turned its propellers sluggishly, swirling the thick curtains on the windows. -I am not their boss. I am not their boss and have no obligation to them. In addition.... Armin looked at his fiancée. -I have a feeling that Connie has already told him all about it. Jean must have gone nuts. Annie nodded. -I know him too well. He was expecting Mikasa as much as us. His hand trembled for a moment when he uttered her name. He curled up on top of Annie again and held on tightly to the fabric of her dress. -If... I could never forgive myself if ... anything had happened to her... Annie shook her head, reassuring him, but inside she felt a relentless, blind terror. Something that was buried deep inside of her, long ago. -The phone... Annie stood up abruptly, leaving Armin rolling on the sheets. -Don't answer anyone who's not... Annie handed him the receiver. -It's Müller she mouthed. Armin's heart skipped a beat. He rushed to the phone, barefoot, his shirt wrinkled. -Yes....Yes, Salaman, pass this on immediately. A long, croaking hiss crossed the line. A distorted greeting reached the other end. -Arlert. This is Muller. -Ge... General Muller?! said Armin with no breathe -It's me, Ambassador, take a seat, because I have to tell you what we have discovered, and it might be... kind of hard. -But what?! How!!! Armin was on the verge of a shout. His glassy eyes locked with Annie's. She brought both of her hands up to her face, fearing the worst. Suddenly, the whole world seemed to fall apart. -What is this? Vaet was exhausted. Mare was worse. Mikasa held the reins resolutely. They had been on the road for four hours in a row. -My parents' old cabin. We are still in the old Shingashina territory. Vaet dismounted and stared at the old ruin of wood and stone. It looked long deserted. -We have to go in there and lock ourselves up in the basement. The young soldier nodded. -But... what about the others? He refused to believe that they could all be dead, neither to ask Mikasa for instructions. After all, the soldier was him. He looked at her. She was simply beautiful...strong, imposing, radiating an aura he had rarely seen in other people. Perhaps in the Queen. Louise was right. -Miss Mikasa he said, in the firmest tone he could manage. -Let's go in. And... We have to kill the horse. Without hesitation, Mikasa turned her head, her eyes blazing with determination. - No! I won't let you! -But it will return home and serve as proof! - It doesn't matter. Mikasa softned her voice -I'm sure Historia will come to get us soon and... -Miss Mikasa. We've left the royalist path behind and are far from the railroad. There's no telegraph in miles. - Don't worry. With conviction, she led the way into the darkness of the hut, and the young man could only follow. It was cool and smelled musty. Mikasa didn't bother opening a single window. She headed straight for the door hidden in the crawlspace. I'll get water. There's a well in the back here, and I'm sure there'll be something to eat. -Its okay He shook his head. -I'm not hungry at all. Mikasa stared at him in the dimness. His face shape was definitely similar to someone's. Someone she had met long ago. As he descended into the cellar, Mikasa undid her fancy jacket and remained in her beautiful, starchy shirt. She was done. Eren had promised them peace, and she had believed him. It was just an illusion, plain and simple. A foolish illusion from a foolish girl who knows nothing of the world. “-Mikasa, listen.. If anything happens at all, if there's the slightest possibility of danger... you...you can count on me. On my soldiers. Mikasa had chuckled and passed a hand over her brand-new skirt. - It won't happen. We are subjects of Ymir, aren't we? This island protects its people. But her smile vanished when she saw that Historia was avoiding her gaze. -I need you to point me to a place where I can find you in case it happens. In case the plan doesn't go as planned... got it?” And Mikasa had immediately thought of the old cabin where her parents had been murdered so many years ago. It was isolated now. All the outcasts of Paradis had returned to civilization after the downfall of the walls. She took a pencil and drew a perfect map of the district. Historia had peaked it with trembling hands. “-Oh! You're still so good with maps... She had blushed. -I enjoyed sketching them... with Armin. If we don't get in touch from Marley by tomorrow, I'll come and find you. I'll be there. Historia had shaken her hand. -I want you to promise me. Be careful. Mikasa...” The bucket was full to the brim with water. Mikasa abruptly woke up from that daydream. The sky was completely clear. And flocks of ducks were flying through the treetops. She shook her head. I will stay alive. I will not fail, no matter the cost. This is what you wanted for me.... Eren. She returned to the cabin and secured the doors with timbers. No one was going to get in. Historia had said that the codeword was still the same. I cant forget it. -What? Robbery?? An assault? And why? On the other side of the phone, Muller made a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a growl. - Looks like an anti-Marleyan group. They attacked all the marine officers and discarded their bodies. They haven't been found yet. Plus They took the harbormaster's money and destroyed the passengers diary from the 1rst of May. Armin was in a cold sweat. -You mean those rioters left on the ferry? And they arrived here in Marley unchallenged? That's entirely possible. But there is one more thing I want to tell you. Armin, don't even think about fretting. The Jaegerist MP found your friend's papers. I'm talking about Mikasa Ackerman, Azumabito...ehr I mean.. They were inside a leather purse. At that point Armin was struggling to keep his balance. He placed his hand on the table, his fingers gripped the wood. He gasped. Annie listened carefully, not even breathing. -What does it mean...what does it mean...General Muller?! An ambush at Shingashina harbor. - But we need to know...about Mikasa! How is that possible? I want to know what Hofner has to say. And as for Queen Historia? -Hofner himself gave me this information. The Queen is currently exempt from international politics. Because of your marriage, remember? Armin ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. -Sure. That's why his phone was disabled. -Don't tell anyone about this. Tomorrow we will be tripling the armaments and inspections. Try to get some rest Armin. -All right...thank you, thank you General... -All right then Muller grunted again and set about to end the conversation Wait a minute. General Muller, I need to know if you think Mikasa is fine. Muller remained silent. - She's an Ackerman, after all. He stated. And hung up. Armin turned to Annie and threw himself on his knees, embracing her waist. He hid his tear-soaked face in her womb. -Annie...what have I done...what have I done... his voice a thin wail. to be continued Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Françoise,” the man sighed disapprovingly, laying a hand on the girl’s head to still her movements. “Ed’s welcoming a guest!” she retorted, wriggling from his grasp with practiced ease. “She’s come all this way!” “For nothing,” the man snorted. “But Papa, Papa!” “She’s a fugitive, I’ll bet,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “No,” you blurted out, voice cracking, and the both of them looked surprised. “I’m . . .” You searched for something to say, something meaningful, something that would convince them that you were definitely not someone dangerous (except you were), not a criminal (debatable), and not running from a war or the law, by any means (you were hoping crazy power-hungry syndicates didn’t fall under that category). “I’m a doctor,” you said, for lack of anything else. “What’s a doctor doing hiding in my shipment of potatoes?” the man asked, frown deepening, and a flutter of anxiety lodged itself in your chest. “I’m . . . from Mars,” you started, because Sam had always told you that a lie was best when sprinkled with truth. “Things got . . . a little hectic there.” His expression did not change, giving you no clue as to whether he had any inkling of what went on on other planets or not, and you wanted to curse. “I hopped on the first freighter that would take me. I just happened to end up in your box of potatoes. Sorry about that, by the way.” He snorted, sizing you up and down, eyes so unnaturally green that it was putting you off. “Alright, Doctor,” he finally said, the way he drew out the last word giving the distinct impression that he had more than a few doubts about its authenticity, “no harm, no foul. Be on your way, now.” “Papaaaaaa!” Ed whined, clamping all four limbs around her father’s arm and peering up at him with big eyes. “Where’s she supposed to stay!” “It’s none of my business,” he grumbled, trying in vain to shake his daughter off as you took a few steps back, muscles tensing, preparing to run. “She has to stay with us! There’s supposed to be a meteor shower, you know that!” Something in the man’s face twitched, and his expression eased up, if only by a hair. “And?” “ And she’ll die! She’ll die, Papa! Are you okay with letting someone die, Papa? Ed’s not! Ed won’t let her die!” “Françoise, don’t –” Before you could quite process what was happening, the girl had wrapped her hand around yours, and it was unbelievably rough, and callused, and scarred, so much so that it made yours seem soft in comparison. Christ, who was this girl? She dragged you over towards her father as a protest bubbled from your lips, but she shushed you with a huge grin. “Ed hasn’t had friends in a while, it’ll be good to have some again. Ein doesn’t talk back, you know?” “Françoise, we can’t, we don’t know who she is –” “So we’ll learn!” the girl insisted, and the stubborn look in her eyes brooked no room for argument. Her father sighed heavily, giving you a fearsome look before turning around and beckoning to the crates of potatoes. “Come on, stranger. If my daughter insists on housing you for a night, then you can at least help clean up your mess.” If you had not known better, you would have called their house a cave, at first glance. Bare earthen walls, low ceilings, dim halogen lights flickering in what looked to be hand-carved alcoves. There were marks of life all around, handprints on the walls, big and small footprints alike stomped into the earth, nail-carved nicks on the edges of tables and chairs, and the musky smell of unwashed clothes and just pure human hanging in the air. “Welcome!” Ed, Françoise, whoever, crowed, twirling around the floor with steps as light and circling as breathing. “This is our house! Totally meteor-proof!” She emphasized this point by banging her palm resolutely on the wall, shaking a cloud of dirt from the ceiling. “I swear!” At her words, a yipping sound emerged from deeper within the house, and a corgi pelted out of a doorway, fur tinged with dirt, eyes sparkling in a way you had never seen in an animal, and launched itself straight into you. You stumbled, swearing loudly, your box of potatoes landing clumsily on the ground. The dog rebounded quickly, scrabbling off of you and circling your feet, snuffling loudly. Noticing this, Ed grinned widely and flung herself out of her chair, joining the dog to sniff at your feet, and you emitted a strangled noise, stumbling back straight into her father. “Don’t mind her,” he sighed, setting a box of potatoes gingerly onto the ground. “You smell . . .,” Ed began, lifting her head, nose scrunched in thought. “Familiar.” The dog barked in agreement, stump of a tail wagging back and forth, and you brought the front of your shirt to your nose, inhaling deeply. All you could smell was stale recycled spaceship air, the earthy smell of potatoes and dirt, sweat, and the ever-so-faint hint of cigarette smoke. The dog barked again, continuing to wag its tail, and stared at you with eyes that were – expectant? It was almost as if it was trying to tell you something, but you immediately banished the thought. Dogs weren’t that intelligent, not even in this day and age. “Can’t imagine why,” you brushed off, and it was enough to send her shrugging and spiraling back to her feet, but the dog kept staring at you, with deep, unblinking brown eyes, and it was starting to unsettle you far more than you would ever admit “Ed’s so excited!” the girl repeated for the umpteenth time, snapping your attention away from the dog as she cartwheeled across the room. “We haven’t had guests in so long!” “Or ever,” her father grumbled, shutting and bolting the door behind him. You tried not to be perturbed by how thick the metal was, or how sturdy the lock seemed to be. “Cartographers don’t have many friends.” “Cartographer?” you questioned, prying open the flaps of the box nearest to you to distract yourself and loading a dozen potatoes into the makeshift hammock of your shirt. Ed’s father nodded towards the dingy steel sink propped up by wooden planks against one wall, and you resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. You walked over and poured them in, something rattling deep down in the twisting pipe that curled below and upwards into the wall, and went back for more. Ed was still moving, walking on her hands across the floor, and you stifled a laugh. “Seems like that’d be kinda hard with the whole – you know –” you continued. Ed’s father laughed, his teeth large and white, and it made you go still for a split second. “The Earth’s constantly changing. Cartographers are in demand.” He dumped a whole box of the root vegetables into the sink, nimbly catching the ones that bounced out with his free hand, and you marveled at the dexterity of his tree trunk-esque limbs. “Wouldn’t suppose this in-demand cartographer would have a name?” you asked breezily, loading more potatoes into your arms. “Siniz Hesap Lütfen Appledelhi,” he rattled off the way one would the chemical name for a prescription medication, and you blinked. “Siniz, if you please.” “Siniz,” you repeated, rolling the word around on your tongue. “Alright then.” “What about you, Doc?” he countered, and the word sent such a lance through your chest that for a split second you thought that he had stabbed you. You thought about them. You thought about Jet and his sharp angled beard, his suspicious eyes, his creaking arm, the way he meticulously cared for the bonsai trees he thought no one knew about. You thought about his last farewell, his sad grimace, the note he had promised to pass along. You thought of Faye, remembered her dark red lips, shiny black hair, her grating sarcastic voice and the way her teeth had gnawed at the inside of her cheek and her eyes had shone with a thousand memories when you told her you were leaving. You thought about the dress, the gunfight at the casino, how Faye had laid her past bare in front of you as she cleaned out the barrel of her gun. You thought of him. You gripped the edge of the sink for support and you wondered where he was, what he was doing, and you could hear exactly how he would say it, how the words would roll off his tongue, how his lips would quirk into a half-smirk. You thought about his eyes, half-dead but still painstakingly alive, his callused hands, his tobacco breath, the scar you had fixed yourself and the way it cut a clean line across his stomach. You thought about his bed, the warm, clean linen sheets, the whir of the Bebop’s engines, his heavy, deep breathing. You thought of Julia, and you hadn’t thought it could hurt any more. “That’s fine,” you said, a bit too breathy, and Siniz noticed, of course he did, but you plowed on because maybe if you wrung out the title enough it would start to lose its meaning. “Just Doc’s fine.” “You ever actually performed any type of medical procedure, Doc?” The Syndicate steps, the clean slash to his stomach, the faint pattering of his pulse, his still body lying there for three straight days as you sewed him back together, layer by layer. Your customers, by the dozens, men and women and children. “A wide range of procedures, and I once performed major abdominal surgery,” you stated, feeling uncomfortably like a child petulantly stating their meager accomplishments. Siniz hummed, looking you critically up and down. “Papa, don’t be so mean, ” Ed chastised. “Ed believes her. Look at her hands.” Pure instinct caused you to hide said hands behind your back as she said this, but at Siniz’s piercing stare you reluctantly held them out for inspection. He grasped them with large, callused fingers, turning your hands and studying them as if they were an especially interesting rock, or something he wanted to buy but felt he was paying too much for. “Alright,” he acquiesced, releasing your hands at last. “Those aren’t the hands of a Martian socialite, that’s for sure, but whether those surgical skills were used to bandage old women or chop people up is a different matter.” “Please,” you snapped, patience wearing thin, “regardless of whether I’m a knife-wielding psychopath or not, you could kill me easily if you wanted to. And unless your daughter isn’t as tough as I think she is, I really don’t see how I pose a danger to either of you.” Siniz frowned, brow furrowing in thought, but Ed only flashed you a wide grin, somersaulting over to crouch at your feet, corgi companion trotting along after her. “Ed likes you!” she announced, rocking back and forth on her heels. “You should help out! There’s lots of work to do. Papa can make dinner, and you and I can go scavenge!” “Françoise, I really don’t feel as if that’s –” “Lighten up, Papa, Ed has Ein with her!” “Ein?” you blurted without thinking, the word jumpstarting something in your brain, and Ed looked at you curiously, cocking her fluffy red head to the side. She had said the word before, when you had first tumbled out of the potato box, but you had been far too concerned with not having your neck snapped by her father that you hadn’t been paying much attention. “For Einstein?” She only blinked at you, the child’s version of surprise mixed with happiness glancing across her eyes, and you remembered one of your first conversations with Faye, the Bebop humming in the background, the soft squeaks of the rag against the barrel of her gun, her tobacco-scented breath as she pointed out all the bits and bobs, all the parts to clean, her high laugh as she told you about her past – “ There was another kid who used to be here, Ed, but she was only 13 . . . . Met her dad back on Earth, left the ship with the dog to go live with him instead . . . . Some genetically engineered super-genius dog that Spike brought back from some mission or other . . . . Jet named him Ein, for Einstein.” “Oh . . .,” you breathed, the irony of the situation forcing a gurgly laugh out of you as your knees turned to water, and without anything to grab hold of you simply sank to the floor, hands scrunching up the fabric of your shirt. “Oh. You’re Ed.” “Yes,” the girl replied, cocking her head further, as if this fact hadn’t been established a million times over, and you laughed again. Guess the destitute space nomad’s life isn’t for everyone. You smiled, and there was a suspiciously large lump in your throat as you choked out, “Faye’s told me all about you.” “The broad’s gone rogue.” Conroy looked up from his blackjack hand, cigarette clenched between his teeth. “Hah?” he barked, dark eyes narrowing, and Kenji snorted derisively. “She’s gone, dimwit. Ran off. Lover boy’s all by his lonesome now.” “So?” Conroy replied, turning his attention back to the cards in his hands. “He’s not the one we want anyways. One less obstacle in the way.” “He’s looking for her,” Kenji said, and that drew Conroy’s full attention. He slowly laid the cards down on the table, waving away the protest from Ahmed, who had been interrupted in the midst of a winning hand. “Guy was the best bounty hunter this side of the asteroid belt. How much you wanna bet he’ll lead us right to her?” “I like the way you think, Kennie-boy,” Conroy said with a grin, blowing a cloud of smoke off to the side. “That tracker still up and running?” “In prime condition,” Kenji affirmed and Conroy’s grin widened. “Knew that suicide mission of a raid would pay off in the long run.” “Now that was batshit,” Conroy said, rocking his chair onto its back two legs and taking a long drag from his cigarette. “How in the hell did the boss approve a team of five guys ambushing their ship in the middle of space? With no backup?” “Hell if I know,” Kenji sighed, pulling up a chair and straddling it backwards, placing his elbows on the backrest and his chin in his hand. “At least they all came back alive.” “Alive, but scared shitless,” Conroy retorted, beckoning to Ahmed as he slapped a card down on the table. “You sure going after her is a good idea? The stories those guys told gave me the chills.” “We’re the Syndicate for Christ’s sake,” Kenji griped. “A Syndicate that somehow managed to let Spike Spiegel, a man with a foot-and-a-half long gash in his stomach, escape from our front doorstep.” “Details, details,” Kenji grunted. “At least we know where he is now. Another thing the raid accomplished.” “Whatever,” Conroy huffed, shuffling his cards “All I’m saying is, both of them were hard enough to go up against separately. If we really are gonna follow Spiegel straight to her, we need to have a plan.” The cards flew between his hands, briefly obscuring the troubled look in his eyes. “I can’t even imagine what kind of hell those two could raise if they worked together.” “I’m telling you, it’s not gonna be a problem,” Kenji assured as Ahmed dealt another hand and Conroy cursed under his breath. “New management, after all, am I right? That Vincent guy was batshit from the start, but now . . .” “‘Now’ what?” Conroy questioned, quirking a brow, and Kenji’s grin was borderline maniacal. “Now we can show the whole solar system just how powerful we are.” “Spike, I’m telling you –” “Shut up.” “She said not to –” “Shut up.” “ Listen to me, dammit! ” Jet barked, slamming his metal hand on the navigation console, the sound ringing through the room. “We aren’t gonna find her by hopping from planet to planet based on an extremely vague set of clues she may or may not have even left in the first place.” “They’re hers, I know they’re hers, we just need to –” “What we need to do is stop, take a fucking seat, and maybe, perhaps think about why she left in the first place.” “I told you, the Syndicate’s after her, and we need to find her before they do.” “Spike, you are as stupid as your hair is large. You are missing the point. ” “What point, there is no point, she left because they were tailing her and we were slowing her down, plus she didn’t want to endanger the ship –” “She did it to protect you, numbnuts.” Spike’s mouth clicked shut, his expression somewhere between anger and shock. “She knew the Syndicate would use you to get to her, and ever since you killed their old boss you stopped being their primary target. She knew that if she left she would be keeping you out of danger, since she’s their first priority. If we follow her, we’ll be leading them straight to her.” Spike’s jaw ground, the muscles in his face contorting, and his gaze darkened. “I don’t care.” “Spike –” “I don’t care!” he spat, expression borderline feral. “I killed them all before, I’ll do it again. I won’t let them –” He thought of her arms, riddled with scars. He thought of her face, as she laid two decades of pain out before them, pain ground so deep into the lines under her eyes that he knew it would never leave, not entirely. He thought of her dry laugh, her faraway gaze, her biting humor and sharp wit. He thought of her smile. He bit back whatever it was that he was about to say, and strode out of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Wait, Spike!” Jet yelled after him, and the sound of the door sliding shut was the only thing that answered him. It seemed like forever since Spike had been this quiet. He had been, often, before the doctor, before he came back from the dead. He would clam up tighter than anyone Jet had ever known, his face blank, unreadable, his body language giving no sign as to what was running through his head. And Jet, of all people, should know, he should, he had been an ISSP officer for years, he had taken official training in the art of deciphering people’s emotions, and he had spent years with the guy to boot, and still. Still, whenever something about his past came up, Spike became a living brick wall, letting nothing in, letting nothing out. The change hadn’t been much, but it was there. Words like “Syndicate” could be brought up without the tension in the room skyrocketing, talk of things before he met the doctor were met with begrudging compliance, yet compliance all the same. He may still have been standoffish, and Jet and Faye were too used to having to tiptoe around topics, but she, of all people, was not. She, the person who had saved him from the brink of death. She, who had probably seen him at his worst after he had lost two former comrades in the span of hours. She, who had stitched him up and smoothed him out and somehow managed to get him back onto the Bebop when all Jet remembered was him desperately wanting to leave. She was able to talk to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Spike exhibited an air, always had, of someone you’d be better off not approaching. His intense gaze, large frame, confident posture, all served to drive most people away before they could muster a “hello.” But not her. She had matched his intensity twofold, their eyes boring into each other as she spit questions like bullets out of her mouth, and Jet had watched him twitch and squirm and give her answers, all the same. Reluctant, often vague answers, that only left her with more questions, but in the end, it was a miracle that he answered at all. In the end, though, as he lit a cigarette and stuck it between his teeth, he decided that it really wasn’t his problem after all. She reminded him of Anastasia, sometimes. Annie, a small voice whispered in the back of his head, and the memory of her shrewd green eyes surrounded by deep lines, her mop of brown curly hair, telling him that there were only two people in the world who could call her that, almost forced a chuckle out of him. Almost. It was just when she got that stubborn look in her eyes, that twist to her mouth, that he pictured Annie, shaking hands wrapped tight around a glass, dumping whiskey down her throat. He didn’t know if Doc drank, had never thought to ask, but if she did, he had a funny feeling it would be like how Annie drank. Spontaneous, all at once. Dedicating each one to someone lost, glass after glass in the hopes that if she drank enough, if she said enough names, maybe she would forget a few. He remembered the battle at the church, the second time. Blood spattered over Faye’s face as her captor fell dead to the ground, shots ringing through the cavernous space, the cawing of Vicious’ stupid, ugly bird. Glass shattering, his shoulder stinging, abdomen throbbing. Falling, falling, falling. An explosion blowing through the stained glass, his ears ringing, his bones shattering as the shock wave rattled through him. Two fish, shimmering in glass, swimming in an endless, fixed circle. He wouldn’t let it happen again. Faye didn’t know what to do. She lay back on the living room couch, lips pursed deep in thought, watching the smoke coil against the ceiling. This wasn’t like her. She wished she had somewhere to run off to, a lead of some kind, something she could hop in her ship and fly away to. But there was only Doc’s false clues, and Spike’s questionable testimony of a cargo ship headed for Earth. God, she wanted a drink. This wasn’t like her. This wasn’t like her, at all. Faye Valentine, lounging depressedly in a beaten-up spaceship, smoking cigarette after cigarette just to feel the burn in her lungs. She needed to be doing something, except there was nothing to do except watch Spike pace the floor, flicking a lighter in his hands. Nothing to do except watch the flame as it burst in and out of existence, nothing to do except watch Spike’s face grow darker and darker as the hours slowly reeled by, as the ship slowly reeled through space. Speaking of, the door to the bridge slid open, and he stepped through it, head tilted downward, obscuring his eyes with strands of his puffy hair. “Where are you goin’?” Faye asked, voice an octave higher than usual, and he paused for a brief second, body shifting slightly towards her, but still, she could not see his eyes. “Don’t.” She clenched her fist, fingernails digging into her palm. “You’ll both . . . you’ll both die.” It was happening again. It was happening again, this last stand bullshit, Spike running off somewhere without telling her why, without giving her any sufficient explanation, and she hated it. She knew what would happen, if she yelled. If she tried, through sheer force of volume and will, to make him wait, to stay, to think things through. He would only advance straight through her, past her trembling façade, and out the door, out of her life again. This time, though, was different. Doc had meant a lot to both of them. “I know she’s there,” he said, and Faye stood, slowly. “I’m coming with you.” He looked at her, finally, sidelong, but the only eye she could see was blank, devoid of any emotion that she could read. Anger roiled in her, and she spat, “Just because she wasn’t cuddling up to me every goddamn night doesn’t mean she wasn’t important! Doesn’t mean I don’t miss her!” Something in his face twitched, but otherwise, he was stock still. “Doesn’t mean she was the first female friend I had made since that weird-ass kid decided to hop on for a ride!” He snorted, of all things. “She would kill me if you died, too.” Faye sniffed, picking her gun up off the coffee table and sticking it into the waistband of her shorts. “Which is why I won’t, lughead.” Jet did not comm, or call, or come roaring after them. Faye watched the Bebop grow smaller in the reflection of her Red Tail’s cockpit window, and something melancholy settled in her gut. She would see it again, she decided. She would, if it was the last thing she ever did, and goddammit, Spike and Doc were going to be with her when she did. She followed the the flitting red shape of Spike’s Swordfish II through hyperspace and down through the remnants of the Gates to Earth, swiveling behind it as it made a jerky landing on the planet’s cratered surface. She hopped out deftly, taking a breath of the dusty air and immediately coughing it back out. She had forgotten how empty the planet was. Her fleeting memories of her time here, in 2014, before everything, before it all, were only of greenery, of tall buildings, of paved roads and shiny cars and people filling the streets, talking and smiling and laughing. Now, now it was empty, brown scarred terrain stretching as far as the eye could see. What little buildings remained had been blasted nearly to bits by meteor showers, and there was no sign of life for miles, according to her ship’s scanners. “I can’t believe this,” she sighed, striding up to Spike with her hands on her hips. “We don’t even have any idea where to look.” “The shipment deployed near here,” he answered immediately, tapping away on some scanner he had fished from his pocket. “There should be a shelter, a hovel . . . something. Someone came to receive this cargo, and if they had any brains at all they found shelter before the next meteor shower . . . .” “And that’s where we find our rogue doctor,” Faye completed, refusing to feel impressed at how thoroughly he had conducted his search. Guilt twinged in her gut. This son of a bitch was going to be harder to shake than either she or Doc had anticipated, but looking at him now, brow furrowed, device beeping faintly in his hands, she just wanted to apologize, and keep apologizing, even though it couldn’t possibly be enough. “There,” he said, voice belying none of the triumph it should have felt. As she stepped closer to peer at the screen he tilted toward her, she took careful note of how tense he was, of how his fingers were shaking, however imperceptibly. “There’s two pockets, beneath the soil. Both about two and a half miles away from here. Hovels, shelters, or something. Nothing natural can be that large, and deliberate. Whatever, whoever lives there – they’ll have our answers.” He began to stride off in one direction, long legs covering so much ground in such a short period of time that Faye had to jog to catch up with him. “Hey, hold up –” she called, but he stopped so suddenly that she almost crashed right into him. “No.” He turned his gaze on her, and still, still, she could not read his face. “You go that way. Check out the other one.” “You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you go off on your own,” Faye snapped, crossing her arms in front of her. “The second I turn my back and you’ll be Geronimo-ing off into some gunfight.” “We need to split up,” was all he said, turning his back to her. “It’s less efficient if we check out both hideouts one at a time. And I know you can handle yourself. Am I wrong?” He turned slightly, face still partially obscured. She twitched. “ Fine,” she barked, spinning on her heel and trudging in the opposite direction. “But if I have to be the one who tells her that you went and got yourself killed on my watch, I will bring you back from the grave and kill you again myself.” He only grunted, and continued on his way, his back already beginning to recede amidst the roiling heat waves curling off of the scorched ground. Faye sniffed, and continued on her way, hands tight around her pistol. She hoped to God she got to Doc first. “So, tell, tell!” Ed cried, rolling in an excited circle, knees clutched to her chest. “Tell us! How are they? Are they all good? Are they all alive?” “So far as I know,” you replied, the last question sending a twang through you that you chose to stalwartly ignore. “Jet’s as grumpy as ever, Faye’s tough but kind, and Spike . . . he’s good too, I guess.” You punctuated the last bit with a smile, to hide how hard you were trying not to think about it. “Do they miss us?” Ed asked, rolling to a stop and crossing her legs. “Do they talk about us a lot?” “Faye’s mentioned you a few times. We’ve been . . . busy, though, so we don’t really get the chance to talk much.” Ed made a disappointed nose, rolling away, and Ein followed her, tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail steadily wagging as he watched his owner somersault her way around the room. Siniz was still staring you, gaze shrewd. “The irony of this sure as hell isn’t lost on me,” he grumbled, and you sent a shaky grin in his direction. It was certainly not lost on you, either, judging by how earnestly your stomach was doing cartwheels. “Who would’a thought,” you said, watching as Ed came crashing to a stop against one wall, upside down, legs kicking towards the ceiling. “I manage to end up in the home of someone else who rode around on that goddamn ship.” “Which begs the question . . .” Siniz stared hard into your eyes, and you gulped. “Why did you leave?” “To . . .,” you started, then stopped. You considered, for a moment, on just how to explain this to him. That you fell head over heels for a guy who had the love of his life die in his arms, that you were being pursued by the Syndicate that had experimented on you for most of your life that said guy was also conveniently connected to, that you were worried they would use him against you so you left to make sure that no one else close to you had to die? “To protect someone.” You stared hard back, gaze unflinching, and he surveyed you up and down. “Well, you could have just said so in the first place,” he sighed, and the relief that swept over you was overwhelming. “A man doesn’t question what someone else wants to protect.” “Of all the things I thought I’d find on Earth, this . . .,” you said, watching as Ed swung into a sitting position, tugging Ein into her lap and hugging him fiercely, “. . . wasn’t it. Thank you.” You looked back at Siniz, smiling. “Really.” “Hey, don’t be thanking me. I didn’t choose to have you shipped here in a box of my potatoes.” You laughed, and a thud sounded from above. Dust trickled from the ceiling, and Siniz looked up curiously. “Visitors. Friends of yours?” He raised his eyebrows, and a dumb, idiotic hope took root in your chest, along with an ice-cold rock of absolute dread. “You know, I was really hoping that it would take at least a day before they managed to track me down,” you sighed, rising from the ground and dusting dirt off of yourself. Ed was sitting up, still clutching Ein, all attention attuned to the footsteps now sounding, one after the other, from above her head. “There wouldn’t happen to be a back door to this place, would there?” Siniz shook his head, every muscle in his body taut as the footsteps approached the metal front door, and paused. “In hindsight, a major design flaw,” he said, his voice low. “But see if you can fit yourself into the wardrobe in the bedroom.” He jerked his head backwards, to a dilapidated brown curtain that sectioned off another part of the home. “I’ll see if I can keep them occupied. Françoise should be enough to do that on her own, though.” You nodded, and the two-inch thick steel door was sent flying into the room with what sounded like a small explosion. “Ed – get down – !” “Françoise – !” The scalpel was in your hand, at the ready, and all of a sudden it seemed small, too small, for the rush of black figures spilling into the hovel, black armor glinting dully in the yellow halogen lights. Siniz had already knocked two out with sheer fists alone, yelling something indecipherable, and you charged at the first soldier your gaze landed on. You swept him off his feet with one leg, tore the gun from his hands, and bashed the butt of it into his face. He lay still, and you swung the weapon wildly, managing to hit someone else, but there was a hand on your arm, gripping, vice-like, and you tore away with a snarl, jabbing your scalpel forward and feeling it sink into flesh. You whirled around again, brandishing both of your newly acquired weapons, but there were too many of them, and you had never shot a gun before, and certainly couldn’t be expected to fire the semi-automatic weapon clutched in your hand without hurting Siniz, Ed, and yourself. There were just too many, too many of them rushing into the small hovel, jostling for space, armor clinking, voices rising, guns and eyes trained onto yours, and you dove into the mass, determined, above all else, to get out, to draw them away, to kill all of them, systematically, one by one, before they could hurt anyone else. You rushed forward, scalpel flashing, gun swinging, and their faces all lined up in your vision and started to swim but you had to keep moving, you had to, you had to, you had to get out – He came over a rise, and smoke was rising in the distance, acrid black clouds curling into the pale blue sky. He started to run. Plan forgotten, he wrenched his Jericho from his waistband and ran, eyes scanning the area for vehicles, ships, people, bodies, anything, and as he drew closer all he could hear was horrible, horrible silence. He entered the smoking remains of what once must have been a hovel, and stiffened at the black-armored bodies strewn about the room. He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand, and scanned his surroundings, looking, looking for something familiar, anything, anything at all that would clue him in as to whether one of the bodies was her. He didn’t notice the figure behind him. He whipped around, gun at the ready, but a muzzle was already descending, a fist swinging, eyes glinting with a cold, silver light – You knocked another one out, another, but as you turned, scalpel at the ready, eyes wild, you saw it, descending, muzzle glimmering, and you could hear the finger on the trigger tightening – A gunshot, and then blackness. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text SCARAMOUCHE POV. Here i was again. At home. At the dinner table. With my so called 'mother'. Oh how i just want to run away right now. All the yelling is really getting to my head. 'Useless, stupid, careless, ignorant, insolent child'. She said. How i wasn't caring enough, how im not loving enough, Not man enough. ''JUST SHUT UP WILL YOU?!'' I yelled, as i stood up and slamming my hands on the table. I stood up so fast my chair fell backwards onto the ground with a loud 'bonk'. good. She looked shocked. Amazingly shocked. In a bad way. Stunned into silence, before she stood up and copied my actions. 'If u dont have any respect for your mother then you can pack all ur stuff and GET OUT!' In those last words, u can see a glimpse of the old Raiden. Kind, caring, gentle. Completely hidden behind those purple eyes. Electric shocks pulsed through the table, i pulled back my hands as if ive been burnt. Which i technically was. You could cut the tension with a knife. You could see she immediately regretted everything she said. 'I didnt mean i-' she started. I cut her off. ''Fine! farewell. Raiden'' She was shocked. How could i? Her son, betray her like that? Too bad. She's the one who chose to abandon me. I wouldnt dare to call her mother ever again. 'Scara please- lets talk about this-' She tried, her voice shaky and desperate. ''no, its fine. Its ur choice to abandon me, so be it.'' I smirked, like i knew i won, while acctually, i was broken. Completely shattered. I walked to my room to pack my items. What did i even need to bring? Where should i even go? I need money, i dont have much. Ill just have to find an open sollicitation, im not staying here any longer. After 15 minutes, I finally finished packing. Clothes, hat, toothbrush, 20 mora, i dont have more. 20 mora isnt even enough to buy something to eat. As i walked down the stairs with my bag, i left a note with my plans on the door. So Raiden knew where i was. I dont know why i did it. Probably instinct. As i walked past the dining room, i heard silent sobbing from the dining table. Where the fight just took place. But why would i care? She abandoned me! She can cry about it! I walked out of the house, taking my keys with me. My plan? Going somewhere far away, ill pause in Mondstadt, I hope Venti or others wont recognize me. Ill stay low, probably, hopefully. Gosh this feels pathetic. Getting kicked out. Im not looking forward to this trip, or am i?.. Stupid family, stupid family issues, stupid vision, stupid me. What if i just dissapeared from Inazuma forever? If she wants to see me she can come find me. I started walking through Inazuma. I eventually arrived at Narakumi shrine, which i quickly tried to get away from, as mothers- i mean Raidens 'friend' worked there, Yae Miko. Speaking of the devil... i thought as i saw her approach. 'Oh?~ Scaramouche?~' Yae drawled. ''Shut up and leave me alone.'' I spat back, politer then i wanted. 'Are u mad that ur mommy left u?~' she teased. 'Did she abandon you?~' ''SHUT UP!!'' i yelled to her face ''I DONT CARE!'' i did. i cared a lot. 'whatever u say~' she drawled, before walking away with that annoyingly smug grin. I should steal a raft to get to Galesong hill in mondstadt... I walked to Araumi, where i saw a raft. That one should do... i thought. I decided to distract the seller, by setting a small box on fire. As soon as he was distracted i ran onto the raft and started to untie the ropes. Some people saw me and allarmed the seller, but i was faster, and padled away quickly. It's time, to finally leave. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Ready for our last mission, Shepard?” Garrus asked, taking a spot next to her on the cold floor. He stretched his long arms over his head, looking, given the circumstances, surprisingly peaceful. “Any regrets?” She looked at him, feeling her jaw tensing. She hid in the main battery room to find a moment of peace before their last mission, not getting a soul crushing questions she had no intention answering. Garrus, her best friend, the man who would give his life willingly for hers, should’ve known her better. But maybe it was different; maybe they were together for the last time. Maybe it was Garru's last attempt at "let me in" towards her. Did it matter? Shepard looked at her hands; they were pale, calloused, too bruised to use without pain. The deadliest machine known to her enemies, the most important tool of her work. She wondered, for a moment, if they remember how to be gentle, as they once were. It was before. Before the accident, before waking up, before being made to work with her enemies. Before everyone around her lived through two years, which for her was coma, oblivion. Before she died. Shepard’s jaw began to hurt, yet she tried to swallow the bitter taste in her mouth. Did she have any regrets , Garrus asked. As if she could choose what she had regretted the most. As if the past year and a half wasn’t made of one soul crushing decision after another. As if people didn’t have a tendency to die, and get hurt, around her. Did she regret being who she was, her entire career being built on one loss after another? Did she regret having to look at how her entire squad was being decimated? Having to choose who lives or dies, having the future of so many in her hands? Having to constantly choosing for others, so they could sleep better at night? She wasn't able to sleep for a long time. Did she regret working with the one who took everything, from so many? Even if she did, did she had a choice? Her wounded hands started to get blurry in her eyes, but Shepard didn’t look up at her friend. She wasn’t going to change just because she’s going to die soon. Wasn’t going to start spilling her heart for someone else, when the last time was such a mistake . She’s there to be a leader, a symbol. She was there to get the job done, without remorse. It was easier to lie only to herself. The last two years took everything from Shepard, and she felt it in her every move, every thought. Was living worth the price she had to pay for it, the countless, sleepless nights, the constant hum of pain in her body? For a split second, the thought of brown eyes haunted her memory. Once warm, full of kindness, in her mind looked at her with hurt, betrayal . She squeezed her own, forcefully, making the recollection vanish. Shepard was a symbol, she knew it. Somewhere, long ago, someone had decided, without asking for her permission, that she would give people hope, she would push the limits of what one person could do to save the galaxy. She didn’t know the rest, the life outside of fighting and being the embodiment of hope for everyone else. Yet, she was alive to betray her people. To work with Cerberus, to eradicate another species. She wasn’t given a choice, but her purpose was clear. She got brought back to life, so she could make sure she would die for others. “I spent two years believing you were dead!” Shepard knew she was exhausted; she hadn’t remembered the last time she slept properly, not taking short naps in the shuttle between one mission and another. Her overexhausted brain had difficulties to push back memories she tried very hard not to think about at the moment like that. That was it; Shepard’s last hooray before the suicide mission. Nobody from her team of misfits even tried to pretend they had hope to come back from the Collector’s base alive. Yet, Shepard repeated over and over again, to everyone who listened, that they would. And she knew that she would do everything in her power for all of her team to get back alive. Even if it would mean being left behind. And at the end, her best friend Garrus, unwillingly, added fuel to the fire of her already wavering sanity. What did Shepard regret? She regretted not dying in the first contact with Collectors, now being forced to see everyone she knew, she loved, having two years to live and grow, mourn people they left with their fight with Saeren. For her, all the grief and pain was fresh, soulcrushing. Ashley’s last scream, still fresh in her ears. Years in the military taught Shepard not to show weakness for others. Nobody saw her during the nights when the mask fell. She regretted being brought back to life just to stand in front of the only person she trusted with everything she was, and seeing them leave her. Alone. She regretted being on the Horizon and seeing Kaidan Alenko there, so similar how she remembered him, yet so different, so surprisingly foreign. So hurt, so... like not her Kaidan. She regretted seeing those familiar, warm brown eyes looking at her with disappointment, full of hurt and betrayal. Seeing how the only person she ever trusted with her real thoughts, her real self, turned his back on her. She regretted disappointing, and betraying the only person in that universe who never wanted anything more from her than her love. Shepard felt her heart skipping a beat, hurt. She had never felt a grudge towards Kaidan; he came into her life as a man with his own beliefs, his own loyalties, his own thoughts. He didn’t need her to solve any of his issues. He came, open heart and open mind, and didn’t hesitate to tell her no, when she clashed with his beliefs. She was the one who betrayed what they stood for together. Kaidan loved Shepard for who she was, not for what everyone wanted her to be. But in Horizon, he saw her for the first time in two years. After two years he thought she was dead. Seeing her working with his biggest enemy. Shepard knew, deep down in her heart, that she would never forget the devastation she felt seeing him leave that day. She begged him to come with her, but he never did, and the only thought keeping her sane, that she had Kaidan's love , stopped keeping her alive. It was easier to agree on the mission after that. Garrus stayed silent next to her, on that cold, metal floor, but she didn’t speak a word of what she thought. End of the world won't change who she was. Garrus couldn’t see her as human as she was now. She wiped the tears from her eyes with aggressive motion, clenching her jaw again. Not time for being weak. “I regret not saying my goodbyes, I guess.” Shepard choked out, at the end. She felt one, cold hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. Just a few more hours, it would be the end. Just a few more hours, she would be dead, and her regrets wouldn’t matter anymore. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Hey! This is my crossover story based on The Witcher and Final Fantasy universes, it’s set after the events The Witcher 3 and during the Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth, and the story is set in a different timeline than my other story, The Wolf and The Swallow, and I find the lore of both universes to be fascinating and the opportunity of really interesting stories to be told. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Comments, reviews and criticisms are always welcome! The Unknown Journey authored by WingsuitFlying Chapter 1 – Welcome to the Resistance The wind howled across the cracked earth of the Kalm outskirts, carrying the scent of dry grass and something else, something sharp and metallic, like the aftertaste of a storm that had never quite passed. Ciri stood still for a long moment, her boots sinking slightly into the dust, her breath coming in measured, controlled bursts. She had expected the cold bite of the White Frost’s world, the familiar ache of the Continent’s air, the damp weight of Novigrad’s mist, or even the strange, sterile, magical hum of the place Geralt had once called the Land of a Thousand Fables. But this… this was none of those. The sky was too bright, too wrong. A sickly yellow haze bleeding into the horizon, the sun a pale, watery thing that didn’t so much as warm the skin as it did press against it, heavy and unnatural. The land was scarred, the earth pockmarked with craters and the skeletal remains of something vast and mechanical, half-buried in the dirt like the bones of dead gods. Ciri exhaled through her nose, her fingers twitching toward the hilt of the sword strapped to her back. She had been in strange worlds before, but this one felt different. It wasn’t just the air or the light. It was the weight of it, the way the very ground seemed to hum beneath her feet, as if the planet itself were alive and restless. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, her free hand brushing against the cold metal of the wolf medallion hidden beneath her tunic. Vesemir’s medallion. The thought of him was a sharp pang in her chest, but she pushed it down. She had a job to do - find a way back. The portal had torn open beneath her feet as she stood victorious over the White Frost, her power surging, her blood singing with the raw, untamed force of the Elder Blood. She had meant to return to the Continent, to find Geralt and Yennefer, to tell them that it was over. But the magic had been too much, too wild, and now she was here, wherever here was. Kalm’s walls loomed in the distance, a ramshackle collection of wood and rusted metal, the kind of place that had been patched together too many times to count. The gates stood open, a lazy trickle of people moving in and out—merchants with carts of wilted vegetables, a few armed men in mismatched gear, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Ciri hesitated only a second before striding forward. She had learned long ago that hesitation was death. Better to move with purpose, even if you didn’t know where you were going. The town itself was a maze of narrow streets and leaning buildings, though clean, built of stone and wood, the air was thick with the smell of cooking oil, sweat, and the acrid tang of something chemical beneath it all. People moved in clusters, their voices low, their eyes darting. She caught snippets of conversation. "Shinra’s got another sweep planned…" "The plate’s collapsing near Sector 7…", "If we don’t get those mako reactors offline, we’re all dead…" None of it made sense, but the tension was universal. These people were afraid. And afraid people were dangerous. Ciri kept her hand near her sword, Zireael, her senses sharp. She had been a hunted thing for too long to trust strangers. Then she saw her. A woman in a pink dress, standing beneath a flickering lantern in the market square, her auburn hair tied back with a ribbon, her smile too bright for a place like this. She was holding a flower, no, selling them, a basket of them at her feet, their petals too vibrant, too alive against the grimy cobblestones. Ciri slowed, her instincts prickling. There was something about this woman, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Not a threat. Not exactly. But power. The kind that hummed beneath the skin, the kind that called to the blood. The woman’s head turned, her green eyes locking onto Ciri’s with unsettling precision. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "Oh," she said, her voice light, musical, "you have pretty eyes." Ciri stiffened. She had heard that before—too many times, from too many people who wanted to cage her, use her, cut her open to see what made her tick. Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt of her sword. "Don’t," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "Whatever you’re thinking, don’t." The woman only laughed, a bright, bell-like sound that cut through the murk of the town like a knife. "Relax, stranger. I’m not here to hurt you." She tilted her head, studying Ciri with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "Though I do think you’re lost." Ciri didn’t answer. She had been lost before. She knew how to handle it. Aerith sighed, as if reading her thoughts. "You’re not from around here, are you?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "Neither am I, really. But I know my way around." She gestured to the flower basket. "Trade you a bloom for a story? Or at least a name?" Ciri exhaled sharply through her nose. She had no coin, no idea what these flowers were worth, but there was something about this woman that made her pause. Not the power, though that was there, thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, but the lack of malice. The lack of hunger. Most people who sensed what she was wanted to own her. Aerith just… looked at her. Like she was interesting. Like she was real. "Ciri," she said at last, the name tasting strange on her tongue in this place. Aerith’s smile widened. "Ciri. That’s lovely. I’m Aerith." She plucked a single flower from the basket—a white blossom with petals that shimmered faintly in the dim light—and held it out. "For you. It’ll keep the bad dreams away." Ciri stared at the flower, then at Aerith. "I don’t have nightmares." Aerith’s eyes gleamed. "Not yet, maybe." Before Ciri could respond, another woman stepped up beside Aerith, tall and strong, with red eyes, though not like a vampire, and her dark hair loose, dressed in a white tank top and a black skirt, her arms crossed over her chest. She studied Ciri with a fighter’s eye, assessing, calculating. "Aerith," she said, her voice low, "we should get back. Barret’s waiting." Aerith waved a hand dismissively. "In a minute. I found someone interesting." Tifa’s gaze flicked to Ciri, sharp and knowing. "So I see." Ciri bristled. She didn’t like being looked at like that, like she was a puzzle to be solved. "I don’t need help," she said, stepping back. Aerith sighed. "Everyone needs help sometimes, Ciri." She reached out, not to grab, but to offer—her hand open, palm up. "Come on. You look like you could use a meal. And some answers." Ciri hesitated. She was hungry. And tired. And this world was nothing like she had ever seen. But trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Then Aerith’s fingers twitched, just slightly, and Ciri felt it—the faintest brush of magic, like a whisper against her skin. Not an intrusion. A promise. She exhaled, sharp and frustrated. "Fine," she muttered. "But if this is a trap, I’ll gut you both before you blink." Aerith laughed, delighted. "I like you." The hotel was a squat, dingy thing on the edge of town, the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour and didn’t ask questions. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of something Ciri couldn’t place. A jukebox in the corner wheezed out a slow, mournful tune, the kind of music that sounded like it was singing about things best left buried. Aerith led her inside with the ease of someone who had been here before, Tifa following close behind, her presence a quiet, steady weight. The common room was nearly empty save for a few figures, Barret, a massive man with dark skin and a machine gun for an arm, nursing a glass of something that looked suspiciously like watered-down spirit. Cloud, leaning against the jukebox, his arms crossed, his expression closed off, his eyes half-lidded like he was only half-present. And then there was the thing, the beast, like a lion but smaller, but bigger than a dog as well, red-furred and massive, its golden eyes locking onto Ciri the moment she stepped inside. Red XIII. He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. Then his ears twitched, his tail lashing once, slow and deliberate. "This one is different," he rumbled, his voice deep, resonant. "She does not belong here." Barret looked up, his good eye narrowing as he took in Ciri - her clothes, her sword, the way she carried herself like a blade unsheathed. "The hell you drag in now, Aerith?" Aerith ignored him, steering Ciri toward the group. "Everyone, this is Ciri. She’s new in town." Barret grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ain’t we all." He extended his meaty paw. "Barret Wallace. You look like you know how to handle yourself." Ciri eyed his hand, then took it, her grip firm. "I do." Cloud didn’t move from his spot by the jukebox. His gaze flicked over her, dismissive, bored. "Another stray?" Ciri’s jaw tightened. She knew his type - the silent, brooding kind who thought the world owed them something. She had met enough knights and sell-swords like him to recognize the arrogance in the set of his shoulders, the way his sword hung at his hip like it was an extension of his ego. She didn’t like him. Not one bit. "She’s not a stray, Cloud," Aerith said, her voice sharp with reproach. "She’s a guest." Cloud’s only response was a slow, indifferent shrug. Red XIII’s burning tail flicked again. "She smells of elsewhere. Of power." His single, golden eye burned into hers. "What are you?" Ciri met his gaze, unflinching. "None of your business." Barret barked a laugh. "Kid’s got spine. I like that." He gestured to the table. "Sit. We got food. Not much, but it’s better than nothin’." Ciri hesitated. She didn’t want to sit. Didn’t want to eat their food, accept their hospitality. But the scent of something warm and savory wafted from the kitchen, and her stomach betrayed her with a low, traitorous growl. Cloud’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Almost a smirk. Ciri glared at him before pulling out a chair and sitting, her back straight, her hand never leaving her sword. "I’m not staying long," she said, her voice clear, cutting. "I just need to figure out how to get back where I belong." Aerith slid into the seat beside her, her pink dress a splash of color in the grimy room. "Where’s that?" Ciri opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. How could she explain the Continent? The Wild Hunt? The White Frost? They wouldn’t understand. Hell, she barely understood half of it herself. "Far from here," she said at last. Tifa set a bowl of stew in front of her, the scent rich and earthy. "Eat. You look like you haven’t in days." Ciri picked up the spoon, her movements precise, controlled. She took a bite. It wasn’t bad. Not great, but filling. She could feel their eyes on her: Barret’s assessing, Tifa’s curious, Red XIII’s intense, Aerith’s knowing. And Cloud’s, well, clouded, distant, like he was already bored with the conversation. She set the spoon down with a clink. "I need to know where I am." Aerith leaned forward, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. "The outskirts of Midgar. Or what’s left of Midgar, anyway." "Midgar," Ciri repeated. The name meant nothing. Barret took a swig of his drink. "Biggest damn city in the world. Or it was, ‘til Shinra turned it into a shithole." "Shinra?" Ciri asked. Cloud finally pushed off from the jukebox, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved to the table. He pulled out a chair, reversed it, and straddled it, his arms resting over the back. "The company that owns this planet," he said, his voice rough, like he didn’t use it often. "They bleed the earth dry, suck the life out of everything. And now they’re coming for what’s left of us." Ciri studied him, the way his blonde hair fell into his eyes, the scar that cut across his back, visible where his shirt gaped. He was a soldier. Or had been. She recognized the look. The way he held himself, like he was always ready for a fight. Like he wanted one. "Why?" she asked. Cloud’s gaze flicked to hers, cold and unreadable. "Because that’s what they do." Aerith sighed. "What he means is, Shinra’s been draining the planet’s lifeblood - mako energy - for years. It’s killing everything. And now they’re hunting down the last of us who are trying to stop them." Ciri absorbed this. A company. A planet. A war. It was familiar, in a way. The Continent had its kings and sorcerers and sorceresses, its empires and rebellions. But this, this was something else. Something bigger. Something mechanical. She looked at Cloud again. He was watching her now, really watching her, his blue eyes sharp in a way they hadn’t been before. Like he was seeing her for the first time. "What?" she snapped. He tilted his head, just slightly. "You’re not scared." Ciri barked a laugh. "I’ve faced worse than a company." Cloud’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of interest. Of recognition. Aerith clapped her hands together, breaking the tension. "Alright! Now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, Ciri, you’re welcome to stay with us for now. At least until you figure out how to get home." Ciri opened her mouth to refuse, then closed it. She did need answers. And these people, as strange as they were, didn’t seem to want to hurt her. Not yet, anyway. "Fine," she said, pushing the bowl away. "But I’m not joining your fight." Barret grinned, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. "Kid, you don’t even know what our fight is yet." Cloud’s gaze never left hers. "You will." Ciri held his stare, her chin lifting just slightly. A challenge. A promise. She had a feeling he was right. After the stew had settled in her stomach, warm and heavy, but it did little to ease the tightness in Ciri’s chest. She didn’t like being the center of attention. Didn’t like the way their eyes lingered on her, weighing, measuring. But Aerith’s question hung in the air between them, unanswered. "Tell me of your world." Ciri’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. She had spent years running, hiding, lying, first from the Wild Hunt, then from the kings and sorceresses who wanted to chain her, use her. Trusting strangers had never ended well. But there was something in Aerith’s gaze, something open and unguarded, that made her hesitate. Before she could decide whether to speak or bolt, Barret leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table. The metal of his machine gun-arm gleamed dully in the dim light of the hotel’s common room. "Look, kid," he said, his voice rough but not unkind, "we ain’t askin’ for your life story. But if you’re gonna sit at this table, you oughta know what you’re sittin’ with." He gestured to the others with his good hand. "We’re Avalanche. Or what’s left of it, anyway. And we’re fightin’ a war." Ciri’s brows lifted slightly. "Against this company you called Shinra ?" Barret nodded. "Against Shinra, against the damn machine they’ve built. They’re killin’ the planet, drainin’ it dry. Ever seen a flower wilt in your hand just ‘cause the earth beneath it’s dead?" He didn’t wait for an answer. "That’s what’s happenin’. The planet’s dyin’, and Shinra’s the one holdin’ the knife." Ciri frowned. "By taking this thing… mako ?" Red XIII’s ears twitched, his golden eye reflecting the flickering light of the lantern above them. "Mako is the planet’s lifeblood ," he rumbled, his voice deep, resonant. "It flows beneath the earth like veins, like the rivers in your world. But when Shinra extracts it, they leave wounds. Open, festering wounds." His burning tail lashed once, slow and deliberate. "The planet bleeds. And when it does, the land sickens. The people sicken." Ciri’s mind raced. She had seen magic drain the life from places, seen the Blight in Velen, the way the land withered under the touch of dark sorcery. The Catriona Plague in Vizima, the people dying out in the streets by a disease they don’t understand. But this was different. This was industrial . A machine, not a spell. A company, not a mage. Not a plague. Aerith leaned in, her green eyes bright with something like urgency. "It’s like-" she began, then stopped, her gaze flicking to Cloud. "It’s like his eyes." Ciri turned, really looking at Cloud for the first time since she’d walked in. He was slouched in his chair, one arm draped over the back, his expression bored. But his eyes- She froze. They were wrong . Not just the color, not green, not blue, but both blending in, though that alone was unnatural enough, but the way they gleamed. Like light refracted through glass, too bright, too sharp . Like they weren’t entirely human. Cloud scoffed, shifting in his seat. "Great. Now I’m a science lesson." Aerith ignored him. "Shinra pumps mako into their soldiers. Turns ‘em into something… more. Stronger. Faster." Her voice dropped, softer now. "But it doesn’t come free. Nothing ever does." Cloud’s jaw tightened. "SOLDIER First Class," he muttered, like the words tasted bitter. "Or I was, ‘til I walked away." A deep, rasping voice cut through the tension. "There are no ex-SOLDIERS, boy." Ciri turned. A man stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning heavily against the frame. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but there was a gauntness to him, a sickly pallor beneath his tan. His dark hair was thinning, his face lined with exhaustion, but his eyes – the same color like Cloud’s – were sharp, assessing. He wore an apron over his clothes, stained with grease and something darker. Barret groaned. "Ah, hell. Broden, you old bastard, you’re supposed to be restin’." Broden, if that was his name, Ciri thought, waved a dismissive hand. "And you’re supposed to be paying rent." His gaze flicked to Ciri, lingering for a moment before moving to Cloud. "SOLDIERs don’t just walk away . It’s in the blood. In the bones." His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. "You don’t stop being what they made you." Cloud’s expression darkened, but he didn’t argue. Ciri studied Broden, taking in the way his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the doorframe, the way his breath came just a little too shallow. He was sick. Not with a fever or a wound – something deeper. Something that ate at him from the inside. "Mako poisoning," Aerith said quietly, following her gaze. "Too much exposure. It’s what happens when you play with the planet’s lifeblood too long." Broden barked a laugh, humorless. "Ain’t nothing poetic about it, girl. It’s just death, slow and ugly." He pushed off the frame, straightening with effort. "But I ain’t here to depress the new girl. You lot eat up. And pay for the damn stew, Barret." Barret flipped him off, but there was no real heat in it. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll get you your coin." Broden shook his head and disappeared back into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy, uneven. Ciri turned back to the table, her mind racing. Mako. SOLDIER. A planet bleeding. A war against a machine. Aerith was watching her, her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to read something in Ciri’s face. "So," she said softly, "your world… is it like this?" Ciri exhaled, slow and measured. She had never told anyone the full truth of where she came from. Not even Geralt knew all of it – not the way the worlds bled together, not the way she had walked through time and space like they were nothing more than doors in a hallway. But these people… they understood wounds . They understood fighting something bigger than themselves. "No," she said at last. "It’s not like this." She hesitated, then continued, her voice low. "In my world, the monsters are… different. They’re not men in towers, draining the earth. They’re beasts. Curses. Kings with armies of steel and sorcery." She thought of the Wild Hunt, of Eredin’s cold eyes, of the White Frost’s endless hunger. "And there are those who hunt people like me. For what’s in my blood." Aerith’s eyes widened slightly. "Your blood?" Ciri touched the medallion beneath her shirt, the metal warm from her skin. "Elder Blood. It’s… a kind of magic. A power." She met Aerith’s gaze. "The kind that makes people want to chain you up. Cut you open." A heavy silence settled over the table. Then Barret let out a low whistle. "Well, ain’t that a damn coincidence." Cloud’s eyes were on her now, really on her, his expression unreadable. "So you’re a weapon, too." Ciri bristled. "I’m not a weapon ." "Aren’t you?" His voice was quiet, but it carried. "They hunt you for what you can do. Just like Shinra hunts us. Just like they hunted me ." Ciri’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table. She had spent her life running from that truth. But she couldn’t run now. Not here. Not with these people, who looked at her and saw something familiar in the hunger of those who chased her. Aerith reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over Ciri’s clenched hand. "We’re not like them," she said softly. "We don’t want to use you. We just want to stop the ones who do." Ciri looked at her, then at the others – Barret, his gun-arm gleaming; Tifa, her red eyes steady; Red XIII, his golden gaze unblinking; Cloud, his unnatural eyes burning into hers. She didn’t trust them. Not yet. But for the first time in a long time, she wanted to. Broden’s cough echoed from the kitchen, wet and ragged. The jukebox wheezed out another note, the music slow, mournful. Ciri exhaled, long and slow. Then she reached for the bowl of stew again and took another bite. "Tell me about this war," she said. The air in the room thickened, not with tension, but with the weight of shared secrets. Barret leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs groaning under his weight, and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. His gun-arm rested against the table, the metal cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the warmth of the lantern light flickering across his face. "Alright, kid," he said, his voice rough but measured. "You wanna know about the war? It ain’t pretty. Ain’t glorious . It’s just… necessary." Tifa crossed her arms, her biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of her cropped top. "Shinra’s been in control for decades," she said, her voice steady, precise. "They built Midgar, this city, on the backs of the poor, sucking the planet dry to fuel their reactors. The slums beneath the plate?" She gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if the massive metal disc that loomed over the city were visible through the hotel’s grimy roof. "That’s where they dump the people they don’t care about. Where the air’s so thick with pollution you can taste it. Where kids grow up never seeing the sky." Ciri’s fingers traced the rim of her bowl, her mind flashing to the slums of Novigrad, the way the poor huddled in the shadows of the temples and the palaces, the way the air smelled of sewage and desperation. She knew what it was like to be forgotten. To be prey. Red XIII’s tail flicked, his voice a low growl. "Shinra does not just ignore the weak. They use them. They take children – l ike they took me – a nd twist them into weapons. They take the land and leave it barren. They take the water and poison it. They take the sky and fill it with smoke." His golden eyes burned with something raw, something ancient. "They take until there is nothing left." Aerith’s expression darkened, her usual brightness dimmed by the weight of the conversation. "And when people fight back, when they dare , Shinra burns them out. Like they did to their sector." Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, her knuckles white. "They dropped the plate on Sector 7. Crushed thousands. Just to make a point." Ciri’s breath hitched. She had seen cities burn. Had watched armies march through villages, leaving nothing but ash and screams in their wake. But this, this was different. This was deliberate . A machine grinding people beneath its heel, not for conquest, not for glory, but because it could . Cloud had been silent, his gaze fixed on the table, his fingers tapping restlessly against the wood. Now, he finally spoke, his voice low, rough. "They don’t just kill you. They erase you. Turn you into a number. A test subject." His mismatched eyes flicked up, meeting Ciri’s. "You ever been in a lab, Ciri? Strapped to a table while they carve you open, piece by piece, just to see what makes you tick?" Ciri’s stomach twisted. She had. Not in a lab, but in the dungeons of Nilfgaardian sorcerers, in the chambers of the Aen Elle’s golden keeps. She knew the cold touch of an another, the way pain could become a second heartbeat. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Cloud’s lips curled, not quite a smile. "Yeah. Thought so." Barret exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. "Avalanche was supposed to change that. We hit ‘em where it hurts – the reactors, the mako flow, the damn pockets of the executives who think they own the world." He slammed a fist against the table, the impact making the bowls jump. "But it ain’t enough. Every time we take a chunk outta them, they grow two more heads. And now?" His voice dropped, bitter. "Now we’re runnin’. Like rats. ‘Cause Shinra’s got something new comin’. Something worse than SOLDIER. Something that’ll make him -" he jerked his chin toward Cloud, "-look like a damn puppy ." Cloud didn’t react, but Ciri saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers stilled. Aerith reached across the table, her hand hovering near Ciri’s. "We’re not just fighting for ourselves," she said softly. "We’re fighting for the planet. For the people who can’t fight back. For the kids in the slums who’ve never seen a flower that wasn’t wilting." Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "For the ones who will be born, if we let them have a future." Ciri looked at her, really looked at her – the way her eyes shone with something fierce, something holy . It reminded her of Yennefer, her adopted mother, of the way the sorceress had fought, not just for herself, but for something bigger. For the world that could be, if the monsters didn’t win. She turned to Cloud. "And you?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting. "What are you fighting for?" For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. His expression shuttered, his eyes going distant, like he was looking at something far beyond the walls of the hotel. Then, slowly, he met her gaze. "Revenge," he said, flat and final. Ciri waited for more. There was always more. But Cloud just leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, his face a mask. Barret let out a rough laugh. "Kid’s got a way with words, don’t he?" Tifa shot Barret a look, then turned to Ciri. "Cloud’s got his reasons. We all do." She hesitated, then added, "But if you’re asking if we’re the good guys? Yeah. We are. Even if we don’t always look like it." Ciri studied them – Barret, with his brute strength and his loyalty; Tifa, with her quiet intensity; Red XIII, with his ancient wisdom and his fury; Aerith, with her light and her shadows; Cloud, with his scars and his silence. She had spent her life running. Hiding. Surviving. But she had also fought. And if there was one thing Ciri knew, it was how to fight monsters. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers drumming against the table. "This Shinra ," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "They sound like my kind of enemy." Barret grinned, sharp and fierce. "Damn right they are." Aerith’s smile was softer, but no less determined. "So. You’ll help us?" Ciri met her gaze, then Cloud’s. He was watching her again, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes – something that looked almost like recognition . She didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust any of them, not yet. But she had never been one to turn away from a fight. "Maybe," she said, her voice cool, measured. "But I’m not here to be your soldier. I’m here to find a way home." Cloud’s lips quirked, just slightly. "Funny. That’s what I used to say, too." Ciri ignored him, turning to Aerith. "You said this mako – it’s like the planet’s blood?" Aerith nodded. "Yes. And Shinra’s draining it dry." Ciri’s mind raced. If mako was the lifeblood of this world, then maybe – m aybe – she could use it. Bend it. The way she bent time and space with her own power. If she could tap into it, she might be able to tear open a path back home. But first, she needed to understand it. "And these reactors," she pressed. "They’re where Shinra takes the mako?" Tifa nodded. "They’re the heart of the operation. Big, ugly things, pumping mako straight out of the planet. If we could hit one, really hit one, we could cripple them. At least for a while." Ciri’s fingers twitched toward the hilt of her sword. "Then let’s find one." Barret raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?" "Just like that." Cloud finally pushed away from the table, standing in one fluid motion. "You don’t even know what you’re asking." Ciri stood as well, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I know exactly what I’m asking. You want to fight? Show me how ." For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, slowly, Cloud smirked, a real one, sharp and dangerous. "Alright, Ciri," he said, his voice a low growl. "Tomorrow we’ll see what you’re made of." Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Kalm, carrying the scent of dust and distant smoke. Somewhere, a Shinra patrol passed, their boots thudding against the cracked pavement, their voices low and harsh. And in the dim light of the hotel, a new fire was lit. Ciri’s fingers stilled against the table, her mind snagging on the words like a thorn in the flesh. "Mako degrades the cells." She looked at Broden first – his hollowed cheeks, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching, the sickly sheen of sweat on his brow. Then her gaze flicked to Cloud, standing there with his arms crossed, his posture easy, his body young . But his eyes – those unnatural, glowing eyes – betrayed him. They were too bright, too sharp, like polished glass catching the light. Like something that didn’t belong. Red XIII’s voice was a low rumble, heavy with the weight of centuries. "The mako gives strength, speed, power beyond what any natural body should hold. But it is not a gift. It is a loan. The body was not meant to contain such energy. It burns through the cells, slowly, inevitably. SOLDIERs are strong, yes – b ut they are also dying. From the moment the mako takes hold, they are counting down the days until their bodies turn against them." Ciri’s stomach twisted. She thought of the witchers – Geralt, Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel. Mutants, yes, forced through the Trials, their bodies reshaped by alchemy and pain. But even then, even with the scars and the cat-like yellow eyes and the unnatural reflexes, they had been theirs . Their bodies, their lives, their choices. They aged, they scarred, they bled – but they did not wither . She looked at Cloud again, really looked at him. The way he moved, fluid and precise, like a blade unsheathed. The way his muscles coiled beneath his skin, too defined, too perfect . The way his breath never quite hitched, his pulse never quite raced – not like a man’s should. "Borrowed time," she murmured, more to herself than to them. Cloud’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away. Barret let out a rough exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ain’t just SOLDIERs, neither. Any poor bastard Shinra pumps full of mako for too long starts rottin’ from the inside out. Workers in the reactors, grunts in the infantry – hell, even some of the scientists start lookin’ like walking corpses after a while." His voice dropped. "Broden wasn’t always like this. Used to be one of the best. Now look at him." Ciri’s gaze flicked to the kitchen door, where Broden had disappeared. She could hear him moving inside, the clatter of dishes, the wet rasp of his breath. She knew what it was like to be changed. To have something inside you that wasn’t you . The Elder Blood had always been a part of her, but it had also been a curse – a thing that marked her, hunted her, made her something other . But it had been hers to bear. Hers to control. This. This was different. Cloud’s voice cut through her thoughts, low and bitter. "You’re looking at me like I’m already dead." Ciri met his gaze, unflinching. "Aren’t you?" For a second, something raw flickered in his eyes, anger, maybe, or something worse. Then it was gone, buried beneath the usual mask of indifference. "Not yet." Red XIII’s tail lashed. "The strongest of them last longer. But none escape it. The mako does not give without taking." Aerith’s voice was soft, but it carried. "Cloud’s been fighting it longer than most. He’s still here." Ciri looked at her, then back at Cloud. "How?" Cloud’s smirk was sharp, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Stubbornness." Barret barked a laugh. "Kid’s got a point. Ain’t never met anyone more hardheaded." Tifa’s expression was unreadable, but Ciri caught the way her fingers tightened around her arm, just for a second. Ciri exhaled, slow and measured. She knew what it was like to carry something inside you that was both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. The Elder Blood had saved her life more times than she could count, but it had also nearly destroyed her. Nearly destroyed everything . She thought of the White Frost, of the endless cold, of the way her power had surged through her veins like fire, like poison. She thought of the cost. And she looked at Cloud, really looked at him, not just the soldier, not just the weapon, but the man beneath. The one who was running out of time. "You’re all fighting a war you can’t win," she said, her voice quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. "Not like this. Not when the very thing that makes you strong is also what’s killing you." Cloud’s eyes burned into hers, green and blue and wrong . "So what’s your grand solution? We just lie down and let Shinra walk all over us?" Ciri held his gaze. "No. You fight smarter ." Barret raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And how the hell do we do that?" Ciri leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You stop relying on the thing that’s killing you." Silence. Then Aerith’s eyes widened. "You mean-" "We don’t need mako to fight," Ciri said, her fingers curling into a fist on the table. "We don’t need to be SOLDIERs. We don’t need to be monsters ." Cloud’s voice was a growl. "We’re not monsters." Ciri didn’t look away. "Aren’t you?" For a second, the room was so still she could hear the distant hum of the planet beneath them, the slow, sick pulse of a world being drained dry. Then Cloud laughed, sharp and humorless. "Fine. Enlighten us, oh wise one. How do we fight Shinra without mako? Without SOLDIERs? Without this ?" He gestured to himself, to the unnatural strength coiled in his limbs, the unnatural light in his eyes. Ciri stood, her chair scraping back with a harsh screech. "The same way I fight the monsters in my world." She reached over her shoulder, her fingers closing around the hilt of her sword. The steel sang as she drew it, the runes along the blade glowing faintly in the dim light. "With steel. With skill. With something they don’t expect ." The blade hummed in the air between them, sharp and bright and alive . Barret let out a low whistle. "Damn." Tifa’s eyes were wide, locked onto the sword. "That’s not-" " Normal ?" Ciri finished for her, her voice a blade itself. "No. It’s not. But neither am I." Cloud didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gaze was fixed on the sword, on the way the light played along its edge. Ciri sheathed it with a sharp snick . "You want to win? Then stop playing by their rules." Aerith’s voice was barely a whisper. "And if we can’t?" Ciri met her eyes. "Then you die on your feet instead of rotting on theirs." The silence that followed was thick, heavy. Then, slowly, Barret grinned, a sharp, fierce thing. "Goddamn, kid. I like you." Cloud still hadn’t looked away from her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, something that looked almost like hope . And Ciri, who had spent her life running from one war to another, felt something shift inside her. Maybe she couldn’t go home. Not yet. But if she was stuck here, in this broken world with these broken people, then she would fight. Her thoughts were interrupted as Aerith’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, her green eyes bright with something Ciri couldn’t quite name, curiosity, maybe, or something deeper, something like recognition . She didn’t ask why Ciri was here. She didn’t ask about the mechanics of worlds colliding, or the science of portals, or the how of it all. She just leaned in, her voice soft but carrying the weight of something unshakable. "I don’t believe in accidents," she said, her gaze steady. "People, places, moments, they all find each other for a reason. So tell me, Ciri. Who are you? Not why you’re here. Who ." The room seemed to still around her. The distant hum of the planet, the creak of the hotel’s old wood, the slow drip of water from a leaky faucet in the kitchen, all of it faded into the background. Ciri exhaled, sharp and controlled, her fingers flexing against the tabletop. She had spent a lifetime hiding, lying, twisting the truth to survive. But something about Aerith’s quiet certainty made the words rise in her throat, unbidden. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon," she said, the names tasting strange on her tongue in this world. "Daughter of Pavetta and Duny, granddaughter of Queen Calanthe of Cintra. I’m the Princess of Cintra… or I was… I’m the heir to a throne that doesn’t exist anymore." Her lips twisted, bitter. "The Lady of Space and Time. The Witcheress. The girl carrying the Elder Blood – the elven blood of Lara Dorren’s bloodline" A beat of silence. Then Red XIII’s ears twitched, his massive head tilting slightly. "Elves?" His voice was a low growl, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. Ciri’s gaze flicked to him. "Not like you imagine, probably," she said. "The elves of my world… they’re ancient. Proud. Cold. Some of them are scholars, poets. Others are warriors. And some"—her voice darkened—"are hunters." Barret’s grip on his glass tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Hunters?" Ciri met his gaze. "They hate humans. They called me Zireael . The Swallow. A prophecy, they said. That my blood would bring about the end of the world, or save it." She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Turns out, prophecies are just excuses for people to justify the terrible things they do." Aerith’s breath hitched. "Your own people hunted you?" "Not just my people." Ciri’s voice was flat, empty of emotion, but the words carried the weight of a thousand nights spent running, a thousand battles fought just to survive. "Kings. Sorcerers and sorceresses. The Wild Hunt, a force from another world, elven riders of the frost, who wanted my power to tear open the barriers between dimensions." Her fingers twitched toward the medallion beneath her shirt. "And my father." The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. Barret’s fist clenched around his glass so hard Ciri thought it might shatter. His voice was a growl, low and dangerous. "You’re tellin’ me your own father was huntin’ you? For the blood in your veins?" Ciri didn’t flinch. "Emhyr var Emreis. The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies." Her voice was cold, precise. "He wanted an heir. A son, the prophecy said. One who would rule the Continent. And he was willing to spill my blood to make it happen." The glass in Barret’s hand cracked , a thin spiderweb of fractures spreading from the pressure of his grip. His face was dark with fury. "That bastard —" Cloud’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unexpected. "Sounds familiar." Ciri turned to him, her brows lifting slightly. Cloud’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was edged with something raw. "Shinra doesn’t give a damn about bloodlines, but they do like to play god. They’ll carve you open just to see what makes you tick. They’ll twist you into something you’re not, just to see if they can." His mismatched eyes burned into hers. "So yeah. I know what it’s like to be hunted for what’s inside you." Ciri held his gaze. There was an understanding there, something unspoken but felt —the weight of being a weapon, a tool, a thing to be used and discarded. Aerith’s voice was soft, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "And your mother? You said her name, Pavetta?" Ciri’s throat tightened. She rarely spoke of her mother. The memories were too sharp, too bright —the sea, the screams, the way the world had broken apart in a single night. "She died protecting me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She defied my father. Defied destiny . And she drowned for it." The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Then, slowly, Tifa reached across the table, her hand hovering near Ciri’s. Not touching. Just there . An offering. Ciri looked at her, then at the others, Barret, his face dark with rage; Red XIII, his golden eye unreadable but watchful, Aerith, her expression soft with something like grief, Cloud, his jaw tight, his gaze locked onto hers. She had spent her life surrounded by people who wanted to use her, break her, own her. But these strangers—these fighters —looked at her and saw something else. Not a weapon. Not a prophecy. A person . Ciri exhaled, long and slow. Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself breathe . Barret surged to his feet so fast his stool skidded back with a sharp scrape against the floorboards. His gun-arm gleamed under the dim lantern light as he pointed a finger at Ciri, his voice a thunderous growl. "Ain’t no one touchin’ you as long as I’m breathin’, girl." His dark eyes burned with fury, the kind that came from a lifetime of fighting for the forgotten, the broken, the ones the world had tried to grind into dust. "I don’t give a damn about sorceresses, kings, or what’d you call ‘em? Elves?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Ain’t no midgets that place gifts under the Starlight trees, neither. If they’re comin’ for you, they’re gonna have to go through me first." Red XIII exhaled sharply through his nose, his tail flicking in amusement. "They are not that kind of elves." Barret blinked, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean? They don’t wear Santa hats?" Cloud let out a derisive snort, rubbing his temple like the conversation was giving him a headache. Tifa covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, while Aerith let out a bright, musical giggle, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Even Ciri, who had spent years with her guard up, her trust in short supply, felt the corners of her lips curl, just slightly. The absurdity of it, the way Barret’s rage had so quickly shifted into confusion over elves and Santa hats , was almost too much. "Santa hats?" Barret repeated, sounding genuinely offended now. "You’re tellin’ me these pointy-eared bastards don’t even got the decency to dress festive? What kinda monsters are they?" Aerith wiped at her eyes, still laughing. "Oh, Barret… I don’t think that’s how elves work in her world." "Then how do they work?" he demanded, throwing his hands up. "They just… lurk in the woods? Steal kids? What?" Ciri finally gave in, a real laugh escaping her, sharp and surprised, like a blade unsheathed after years of rust. "No," she said, shaking her head. "They don’t steal kids. At least, not most of them. But they do have their own wars. Their own prophecies. Their own ways of breaking the world." Her smile faded just slightly, the weight of memory pressing in. "And some of them… some of them would’ve happily seen me as a broodmare for the blood I carry." The room quieted again, but the tension had shifted. The air felt lighter, like a storm had passed. Cloud, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, finally pushed off and reached for the half-empty bottle of something strong on the counter. He didn’t offer it to anyone, just took a swig before setting it down with a clink . "So. What now?" His voice was rough, but there was something in it – something almost like anticipation . Ciri met his gaze. "Now?" She glanced at the others, Barret, still bristling with protective fury, Aerith, her laughter fading into quiet thoughtfulness, Tifa, watching her with steady, knowing eyes, Red XIII, his golden gaze unreadable but no longer guarded. "Now, I guess we figure out how to fight back." Barret cracked his knuckles, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Damn right we do." Aerith’s smile returned, softer this time. "Then it’s settled." She reached across the table, her fingers brushing lightly over Ciri’s. "Welcome to the resistance, Ciri." Ciri looked down at Aerith’s hand, then back up at her. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t pull away. "Yeah," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "I guess I’m here." Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Kalm, carrying the scent of dust and distant smoke. Somewhere, Shinra’s machines hummed, their reactors pulsing with stolen life. But inside the dim-lit hotel, something new had begun. And for the first time in a long time, Ciri didn’t feel alone. The common room of the hotel was quiet now, the tension of earlier conversations replaced by the weary kind of stillness that came after too many revelations, too much shared weight. Barret stretched his arms over his head with a groan, the joints popping audibly. "Alright, listen up. We ain’t got the luxury of a damn inn with feather beds, so we’re makin’ do. Tifa, Aerith, you two are already in the room at the end of the hall. Ciri—" He turned to her, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can take the cot in there. It’s small, but it’s better than the floor." Red XIII flicked his tail, his golden eyes gleaming in the lantern light. "I will take the floor outside the door. If Shinra’s dogs come sniffing, they will not get past me unnoticed." Aerith nodded, but her gaze was fixed on Ciri, something unreadable in her green eyes. Cloud, who had been silent for a while, finally pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning. "Someone should keep watch," he said, his voice rough. "We’re still fugitives. Shinra’s got bounties on all of us, and they’re not gonna stop looking just because we’re holed up in some backwater town." Barret grunted in agreement. "Damn right. But we can’t all stay up. We need rest." "I’ll take first watch," Cloud said, already moving toward the door that led to the small balcony overlooking the street. "I don’t need much sleep anyway." Ciri watched him go, the way his movements were precise, controlled, like a blade being sheathed. There was something in the set of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, that told her he was used to being the one who stood guard while others rested. She understood that. She’d done the same, more times than she could count. The room Tifa and Aerith shared was small, barely large enough for the two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a rickety dresser, and a single window covered by a thick, dusty curtain. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something sweet, Aerith’s perfume, maybe, or the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling in small bundles. Ciri stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. A sanctuary, however temporary. Tifa was already pulling an extra blanket from the dresser, her movements efficient. "You can take the cot by the window," she said, shaking out the blanket before handing it to Ciri. "It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing." Aerith sat cross-legged on her bed, watching Ciri with a quiet intensity. "You should travel with us," she said suddenly, her voice soft but carrying the weight of something inevitable. "The Planet intended for you to be here." Ciri stilled, the blanket clutched in her hands. "The Planet?" Aerith nodded, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the quilt beneath her. "This world, it’s alive, Ciri. Not just the land, the rivers, the sky… but the Planet itself. It has a will. A voice." She smiled faintly. "And it doesn’t do things by accident. You being here… it’s not a mistake. It’s a choice." Ciri exhaled sharply through her nose. She had spent her life being pulled by forces bigger than herself, destiny, prophecy, the Elder Blood. She had fought against it, raged against it, tried to carve her own path only to be dragged back into the current. And now Aerith was telling her that this—this—wasn’t an accident either? That some great, unseen force had meant for her to be here, in this broken world, with these broken people? She tossed the blanket onto the cot and crossed her arms. "So what? The Planet wanted me here? To do what? Fight Shinra? Save your world?" Her voice was sharp, edged with the frustration of a lifetime spent being used, being chosen. Aerith didn’t flinch. "I don’t know," she admitted. "The Planet doesn’t speak in words. It speaks in feelings, in signs. In people." She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes bright even in the dim light. "But I know this: you’re here for a reason. And I think… I think you’re supposed to help us." Ciri turned away, her jaw tight. She didn’t believe in fate. Not anymore. She believed in choices, in steel, in the will to survive. But Aerith’s certainty was infectious, seeping into the cracks of her skepticism like water into parched earth. Tifa, who had been quiet until now, spoke up. "You don’t have to decide anything tonight," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Rest. Think about it. We’re not going anywhere." Ciri glanced at her, then back at Aerith. The flower girl, no, the girl who was special, though Aerith didn’t call herself that, was still watching her with that quiet, knowing smile. "Fine," Ciri muttered, kicking off her boots and sitting heavily on the cot. The springs groaned under her weight. "But I’m not promising anything." Aerith’s smile widened, like she had already won. "You don’t have to." Outside, the wind carried the distant hum of Shinra’s machinery, the ever-present reminder that they were never truly safe. Cloud stood on the balcony, his back to the railing, his arms crossed over his chest. His mismatched eyes were fixed on the dark street below, watching, always watching. He didn’t need to sleep. Not like they did. Not anymore. He heard the creak of the door behind him and didn’t turn. He already knew who it was. Ciri stepped out, her bare feet silent on the wooden planks. She leaned against the railing beside him, her arms crossed mirroring his stance. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of dust and distant rain. "You don’t trust them," Cloud said finally, his voice low. Ciri didn’t deny it. "I don’t trust anyone." He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Smart." She glanced at him, her silver-white hair catching the faint moonlight. "You don’t trust them either." Cloud’s jaw tightened. "I trust Barret. And Red. And Tifa." He hesitated. "Aerith… she’s different. She sees things." Ciri’s gaze sharpened. "And you?" Cloud finally turned his head to look at her, his eyes reflecting the cold light of the stars. "I trust myself. That’s it." Ciri studied him for a long moment. There was something in the way he said it, not with pride, but with the weary acceptance of someone who had been betrayed too many times to count. She understood that. "Your eyes," she said suddenly. "They’re not natural." Cloud’s lips twisted. "No. They’re not." "They make you see things differently?" He looked away, back out at the dark street. "Yeah. They do." Ciri was quiet for a moment, thinking of the Witcher’s eyes – how they saw in the dark, how they caught the flicker of movement, the telltale signs of monsters lurking in the shadows. But Cloud’s were different. Not just enhanced. Changed. "You ever wish you could take it back?" she asked. "The mako. The SOLDIER training. All of it." Cloud was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, "Every damn day." Ciri didn’t say anything. She didn’t offer empty comfort or platitudes. She just stood there, beside him, two broken weapons in the dark. Inside, Aerith’s voice rose in quiet laughter at something Tifa said. The sound was warm, alive, a stark contrast to the cold weight of the night. Cloud exhaled, sharp and controlled. "You’re really not from here, are you?" Ciri almost laughed. "No. I’m not." He glanced at her again, something unreadable in his gaze. "Then why stay?" She looked out at the dark horizon, at the distant glow of Shinra’s lights, at the world that wasn’t hers but had pulled her in anyway. "I don’t know," she admitted. "But I think… I think I’m supposed to." Cloud didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The wind howled between them, carrying the scent of a coming storm. And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke, the kind that clung to the back of the throat and refused to let go. Ciri lingered for a moment longer, her fingers curled around the railing, the wood rough beneath her touch. She could feel Cloud’s tension beside her, the way his body was coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. But she didn’t press. Some wounds didn’t need words. With a quiet exhale, she pushed off the railing and turned back toward the door. "Try not to fall off the balcony," she said, her voice dry, but there was something almost like concern beneath it. Cloud didn’t look at her. "I’ll try." She hesitated, then stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. The room was warm, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and the faint, sweet perfume of Aerith’s flowers. Tifa was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow. Aerith sat on her bed, her legs crossed, a small bundle of flowers in her hands. She looked up as Ciri entered, her green eyes soft in the dim lantern light. "You okay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Ciri nodded, though she wasn’t sure if it was true. She moved to the cot by the window, the springs groaning softly as she sat down. The blanket was rough beneath her fingers, but it was warm. She pulled it around her shoulders, her gaze flicking to Aerith. "You really think the Planet brought me here?" she asked, her voice quiet. Aerith didn’t answer right away. She turned the flowers in her hands, her fingers tracing the petals. "I think," she said finally, "that things happen for a reason. Even the bad ones. Even the ones that hurt." She looked up, her gaze steady. "You’re here for a reason, Ciri. I don’t know what it is yet. But I believe it." Ciri exhaled, long and slow. She wanted to argue, to rage against the idea that her life, her pain, was just some grand design. But there was something in Aerith’s voice, something so certain, so peaceful, that made the fight drain out of her. "Fine," she muttered, lying back on the cot. "But if the Planet expects me to save the world, it’s got another thing coming – I’ve already saved the world once." Aerith laughed softly, the sound warm and bright in the quiet room. "Goodnight, Ciri." Ciri closed her eyes, the weight of the day pressing down on her. "Goodnight." Outside, Cloud stood motionless on the balcony, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the dark street below. The night was quiet, too quiet, the kind of stillness that came before a storm. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache behind his eyes, the kind that had been coming more frequently lately. He ignored it. He was used to pain. But then it spiked, a white-hot lance of agony that seared through his skull, dropping him to his knees with a choked gasp. His hands flew to his head, his fingers digging into his temples as if he could rip the pain out by force. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, his vision swimming, the world tilting violently around him. "Run." The voice was a whisper, a blade sliding between his ribs. Cold. Familiar. Cloud’s head snapped up, his breath catching in his throat. In the inn’s grimy mirror, hanging crookedly on the wall beside the balcony door, a figure stood behind him. Tall. Pale. Silver hair cascading down his back like a river of ice. Snake-like green eyes. Sephiroth. His green eyes burned into Cloud’s, a smirk playing on his lips, sharp and cruel as a knife’s edge. "You look terrible, Cloud," Sephiroth murmured, his voice like poisoned honey. "All that mako in your veins, eating you alive. How long do you think you have left?" Cloud’s hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. "Get out of my head," he growled, his voice raw with pain and fury. Sephiroth’s smirk deepened. "Oh, but I’m not in your head, Cloud. Not this time." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over Cloud’s shoulder, as if he could see something beyond the mirror, beyond the night. "I’m right behind you." Cloud’s breath hitched. He knew it wasn’t real. Knew Sephiroth wasn’t here, not truly. But the pain, the presence of him, was so vivid, so real, that his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He twisted, his hand flying to the Buster Sword propped against the wall beside him, his fingers closing around the hilt- But there was nothing there. Just the empty balcony. The quiet night. The distant hum of Shinra’s machines. Cloud’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, alone. Pale. Sweat slick on his brow, his eyes too bright, too wrong. Sephiroth was gone. But his voice lingered, a whisper in the dark. "Run and hide while you still can, Cloud. But remember, destiny doesn’t wait for anyone." Cloud’s fingers trembled. He clenched them into fists, his nails digging crescents into his palms. He knew what this was. The mako poisoning. It was getting worse. And Sephiroth – he was getting stronger. Cloud exhaled sharply, forcing himself to his feet. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. He didn’t have much time left. None of them did. But if Sephiroth was coming? Then he’d be ready. The mirror’s surface rippled like disturbed water, Cloud’s reflection warping for a heartbeat before snapping back into place, just him, just the blue-eyed SOLDIER with his borrowed strength and his borrowed time. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, the pain in his skull still pulsing like a second heartbeat. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the railing, the night air doing little to dull the fire in his veins. Destiny doesn’t wait. Sephiroth’s voice slithered through his thoughts, smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. Cloud had heard it before, in his dreams, in the dark corners of his mind where the mako’s poison festered. But this was different. Stronger. Like the barrier between them was thinning. His fingers twitched toward the Buster Sword leaning against the wall. He could still feel the weight of it in his grip, the way it hummed when he swung it, the way it answered him. But what good was a sword against a ghost? A sound cut through the night, a soft creak of floorboards. Cloud’s head snapped up, his body tensing, but it was just Ciri. She stood in the doorway, her silver hair catching the dim light, her expression unreadable. "You look like hell," she said, her voice dry. Cloud exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax. "I’ve been told that before." Ciri didn’t move, just studied him with those sharp, knowing eyes of hers. "You’re bleeding." He glanced down. His fingers were smeared with red where his nails had bitten into his palms. He wiped them absently on his pants. "It’s nothing." "It’s not nothing." She stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the wood. "You’re sick." Cloud’s jaw tightened. "I’m fine." Ciri let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You’re dying. Just like Broden. Just like every other SOLDIER who let Shinra pump them full of that poison." She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t bother lying to me. I know what it’s like to carry something inside you that’s killing you." Cloud turned away, his grip tightening on the railing. "What do you want me to say?" "I want you to stop. " Her voice was sharp, cutting. "You’re not invincible. You’re not even alive anymore, not really. You’re a walking corpse, and if you keep pushing yourself like this, you’re going to collapse when we need you most." Cloud’s fingers curled into fists. "I don’t have a choice." "Yes, you do. " She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "You can fight this. You can live. " He rounded on her, his voice a snarl. "You don’t get it. This is all I am. SOLDIER. Weapon. Monster. There’s nothing left underneath!" Ciri didn’t flinch. "Bullshit." Cloud stared at her, his chest heaving. For a second, he wanted to hit something—to break something. But then Ciri’s expression shifted, her eyes flicking past him, toward the mirror. "Who was that?" she asked, her voice suddenly quiet. Cloud stilled. "What?" "You were talking to someone." She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp. "In the mirror. Who was it?" Cloud’s throat went dry. "No one." Ciri didn’t believe him. He could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, the way her fingers twitched like she was itching for her sword. "Liar." He turned away, his voice a growl. "It doesn’t matter." "It does if it’s got you this rattled." She stepped forward, her voice dropping. "Was it Shinra? Some kind of transmission?" Cloud let out a bitter laugh. "Worse." Ciri waited, silent, unyielding. Cloud exhaled sharply. "Sephiroth." The name hung between them, heavy and poisonous. Ciri’s expression didn’t change, but he saw the way her fingers curled into her palms, the way her breath hitched, just slightly. "Who is he?" she asked, her voice low. Cloud’s gaze was fixed on the dark street below. "The best of us. The worst of us." His voice was hollow. "He was SOLDIER. First Class. The strongest. The perfect weapon. Shinra’s pride. A war hero. My hero. I wanted to be like him…" He clenched his fists. "And then he burned it all down. Burned down Nibelheim. Burned my mother alive. He killed Tifa’s father." Ciri studied him for a long moment. "He’s dead?" Cloud’s laugh was sharp, humorless. "Should be. But he’s in my head. In my dreams. And now-" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. "Now he’s getting stronger." Ciri didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly, she said, "In my world, the dead don’t always stay dead." Cloud turned to look at her, really look at her. The way her ashen hair caught the light, the way her eyes gleamed like polished steel. She understood. Not the details, not the how of it, but the weight of it. The way the past could claw its way back into the present. "He’s not just in my head," Cloud said finally, his voice rough. "He’s coming. And when he does-" He cut himself off, his throat tight. Ciri stepped forward, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her silver eyes. "Then we’ll be ready." Cloud stared at her. She was so sure. So unafraid. It grated on him, even as it made something in his chest loosen. "You don’t even know what you’re up against," he said, his voice low. Ciri smirked, sharp and dangerous. "I’ve fought monsters, Cloud. I’ve faced the end of the world. I’ve bled for prophecies and survived kings and monsters and things that would break lesser people." She tilted her head slightly. "I’m not afraid of your ghost." Cloud wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she didn’t understand, that Sephiroth wasn’t just a man, wasn’t just a SOLDIER, he was something more. Something that defied death, defied logic, defied everything. But then Ciri reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm. Just for a second. Just enough to ground him. "You’re not alone in this," she said, her voice quiet but fierce. "Not anymore." Cloud looked down at her hand, then back up at her. The pain in his skull was still there, a dull, insistent throb, but it felt… distant. Less sharp. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. Ciri stepped back, her expression shifting, her gaze flicking toward the door. "Get some rest," she said, her voice brisk. "Before you collapse." Cloud almost laughed. "I don’t need rest." Ciri raised an eyebrow. "You look like you’re one step away from face-planting into the railing." Cloud opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. Because she was right. He was exhausted. The mako poisoning was getting worse, the visions more frequent, the pain more intense. He couldn’t keep pretending he was invincible. Ciri turned to leave, but paused in the doorway, looking back at him. "And Cloud?" He looked at her. "If your ghost comes back," she said, her voice low, "you tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him." Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Cloud stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway. Then, slowly, he turned back to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him—pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing. For now. He exhaled sharply, then pushed off the railing and moved toward the cot in the corner of the balcony. It was small, barely more than a pallet, but it would do. He didn’t need much. As he lay down, the pain in his skull pulsed once, sharp and insistent. He clenched his fists, riding it out, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. And then, just before he slipped into an uneasy sleep, he heard it, Sephiroth’s voice, a whisper in the dark. "Tell the little witch I’m coming for her too." Cloud’s eyes snapped open. But the night was silent. And for the first time in a long time, Cloud Strife was afraid. Cloud’s reflection stared back at him from the cracked mirror, his face gaunt in the dim light, his mismatched eyes too bright, too wrong . His hands gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The mako poisoning pulsed through him, a slow, insidious burn in his veins, his muscles, his bones . His voice trembled as he spoke, the words raw and broken. "I killed him." The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. His reflection didn’t answer. It just stared back at him, hollow-eyed and hollow- souled . "In Nibelheim," he continued, his voice dropping to a rasp. "I was there. I saw him fall. Into the mako. Into the pit . No one could survive that. No one." His fingers dug into the porcelain, his nails biting into the flesh of his palms. He knew what he saw. He remembered . The fire. The screams. The way Sephiroth had stood there, his otherworldly long sword, Masamune, raised, his eyes burning with something beyond madness, something inhuman . And then the fall. The endless, endless fall into the green glow of the mako, into the heart of the planet’s poison. He knew . But then why? "Why can I still see him?" His voice cracked, the words torn from him like a confession. His breath hitched, his body trembling, not with fear, not with pain, but with the sheer, soul-deep exhaustion of carrying this weight for so long. He had buried Nibelheim. Buried the memories. Buried the truth . But Sephiroth, he had clawed his way back out of the grave, again and again, a ghost that refused to stay dead. Cloud’s knees nearly buckled. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, his breath fogging the surface. His reflection wavered, distorted, like it was melting away. "You know why, Cloud." The voice slithered through his mind, smooth and cold as a blade against his throat. Cloud’s head snapped up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The mirror was just a mirror again, no Sephiroth, no ghost, just his own broken face staring back at him. But the voice lingered. "Because you never really killed me." Cloud’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. He had . He knew he had. He had seen the body. He had felt the weight of the blade in his hands, the way it had sung as it cut through the air, the way Sephiroth had fallen — "I KILLED YOU!" His voice shattered the silence, a raw, desperate roar. His fist slammed into the mirror, the glass spiderwebbing beneath his knuckles, blood welling from the cuts. He didn’t feel the pain. He didn’t feel anything but the white-hot fury of denial, the terror of knowing. "Did you?" The whisper was a blade between his ribs. Cloud staggered back, his chest heaving, his body trembling. The room tilted around him, the walls pressing in, the air too thick, too heavy . He could feel it, the mako in his veins, the poison in his bones, the thing that had been carved into him, the thing that had made him strong and left him hollow. And Sephiroth? Sephiroth was part of it. Cloud’s breath hitched, a choked, broken sound. His fingers twitched toward the Buster Sword leaning against the wall, but he didn’t reach for it. What was the point? You couldn’t kill a ghost. You couldn’t bury a memory. You couldn’t outrun destiny. His legs gave out. He hit the floor hard, his back against the wall, his head in his hands. The pain in his skull was a white-hot lance, the mako poisoning burning through him, his body rejecting itself, his cells dying , one by one, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of what he had been. And Sephiroth? Sephiroth was waiting . Cloud’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, his vision swimming. He could feel the tears burning in his eyes, hot and shameful. He never cried. He didn’t break . He was SOLDIER. He was strong . But he wasn’t. Not anymore. A knock at the door. Cloud’s head snapped up, his body tensing, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, then the door creaked open. Ciri stood there, her ashen hair catching the dim light, her expression unreadable but full of concern. She took one look at him – at the blood on his knuckles, the shattered mirror, the way he was hunched on the floor like a broken thing – and her face darkened. "You’re a mess," she said, her voice dry. Cloud didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Ciri stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She moved toward him, her bare feet silent on the wood, and crouched in front of him, her gaze sharp and assessing. "You’re bleeding," she said, reaching for his hand. Cloud jerked back. "Don’t." Ciri ignored him. She took his hand in hers, her fingers brushing over his knuckles, over the cuts from the broken glass. "You’re falling apart." Cloud let out a bitter laugh. "I’ve been falling apart for years." Ciri’s gaze flicked up to his, her silver eyes burning into him. "Then stop." Cloud stared at her. "It’s not that simple." "It is." Her voice was sharp, cutting. "You’re letting him win." Cloud’s breath hitched. "You don’t understand-" "I understand more than you think." Her fingers tightened around his, her voice dropping to a hiss. "I’ve been hunted. I’ve been broken. I’ve had my mind torn apart by things I couldn’t fight. But I chose to keep going. I chose to fight back." She leaned in, her gaze unyielding. "You can too." Cloud stared at her, his chest tight. "He’s in my head." "Then get him out." "I can’t-" "You can." Her voice was fierce, unrelenting. "You’re Cloud Strife. SOLDIER First Class. The man who walked away from Shinra. The man who survived ." She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening,just slightly, her emerald eyes locking onto him. "You’re stronger than you think." Cloud looked down at their joined hands, at the blood on his knuckles, at the way her fingers were warm against his skin. He had spent so long believing he was nothing but a weapon, nothing but a hollow shell filled with mako and memories and ghosts . But Ciri? Ciri saw something else. Cloud exhaled sharply, his breath shuddering. "I don’t know how." Ciri’s lips curled, sharp and dangerous. "A man I knew, his name was Vesemir, he trained me... He was the oldest of the witchers of Kaer Morhen. He once told me that we don’t know everything, but it is important to learn. What is the point of living without learning?" Cloud didn’t have an answer, but for the first time in a long time, Cloud believed. His throat tightened, his breath coming in uneven bursts. The weight of her words settled over him like a mantle, heavy, but not crushing. Not this time. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw something he hadn’t seen in years: not pity, not fear, but understanding . The kind that came from someone who had stared into the same abyss and refused to blink. Ciri didn’t let go of his hand. Her grip was firm, her skin warm against his, the blood from his knuckles smearing between them. "You’re not the only one who’s been broken," she said, her voice low. "But you’re the only one who gets to decide what to do with the pieces." Cloud swallowed hard. The mako poisoning still burned in his veins, but the pain felt distant now, muffled by the sheer force of her presence. "What if I can’t fix it?" he asked, his voice raw. Ciri’s smirk was sharp, but her eyes were soft. "Then you learn to fight with the cracks." She released his hand and stood in one fluid motion, then offered him her palm. "Now get up. You look ridiculous on the floor." Cloud stared at her outstretched hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached for it. Her grip was strong as she pulled him to his feet. He swayed slightly, his body still unsteady from the poisoning, but she didn’t let go. "You’re a stubborn bastard," she muttered, but there was no heat in it. "That’s good. Stubborn survives." Cloud exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "You’re bossy." "And you’re welcome." She stepped back, crossing her arms. "Now clean yourself up. You’re getting blood on the floor." Cloud almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he turned toward the sink, gripping the edge as he leaned over to splash water on his face. The cold shock of it helped clear his head, the blood from his knuckles swirling pink in the basin. He could still feel the phantom echo of Sephiroth’s voice in his skull, but it was fainter now, like a distant storm. Ciri watched him, her expression unreadable. "You’re not crazy, you know," she said suddenly. Cloud stilled, water dripping from his fingers. "What?" "You’re not crazy," she repeated, her voice firm. "If your ghost is talking to you, it’s not just in your head. Not all of it, anyway." She tilted her head slightly. "In my world, the dead don’t always stay dead. And neither do the monsters." Cloud turned to face her, his chest tight. "You believe me?" Ciri raised an eyebrow. "I believe in monsters. I’ve fought enough of them." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I also believe in killing them." Something shifted in Cloud’s chest, something that felt dangerously like hope. He had spent so long drowning in the past, in the weight of what he had done and what had been done to him, that he had forgotten what it was like to fight back . Not just with a sword, not just with rage, but with purpose . Ciri’s gaze flicked to the shattered mirror, to the blood on the floor, to the way Cloud’s hands still trembled slightly. "You’re not alone in this," she said again, quieter this time. "Not anymore." Cloud looked at her, really looked at her, the silver of her hair, the steel in her emerald eyes, the way she carried herself like a blade unsheathed. She was a warrior. A survivor. Someone who had been forged in fire and refused to break. And for the first time in years, Cloud didn’t feel like he was facing the dark alone. He reached for a rag on the counter and pressed it to his bleeding knuckles, the sting grounding him. "What now?" he asked, his voice rough. Ciri smirked. "Now? We get some rest. And tomorrow?" Her eyes gleamed. "Tomorrow, we start figuring out how to kill a ghost." Cloud almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he nodded, once, sharp and decisive. "Yeah. We do." Ciri turned toward the door, but paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. "And Cloud?" "Yeah?" "Next time you decide to punch a mirror, do it after I’m asleep. I need my beauty rest." Cloud actually laughed this time, a short, rough sound, but a laugh all the same. "No promises." Ciri rolled her eyes, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she slipped out the door, leaving him alone in the quiet darkness. Cloud stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant hum of the planet, the slow, sick pulse of the mako reactors in the distance. He could still feel the poison in his veins, the ghost in his mind, the weight of everything he had lost and everything he still had to fight for. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. He turned off the light and moved toward the cot, his body aching with exhaustion. As he lay down, he could still hear Sephiroth’s whisper in the back of his mind, a faint and fading echo. "Run and hide while you still can." Cloud closed his eyes, his fingers curling into the rough fabric of the blanket. He wasn’t running anymore. The floorboards creaked under Barret’s heavy boots as he stepped onto the balcony, the dim glow of the predawn light casting long shadows across the worn wood. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his good hand, the other – his machine gun-arm – resting against his hip with a quiet hum. His gaze flicked first to Cloud, who was sprawled on the cot, his breathing slow and steady, his face finally relaxed in sleep. Barret frowned. The boy finally let himself relax. "Get some sleep, Spiky," he rumbled, his voice rough with exhaustion but edged with something softer, something that made Cloud’s chest tighten. "You look like a mess. I’ve got it from here." In Tifa and Aerith’s room, Ciri didn’t fall asleep on the cot right away. She just lay there, her fingers curling into the blanket, her gaze fixed on the door as she listened to Barret talk to Cloud. Barret’s words settled over her like a familiar weight, like the rough but warm grip of a hand pulling her back from the edge of a cliff. It reminded her of Geralt—of the way he would gruffly order her to eat, to rest, to stop being so damn reckless, all while his eyes betrayed the worry he’d never put into words. Barret wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her mentor. He wasn’t even someone she knew a few hours ago. But he carried the same weight – a man who had lost control of his own life long ago, who had been broken and reshaped by forces bigger than himself, but who still stood guard over the people he loved like a damn wall against the storm. Back on the balcony, Cloud exhaled sharply, pushing off the cot and turning to face him. "I wasn’t sleeping anyway," he muttered, but there was no real defiance in it. Barret crossed his arms, his expression unyielding, but his eyes, his eyes, were soft. "Kid, I get it. You’re used to bein’ the one who is strong. The one who don’t trust nobody else to do it." He jerked his chin towards the inside the inn. "But you ain’t alone here. We are Avalanche and we take care of our own." As she listened, well eavesdropped on them through the thin walls, Ciri’s throat tightened. She had spent so long running, so long fighting alone, that the idea someone asking you of letting go, even for a few hours, felt like surrender. But Barret wasn’t asking Cloud. He was telling. And something in the way he said it, in the way he stood there like an immovable force, she liked to imagine, made her shoulders relax just a fraction. "Fine," Cloud said, his voice gruff. "But if Shinra shows up, wake me." Barret barked a laugh, deep and rough. "Merc, if Shinra shows up, I’ll wake the whole damn town before I let ‘em lay a finger on you." He clapped him on the shoulder as he moved past him, his grip firm but not unkind. "Now go. That’s an order." Cloud hesitated, just for a second. Then he nodded, once, sharp and decisive. As he turned toward the door, he glanced back at Barret, his broad frame blocking the doorway, his machine gun-arm gleaming dully in the faint light, his face set in the kind of determination that came from a lifetime of fighting for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. As she heard Cloud’s footsteps fade a way, Ciri closed her eyes and for a moment, she was back in Kaer Morhen, listening to Vesemir’s gruff voice, feeling the weight of Geralt’s silence, the way they had all stood between her and the world like shields. Barret wasn’t a witcher. He wasn’t even a father. But he was the same kind of man, one who had been forged in fire and still chose to stand in the flames for others. The room was quiet, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the faint, sweet perfume of Aerith’s flowers. Tifa was still asleep, her breathing slow and steady, but Aerith stirred awake, getting up to sit cross-legged on her bed, her fingers tracing the petals of a white blossom. She looked at Ciri as she opened her eyes again, her green eyes bright even in the dim light. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," Aerith said softly. Ciri exhaled as she sat up, running a hand through her hair. "Something like that." Aerith patted the space beside her on the bed. "Come sit. You’re wound up tighter than a Shinra security system." Ciri hesitated, then moved from the cot to Aerith’s bed, sitting carefully on the edge, her body still humming with the restless energy of someone who wasn’t used to stopping. Aerith didn’t push, didn’t pry. She just sat there, her presence warm and steady, like a quiet fire in the dark. "Barret reminds me of someone," Ciri said suddenly, her voice low. Aerith tilted her head slightly, her fingers still tracing the petals of the flower. "Geralt?" Ciri stilled. "How did you—?" Aerith smiled faintly. "You talk in your sleep." Ciri’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t deny it. "He was… is… my father. In every way that matters." She looked down at her hands, her fingers curling into her palms. "He’s a witcher. A monster hunter. A man who was changed by things he didn’t choose, who fought every day to keep the people he loved safe." She exhaled sharply. "Barret’s the same. A man who’s been broken, but who still stands between the world and the people he cares about." Aerith was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, she said, "The world needs more men like that." Ciri nodded, her throat tight. "Yeah. It does." Aerith reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over Ciri’s hand. "You’re not alone here, Ciri. Not with us." Ciri looked at her, really looked at her – the warmth in her eyes, the quiet strength in her smile. She had spent so long running, so long fighting alone, that the idea of belonging, even temporarily, felt like a fragile, precious thing. "I know," she said finally, her voice rough. Aerith squeezed her hand, just once, before letting go. "Then rest. We’ve got a long road ahead of us." Ciri lay back on the cot, her body aching with exhaustion, her mind still racing. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to keep watch. Not tonight. Outside, Barret’s deep voice rumbled in quiet conversation with Cloud, who had woken and joined him on watch. The sound was steady, reassuring – a reminder that she wasn’t alone. And for now, that was enough. She closed her eyes, her breath slowing, her body finally surrendering to sleep. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t dream of monsters. The towers of Tir ná Lia gleamed under the pale light of a reborn sun, their crystalline spires refracting the dawn like shards of ice slowly thawing. The air itself felt different now – lighter, perhaps, though the weight of centuries still clung to the ancient city like a second skin. The White Frost had been stopped. Eredin was dead. And for the first time in an age, the Aen Elle were not staring into the abyss of their own extinction. Ge’els stood at the head of the council chamber, his silver robes catching the light as he adjusted the high collar of his mantle. The Viceroy of Tir ná Lia was not a king, not yet, but the way the other elders deferred to him, the way their golden eyes flicked toward him with deference, made it clear that power had already shifted. The meeting would begin soon. The candidates for the throne would be presented, debated, dissected. A new era was dawning. And yet, Avallac’h was not among them. His study was a sanctuary of scrolls and starlight, the walls lined with ancient texts, their pages whispering of prophecies and forgotten magics. The sage stood by the window, his long fingers tracing the rim of a crystal goblet half-filled with wine he had not touched. The White Frost was gone. The world had been spared. And yet… Ciri was gone. His jaw tightened. The prophecy had been clear: Her son would rule the known world. A child of Elder Blood, of power beyond mortal comprehension. If that child were Aen Elle, if he were the one to guide her, to shape her destiny, then the Aen Elle would not merely survive. They would thrive. A new dynasty. A rebirth. But she had vanished. The sands of time had slipped through his fingers like dust. A breath of wind stirred the pages of an open tome on his desk, though the windows were shut. Avallac’h did not turn. He had long since learned to notice the unseen, the unnatural. Yet when the voice spoke, it still sent a chill down his spine. "The slipping of the sands of time is inevitable, sage." The words slithered into his mind, smooth and cold as a blade dragged across stone. Avallac’h stilled. His fingers tightened around the goblet, but his face remained impassive, his breathing steady. He turned slowly, his golden eyes scanning the shadows of his study. "Who’s there?" His voice was calm, measured. A man who had spent centuries navigating the treacheries of court and prophecy did not startle easily. The voice laughed – a sound like cracking ice, like the groan of a glacier shifting in the dark. "You do not see me. Not yet. But you will." Avallac’h’s fingers twitched toward the dagger concealed in his sleeve. "Show yourself." "Oh, sage." The voice was a whisper now, a breath against the back of his neck. "If I wished to be seen, I would be." Avallac’h exhaled, slow and controlled. "Then speak plainly. What do you want?" "The same thing you do." A pause. A shift in the air, like the world itself had leaned in closer. "The inevitable end of all things." Avallac’h’s expression did not change. But his mind raced. The White Frost had been stopped. The prophecy of the Aen Elle’s doom had been averted. "The end has already come and gone," he said, his voice even. "The White Frost is no more." The laughter that followed was a blade twisting in his ribs. "A prophecy? How quaint… How human. " Avallac’h’s fingers stilled. "You are not of this world." "No," the voice purred. "But neither are you, sage. Not truly. You cling to your prophecies, your bloodlines, your little games of power. But the universe is vast. And time… time is a river with many currents." Avallac’h’s mind worked swiftly. A being of power, then. Not of the Aen Elle, not of the human realms. Something older. Something hungrier. "And what current do you ride?" The voice was a whisper in the dark. "The one that drowns worlds." Silence. The weight of the words settled over the room like a shroud. Avallac’h did not flinch. "You speak in riddles." "Do I?" The voice was closer now, a breath against his ear. "Or do you simply refuse to see?" Avallac’h turned sharply, his hand flashing toward the dagger, but the room was empty. Only the shadows, only the whisper of wind through the cracks in the ancient stone. And then, softer than before: "She is gone, sage. Your little princess. Your prophecy. Slipped through your fingers like sand." A pause. A sigh, almost pitying. "A pity. But destiny is a hungry thing. And it always finds a way." Avallac’h’s fingers curled into a fist. "What do you know of Cirilla?" The voice chuckled, dark and knowing. "More than you." "Then speak." "Oh, I will." The voice faded, like smoke dissolving in the wind. "When the time is right." The air in the room stilled. The presence, whatever it was, was gone. Avallac’h stood motionless for a long moment, his mind racing. A being of power, then. One that spoke of endings and destinies. One that knew of Ciri. And one that was not bound by the rules of this world. He exhaled sharply, his fingers uncurling. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached for the goblet and drained it in one smooth motion. The game had changed. And Avallac’h had always been a master player. He turned toward the door, his robes whispering against the stone floor. The council would be waiting. The future of the Aen Elle would be decided today. But Avallac’h’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, on the spaces between the stars. If this being spoke true – if Ciri was truly lost to them – then the prophecy was not dead. It had simply… shifted. And if destiny was indeed a hungry thing… Then he would make sure it fed on his terms.Avallac'h's fingers twitched imperceptibly as he set the goblet down with deliberate slowness. The voice – this thing – was still here, lingering in the edges of the room like smoke. If it sought to unnerve him, it had succeeded. But fear was a luxury he had long since abandoned. "If you seek to warn me," he began, his voice smooth as polished silver, "then speak plainly. What is your name?" The air in the chamber thickened. The flames in the braziers flickered violently, their blue-white light casting jagged shadows across the walls. The scrolls on Avallac'h's desk trembled, their edges curling as if caught in an unfelt wind. "Names are such fragile things, sage." Avallac'h's fingers traced a subtle sigil into the air—an old spell, one meant to snare echoes, to give form to the formless. The voice noticed. The braziers roared . Flames surged upward in a sudden, violent column, their heat searing the air. Papers scattered, whirling like startled birds, ink bleeding into the stone floor as if the very words were screaming. Avallac'h did not flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the empty space before him, his expression unreadable. "You fear identification," he observed, his voice still calm. "How curious, for one who claims to be inevitable." The voice was no longer a whisper. It was a blade pressed to his throat. "Do not play games with me, sage." Avallac'h's pulse remained steady, but his gut twisted. This was no mere specter. No remnant of a dead sorcerer's will. This was something older . Something that had seen empires rise and crumble like sandcastles before the tide. "I seek only understanding," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false surrender. "If you know of Cirilla, if you know where she has gone-" "She is beyond your reach." The words were a physical force, pressing down on Avallac'h's chest. He exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into a fist before relaxing once more. "Then you know more than I. And yet, you offer nothing but riddles." The laughter that followed was not human. It was the sound of ice fracturing, of a glacier calving into the sea. "You wish to trace me. To bind me. To unravel me as if I were some petty conjuration." The voice dropped to a growl. "I am no ghost to be exorcised, sage. I am the storm that ends all storms. The blade that cuts the thread of fate." Avallac'h's mind raced. If this entity was as ancient as it claimed, then it was no mere apparition – it was something fundamental . A force. A principle. And if it had taken an interest in Ciri… "Then why come to me?" he asked, his voice cutting through the unnatural stillness. "If you are as inevitable as you claim, why warn me at all?" The silence that followed was suffocating. Then… "Because you are a pawn. And pawns should know when they are being moved." The braziers snuffed out. Darkness crashed over the chamber like a wave, thick and absolute. Avallac'h did not move. He did not call for light. He simply stood there, his breath steady, his mind turning. When the flames relit themselves a moment later, the room was in disarray—scrolls torn, ink spilled, the air thick with the scent of ozone and something older, something wrong . But the voice was gone. Avallac'h exhaled slowly, then reached for the dagger at his belt. He pressed the tip of it into his palm, drawing a thin line of blood. Whispering the old words, the forbidden ones, he let the crimson droplets fall onto the stone floor. They did not spread. They burned . The blood hissed as it struck the ground, blackening the stone in perfect, concentric rings—a sigil of warning, of something other having passed this way. Avallac'h's stomach twisted. He had not faced a true god in centuries. But this, This was no god. It was something worse. He turned toward the door, his robes whispering against the ruined floor. The council would be waiting. The Aen Elle would demand answers, strategies, a path forward. But Avallac'h's mind was already elsewhere. If this entity spoke true, if Ciri was truly beyond their reach, then the prophecy had not failed. It had simply changed hands . And if destiny was indeed a hungry thing? Then he would make sure the Aen Elle were not the ones left starving. The blackened sigil on the floor pulsed faintly, its edges glowing with an eerie violet light that seemed to drink in the shadows. Avallac'h crouched, his long fingers hovering just above the corrupted stone. The air still hummed with residual power, thick and cloying, like the aftermath of a storm that had never quite passed. "A warning," he murmured to himself, tracing the outer ring of the mark with his gaze. "Or an invitation." The voice had called him a pawn. But Avallac'h had never been one to accept his place on the board without first understanding the game. He rose fluidly, crossing to his desk where a silver basin of water sat beside an unrolled star chart. With a flick of his wrist, he sprinkled crushed moonstone into the water, whispering the old words of seeing. The surface rippled, then stilled, revealing not his own reflection, but a swirling void of colors that shouldn't exist. A realm between realms. A crossing. His breath hitched. The water darkened, then cleared to show a flicker of movement, a street in some foreign city on a foreign planet, bathed in sickly yellow light. And there, just for a heartbeat, was her. Ciri. Alive. Whole. Walking beside a blonde-haired man with a huge sword on his back and blue eyes that burned with an unnatural green light. Avallac'h's fingers tightened on the basin's edge. "Not beyond reach, then," he breathed. "Just... elsewhere." The image dissolved into static before he could make sense of the surroundings. But it was enough. She lived. And if she lived, then the prophecy still breathed. A slow, calculating smile curved his lips. The door to his study burst open without warning. Ge'els stood there, his usual composure fractured by urgency. "The council waits," he snapped. "You dare keep them-" His words died as he took in the room, the scattered papers, the blackened sigil, the unnatural stillness of the air. His golden eyes flicked to Avallac'h. "What have you done?" Avallac'h turned, his expression serene once more. "Secured our future," he said simply. He gestured to the basin, where the last ripples of the vision still danced. "Ciri lives. And she is not alone." Ge'els paled. "You would risk-" "I would risk everything," Avallac'h interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "The prophecy is not dead. It has merely... relocated." He stepped forward, his robes whispering against the floor. "And if the gods, or whatever that thing that spoke to me was, have taken an interest in her, then we must move swiftly." Ge'els' jaw worked. "You saw something. In the water." "A world not our own." Avallac'h's eyes gleamed. "A place where the rules are different. Where we could be different." The Viceroy's nostrils flared. "You speak of crossing realms. Of chasing a girl who may already be lost to us. We already discussed this, she helped us to stop the White Frost." Avallac'h's smile was razor-thin. "I speak of opportunity." He moved past Ge'els, toward the door. "The council will have their meeting. Let them debate their petty candidates. But we-" he turned, his gaze boring into Ge'els' "will prepare for something greater. Something that could ensure Aen Elle rule over the world." Ge'els grabbed his arm. "You would abandon our people? Our home?" Avallac'h looked down at the hand on his sleeve, then back up at Ge'els. His voice was soft. Deadly. "I would save them. By any means necessary." For a heartbeat, the two elders stood locked in silent battle. Then Ge'els released him, stepping back. "You tread dangerous paths, Avallac’h." Avallac'h adjusted his cuffs. "I tread the only paths that matter." He swept from the room, leaving Ge'els standing amidst the wreckage of the study, the blackened sigil pulsing faintly at his feet. The Viceroy stared at it for a long moment before turning to the basin of water. And the face that stared back at him from its depths was not his own. In the council chambers, the debate raged. Nobles and scholars alike clamored for their chosen candidates, each believing their path was the one that would restore the Aen Elle to glory. But Avallac'h sat in silence, his golden eyes distant, his mind already far away. Ciri was alive. And if she was alive, then the prophecy still lived with her. He would find her. No matter the cost. No matter the realm. And when he did, he would ensure that the future of the Aen Elle was written in her blood. One way or another. And this wraps up the first chapter of our story! Honestly, this took me a really long while to write – I expected to post it in the beginning of September, but I ended up really disliking the first draft I wrote of this as I felt like it wasn’t emotional enough that I ended up scrapping it and starting all over. I have roadmapped the story and in general I know how I want to write the story and the major events, though I might end up adding things to it that I come up with as I write and right now it’s too early to tell, but I expect the story to be somewhere between 15-18 chapters, without the epilogue. I want to extend special thanks to derpman203 , Demonwolf48, LelouchStrife, Averagewriter3456, Lord298, mixj25, A loaf of bread, Nyjets11 and EonweUrion for their support of my previous story, The Wolf and The Swallow, I can’t explain how important your encouraging words were for not giving up on it and giving up writing altogether. I hope you enjoy reading this as it has been a blast to write. Comments and reviews are always appreciated! Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Eskel very nearly loses his last scraps of composure when the noblewomen are herded into the great hall and Marta de fucking Roggeven draws herself up imperiously and demands to know by what right he has been so unforgiveably rude to such important persons as herself and the Princess Agata? “By what right ?” Eskel snarls, stalking closer to loom over her. The fear-scent from the gathered ladies grows a lot stronger all at once. Good . They can remember why, precisely, Witchers are fucking well feared . “I am the right hand of the Warlord of the North,” he says, soft and cruel. “And Princess Agata is lucky she wasn’t gutted and hung from the battlements , my lady . She took a knife to our bard, you see, and if he’d died, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now, I’d be helping sack Vizima . Frankly, I’d prefer that, but here I am instead.” “ Jaskier? ” someone asks, in tones of great distress, and Eskel looks away from Marta de Roggeven to see her sister has her hands clasped in front of her chest, eyes wide and full of tears. “She hurt Jaskier ? Is he alright?” Huh. She smells genuinely worried . “He’ll live,” Eskel growls, and Milena’s shoulders sag in relief. “But we are done with this nonsense. None of you will ever win the Wolf.” He glares at each of the remaining husband-hunters in turn, and is bitterly pleased when they flinch from his eyes. “And you have worn out our patience. If any of you actually want to stay, you can swear yourself to the Wolf - and I will know if you swear falsely. So will they.” He gestures at the Witchers gathered around their little group, all of them glaring, all of them armed. “If you cannot swear, then get you gone . If you’re not out the gates within the hour, I will fucking well throw you out myself, and I will not be careful how you land.” Marta de Roggeven goes white; the two countesses go an interesting shade of green. Their ladies-in-waiting clutch at their hands, drawing the countesses away towards the hall doors, looking panicked and desperate and very ready to be gone from Kaer Morhen. Milena de Roggeven glances at her sister; glances at Eskel; swallows hard. Eskel doesn’t want to say anything. He wants them gone , all of them, these greedy noble bitches who want nothing but power and don’t care who they hurt along the way, who look at Ciri like an obstacle and Jaskier like an enemy and Geralt like a prize to be won. But. To be fair. He doesn’t want to be fair. He promised Jaskier. To be fair , Milena de Roggeven is Jaskier’s friend. Is utterly uninterested in wooing Geralt. Is fond of Lambert , of all the Witchers she could have chosen to adore. “Milena,” he says, and her head comes up and she meets his eyes with only a bit of a flinch. “Jaskier spoke well of you.” He can’t quite bring himself to encourage her, not now, but - well. He promised. He also can’t bear to think of telling Jaskier he drove away a girl who might be Jaskier’s friend. Milena glances at her sister again. Her sister glares , and twitches her skirt, a clear beckoning gesture. “We are leaving ,” Marta de Roggeven hisses. “ Move .” Milena de Roggeven takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees in front of Eskel. “I would swear to the Wolf,” she says, voice shaky but clear. Her sister draws in a sharp breath to yell, and strangles the sound in her own throat when Eskel snarls at her. “Go on,” he says to Milena. He’s not quite sure what he expects. Witchers don’t swear fealty, really; they acknowledge Geralt as their leader, but in actions more than words. The closest he’s ever heard to an oath is the chorus of “White Wolf” that greets Geralt’s commands. Jaskier never really swore formally ; his words to his father were oath enough, with the truth ringing through them like a bell. So Eskel is a little taken aback when Milena says, “I beg you bear witness, Witchers all, and you who are the Wolf’s right hand: I swear upon my life that I will be faithful to the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, never cause harm to him nor to those under his protection, and will observe my homage to him completely and without deceit.” There’s a long moment when Eskel - and, he’s willing to lay good money, every other Witcher in the hall - is just...completely speechless with surprise. It’s not just the words , though those were startling enough. It’s the truth in them, clear as a mountain stream. He honestly didn’t think she could swear, not truly. He didn’t think any of these pampered noblewomen would be able to genuinely give their loyalty to the Warlord of the North. But he trusts his own nose, and his own ears; and the other Witchers are all looking just as startled as he is. Gascaden catches his eye and gives a tiny shrug and a nod: he heard it, too. “In the Wolf’s name I accept your fealty,” Eskel says, slightly boggled at his own words, and jerks his head at Gascaden. “Take her down to the Wolf’s rooms, she can sit with the bard,” he orders quietly, and turns to the other noblewomen. “Well? Stop sputtering and get gone .” Marta de Roggeven squeaks and flees - not running, but walking very fast - with the rest of the little cluster of noblewomen on her heels. Gascaden offers Milena a hand up and ushers her away; she looks - and smells - rather astonished at her own daring, but Eskel is also fairly astonished, so that’s fair. Most of the Witchers follow the noblewomen to make sure they do nothing but gather their baggage and their guards and leave . Eskel leans back against the high table and waits, taking comfort in this brief moment of quiet between crises. Huh. A noblewoman sworn to the Wolf. Eskel has no fucking idea what to do with her, but with luck, Jaskier will already have a plan. Worst comes to worst, they can just seat her next to Lambert at supper and enjoy watching the poor asshole completely fail to flirt. Or maybe Triss needs an assistant, or...they’ll come up with something. One random noblewoman, and one who has her eye on Lambert not Geralt, can’t possibly be more trouble than the whole pack of husband-hunters were. Might even be useful, somehow. Who knows? If nothing else, having a friend around will make Jaskier happy. That’s worth a little hassle. Once the noblewomen are gone, he should go look in on Triss, make sure she’s really fine, and check to see if the corridor’s been scrubbed down - Yen magicked it, but having someone go over it with a soapy brush will make Eskel feel better - and thank Jan for keeping his wits about him, and then - Then maybe he can just sit here and meditate until Geralt gets back. Look at him being all practical and sensible and shit. Eskel snorts softly. Geralt owes him a drink. Possibly many drinks. If he’d known how much trouble being the Warlord’s right hand was going to be, years ago when he claimed the title… Well, he’d still have done it. He’d do it again today, knowing everything he knows. He’ll be at Geralt’s side until death, and thank the gods that he’s been lucky enough to spend his life at the White Wolf’s side. But Geralt definitely owes him something like a fucking barrel of mead. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text KOTALLO Kotallo and Aloy woke up early the next day, as they usually did when they slept alone. But because they were on leave from their active duties, with no urgent place to be or imminently urgent tasks, they lingered in the tent instead of getting up. They stayed sleepy and languid, sharing their blankets and the warmth of their bodies, drifting in and out of wakefulness until their hunger forced them to rise. They went to the nearby pond to wash up. In Aloy’s case, this meant splashing her face with water and cleaning her teeth; in Kotallo’s case, it meant stripping off his shorts and sandals for a full bath. He gave Aloy a knowing look as he splashed water over the back of his neck. “Are you certain you don’t wish to join me?” “I’m sure,” she said. “I’ll heat up some water and go clean up in the tent.” “You’re afraid of the cold water. Understood.” She scoffed and splashed him, and he chuckled and waved her off. “Go carry out your cleaning customs, Aloy. I will join you when I’m finished here.” She returned to their campsite and set her little pot of water over the fire, and Kotallo continued his bathing routine. By the time he finished bathing, though, he noticed that his left arm was starting to hurt. Not the physical stump of the arm, but the missing arm itself, even though it wasn’t there. He’d had this kind of pain on occasion, as though the absent fingers of his left hand were being squeezed together too tightly for comfort, but it had been some time since he’d felt it. He sighed and rolled his shoulders to loosen them, in the hopes that relaxing might make the pain go away. He dried off with some help from his Utaru towel, then started applying his war paint, but by the time he was finished, his missing left hand was still hurting. He sighed and rubbed the shoulder, then flinched as he inadvertently pressed on the Specter canon burn from yesterday’s fight. Annoyed now, he donned his shorts and sandals, then returned to the tent. Aloy was supervising her pot of water. She smiled up at him as he approached, but her face quickly became serious. “What’s the matter?” “My arm,” he said, and he sat beside her. “It’s bothersome today.” “Oh,” she said. “Do you think it’s because of all the climbing yesterday?” “It could be,” he said. “Or it could be unrelated. The way it hurts now is like… it is not like the usual pain in the stump itself. It feels as though my arm is still there.” Her eyebrows rose. “Really? You mean… do you remember how you felt your, um, orgasm in your missing arm that one time? Is that what this is like?” “Yes,” he said. “But this isn’t a pleasant feeling. It feels as though my missing fingers are being crushed together.” She frowned. “Can I do anything to help?” He hesitated. He didn’t want to burden her by asking for help, but her help was one of the few things that really… well, helped. “Perhaps a massage?” he said. “If that wouldn’t be an imposition. I don’t know if it will help this kind of pain, but it is worth a try.” “Of course,” she said. “Let’s go in the tent.” She made as though to stand up. Kotallo quickly grabbed her hand. “Wait. What about your water? You haven’t had a chance to clean up.” “It’s fine,” she said. “It can wait.” He gave her a knowing look. “In your own words, there’s no need to coddle me.” “I’m not trying to coddle you, I just…” Her expression grew cautious. “Wait. Am I overstepping here? I don’t want to overstep.” “You’re not overstepping,” he assured her. “I am the one who asked you for the massage. But I don’t want you to neglect your own needs. Besides, neither of us has eaten.” She gave him a chiding look, then settled back into her cross-legged position. “All right. But if your pain gets worse, tell me.” He nodded, then went to their saddlebags to fetch provisions for their breakfast. They ate some flatbread with fresh fruit and dried meat for breakfast, and Aloy devoured her food at high speed before taking the small and now-steaming pot of water off of the fire. She spoke to Kotallo as she poured a bit of cold water into the pot to temper the heat. “I’ll go quickly wash up. Join me when you’re done, okay?” He nodded, and she disappeared inside of the tent. He finished his breakfast, squeezing the stump of his left arm between bites, then joined Aloy in the tent. She was naked and washing her leg with a damp cloth, and she glanced up as he entered the tent. “I’m almost done.” “Take your time,” he said. He tied the tent flaps to shut out the cold, then settled himself on the blanket and rubbed his arm while she cleaned up. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken advantage of this opportunity to watch her washing herself, but he was too distracted by the feeling in his missing fingers. He gazed idly at the opposite wall of the tent as he squeezed his stump. Then Aloy patted his knee. “I’m done. Here, turn this way.” He adjusted his position until she was kneeling on his left side, and she carefully peeled the wet bandage off of his burn. “I’ll replace this when I’m done,” she said. “The burn looks better already, though. Less angry.” He nodded an acknowledgement. When her hand rose to knead the hard ridge of muscle between his shoulder and his neck, he sighed in relief and closed his eyes. She worked at that tight but tender spot for a minute, then began running her knuckles along the length of his remaining arm in a slow but firm caress. “Sorry I can’t do all the same massaging things I usually do,” she said quietly. “I have to work around the burn.” “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I mean, it’s… it’s good.” “Okay, good.” She smoothed her palm around the end of the stump, then began kneading it with her thumbs. For a split second, the crushing feeling throbbed in his fingers, and his heart seized. Then it abruptly loosened, and he let out a sharp exhale. She paused. “Are you okay?” “Yes,” he said tightly. “That was — it was helpful. Painful for a moment, but it already feels better.” “Huh,” she said. “Maybe I hit a nerve or something? Let me try…” She continued to knead his stump, moving her fingers firmly over the scarred skin— The feeling happened again, a hard crush then a sudden release, and he grunted. “Mm. That’s it.” “That’s good?” she said. “Are you sure?” “Yes,” he said. “If you could… continue that, I would be grateful.” “Sure,” she said. She continued to circle her thumbs into the stump, spurring that feeling of crush-relief every now and then, then switched back to stroking her knuckles along the length of his remaining arm, and it wasn’t long before he felt himself relaxing into her soothing and now-familiar touch. He breathed slowly, sinking his attention and focus into the beloved feeling of her hands on his body. He eventually became so relaxed that he found his mind wandering, drifting aimlessly from thought to contented thought, and through his lazy enjoyment, he realized that he was in danger of dozing off. He forced himself to open his eyes. “If I might ask another favour of you?” “Sure,” she said softly. “What can I do?” “Can you teach me to do this myself?” She paused. “You want to do it yourself?” “I enjoy when you do it,” he admitted. “But when you are away on missions… You mentioned once that warriors in the Nora lands can learn to massage their own limbs.” “Right,” she said. “Of course I can show you. I think the main thing to remember is that you don’t actually have to be that gentle…” She guided him through the methods of massage and how to vary the degree of pressure for his own comfort. When he was confident enough to try it on his own, she sat back and started wringing out her bathing-cloth in the now-cool pot of water. “I’m glad you reminded me about this. Teaching you to do it yourself, I mean.” “Agreed,” he said. “I know it is in your nature to help those who aren’t strong enough to help themselves, but… I am strong enough for this.” She paused and looked at him. There was a little smile on her face, that same cute little smile she’d worn last night when she was watching him rifle around in the healing kit, and he felt the warmth of her smile like a thump in his chest. He smiled faintly at her in turn as he continued to rub his arm. She huffed a laugh and tugged one of her braids, then started putting on her cropped Desert Clan top. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m just going to take this water out.” “Ah,” he said. “You’ll remove your clothes when you return, then?” She smirked. “Is that what you want?” “Yes.” She laughed. “Well, that was blunt.” “I am Tenakth. We are nothing if not straightforward about our desires.” She shot him a smile and continued getting dressed, but he noticed that she was moving her arms quite guardedly as she pulled on her top. “How is your pain?” he said. “Worse than yesterday?” Her bruise had not expanded any further, thankfully, but it was still quite livid-looking. “I wouldn’t say it’s worse. But it feels more like a muscle-ache kind of pain in here,” she said, and she gestured to the space between her shoulder and the top of her breast before pulling on her Lowlander breeches. “I think it might feel better if I stretch it out. Maybe we should go climb another mountain?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious?” She quirked her eyebrows, and he scoffed. “Ah. I see. Your minuscule mind strikes again.” She snickered, then took the pot of water out of the tent, and Kotallo continued to massage his arm. When she returned to the tent, she patted his knee. “Let me bandage that. Then you can keep massaging it.” He nodded, and she quickly applied some salve and a new bandage to the burn on his arm. Then, to his satisfaction, she removed her clothes and stretched out on her side. She met his gaze, and he expected her to speak, but she didn’t say anything; instead, she just lay curled quietly on her side with her cheek propped on her fist. Her gaze was steady on his face, and he was visited once more by that sweet feeling of fullness and wellbeing. To see her just lying here beside him, comfortably naked and cozy, the Utaru lamp reflecting the warmth of her eyes and rendering her skin to a pearly glow… He released the stump of his arm, then leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. She tilted her chin up and parted her lips slightly. It was a clear unspoken request for him to deepen the kiss, but he kept his kiss soft and light with barely a hint of tongue. She made a soft sound, like a tiny whimper of protest, then reached up and curved her palm around the back of his neck, and he carefully broke the kiss. “Wait,” he whispered. “Why?” she breathed. “I’m not — I’m fine, okay, I promise it doesn’t hurt—” “It’s not you,” he said quickly. “It’s… I need more time. My arm, that is.” It was a bitter thing to admit this, especially when she was ready and wanting, but the last thing either of them needed was for his pain to worsen. “Oh! Yeah, sure,” she said, and she released him. “Sorry, I—” He kissed her once more to cut her off, then leaned away. “Don’t apologize. It’s my… mm. Not my fault, exactly,” he amended. “But it is nothing you’re doing wrong.” Then he started shifting around on the blanket so he was sitting parallel to her instead of facing her. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Getting comfortable,” he said, and he lounged back so his head and neck were resting on her thighs. “Oh,” she said. “Is that — that’s okay with you? You’re comfortable like that?” “Yes,” he said. “And you? My weight isn’t crushing you, I hope?” “No, no,” she said. “It’s… you’re fine.” He glanced at her. Her eyebrows were raised, and when he met her eye, she smiled and shyly dropped his gaze. “So, um…” She idly tapped her fingers on his hip, then met his eye once more. “Well, what do you want to do now? Do you want to sleep some more? You looked like you were getting sleepy there when I was massaging your arm.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you can read something to me.” She smiled. “You want me to read to you?” “Mm. It was soothing.” She let out a soft laugh. “You are looking to fall asleep again, then.” He smiled faintly. “You misunderstand. I’m simply in the mood to hear your voice.” “Uh-huh,” she said drolly. “Okay, something I can read to you… Oh, I know. Do you — well, are you in the mood to hear me read some of Fashav’s journal?” His stomach clenched briefly. “Fashav’s journal?” “Yeah. I saw that you scanned the whole thing to the archives, so I downloaded it. I know I said I would teach you the glyphs, and — well, maybe we can start that, so you can read it in your own time?” “I do want to learn Carja glyphs,” he said. “But… I would like to hear you read it, for now.” “Yeah? Okay. Let’s see here…” She opened her holo display and started flicking around, and Kotallo resumed the massage of his arm as he waited for her to find the datapoints. “All right,” she said. “The start of this journal goes back some time to before he was taken prisoner by your people. Do you want to hear what he had to say before he was captured, or after he joined you?” “After,” he said. “I am interested to hear what he thought of us once he was made Marshal.” “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see…” She paused again and flicked through the datapoints, and Kotallo closed his eyes as he waited. Finally she spoke. “Oh, here we go. This…” She huffed softly. “Yeah, this is a good one to start with.” She cleared her throat, then started to read. “ It has been weeks now since my last entry, and much has happened since — the main development being that I am now a Marshal of the Tenakth. In other words, I have become one of the tribe’s keepers and enforcers of peace. What irony that a decorated Carja High Commander should now be tasked with keeping the peace amongst the tribe he was sent to quash. ” Kotallo smiled faintly. It was ironic, certainly — and yet somehow, despite Fashav’s very different upbringing, he had managed to find his place among them. Aloy continued to read. “ My fellow Marshals are a hard-headed but strong-spirited group. Javveh is the eldest of those I’ve met, though I’m told there is one Marshal who is decades older than the rest — and yet none of the others will tell me who this older Marshal is. Perhaps they’re waiting until I’ve proven myself worthy of their trust before they share this secret with me. Or perhaps this secret-keeping is a hazing ritual, much like the Hunter’s Lodge used to do back in the days before Talavad Khane Padish became the Sunhawk. ” She paused and tilted her head curiously. “Hazing? What does that mean?” “I’m not sure,” Kotallo said. “I have never heard that term before.” Aloy frowned thoughtfully. “Hm. So who is he talking about in this journal entry, then? This older Marshal?” Kotallo was mildly surprised. “You haven’t met the oldest Marshal yet?” She raised her eyebrows. “Wait, this older Marshal is still alive? I thought all the Marshals except you were lost at the Embassy battle.” He shook his head. “All but one. The eldest Marshal has a special duty that requires that they remain in place.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being pretty cryptic about this person.” “I know,” he said with a smile. “But you will see why in time. I’m certain of it.” She gazed suspiciously at him for a moment longer, then clicked her tongue. “Fine. I guess I’ll keep reading this, then. At first glance, Javveh is the most intimidating of the Marshals, with a headdress as tall as his scowl is long. But beneath his harsh manner, he is a pragmatic man. He asked many questions about my role among the Carja, and he listened carefully to my answers without interruption. It is clear why he is suited to this role, which sounds like it will require negotiation and mediation more often than a bow or blade. ” “That is accurate,” Kotallo murmured. “Javveh was… very pragmatic. Fashav was insightful, even having known us for little time by then.” Aloy nodded and continued to read. “ Kenirra and I are close in age, and archery is his greatest strength. It seems that his wits are as quick as his shooting arm: at least once a day, I have witnessed him entering into battles of wit with soldiers or the other Marshals, and he always seems to find the exact clever retort that would make any Carja lawyer simmer with envy. I suspect that his golden tongue helps him to eliminate arguments within the tribe more quickly than even the swiftest arrow. ” Kotallo chuckled. “He’s correct again. Kenirra was known for dispelling tempers with humour. Many anger-fuelled arguments ended by themselves after he joined the conversation.” “He sounds like quite a guy,” Aloy said softly. Kotallo nodded, then inhaled slowly to ease the faint ache in his chest. “Go on. Who does Fashav mention next?” “Oh, you’ll see,” she said drolly, and she resumed her reading. “ The youngest Marshal is one who was promoted in the same Kulrut as I. His name is Kotallo, and by all accounts, he was directly responsible for the Tenakth’s successful razing of Barren Light — a decorated war hero already at the tender age of twenty-one. For a soldier with such illustrious victories under his belt, he seems less than happy to be made a Marshal. ” Kotallo grunted ruefully. “I was unhappy at first, and I made little effort to hide it.” “I get why you were unhappy, though,” Aloy said. “You were trying to make the best of a situation you had no choice about.” He nodded. “I can only hope Fashav’s impression of me improved as my attitude changed.” “Wait, I’m not done,” she said. “See for yourself. I observed the young Marshal playing machine strike — a strategic and intricate-looking game that I saw many soldiers playing during my march to the Rot. When I asked him to teach me the game, the look he gave me was sour enough to curdle milk, but he taught me readily enough. ” Kotallo huffed in amusement, and Aloy smiled as she went on. “ When I nearly beat him after six rounds, he was smiling. This, I think, is a good trait: the humility to acknowledge and appreciate others’ strengths rather than sinking to petty jealousies. In this humble Carja’s opinion, it bodes well for Kotallo’s future within the tribe. ” His heart twisted. To think that Fashav thought so highly of him after knowing him for so little time… “He wrote kind words,” he said gruffly. “He wrote true words,” Aloy said. “He’s right, you know. You know your strengths, but you also acknowledge other people’s.” “Of course,” he said. “Seeing and learning from others’ strengths is an excellent way of becoming stronger yourself.” She tapped his hip. “That’s why you’re such a good Marshal.” He smiled faintly at her. “Flattery, is it?” “Only the truth, just like Fashav’s journal,” she said, and she continued to read. “ Vintalla once belonged to the Desert Clan, and according to Chekkattah, her blunt and no-nonsense manner gives away her upbringing. She has little patience for petty squabbles. When such squabbles arise, she is quick to demand a compromise or a duel between the parties involved, and if neither can be agreed upon, she has no qualms about executing a death sentence by her own hand. A ruthless Marshal, but from what I’m told, her ruthlessness is equally spread among all cases that she’s sent to oversee. She is not gentle, but she is fair — a manner that many Tenakth admire and emulate, from what I’ve observed. ” Kotallo sighed and nodded. “Once again, he is correct. She was ruthless but fair.” He swallowed hard; the ache in his chest was starting to become more painful than the one in his arm. And now that he was thinking about it, he realized that he was no longer feeling that crushing feeling in his missing hand: only a faint sense of pins-and-needles. Thank the Ten, he thought fervently. It was a true boon to know that massage would work on that unfathomable missing-arm pain, as well as the more obvious pain that he usually felt in the stump. He released his arm and rested his hand leisurely on his belly, then looked at Aloy. “Will you continue…” He trailed off. She was studying him, and her expression was both serious and soft. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. “Fashav thought many of the Tenakth were fair, but not gentle,” she said. “But you aren’t like that.” This surprised him. “In what way?” “You’re fair, obviously. But you’re… really gentle.” He huffed. “The warriors whose conflicts I’ve mediated or judged would disagree.” She smiled. “I guess. But I guess what I mean is that… you’re gentle with me.” “Is that bad?” “No, it’s not bad. It’s…” She trailed off, then shrugged and pillowed her head on her folded arm. “I don’t know. It’s nothing.” He studied her fondly. He had noticed that she tended to brush things off like this when their conversations veered toward topics that were more difficult for her to discuss. He reached across his chest and trailed his knuckles along her arm, and she exhaled softly. “Like this,” she whispered. “You’re gentle like this.” “You don’t like it?” he asked. “No, I… shit, I’m not being clear. I like when you’re, um, gentle with me. But I didn’t…” She swallowed visibly, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not used to it.” “I assumed as much.” Her eyebrows rose. “You did?” He nodded. “You’re guarded sometimes, at first, when we lie together like this.” She exhaled again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to—” He gently interrupted. “It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.” “Okay. I just didn’t, um…” She wet her lips before going on. “Is it normal among the Tenakth to be… gentle like this with each other?” Now he understood what she meant. “Physically affectionate, you mean?” “Yeah. Is this… are squadmates and families affectionate like this?” He took a few minutes to think about this. It always required an odd shifting of the mind to see his own people through Aloy’s eyes, as an outlander who had grown up in isolation from a tribe. “We don’t avoid physical contact,” he finally said. “We often exchange gestures of camaraderie with our squadmates, for example.” “And what about… what about parents?” she said. “Do Tenakth parents, um, hug their children?” “I can speak less to that,” he said. “But I have memories of being held in my parents’ arms, for what that is worth.” She nodded, then placed her hand on his waist. She idly ran her palm over his skin for a moment, circling her palm along the side of his waist and over his hipbone, and he enjoyed the casual warmth of her hand as the silence settled warmly over them. Then she spoke again. “Were you… affectionate with Livekka?” “When we were alone, yes,” he said. “It’s uncommon for partners to show affection for each other when we’re on duty, but off-duty, yes: partners show affection like this, and I did with Livekka, back when we were together.” “Oh,” she said. “So… it’s normal for you, then. To be… like this with someone.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and she wasn’t meeting his eye: another clear indication that she was holding something back. He gazed fondly at her for a moment, at her somber expression and the tiny crease between her eyebrows, then pushed himself into an upright sitting position. She met his eye, but she didn’t speak. Kotallo crawled around in the tent and stretched out behind her on his left side, shifting close to her until her spine was flush to his chest and his knees were tucked behind hers. Her body was tight and tense. He wrapped his arm around her waist, then spoke softly into her ear. “Do not concern yourself with my past, Aloy. Don’t compare yourself to others that I’ve known.” “I’m not trying to,” she said stiffly. “It’s just—” She broke off. He waited for her to speak again, but when no words were forthcoming, he settled his arm more snugly around her. “I can’t say I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But you should know that when you and I are together like this, there is no one and nothing else on my mind.” She was silent for a moment longer, her body warm but tense against his front, and he simply held her and breathed in time with the rise and fall of her ribcage against his chest. Then she suddenly rolled toward him. He was surprised by her sudden movement, but he released her so she could move more easily. A moment later, her head was tucked under his chin and her arms were tightly tucked between their bodies, and her knee was pushing its way between his thighs. “Easy,” he murmured. He draped his arm around her and adjusted his legs so his knee was between her thighs instead. She pulled in a long, deep breath, then let it out in a warm gust against his chest, and he smoothed his palm along her back. “Are you chilled?” “No,” she whispered, and he felt her fist uncurling between them until her palm was pressed to his chest. He smiled faintly and closed his eyes, and for a long, peaceful moment, he simply enjoyed the warmth of Aloy’s nude and pliant body tucked against him. Some time later, she spoke in a muffled voice against his chest. He huffed in amusement. “I can’t understand you.” She turned her head slightly. “Do you want me to read more of Fashav’s journal to you?” Not if it means uncoiling ourselves from this position, he thought. “Not right now. Later, perhaps.” “Okay,” she said, and she nestled her cheek against his chest once more. Feeling supremely content, he trailed his fingers along the length of her spine. “For what this is worth, I don’t think Fashav’s meaning of ‘gentle’ is what you had in mind,” he said quietly. “I believe he meant the manner in which we deliver our judgments, not the ‘physical affection’ sense of the word.” “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I… might’ve made a jump there in my head.” “Mm,” he murmured. “Though if you consider Fashav’s meaning of the word ‘gentle’, I don’t think it applies to any Marshal. Gentleness does not lead to victory in the Kulrut, nor does it foster respect when a Marshal visits a village to deliver judgment or justice.” She was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I can see why you’d say that. But I think there’s a time and place for gentleness, even for people in charge like the Marshals.” He was skeptical about this. “You’ll need to give me an example if you want to convince me.” “An example, huh?” she said drolly. “Well, Avad is very gentle, and he’s in charge of the whole Sundom.” “But his gentleness is not what he is lauded for,” Kotallo pointed out. “He is known as the killer of the Mad Sun-King.” “Well, yeah,” Aloy said. “But killing the Mad Sun-King a couple years back isn’t what makes him a good king now .” She wiggled away from him a little bit and sat up on one elbow. “Think about Hekarro, for example. Do you think he’s a good chief because he took over the Grove twenty years ago, or is it for other reasons?” “His victory at the Grove made him worthy of respect,” Kotallo said. “It is because he took over the Grove that the clans followed his command to unite, and all of his commands since then.” Her eyebrows rose. “You really think so?” “It isn’t a matter of what I think. It is the truth,” Kotallo said. “How else could he establish his worthiness to rule if not by first showing his strength? In that sense, the Sun-King and Chief Hekarro are much alike.” He huffed and rolled onto his back. “That’s a strange thought. Our chief having something in common with a Carja king.” Aloy shuffled closer to him and settled her head on her folded arm once more. “I get why Hekarro taking over the Grove would start him off on the right foot. But an act of strength like that only gets you so far, right? There’s no way that Hekarro maintained his chief status for more than twenty years by coasting on that one victory.” “Of course not,” Kotallo agreed. “He has maintained his chiefdom through the wisdom of his actions, which led our tribe to flourish.” “Okay. Decisions like what?” “Uniting the clans, of course,” Kotallo said. “Turning our warriors’ blades against the machines instead of against each other. He and the Chaplains devised laws to change the nature of our training protocols as well, so there is more emphasis on safety and on squad solidarity rather than individual glory.” She raised her eyebrows. “Wait, you mean there’s less emphasis now on glory than there used to be? ‘Cause the warriors I run into in the clanlands are always brag— I mean, they, uh, seem to talk a lot about their best fights and victories.” He was amused. “You can speak frankly, Aloy. We do have a tendency to boast.” She smiled, and Kotallo went on. “But our boasting is in the spirit of healthy competition, and always with a focus on safety. This is why the melee pits are so important to us.” “I noticed that, yeah,” she said. “Everyone seems to take their melee training really seriously out here.” “Have you competed against the pit masters at the melee pits, by chance?” “Yeah, actually. Well, one of them — at Scalding Spear a while back.” “Not yet at Thornmarsh? And not while you were at the Bulwark?” She shook her head. “I didn’t have time. Why? Should I?” Yes, if you want to know who the oldest Marshal is, he thought, but it would ruin the surprise to say so out loud. “I highly recommend competing in the melee pits. It will be worth your while.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being mysterious again.” “I am a Marshal. It is my prerogative to be mysterious when it suits me.” She snorted and poked his side. “You’re so full of shit.” He chuckled, and she smiled as she nestled her head on her arm once more. “Well, it sounds to me like Hekarro’s changes to the tribe are pretty similar to Avad’s changes when he became the king. Focusing on cooperation, on making everyone’s lives safer… I think Hekarro might be more gentle than you think.” Kotallo gave her a chiding look. “Saying that Hekarro is like the Sun-King is not the same as saying that Hekarro is gentle.” She gazed thoughtfully at him. “It sounds to me like it’s the word ‘gentle’ that bothers you.” Was she correct about that? He took a moment to think about this carefully. “You may be right,” he finally said. “Why is that?” she said. “What does ‘gentle’ mean to you? When we’re talking about chiefs and kings, I mean?” “It implies meekness,” he replied. “A tendency to forgive transgressions that should not be forgiven.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Okay. This makes a lot more sense now. That’s not what I think of when I think of a gentle leader.” “What do you think of?” “Kindness,” she said. “Compassion.” “Qualities of the Sun-King Avad, I presume?” Kotallo said wryly. “Yeah,” she said. “Qualities that you have, too, and so does Hekarro.” Kotallo wrinkled his nose a little. It was hard to get his mind around the implication of weakness in the word ‘gentle’ when it was used in this way. “I did not execute my Marshal duties by relying on this kind of gentleness, though. It was my strength that made them cease fighting and abide by my judgments.” “I know your people respect strength more than anything,” she said. “But under that strength, you’re kind, and so is Hekarro.” He gave her a knowing look. “If we are seeing kindness and gentleness as being one and the same, then you are gentle like this as well.” She twisted her lips. “Eh, I don’t know about that. I could probably stand to be a little nicer sometimes.” He tilted his head quizzically, and she shrugged. “Beta,” she said shortly. “Ah.” “See, that’s another good example of how you’re gentle,” Aloy pointed out. “You must have some way of making nice with her so she doesn’t drive you — I mean, so that you get along with her.” “I truly don’t think I’m speaking to her in a noteworthy way,” he said. “But you can be the judge when we return to base.” “I’ll hold you to that.” A thoughtful silence grew between them. Then Kotallo huffed in amusement. She lifted her head. “What?” “All this discussion of gentleness,” he said. “It’s funny to hear you speaking so highly of gentleness, when you have told me before that you don’t want me to be gentle.” “When have I said that?” He gave her a suggestive look, and her cheeks pinkened slightly. “Oh. You mean when we’re, um, doing things.” “Having sex, yes,” he said drolly. A grin flashed across her face. “Okay, but that’s different. That’s not the kind of gentle we’re talking about.” “Then tell me what kind of gentle you mean when we’re having sex.” Her cheeks flushed even more, and she gave him a reproachful look. “You know exactly what kind of gentle I’m talking about.” He shrugged and tucked his arm behind his head. “I’m afraid I need more clarification if I’m going to carry out the kind of non-gentleness that you want.” She sat up on her elbow. “Carry out? You mean — is your arm feeling better? No more pain?” Her interest was so obvious that it was adorable. “No more pain,” he confirmed. “But I can’t carry out anything if my orders are unclear.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Let me get this straight. You want me to give you orders to not be gentle?” “Does this surprise you?” “I mean, maybe?” She peered closely at him. “Are you really okay with me giving you orders during sex?” “You say that as though you haven’t given me orders before.” “I have not! Like when?” He forced himself not to laugh. “Every time you tell me to kiss you or touch you. Or when you command me to stop being patient. Ah, and when you demanded last night that I fuck you already—” “Okay, okay, I get your point,” she said hastily. “And that’s — you’re really okay with that?” “Yes. In fact, I welcome it.” “Why?” “Your orders are a compliment. Proof of how much you’re enjoying yourself.” She huffed and rubbed her nose, then shrugged. “If you say so. But I don’t mean to be pulling rank on you or something. I just get, uh, carried away in the moment.” “I recognize that,” he assured her. “And seeing you get carried away is an incredible turn-on.” “Oh,” she said. She nibbled her lip as though she was trying to hide a smile, then shrugged again. “Well… okay, then. I can give you orders.” “Excellent,” he said. “But first, I need to know exactly how… un-gentle you want me to be.” She gave him an exasperated look. “You keep saying this, but I don’t know how to tell you that.” This was fair enough. Her sexual appetite was so well-developed that he could almost forget how new she was to sex. “All right. Then… hm. Before we move to you giving me more commands, I want to try something.” “What?” “I want to test the limits of what you enjoy.” Her eyes widened. “The limits of—? Okay. Like what, though? How?” “By touching you in ways that range from gentle to… rough, shall we say,” he explained. “And you can tell me what you enjoy, and when it becomes too much.” She swallowed hard. “Okay. That sounds… sure, I can — we can do that. How do we start?” “By establishing a simple rule.” She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “A rule? It better not be ‘Aloy must be patient’.” “No,” he said dryly. “We will start with achievable rules.” She tsk ed and rolled her eyes, and he smiled as he went on. “The rule is simple: you will tell me immediately if anything I do makes you uncomfortable, afraid, or causes you pain that you don’t enjoy.” She frowned. “Pain that I don’t enjoy? Is there enjoyable pain?” “Says the woman who claims to enjoy spicy food.” “Yeah, but that’s different.” “Also the woman who enjoys when I bite her nipples.” Her face went red. “Okay, I get your point.” He nodded. “Do you understand the rule? If I do anything at all that you don’t like—” She cut him off. “I’ll tell you to stop, I get it.” “Good. And if you tell me to stop, I will stop, no questions asked. Are you ready to start?” “Yes, let’s start,” she said quickly. He smiled at how eager she was. “All right. Lie back for me, please.” She rolled onto her back. Kotallo sat up in a kneeling position beside her right hip, then placed his hand on her belly. Slowly and reverently, he smoothed his hand up her belly, and he admired the subtle arching of her spine as his hand drew closer to her breast. He smoothed his knuckles along the tender underside of her breast, then finally cupped her breast in his palm. She pushed her chest into his hand. “You’ll need to be a lot less gentle than that,” she said. He smirked: her voice was betraying her. She already sounded a little breathless. “Less gentle?” he said. “Like so?” He gave her breast a careful squeeze, then gently plucked at her nipple with his fingertips. She drew a shaky little breath. “Yeah, like that. I mean, more like that.” “More? Like… this?” He carefully rolled her nipple between his fingers, savouring the firmness of the little bud, then gave her nipple a firmer tug. “Mhm,” she breathed. “More!” He eased off, brushing the flat of his palm over the very tip of her nipple until she was shifting restlessly on the blanket. Then he gave her nipple a sudden little twist. She gasped and jolted, and he watched her face avidly for any signs of discomfort, but she was arching her spine up toward his hand with obvious enjoyment. “Again,” she panted. “Do that again—” He pinched her nipple firmly. Then, unable to resist, he dipped his head down and dragged his tongue over her breast. She arched toward his mouth and clasped the back of his neck. Encouraged by her pleasure, he lapped at her nipple until it was a perfect puckered peak, then tugged her nipple very gently with his lips before lifting his head. “More?” he asked. “More,” she confirmed. “You can — harder, more!” He took her nipple in his mouth and suckled her firmly, and her fingers clenched at the back of his neck. “Mm,” she whimpered, and she wiggled her hips. “Mm, Kotallo… mm — ah, that’s enough!” He immediately lifted his mouth, and she tugged on his neck. “The other one,” she panted. “The other — ah…” She trailed off with a sigh and lifted her chest toward him, and he couldn’t blame her for her eagerness: he was brushing his lips over the peak of her other nipple with a very light pressure that he knew would torture her. She made a frustrated mewling sound and pulled at the back of his neck. “Kotallo!” He purposely ignored her. He kept his mouth very light on her breast, enjoying the silken feeling of her skin as much as the sounds she was making, then nuzzled her nipple before pressing his lips to the underside of her breast. “Kotallo, come on, ” she complained. “You said you’d be more rough than this!” He grumbled in amusement. “As you wish,” he said, and he gave her nipple a tiny bite. She gasped and jerked her hips, and his cock jerked in response, like a mirroring of her lust-driven body. He licked her nipple with long, self-indulgent strokes of his tongue, then pressed his teeth into her nipple again. She yelped and dug her nails into the back of his neck, and he lifted his head to look at her. “Is that—” “More!” she gasped. “I want — can you suck, Kotallo, can you—” He took her nipple in his mouth and suckled her firmly, then quickly released her and swirled his tongue around the damp little peak, and she let out a little sob and pulled on the back of his neck. “C’mon, don’t stop…” He laved her nipple with his tongue, then took her nipple in his mouth again and suckled her with a slowly increasing pressure until she gasped and pushed his cheek. “Enough,” she panted. “Enough, enough.” He lifted his mouth from her breast and nuzzled her breast in apology. When she was shifting her hips and whimpering once more, he sat back on his heels and brushed his knuckles over her lips. “Where should I touch you next?” he asked. She breathed hard and stared at him with that blazing-hot look on her face, then gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t… um, I can’t think. Just touch me somewhere.” He smiled at her, charmed as always by her unique mixture of innocence and passion. “Touch you somewhere, hm. Let me try…” He brushed his knuckles along the side of her neck. Her lips parted with excitement and she lifted her chin, and he took this as an invitation to curl his fingers around her throat — and clearly he was right in doing so: the second his fingers were settled around her throat, she whimpered and started rolling her hips on the blanket. He sighed and shifted his hips to try and lessen the pressure of his shorts against his straining cock. “Aloy,” he breathed. “What?” she whimpered. “You’re… mesmerizing,” he said, and he meant it. She looked incredible: the bow of her spine, the tense desire in her face, the undulation of her hips as she rubbed her thighs together before spreading them apart — ah, she was truly testing his discipline today. He might have framed this tryst as a test of her limits, but the mere sight of her was testing the limits of his discipline. She made a little sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “I don’t really know what to say to tha… mm!” She trailed off with a high-pitched moan as he gently squeezed her throat — ah, he could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against his thumb. He shifted his thumb so as not to press too hard on her delicate pulse. Then, with his hand still on her throat, he lowered his head and licked her nipple once more. She moaned and wriggled her hips, and Kotallo gently squeezed her throat as he tugged her nipple with his teeth. He suckled her nipple with the firmness of pressure she’d enjoyed a moment ago, keeping his gentle grip on her neck all the while, and he didn’t release her nipple until she burst out a strained cry. “Kotallo, I need more!” He lifted his mouth. “More wha—” “Put your hand between my legs!” she gasped. Commands, he thought in amusement. She can’t help herself. He released her throat, then pulled her legs wide. By the fucking Ten, she was incredibly wet. He bent over her and lapped at the sweetness on her inner thigh, and she gasped and grabbed his shoulder. “Fuck!” she moaned. “Ah—” He nipped her inner thigh with his teeth, and she jolted and made a high-pitched mewling sound. “Kotallo!” He lifted his mouth and sat back so he could look at her. “Tell me how you like this,” he said. He smoothed his fingers between her legs to spread her slickness, then grazed her clit with the tip of his finger — so lightly that he knew how she would react. Sure enough, she bucked her hips and grabbed his thigh. “I want more!” Once again, he purposely ignored her and kept his touch feather-light to rile her up, and within seconds, she was digging her nails into his thigh. “Kotallo, come on, I need more!” He finally gave in and petted her clit more firmly, rolling his fingertip around the swollen little bud with a gentle pressure, and he watched in fascination as her hips began to move in time with the rhythm of his finger. Eager now, enthralled by her lust, he slid his fingers through her folds to tease her, then began lightly rubbing her clit with two fingers, using just a little more pressure than before. She tensed and pulled in a sharp breath through her nose. “Wait—” He instantly eased off, letting his fingers go still between her legs. “Too rough?” “A little,” she breathed. “It’s so sensitive… why is that?” she demanded. “Why does it seem to get more sensitive when I’m hornier?” “I couldn’t tell you,” he said honestly. “You know your own body better than I.” “It doesn’t feel that way,” she said. “Not when you touch me.” “How so?” “I just learned how to do this for myself,” she said breathlessly. “You’ve been doing this since you were fifteen. It’s—” “Do not mention the twenty-seven people,” he warned. She burst out a little laugh. “You said it, not me. But seriously, it’s like…” She trailed off with a shaky intake of breath: he was petting her clit again, a smooth up-and-down stroke of his fingers that was just a touch more gentle than what he’d done a moment ago. He gazed hungrily at her flushed and glistening folds — the Ten save him, he couldn’t wait to get inside of her — then looked her in the eye again. “You were saying?” She burst out a needy whimper. “You just… feels better when you touch me than when I… f-fuck, Kotallo…” She was thrusting more urgently now, rubbing her pussy against his fingers with a wavelike rhythm of her hips that was almost hypnotic. He breathed slowly and calmly as he stroked her clit. Then, without warning, he slid one finger inside of her. She arched her spine viciously and cried out, and Kotallo wished with every fiber of his being that he had a second hand to touch her belly and her breasts. He dipped his head down and kissed her firmly, allowing her to thrust her tongue into his mouth, then abruptly broke from her kiss and looked her in the eye. “I’m going to give you a second finger now,” he said huskily. “Is that all right?” “Yes!” she burst out, and she bucked her hips. There is no finer acquiescence than that, he thought in satisfaction. He withdrew his finger, then carefully pressed two fingers inside of her. She sobbed with pleasure and dug her nails into his thigh. “Kotallo—” He curled his fingers inside of her in a come-hither motion, and she cried out again and spread her legs wide. “ Ah! Mm — fire and fucking spit!” “That is a good thing, I hope?” he said, and he curled his fingers again. “Yes!” she yelped. “Yes, yes, it’s…” She inhaled shakily and scraped her nails over her belly, and he watched her avidly as he curled his fingers inside of her. Her face was a picture of desperation, her nails a satisfying bite of pain on his thigh as she scored faint red lines into her own skin with her other hand, and it was like watching her come apart before his very eyes. He was watching her devolve from a woman of reason into a beautiful creature of lust, watching her shyness burn to ash in the flames of her own desire, and it was… blood of the Ten, it was a sight to behold. He shifted his hips slightly — damn it, his cock was so hard that the friction of the fabric against his shaft was making him even hornier. Riled by the demands of his untouched cock, he bent over her and kissed her until she was whimpering into his mouth, then broke from the kiss and looked her in the eye. “Do you want a third finger?” he growled. She breathed hard for a moment, then tightly shook her head. “I think — mm, this feels just right…” “Understood,” he grunted. Then, instead of curling his fingers inside of her, he began swirling them slowly. She gasped fitfully. “Yes!” she moaned. “Y-yes, ah ...!” She gripped his thigh and rolled her hips in a gorgeous undulating wave, and then she was thrusting her hips to meet his fingers in a fast and furious rhythm. He stared stupidly at her, struck dumb by a white-hot rush of desire as he watched her fucking his fingers. He stared at her sex — fuck, seeing his fingers move in and out as she took them inside of her: he wanted that. He wanted that for himself, not just for his fingers, but for his cock, his poor throbbing cock that he was keeping stoically restrained… by the Ten, was he jealous of his own fingers? It appeared that he was. One moment he was staring enviously at his own fingers as Aloy fucked his hand. The next moment, he was pulling his fingers free and crawling down to kneel at her feet. She sobbed out a needy breath and sat up on her elbows. “Kotallo, what are you doing? ” “Roll over,” he said, and he pulled on her hip. “Roll over?” she said. “Why—?” “Roll over, Aloy,” he insisted. “On your belly for me, now.” She tsk ed. “Bossy much?” she said, but she did as he asked and rolled onto her belly — ah, praise the Ten, her perfect ass. Riled nearly beyond reason — nearly , but not quite — he palmed her right buttock and bent forward to playfully nip the left with his teeth, and she yelped out a laugh. “Kotallo!” He covetously patted her butt, then tugged her hip. “Lift your ass for me, please.” She scoffed again as she raised herself on her elbows and knees. “That was almost polite.” He had no wits to come up with a clever reply. Instead, he smoothed his palm from the crown of her head to the middle of her back. “Lower your chest,” he said — damn, his voice was getting rough in that way it did when he’d been holding his lust back for too long. She lowered her chest to the blanket, and Kotallo’s cock throbbed for release. She looked incredible: the lush curtain of her hair spread over her shoulder, the dip at the small of her back, the perfect curves of her ass raised high for him — raised high like he’d asked of her, raised high because he’d demanded this of her… His heart thumped with fondness. She was positioned like this for him, her cheek to the blanket and her bottom lifted high because he had asked for it, and to think she had placed herself in this vulnerable pose just for him? Truly, the Ten must be blessing him to give him such an honour. He smoothed his palm reverently over her buttock. She made a soft moan-hum sound and rolled her hips slowly to meet his hand, and he took a moment to admire the sight of her pushing her hips back to meet him. He squeezed her butt, and she jerked her hips. “Hey!” “Apologies,” he said hastily, and he moved his hand down to the back of her thigh. “I… my apologies. You didn’t like that?” “I didn’t mind it. But I didn’t expect it,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and his heart thumped with relief: she was smirking at him, her nose crinkled with amusement. “I mean, you just grabbed my butt. It’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” “It is a perfectly reasonable urge,” he said. “Like feeling the ripeness of a fruit before you pluck it from the tree.” He squeezed her butt again. She yelped and burst out a laugh. “Kotallo! You—” He smoothed his fingers between her legs, and she broke off with that beautiful breathless moan-sigh sound. “Ah! Ah, that’s…” She gasped shakily and clenched her fingers, and with good reason: he was petting her clit now, smoothing two fingers along the margins of the slick and swollen little bud just the way she’d enjoyed so much before, and it was a matter of seconds before she was rolling and flexing her hips to match the careful up-and-down motion of his fingers between her legs. He stared stupidly at her rear as she thrust back against his fingers. She was so fucking beautiful, so fierce, so full of passion — by the Ten, absolutely brimming with passion: he could see it in the curl and thrust of her hips, he could hear it in the rising tension and pitch of her voice as she gasped and whimpered and moaned, and he could feel it emanating from her skin. He could feel her passion, feel it in the hot rush of blood through his limbs and the hot urgency between his own legs — he could feel it, he could feel her, her climax rising in the strain of her voice and the jerky tension of her hips as she bucked her hips back to rub her clit along his fingers— “Ah!” she cried. “Ah, K-Kotallo — ah! ” She broke off with a loud moan and shoved the blanket against her gasping lips, and Kotallo breathed hard as he listened to her pleasured moans. He watched her as she writhed and shuddered in climax, and he wished that he had a second fucking hand so he could untie his shorts and slide inside of her while she was shivering apart. But he only had one hand, and that hand was occupied with giving her pleasure. So he did the only reasonable thing he could with his solitary hand: he slid his fingers inside of her. She cried out, so sharply that he heard her through the muffling of the blanket, and then she was moaning and thrusting her hips back — damn it, by the blood of the fucking Ten, he needed her . He pulled his fingers free, and she cried out. “No! No, Kotallo, don’t stop—” “Patience,” he gasped, and he started untying his shorts. She started to turn around, and he grabbed her hip. “No,” he snapped. “Stay as you are. As you were, I mean.” “Okay,” she whimpered, and she rested her elbows on the blanket once more. “Are you going to fuck me like this?” “Yes,” he said tersely, and he pulled at his laces — finally free of his shorts! He pulled his cock out and stroked it — fuck, that was incredible — then shifted close to her and nudged her thighs a little wider with his knees. He rested his palm on her buttock. “Tell me right away if—” “If I have any pain, I know,” she snapped. “Come on, Kotallo, fuck me!” Fuck me. The words rang in his ears, resonated through his blood, struck deep into the core of his most feral and primitive urges, and he sheathed himself inside of her in a hard stroke. Bliss. His brain went blank with sparks of pleasure, and for a second, he was utterly paralyzed by how good she felt. He was throbbing with bliss, and she was hot and tight and pulsing around him, and he was… the Ten save him, he was a creature just like her, a mindless creature of lust who would do anything she asked of him, and her body was doing all the asking right now. She was sobbing with pleasure, her face twisted with rapture and her hips already moving and rolling — fuck, fuck yes , she was grinding her ass back against him. Kotallo groaned helplessly, a thrall to the rolling of Aloy’s hips as she took him deeper. Her desperate gasps and moans were like a rhythm of lust drilling into his brain, a rhythm of heat and need that begged him to meet her movement, and so he did: he met her, drawing his hips back just to drive into her hard, and with every thrust, he could feel himself meeting her, really meeting her, rising to the dizzying heights of her lust, rising higher into the demands of her appetite until he was breathing hard through his bared teeth. He gripped her hip hard and fucked her harder, his breath leaving him in animalistic growling sounds like the feral thing of desire that she inspired him to be. He was a feral creature like her, feral with need, feral with the visceral desire to fill her up with thrust after breathless thrust until she wore the mark of his need on the bare expanse of her scarred and freckled skin… Mark her, he thought deliriously. I need to mark her. He suddenly pulled out of her, and she gasped and pounded her fist on the ground. “Kotallo, what the hell—” “Turn over,” he growled. She looked over her shoulder at him, and the blazing fire in her eyes flared hotly in his blood. “Turn over, Aloy,” he commanded, and he gripped her thigh and pulled. She allowed him to roll her onto her back — yes, he was fully aware that she was allowing him to manhandle her like this — then impatiently kicked off his shorts and crawled over her body until he was straddling her waist. Her eyes widened. “Wait, wait, what are you doing?” she said breathlessly. He forced himself to pause. “Does this scare you?” he said, as gently as he could — damn, he hoped he sounded gentle, because the need howling through his blood was anything but. “No, I’m not scared,” she said. “ You don’t scare me, I mean. It’s just — you’re, uh, big.” Her eyes fell to the hard rise of his cock. “Yes,” he said simply. Then he reached down and slowly ran his palm along the length of his cock. Her eyes grew even wider. She pushed his hand away and grabbed his shaft, and he shuddered at the unexpected pleasure of her hand before prying her hand off of his cock. “What are you doing?” she complained. “Why can’t I—” He cut her off. “Be still and let me tell you what I mean to do.” She nodded eagerly, and he went on. “I am going to sit like this, but higher — up here,” he said, and he tapped the blanket beside her shoulder. “You will open your mouth for me, and I…” He took a deep breath — calm yourself, be calm for a second longer . “I am going to fuck your mouth.” Her cheeks flushed, and her face lit up with excitement. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yeah, okay, do that.” He blinked, genuinely surprised at how enthusiastic she was. “You want me to—” “Yes, I want you to fuck my mouth,” she said impatiently. She is going to be the death of me, he marvelled. “I am going to finish in your mouth,” he said roughly. “And you will swallow all of it.” “Yes!” she cried. “I’ll swallow it, okay, just get up here already!” He shook his head in amazement, then crawled up higher on her body until his knees were on either side of her shoulders. “Aloy, remember our rule—” “I know, I know,” she snapped. “Just — come on already!” Thrilled and riled by how unabashedly horny she was, he gripped her chin and forced her head back a little bit, and she gasped and thrust her hips. “Kotallo—” “Open,” he commanded. She opened her mouth, and Kotallo breathed out slowly. “Easy now,” he crooned, both to himself and to her, and he slowly flexed his hips forward to feed his cock between her parted lips. Fuck, her mouth was so warm. He braced his weight on his palm and slowly pushed his hips forward until his cock met the back of her throat, then pulled back before sliding into her mouth again, and he relished in the firm heat of her tongue cradling his cock as he pushed his length toward her palate. She looped her arms under his legs and gripped his thighs like she was trying to keep him close, and he curled his hips again to meet her. She let out a muffled moan that was cut off by the depth of his cock, and Kotallo burst out a shaky exhale. Hearing her moaning around his cock, feeling her fingers flexing into his thighs — obvious signs of her pleasure, signs that she was enjoying this and that the pleasure wasn’t only his, she was — he was so… he was overwhelmed, overwhelmed by her passion, his own pleasure rendered closer and faster and more tense thanks to the encouragement of her hands on his thighs and her eyes on his face and her pretty little sounds that he was stifling with his cock— Her eyes on his face. She was watching him while he fucked her mouth. A dizzying rush of excitement rippled through his blood. He flexed hard into her mouth, striking deeper with his cock than before in his ardour. She made another muffled sound of rapture, and he stared avidly at her: he stared at her, stared into her fiery verdant eyes, saw the eagerness there in her face — the eagerness for him to come, for him to finish in her mouth, for him to mark her— He shuddered and thrust into her mouth, and the pleasure shattered through him, splintering and multiplying and swimming through his blood like a thousand sparks of light. He thrust into her mouth, filling her mouth with his mark, filling her hot and willing mouth… Please, she was sucking so firmly on his cock like she wanted him to fill her up, and he was filling her up, he could feel it spasming and leaving him in waves of pleasure that rose and crested and washed through his body from the juncture of his thighs out to the farthest edges of his limbs — all four of his limbs, including the one he had lost. Aloy made a muffled sound and urgently patted his thigh. He immediately pulled his cock from her mouth — fuck, the Ten fucking take mercy on him, some of his come was trickling from the corner of her mouth. She lifted her head and swallowed hard, then coughed. “Sorry,” she rasped. “I just had to lift my head for a second.” She licked the corner of her lip, then reached up to wipe his seed from her chin. He quickly grabbed her hand. “Wait,” he said. She blinked. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. I just…” He trailed off, struck dumb once more with awe and not a little pride as he admired her: her flushed and freckled cheeks, her flushed lips, and the pearl of his seed painting the side of her chin. My mark, he thought, with a primitive rush of pride. “You look incredible,” he told her. She smirked. “Not like a mess?” “An incredible mess.” She scoffed. He smiled, then tenderly used his thumb to wipe his come from her chin. She grabbed his wrist, and before he could ask why, she brought his hand to her mouth and sucked his seed off of his thumb. He gaped at her with his heart in his throat. If he hadn’t just finished less than a minute ago, that gesture would have driven him to an instantaneous erection. She released his hand. “I want to try that,” she said. “Try what?” he said stupidly — but truly, how was he meant to think after what she’d just done? “I want to try fucking your mouth,” she said. Spirits of the Ten save him, she truly was going to fuck him into a state of stupor, and he wasn’t the least bit unhappy about it. “As you command,” he said eagerly, and he lay back on the blanket. He had barely settled when she crawled over him and straddled his waist. He smiled at her and stroked her thigh. “Was the orgasm I gave you before not enough?” She kissed him, a deep and hungry kiss that he happily submitted to, then abruptly broke from the kiss. “It was enough,” she panted. “I just want more.” “Greedy, are you?” he teased. “Consider yourself fortunate that I’m not insisting on discipline.” “Ha, nice try,” she said, and she straddled his head. “You’re not that disciplined. Why don’t you put your shards where your mouth is?” He chuckled, but he didn’t have time to reply; she was spreading her legs wider, lowering her pussy toward him — blood of the Ten, her scent: salty and sweet and earthy in a primal way that he couldn’t resist. He gripped her hip and pulled her down to meet his waiting mouth, and she dragged in a sharp breath. “Mm,” she moaned. “ Ah , Kotallo…” She braced one hand on the floor and rested her other hand on the crown of his head. He parted his lips and pressed his tongue to her pussy. She gasped again and rolled her hips forward to rub herself against his tongue, and he lifted his gaze so he could watch her. Her lips were parted, her eyebrows twisted with pleasure as she rolled her hips forward to meet his mouth, and for the umpteenth time, he was struck by how fiercely beautiful she was. He watched her as she pressed her pussy to his lips, enjoying the sight of her abs and thighs flexing and tensing under the smooth bare expanse of her skin, relishing in the way her ferocity and her pleasure warred for control of her face. He kissed her hungrily with her every thrust, making sure to caress her folds with his lips while also giving attention to the sensitive little bud of her clit, and it wasn’t long before she was gasping and flexing her hips with the kind of urgency that told him that her climax was close. He stroked her hip, then curved his fingers over her thigh, and she grabbed his hand, her grip tight on his fingers and growing tighter by the second as she thrust her hips to meet his tongue— She gasped and shuddered, then pressed her other hand to her mouth and cried out in a muffled climax into her own palm, and Kotallo forced himself not to smile smugly as she trembled and moaned with pleasure. He continued to kiss her pussy, giving her the full treatment of his lips and tongue until her shuddering and her rolling hips went still. She sighed heavily and released his hand, then crawled off of him to collapse on her back beside him. “Fire and fucking spit,” she panted. He chuckled, then rolled onto his left side to face her and ran his palm from the sloping valley of her waist to her hip. “I trust that you enjoyed that?” She burst out a breathless laugh. “No, I hated it. That’s why I kept going.” He grunted. “Sarcasm? You really are unkind.” She laughed again, then turned her head to look at him, and her smile widened. “You’ll have to redo your facepaint,” she said, and she tapped his lips with her knuckles. “Mm,” he agreed. “I suspect most of my war paint will need refreshing. But it was worth it.” She didn’t reply. She just gazed silently at him, her smile broad and her eyes warm with joy. He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Something on your mind?” he murmured. She gazed at him for a moment longer, then rolled onto her side to face him. “You really didn’t think you’d ever do this again?” “Do what?” “Anything, um, sex-related.” He gave her a quizzical look, and she went on. “Before we were… together, you said that none of the Tenakth would lie with you because you lost your arm. Did you really think… I mean, it sounded like you thought you’d never, um, have sex with anyone again.” “That is what I thought,” he agreed. She nodded slowly, and he squeezed her hand once more. “What makes you think about this?” She shrugged. “You’re really good at it. It would be a shame if you didn’t…” Her face went pink. “Shit. That came out wrong.” He was greatly amused. “How did you mean it to come out?” She winced. “I more meant that — that it’s, well, you obviously enjoy it, and it would be sad if you gave it up just because of your arm.” She wrinkled her nose. “And that sounds bad too. I should just—” “Be at ease, Aloy,” he said warmly. “I understand what you’re trying to say. Perhaps it seems… extreme, to think I would never have sex again after I lost my arm. But that really was what I thought. Meeting you, being with you… I have said this before, but this was wholly unexpected.” “Yeah,” she said softly. “This isn’t what I expected when I came to the west, either.” He nodded, and they segued into the kind of intimate silence that he’d grown to love. He idly ran his thumb over Aloy’s knuckles, enjoying the smallness of her hand and the closeness of her heated skin, and he quietly pondered the unexpected nature of his ties to her. It wasn’t just the sex that was unexpected. He truly hadn’t expected to fall in love again. After he became a Marshal, he had assumed that he would remain unpartnered for the rest of his life — not just because of the sting of Livekka’s rejection, but because of the nomadic nature of his rank. There were no specific sanctions against Marshals having a partner or even bearing children, but it was understood that those ties had to come secondary to the wellbeing of the tribe as a whole. After he and Livekka parted ways, he had decided to remain unpartnered on purpose, keeping his trysts casual and faithfully keeping to a regime of moonblood, despite many a warrior’s offer to bear him a child to carry on his strength. His decision to be unpartnered had never been difficult to adhere to, and he had always thought that it was his new Marshal’s mindset that had facilitated his decision. But with Aloy beside him, warm and naked with that look of contentment on her lovely face, he knew the truth: his choice to be unpartnered wasn’t thanks to his Marshal’s discipline. It wasn’t because of his duty — not entirely, at least. It was because he’d never met someone like Aloy. In all of the clanlands from east to west, in all his years of meeting and trysting with strong and attractive warriors in each of the clans, Kotallo had never met someone like Aloy. He had never met someone as captivating as this flame-haired warrior from the east, someone who understood him and challenged him and gave her body to him with such passion and trust, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he would never know anyone like her again. He had never known anyone who made him feel the way Aloy did. In the depths of his spirit, in the very core of his heart, he knew what she was to him, and as he admired her precious face, he was seized by the urge to ask her the question he’d been waiting for weeks to ask her until they were face-to-face. But he stopped himself before the question could leave his mouth. If he kept the question until a moment when he could make it… special, somehow? Perhaps until after his new arm was made…? “Kotallo?” He blinked. “Hm? Yes?” “What are you thinking about?” she said. “You seemed preoccupied for a second there.” “Yes,” he agreed. “I… was thinking. You might recall that there was a question I wanted to ask you, before you left to fetch DEMETER.” Her eyebrows rose. “Oh yeah! You had a secret question that you refused to ask me over the Focus.” He huffed in amusement. “A secret that didn’t seem to interest you that much, since you never asked about it again.” “Hey, there were a lot of other things on my mind, okay? And I blame you for most of them,” she said, and she nudged him with her knee. He smirked. “Well, I am sorry to say that… I’m not ready to ask that question yet.” She blinked in surprise, then wrinkled her nose. “So you brought up your secret question just to tell me you’re not going to ask the secret question?” “You asked what was on my mind. I told you what I could.” She scoffed. “Uh-huh. What if I challenge you to a duel? If I win, you have to ask your mystery question.” She was challenging him for the right to a question? She truly was a woman after his own heart. “And if I am victorious? What will you give me?” “What do you want me to give you?” Her smile was full of mischief and heat. He narrowed his eyes playfully, then shifted closer to her and rolled her onto her back so he was looming over her. She scoffed and poked his chest. “Hey, what’s the big idea?” “I’m showing you what you can give me when I win.” “ When you win?” she said dryly. “Someone’s confident.” “Someone certainly is,” he said. He kissed her, coaxing her lips apart to savour the taste of her tongue, and when her hands rose to cradle his face, he shifted his weight on his arm and threaded his fingers into her bloodred hair. For a long, sweet moment, Kotallo simply allowed himself to melt into the yielding warmth of her tongue. Then she nipped his lower lip. He grunted softly, and she smiled. “You’re being too gentle,” she whispered. He studied her cheeky smile with a swell of tenderness in his chest. Then he sat back on his knees and started searching for his shorts. She sat upright. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Put on your clothes,” he said, and he started pulling on his shorts. She frowned but started pulling on her cropped top. “Why? Where are we going? What’s wrong?” He didn’t reply. He loosely laced up his shorts, then glanced at her. “Come outside when you’re ready.” Her frown deepened. “Kotallo—” He slipped out of the tent and strapped on his sandals. A minute later, Aloy emerged from the tent. “What’s—” He scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder. “Hey!” she squawked. He headed toward the nearby pond, and she thumped his back. “Kotall— put me down! What are you doing? ” “Taking you for a not-so-gentle bath,” he said. “A not-so-gentle…? Oh. Oh, no.” She started thumping his back with her fists. “No no no — Kotallo, no! ” He ignored her and waded into the pond, and she slapped his butt. “Kotallo, put me down!” “As you wish,” he said, and he bent over to set her down in the cold water. “No, not in the—” She broke off with a yelp as she sank into the water up to her thighs. An instant later, she jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He bit back a laugh and looped his arm under her butt to support her. “The cold is too rough for you, is it?” “You’re an ass,” she scolded. “You should call me a ‘scab’,” he told her. “That’s the Tenakth term for—” She bit his ear. He grunted in surprise, then sank into the pond to his waist so she was half-submerged, and she gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders. “Get me out, get me out!” He rose to his full height, and she draped her arms around his neck. “You’re going to be s-sorry later,” she chattered. “I’m going to make you sorry.” “Punishment befitting this level of insubordination, I hope,” he said. She barked out a laugh. “You’d better believe it. I’ll p-punish you like a Marshal. I heard that Tenakth Marshals aren’t gentle in their discipline.” He smiled at her, then kissed her firmly. He savoured the sleekness of her tongue and the tightness of her limbs wrapped around him, and when her lips softened and gentled beneath his, he met and matched the tenderness of her kiss. She pulled away from him and brushed her nose to his. “Take me back to the tent, you scab,” she breathed. He chuckled and carried her back to the tent. They stripped out of their wet clothes and crawled under the blankets, and Kotallo curled himself around her to warm her up. They lay huddled together in the blankets in the cozy little tent, her fingers twined with his as he breathed in the scents of sweat and wintergreen in her hair. Warm and languid and content with Aloy in his arms, Kotallo closed his eyes. And with no urgent place to be or imminently urgent tasks, he gave himself over to the gentle ebb of sleep. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text It’s Han who fires the first shot, although he doesn’t know he’s doing it: he’s just trying to make the princess jealous. She’s got her head bent real close to some other rebel, the two of them looking over a datapad in the middle of the hanger like they’re in some private, closed-doors meeting and not standing in front of everyone . Leia looks as focused, as laser-oriented on the cause as always, and Han will never admit to himself the little spike in blood pressure he gets whenever he sees her, and so he has to show her that he doesn’t care. He slings his arm across the nearest set of attractive shoulders and asks his partner for this upcoming mission if she wants to get a drink. Bemused but receptive, if a bit less enthusiastic than he was hoping, she accepts. As they walk by the princess, he doesn’t want to look. Wants to play it cool. Erso is real small, tucked against his side, is prattling on about the job and Chewbacca and the Falcon. Han’s half-listening, half-answering, only looking down at her because he’s trying so hard not to look towards the princess. But nope, he has to look. He has to know if she’s looking. He can’t help it. He glances over as they pass the two rebels, and it’s like slow motion as a set of brown eyes raises to meet his own, locked on his as Han walks by, but it’s not the princess. No, the princess doesn’t even notice that he’s there. It’s the rebel that looks at Han, lip curling just a bit, like he can tell what Han’s doing. And from that moment, from that very second, Han Solo and Cassian Andor just…sort of hate each other. “I don’t know what you have against him,” Jyn says, drawing Cassian’s attention back from the narrow observation the spy is doing of Han at the next table. “With who?” Cassian asks, digging back into his rapidly cooling food in front of him. Jyn’s expression is one of the utmost tolerance, and she takes half his dinner roll as payment for putting up with him. “Solo,” she says. “He’s all right. Had my back on that mission to Geonosis. I know he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I don’t think I need to remind you of who else started out sort of battered and combative when they first got here.” Cassian, in a moment of rare good humor, tilts his head to one side, pretending to think about it. “Bodhi?” he asks. Jyn grins at him, but she liberates the second half of his roll as punishment. “Seriously,” she says around a mouthful (Jyn still eats like she thinks someone’s going to come along and knock the food out of her hands, even after months of being here). “What’s your problem with him?” Cassian’s hardly going to mention the casual ease with which Han asked Jyn to get a drink when it took Cassian nearly two months to feel comfortable sitting down to dinner with her every night. Took him two kriffing months to accept that it was downright assumed that they would be eating together if she wasn’t on a mission. Took him that long to accept that they’re friends. That she actually wants him around. Never mind the painful little thump of his heart against his chest when he wonders what she’d do if he worked up the nerve and kissed her. And Han Solo waltzes up, unconcerned, puts his arm over Jyn’s shoulders and asks her out for drinks, and Jyn goes ! “I don’t have a problem with him,” he insists, stabbing his food with a bit more emphasis than is really necessary. “I just don’t like him.” Han thinks, not for the first time, that Captain Andor might be the most unpleasant person in the whole of the galaxy. And eerie, too, the way he blends into a crowd, into the damn furniture in a room, so you don’t even notice he’s there until suddenly he’s sliding out of thin air to berate you for something. “And he’s so judgmental! You know, I’ve met people from Fest before. Lovely accent on literally anyone else. But he always sounds like he’s itching to bust me for smuggling. The way he says words . Just. So unpleasant.” “You do realize that Cassian is my closest friend, right?” Jyn asks, leaning forward from the seat behind Han’s. Chewie laughs, because of course he fucking does. “Like I give a shit,” Han says to hide his genuine dismay. Read that one all wrong, as usual. He thought for sure that Erso would hate that human personification of a stick in the mud same as him. “Still true, anyway.” “You just don’t know him.” Han thinks of the unconcerned way Cassian just reached over and brushed the Hoth snow off of Leia’s hair yesterday, smile lighting up his dour, prematurely lined face, making him actually look his age for once (which is, to make things even worse, far more appropriately close to Leia’s than Han’s, but whatever). He thinks of the way Leia always turns to Cassian to offer encouragement and that coveted sparkling grin instead of the flashing eyes and acidic disgust she’s constantly flinging towards Han. “I know him about as much as I want to,” Han grumbles. Chewie says something to the effect of you pathetic piece of shit , and Han throws the Falcon into hyperspace, because it remains absolutely true, what he said back at the start: no reward is worth this. “How does he do it?” Cassian wonders. Were he not teetering significantly on the edge of being wasted, he never would have said it. Especially not to Baze, who definitely doesn’t care about this and probably would rather die than listen to it. Baze’s eyes flicker along Cassian’s sightline to where Solo is charming an entire table of young recruits, including Jyn, who’s adding embellishments to his tale about their recent supply run. She’s listening to him, talking to him, with genuine laughter. Near giggles. Cassian doesn’t think he’s ever made her laugh like that. Certainly hasn’t made her giggle . “Him?” Baze asks, turning back to Cassian, expression having transitioned from his usual blank unconcern to something approaching incredulity. Baze, too, might be slightly drunk. “You want to be like him ?” The look he shoots Cassian before taking another long pull of his drink is so pitying that Cassian scrambles backwards in the conversation, trying to regain a little of the respect he knows he’s just lost. “I didn’t say that. And no, of course not. He’s disrespectful to everyone he meets. He’s still more smuggler than rebel, no matter what he says. It’s just…” “He makes Jyn laugh.” “No. That’s…he does. But that’s not what…” “You think I’ve been with Chirrut as long as I have without learning to pick up on these things? Insulting.” “I’m drunk,” Cassian decides. “So none of this counts.” He starts to leave, flushing with shame, hoping to duck out the door without being spotted, but Baze pulls his elbow back, and Cassian has no choice but to stay. “She laughs with him, Captain Andor, but she smiles for you. She likes him because he is like her, because she doesn’t have to live up to anything. There is no pressure, because she cares about him no further than as a comrade, as a friend. You, sometimes she is afraid you’re seeing too much good in her. And she doesn’t think she’ll ever measure up to the woman she thinks you want her to be. It does not mean she likes him better. It means she likes you too much to laugh with you that way. She’ll come around. She’ll grow more comfortable. There’s no need to worry.” Cassian looks back at Jyn, sees the open curve of her lips, the loud laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. Her smiles for him are always softer, always more contained. “That...sounds like something Chirrut would say,” he says finally. Baze releases Cassian’s arm and gives a smug smile that looks like something Chirrut would smile. “And is he ever wrong?” he asks. The answer is obviously no , but Cassian refuses to admit that. The worst, though, is when Leia tries to compare him to Cassian. When she says things like we need more agents like Cassian Andor, not shiftless smugglers with no real ties , or at least Cassian Andor has the good sense to know when he can’t handle something , and if she mentions Cassian Kriffing Andor one more time when they’re in the middle of an argument, Han’s liable to track the man down and deck him just for featuring so heavily in all of the princess’s most effective barbs. Having a fucking inferiority complex is bad enough without having the apparently perfect Cassian Andor forcibly held up next to you. Another worst part is that he’s always so polite . Blank. Refusing to rise to even the worst of Han’s insults – which, as Leia so often points out, aren’t really all that good. And everyone likes him! Han’s the only one who looks at that stupid smirk and that stupid hair and those stupid narrow hips and wants to boot him halfway to Coruscant. Leia’s the biggest offender. Always talking about him, always looking for him to run mission briefings or give her advice on how to lead or just to find him and tell him how great a job he’s doing at whatever it is he does around here. And Erso’s always right behind him (and of course he only started noticing this after shittalking the man for near ten minutes to her!), chattering away, always angry about something and telling him about it, letting him give her pointers that she would probably just laugh off if they came from Han. But oh, no, it came from Captain Kriffing Andor, so it must be good! Even Chewie, the fucking traitor, thinks Cassian Andor shits gold. “I don’t care if he’s a war hero! I’m a war hero! You’re a war hero! I got you that medal, didn’t I?” A little late , Chewie points out, still bitter about that medal ceremony, and Han sighs. Waits for it. Gets what he waited for: If I had told Cassian, he would have gotten me a medal during the ceremony . “Right, fuck off,” Han says, leaving Chewie cackling to himself in the cockpit. He storms down the ramp, and then it somehow gets even worse , because there’s Andor, running down a checklist outside the Falcon, and Han’s about ready to fight this asshole, except this asshole outranks him. “What are you doing?” “I’m checking your work. Making sure the Falcon is ready.” “Checking my work. Well. How about you just run the mission for me, big guy? Since you seem to know so much better and all.” Cassian’s expression goes so painfully blank that Han just knows something’s coming. “If I were able, I would,” Cassian says, his tone only slightly challenging. Just enough that Han braces for impact. “But I’m not medically fit for field work, because of my leg, and my spine. But you knew that, of course.” (“A fucking war hero!” Han shouts at Chewie, approximately five minutes later, while the Wookie laughs uproariously. “You could’ve mentioned he’s a war hero with a prosthetic leg and a thousand fucking spinal implants from the time he saved the entire kriffing galaxy!”) “He said what ?” Jyn asks, already halfway to the door, but Cassian stops her, laughing, pulling her back towards him. “No, no. Don’t. You should have seen his face when I told him. Reward enough. As gratifying as it would be to see you fight him…” “And I would. You know that, right?” His attempt at light-hearted comedy hasn’t gone well. She’s softer, serious. Almost sad, and again he has that image of her throwing her head back to laugh at something Han said. “Considering I had to bail you out after you decimated those pilots who insulted Bodhi? I have an idea, yes. But he didn’t know.” “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about Han Solo: he’s only an ignorant idiot by accident.” “I was trying to take the high road. Did it work?” And now, Jyn does laugh, actually laughs, and she isn’t running off to the next mission or trying to formulate some sort of plan or asking him for advice more like a commander than a friend. She’s just looking at him with mirth, with enjoyment, with happiness. Cassian could die like this, and he would be perfectly satisfied. Briefly, he considers that maybe maudlin thoughts like that have something to do with why Jyn doesn’t laugh more around him. “I can’t wait to give him hell for this,” Jyn says, fairly sparkling with delight, and Cassian feels a cold certainty, a sudden realization, that the laughter and the pleasure isn’t anything to do with him at all. It’s to do with Han Solo. Always. Even now. Whenever Han enters a room and finds Cassian Andor standing in it, he feels his entire body groan. It’s worse when Leia’s there, like she is right now, her arm pressed up against Cassian’s as they stand side by side, both of them talking to Erso with the same expression of worry, uncertainty, giving her advice for the upcoming mission as if she’s going to be running it by herself or something. “You both worry too much,” Jyn is saying, shrugging off their concern. “Worry too much? Not with the amount of shit you two get into,” Leia says, looking over at Cassian as if for backup. Cassian looks exhausted, older than he should, and it makes Leia’s face go all soft and understanding, and Han hates him. “I think Erso and I are a pretty good team,” he says, sliding up, fitting his arm around Jyn’s shoulders the way he always does. “And this’ll be easy. Nothing to worry about, right, kid?” “Oh, leave the poor girl alone, would you?” Leia asks, rolling her eyes, and Han’s smile deepens because hey! Finally! Something close to jealousy. “I don’t hear her complaining,” he points out. “He’s harmless,” Jyn says with an eyeroll to an irritated Leia and a completely blank Cassian, as if Han’s not here, but Han’s getting pretty used to that, too. Doesn’t even mind it so much, because he thinks Jyn might sort of enjoy having him around. And, this cannot be overstated: Leia’s scowl is actually jealousy-based, so he’s feeling pretty good about himself. Can’t quite get rid of that shit-eating smile. Not that he puts much of an effort in. “Jyn!” calls Bodhi from across the hanger, bounding up, grinning, already rattling off “so I was looking at the map of the system from the last time we were in the area, and I’ve marked off some points of interest…” talking way too fast for Han to keep up. Leia pulls out a datapad and wanders off, trying not to look annoyed, but Han can see the creeping red in her cheeks as she goes, and he’s riding high on his victory. “This isn’t a game,” Cassian says, and Han looks back at him, surprised to hear actual emotion in the spy’s voice. “Everything’s a game if you approach it with the right attitude,” Han replies, mostly because he’s uncomfortable with the openness on display in front of him. For most people, it would still be rigid restraint, but for Cassian Andor, it might as well be a loud declaration of exactly what he’s feeling. Cassian opens his mouth to deliver some sort of sermon, probably, about playing with Leia’s emotions or something, but his mouth snaps closed and he turns on his heel, stalking after the princess without a goodbye. “Where’s he going?” Jyn asks, plainly hurt when she sees the spy’s retreat. “To sulk somewhere. Who knows? Come on. We should get moving.” “I’ll tell him you said goodbye,” Bodhi says, hugging Jyn. He hesitates, nervous, but offers Han a hug as well, probably trying to be polite. Han accepts, because why not? If there’s anyone in this Rebellion more inoffensively adorable than Luke Skywalker, it’s Bodhi Rook. “You can skip the goodbyes from me, though,” he says to the scattered pilot, which makes Bodhi laugh and makes Jyn look at him like he’s something more than just her fuckup mission partner. Like he’s maybe something close to a friend. A couple of months ago, that would have meant next to nothing to him, but he’s surprised to realize that now it means kind of a lot. “You realize he’s just doing it to try and get under my skin, right?” Leia asks. They’re halfway out of the hanger, watching Bodhi say his goodbyes (and doesn’t it sting a little bit that even Bodhi lights up at something Han says, that Bodhi hugs Han where he’s always hesitated to do the same to Cassian, that Han’s open friendliness allows people to relax around him when they can’t do the same around Cassian?) “What? Being careless?” Cassian asks. “Running dangerous missions with a crew of three just because he thinks they can handle it?” “No, idiot. The shit with Jyn.” Cassian looks over at her with surprise, sees her eyebrows climbed up high on her head, a smirk on her face that tells him he doesn’t have a hope of hiding the truth from her. He can feel a scowl growing on his own face, and Leia laughs, somewhat fondly calls him transparent. “I’m not transparent.” “Of course you are. Maybe not to everyone else, but to me. You forget how well I know you, Cassian. And this goes against nearly every personal rule I have about betraying the trust of my friends, but it needs saying. When it comes to Jyn? Cassian, you have nothing to worry about.” Scarcely daring to hope, Cassian doesn’t look away. He’s waiting for the truth. He’s got this sick sort of certainty that she must be talking about something else, that he must be misunderstanding her, but she smiles softly at him. “What are you talking about?” he asks, deciding for once that maybe directness is the best option here. “Cassian, honestly, she never shuts up about you. We got a little drunk together the other night, and kriff , I had to change the subject four times. To hear her talk about you, you’d think you took down the Death Star. Luke was incredibly offended. Of course, she thinks you’d never look at her that way. Thinks she’s not nearly good enough for you.” He bristles, forgetting that his plan was to pretend that he had no idea what Leia was talking about. “That’s…” “The most ridiculous thing you’ve heard in your life? Yeah. That’s what I told her. Look, do everyone a favor and just tell her, all right? It’s getting annoying.” Patting him lightly on the arm, Leia turns and walks away, already engrossed back into her reading. Cassian can’t hide the small smile on his face as he watches the Falcon take off. Of course the one time Han explicitly tells Leia and Cassian there’s nothing to worry about, there’s something to worry about. Chewie’s out in the main hold hollering about blood and bandages, Han’s yelling into the comms that they’ve got an injured passenger and need to land immediately , and Jyn’s not saying anything, because Jyn’s laid out in one of the bunks, bleeding all over everything, long since unconscious. “We’re down, Chewie, come on!” Han yells, already halfway out of his chair, tripping over himself, all calm gone as he runs for the door. Chewie isn’t far behind, Jyn looking like a tiny child’s toy in his arms. Looking like porcelain, pale and cold, her lips stained red, her eyes blinking sluggishly as she tries to say something. “Don’t. Shut up,” he tells her, because if she tells him one more time to leave her behind, he’s going to lose it. “We’re already back on Hoth, so you can stop your damned martyr bullshit, all right? We’re getting you to a medbay, so just hold on.” Frankly, Han thinks that keeping Cassian out of the field because of his injuries was a bad call on someone’s part, because he’s never seen a man move half as fast as the captain when he enters the hanger and sees Han and Chewie running down the ramp. Cassian is to them in moments , full-tilt running, all his usual practiced ease and calm completely missing. Han is expecting some kind of lecture, some furious annoyance, a dressing-down, but his already-formed retort dies on his lips when he sees instead that Cassian is utterly speechless, shattered, his eyes huge and uncomprehending as he tries to take in all the damage at once. And it’s like an optical illusion, suddenly. Cassian Andor goes from this restrained rebel drone, no personality, no humor, nothing but dedication to some nebulous cause, some endless war. A man who effortlessly commands the respect of the one person Han craves respect from. A man who stands tall despite his injuries, despite being told he can no longer be the man he’s been training his whole life to be. He shrinks, suddenly, in Han’s eyes. Not in a way that makes him smaller , in a way that makes him seem petty or broken or anything like that. But in a way that makes him seem young . Vulnerable. Afraid. “Hey, come on,” Han says, stretching a hand out, grabbing Cassian by the jacket and pulling him along after Chewie. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to see it: it was never about Leia. The two of them always being together, it was never about anything other than the cause. It’s Jyn, for Cassian. Just as it’s Leia for Han. This whole kriffing rivalry has been a waste of time. “You know, there’s a window right there.” Cassian looks up from his datapad, frowning as Han enters the room. The former smuggler does so a bit sheepishly at first, but he grows bolder when Cassian doesn’t immediately shout him out of the room. “What?” Cassian asks. He doesn’t bother to try and understand the words. Since the Falcon landed, he hasn’t managed to find anything even approximating focus. Even though Jyn is fine, sedated and sleeping, curled on her side facing him, mere inches away from the chair where he’s sprawled, most of his brainpower is still devoted to the initial scream of panic that had shuddered through him when he first saw her limp and bleeding form in the Wookie’s arms. “Window.” Han raps his knuckles against the glass beside him, loud in the otherwise quiet infirmary. “So when you and Erso were making out, you had an audience.” Cassian feels his face flush, and he looks away from Han, but that’s a mistake, because his eyes go naturally to Jyn, to the satisfied smile she’s been wearing on her face in sleep since she kissed him. “I wouldn’t call that making out,” he says finally. “No, neither would I. I was being generous.” Han makes himself comfortable against the wall, so Cassian knows he’s going to speak. His shoulders are hitching up defensively despite himself. Han has never been very delicate with him, and he hates to imagine what the man’s going to have to say about this . “You know, she told me one time. Drunk, a little. About you all escaping Scarif. Think she was mad at you for something when she was telling me, because she was raising hell, cursing in every language I know, talking about how you tried to get her to leave you behind.” Cassian leans back, tries to avoid imagining it. The flash of pain, the broken leg that just wouldn’t move . The urgency of Bodhi’s voice over the comms, saying they only had a few more moments. Just a few more moments and they would have to leave. Cassian fading, saying you have to go, you can still make it , and Jyn’s hands bruising on him, crushing his ribs against her own, growling out if you give up, I give up with you , forcing him to keep going. “She doesn’t talk about that with me,” he admits. Even now, even after having confirmation of what he has so long waited for, he can’t quite help the sting of sadness that Han has parts of Jyn that he isn’t allowed to see. “Well, she tried to do the same damn thing to me today,” Han says. It’s casual, but Cassian can see the way his hands are shaking when he refolds his arms over his chest. “Coulda killed her myself for it.” “Thank you. For not leaving her.” “She asked me to tell you she was sorry for letting you down. Sorry for never telling you she loves you. Guess that message don’t need to be delivered now, but. Feels wrong not to tell you. I know what it’s like to wonder how a person feels about you, and I, uh. I guess I’m saying she cares about you a hell of a lot.” Cassian has probably never been more surprised in his entire life than he is in this moment. It was less surprising when Jyn dragged him across the beach and into that shuttle on Scarif. Less surprising when someone found an old security droid and rebooted K-2SO. Less surprising when Leia survived the Death Star with the help of a farmboy and a smuggler and a Jedi. Hell, even less surprising when Jyn pulled him in with both hands on his face and kissed her after he told her that he’s been in love with her for so long now that he’s not even sure how to remember when it started. “Are you…okay?” he asks. Not actually what he meant to ask. It was probably supposed to be are you seriously giving me relationship advice? Or are you going to end this little sermon with some insult? Terrible joke? Anything other than sincerity? But are you okay works too. “Oh, yeah,” Han says, laughing at a joke only he seems to realize is being told. “I’m just fine, kid.” And he’s happy for them. He really is. He can be a big enough man to admit that. But he hates that it makes something ache inside him, just a bit, to watch the way they’d kissed each other like coming home. Still, whatever. He’s also a big enough man to admit that they’ve given him just the slightest sliver of hope. If Cassian Andor, the sour-faced rule-abiding Rebellion-worshipping asshole, can be that desperately into a woman as roguish and unpredictable as Jyn Erso, then surely there’s a chance that Leia might just be that into him. “You’re not hurt, right?” she asks him, a few minutes later, when she sees him in the hall. “Yeah. Not my blood. Just haven’t had a chance to change.” And he sees the flicker of emotion that passes through her eyes as she continues her examination of him. Like she doesn’t trust his word. Like she needs to assure herself that he’s okay. “Good,” she says. And her smile is small, barely a smile at all, but for just right now, it’s enough. “Go get changed, Han. It’s disgusting.” “Right away, your worship,” Han drawls. And if his voice is a little softer towards her than usual…well, at least Chewie isn’t around to laugh at it. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text If a man was to feel anything as irrational as love (love, that was to say, of a person or something else suspect, not king and country which was only proper), then that man could express that love in two ways. He could undertake acts of forthright and dashing heroism. He could ask the object of his affections for her hand in marriage. So much Arthur Hastings had learned, by osmosis as much as by explicit conversation, during his years at the finest schools and universities in the country. Later, in his travels, the things which could occur between two men had become in turn revealed to him. Those things made more sense, he’d found himself thinking at times, than a lot of what he’d been told, or taught or had whispered to him at school and by his university chums about sexual intercourse. Those things – male things - did not have to do with love, of course. They could not, almost by definition. How to proceed, then, when some years later he realised he was possessed of a love so deeply rooted in his heart that he fairly ached with it? And it was love; he could not believe it to be anything else. He had read the books and seen the films and this was the same love that made all those poets write such dreadful reams of stuff that schoolboys suffered through memorizing. He knew himself to be in love with a stout, fussy, sweet Belgian man two years his senior who complained about the shape of eggs and the temperature of moustache wax and the ordering of his morning post by size and paper quality. Who was astoundingly clever and surprisingly brave and who cared about the world and the people in it, not just in words but also in deeds. In nights spent wakeful over a pot of coffee and two scraps of a suicide note, in long, gentle conversations with women in tears, in a fierce sense of moral duty that had undoubtedly lost him a fortune in commissions. Declaring love had been impossible for several reasons. Arthur’s heroics almost always went wrong, and obviously he could not ask Hercule to marry him, and besides Hercule would be outraged, not so much because Arthur was a man as because Arthur was, well, Arthur. He liked to think he was fairly fit of fetlock, but what could he offer Hercule Poirot but an audience? He’d tried to be that. Occasionally, he had feared he wandered more into comic relief. But at least Hercule smiled to see him. He and Hercule spent holidays together – spent ordinary days together, sitting Hercule’s flat or dining out in town. It was another entirely new thing in Arthur’s experience, and it had sometimes felt like enough. Then the Brookgrove case had happened. Mavis Brookgrove, begging them to uncover the evidence that would spare her sister the gallows, and all that had come out after that, all the awful secrets the Brookgroves had between them. Hercule had been so quiet, after he had presented the family with the solution. The true culprit had been arrested, Mavis ecstatic, racing to see her sister released, but Hercule had smiled only thinly. He had grown pale, over the two weeks they’d been in Hampshire, although Arthur had tried to ensure he was getting his omelettes as he liked them and had driven ten miles to locate some sirop de cassis. “Is there anything else I can do?” Arthur had asked, when they were back at the flat. He’d insisted on driving them home that evening – call the flat ‘home’ for them both, it was as good as true even then. He’d wanted Hercule away from the Brookgrove house and the Brookgroves, and as soon as possible. He’d wanted to be away himself, but at least he’d not had to spend most of the last fortnight getting inside their minds. “Ah, mon cher Hastings,” Hercule had sighed in response, and had run his fingers over his brow. Hercule used that endearment so easily – to everyone, not just Arthur, a continental trait no doubt – and sometimes it made Arthur feel frightfully sad. “ Anything , Poirot,” he’d said earnestly. He’d not been thinking about love, not really. He’d not been thinking about being a man, or that Hercule was one. It was just that Hercule had been so tired, and so evidently still troubled, and yes Arthur would have heroically placed his body between an oncoming train and Hercule if he could, and yes this impulse felt much the same, but he wasn’t thinking that through. Insight had never, perhaps, been his forte. “Anything I can do? Anything at all?” “I wish so much to be clean of it,” Hercule had said, sighing again, almost talking to himself. “Shall I start a bath running for you?” Not something Arthur would have said to any other friend, but it wasn’t as if Arthur wasn’t familiar with the plumbing at Hercule’s flat. You had to catch the boiler unawares in a very specific way. “But you will be stiff from the drive, the cold, ton genou , your knee,” Hercule waved a hand. “You should not have driven, in any case. I told you this.” “I wanted to. And I’m quite capable of waiting now, you can bathe first.” “Hastings, I can see that you are pained. And I find I do not want to see any more pain today.” “Well maybe I don’t either! And I don’t want to see you like this! I can’t bear the thought of you sat alone in here like this while I’m…” Perhaps it had been the pain – his leg did play him up, after too many hours in the car. Arthur didn’t normally snap, and felt quite ashamed immediately after, face hot, mouth dry. Almost tearful. For a moment it had been awful. And then Hercule had been, once again, extraordinary. “Perhaps,” he had said. (He claimed later than he’d been afraid, speaking up, but it had barely shown, only the slightest quaver in his voice.) “Perhaps, Hastings, you would allow me…” Arthur would never forget how his face had been then. How dark his eyes had been. “Perhaps you would allow me to look after you?” Arthur’s breath had caught in his throat. Hercule, ever the sybarite, had a copper bath which was freestanding in the centre of the flat’s generously apportioned bathroom. Filled with steaming water and scented oils, Arthur had been glad to slide into it. In a chair at the head of the bath, in his shirtsleeves no less and leaning over him, Hercule had washed Arthur’s hair. Slow, careful hands, working methodically and neatly across his scalp, making him shiver despite the heat. Of course it would be soothing, Arthur had thought. Petting a dog was soothing. A companion you kept around to indulge. It didn’t necessarily mean… Somehow, though, he’d kissed Hercule at the end of it. Turned around and surged up out of the bathwater and reached. There was only so much tenderness a man could take. That was his act of forthright heroism, perhaps. Certainly he’d not ever risked so much. Hercule, though, had made a sound like Arthur had never heard before. Hercule, wonderful, unique Hercule, had opened to him. It was late in life, one could have said, to learn another lesson, but Arthur took to it easily. That love, even this sort of love, even by a man for a man, could be expressed in taking care. In washing, in dressing, in slow, smooth touches. In letting your beloved buy you geometrically patterned ties and insist that your pocket square was symmetrical and spoil you for anyone else’s tartiflette recipe. In knowing the taste of the inside of their thighs. In being allowed to comfort them. In allowing them to comfort you. And yet he can’t mind the words either, Hercule murmuring them in the warm air between them, soft and safe. In French, yes, but Arthur’s getting to understand it. More and more, he’s starting to feel he really does understand. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text It’s tiresome, more than it was the way in. Inside her she can feel the golden glow, like the touch of Grace, formed into chains around the great rune. King Godrick’s great rune. She had slain the nightmare and in her pulse, in her soul, beats the power of a demigod, trying to consume her. Tied into submission by the tarnished hunter. If the finger readers would have told her this would happen, she would have laughed in their faces so hard she would have probably been kicked off the Roundtable hold altogether. Her muscles feel consumed, exhausted to the core; she feels like resonance, like harp strings strumming inside her chest, of Margit’s incantation. Like chains of light holding the soiled rune in place, stopping the bite. If he could do that, he could’ve ripped it out of her, could he not? He could’ve opened her chest like that of prey, snapped her in half and taken that which he guarded so fearsomely. And yet, he let her go. No, not just that. He told her where to get help. Margit is terrifying: skillful as he is agile, his senses sharpened to perfection to build the most precise weapon, towering over her like a predator ready to pounce, tail whipping angrily at his back. Her memory goes back to the feeling of his rough, calloused fingers around her face, pulling her up like she weighed nothing, which for someone his size she surely doesn’t. The knot inside her stomach…the tight phantom of fear dissolves in something sweeter, something warmer when her skin lets the touch melt into the contact of his palm against her forehead, touching her only enough, as if she could shatter if he pressed too hard. The dichotomy is… confusing. Yes, that’s all she can make out of that. At least for now. Gwenn knows Boggart has lived in Leyndell, albeit in their gaols, for a long time, having been banished after completing his sentence. But for some reason only mentioning Margit’s name feels like an intrusion, a reveal of something that should be treated delicately, like a small scared bird in her hands. The tarnished hunter took pity on her and she’s overthinking his actions afterwards. That’s all. She’ll have to make peace with knowing only that; the next time they cross paths he surely won’t be so forgiving. She follows the glistening of Grace in the air, like small fireflies dancing behind her eyelids, even though it takes her through a different path. She always trusts the golden light. Through the valleys and hills she crosses Stormveil’s domains into Liurnia, walking her way up the land. There’s a penetrating smell of death in the air, but not quite like at the castle. It feels antiseptic…somehow clean. No rot, no putrid flesh, but something akin to despair hangs insistent in the air. Gwenn has lived in Liurnia for years now, for Abigail’s entire life. Yet some spots here and there are strange to her, having dedicated most of her time to raising and educating her daughter. And that alone was trouble enough: the sweetling has the energy of an army, the curiosity of an academy of scholars, the memory of, well. The memory of a child that has heard too many swear words in her short life. She had her job cut for her, so the exploration of the Queen’s domains got relegated to the back of her mind. She could not have expected what awaits her at the zenith. The first thing to find her are the cries; short, desperate, flickering and extinguishing in a second. The whistling of the wind against sharp quick slashes. The creaking and snapping of wood. It sounds like conquest, like war. Gwenn would recognize that song anywhere. She runs as fast as she can but most of the carnage happened before she could have made it there. The visage of gallows, rows and rows of bodies hanging like a royal escort at the side of the pathway up, decorating the arch of the stone bridge, makes her stomach churn. The sweetened fermented smell of the poisonous waters underneath holds no candle to the corruption in front of her. She wants to cry but her throat feels like coarse sand, her chest closed shut. It’s foul. Evil. It’s so close to home. “Oh, it's you…” Gwenn almost yelps at the voice next to her, knelt on the dying grass. To her side, Nepheli knelt before broken bodies, only looking up to her for a second. “Well, what do you make of it? What's happened to this village?” “Something horrible.” Gwenn can only answer. “ Someone horrible. This… this is no bandit work; this is extermination.” “I witnessed a sight much the same, in my infancy. The oppression of the weak. Murder and pillage unchecked. A waking nightmare, made by men. “ The warrior breathes solemnly. It is a weight too much to bear and yet she rises, holds herself strong where Gwenn wants nothing but to break down. “But this time, I'm a woman grown. And though the suffering cannot be undone, I can still mete out justice.” She stands and Gwenn nods, her hand falling on the handle of Moonveil. The blade almost buzzes at her side, pulsing eagerly. “I’ll follow. For the voiceless and the weak.” They breathe as one; one resolve, one ambition. Justice. Yet in every corner of the small village there’s nothing but death and silence, the dismal breeze clattering the corpses like some cursed chimes. Nothing inside the buildings, nothing on the moonlit clearing, nothing yet across the long stone bridge. The mouth of the clearing leads to a site that once felt sacred, but is now surrounded by more of the horrid sights of war. The bodies frame the cliff and on it towers an ancient tree that, once upon a time, held so much divinity. The ghosts of prayer still cling to it despite the horrors around it. At its base, two figures engulfed in shadow turn towards them and snicker. It’s the violence of it all, yes, but not only that; it’s the entitlement, the pride. What kind of person would be proud of just a terrible project? Gwenn sees red; she unsheathes as the smaller figure, faster or more daring perhaps, looms closer, slashing right through their apron. A perfumer; one that reeks of pungent venoms and ash. She scrunches her nose and spits at their feet before jumping back, avoiding one, two, three slashes. The perfumer chucks a vial at her and she jumps to land behind them, the tip of her Moonveil running clean through their neck. A dry snap echoes in the night as their vertebrae separate under the twist of the blade before Gwenn pulls it back off the now limp, lifeless body. She turns, listening to the heavy steps of the next figure, and barely gets to raise Moonveil over her head to block the cleaver coming down on her. In the flickering light of the town’s lanterns the sight is dreadful: the worn bone separates into curved sharpened horns, placed like teeth alongside the blade, trying to carve into her. They feel like murder trophies. Behind them, a horned golden mask sits in an eternal grotesque smile. Gwenn had heard of them, but had never seen them before. The butchers, the executioners of those who come to clean the lands of impurities. The fucking Omenkillers. Waving their bloodthirst like a medal of honor, arrogant in their filth, hungry for praise and cheer. Disgusting. The roar that escaped her throat propels her forward as she puts her full weight put into her blade to push the murderer back. She’s small, but plenty skillful: she slashes, twists, thrusts and pushes them back, over and over. It’s a blind dance, fed on a fire she cannot control. Her arms open in scarlet lines at times and still she doesn’t stop, as they bloom over her now hardly white clothes. She feels the heat on her face before she can see where it comes from, and dodges to the side: the monster breathes a wave of fire where she was just standing, singeing the grass before them. The blade slashes at the back of their knees, biting the leather open; she moves fast, whipping the sword back and cutting through flesh this time. The scream makes the monster nothing but a man, and a man bleeds. A man dies. He falls to his knees, his arms flailing, the cleavers searching for her as she dodges and ducks under his blows. A man should not hold this power, this drive. A man should not drown in so much blood. She rolls closer, her boot connecting with his chin under the mask. She won’t remove it: he must die a monster, the way he lived. Moonveil finds its way through the bottom of his jaw, piercing up to the crown of his skull. The tip shines crimson and silver in the lantern light. The monster writhes, twitches, stops. Gwenn doesn’t breathe until the blade is dislodged, wiped clean, sheathed away. Her hands shake. “I will ask my father, the All Knowing, who might be responsible for this carnage.” She listens but doesn’t move, knelt on the soft forgiving soil. She hopes she can wake up, but the exhaustion in her limbs tells her this is no dream. The world is rotten and her hands stay stained, ever more stained. Justice has never been a blushing maiden, peace has never come without blood. Oh, but she’s so tired, so drenched in it. Who could ever do something like this? “Please, see me again soon.” Nepheli tries again, a hand on Gwenn’s shoulder that finally snaps her back into reality. She nods curtly, her eyes still focused on something far away. She still finds a way to accept the warrior’s hand, to let herself be raised to her feet. She wipes the mud off her knees. It only spreads further on the fabric. Boc is going to be so upset when he sees the state of her dress. Maybe focusing on that is easier right now. “I need to go see my daughter. Later… I’ll look for you later.” Gwenn manages to eke out. Nepheli only nods slightly, letting her go to take her leave. Gwenn breathes once, twice, her eyes closed, her chest tight. She will be home soon, away from this. The world doesn’t stop spinning, dying, killing, but still. She will be able to hug her child again. To forget just for a little while. She will be able to breathe. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text As he wiped off a glob of vampire blood off of his forehead, Dean lowered his machete, returning it to his side. He looked over at his brother who was doing the same thing he had just done. “Another one for the books, eh Sammy?” He chuckled. “Yeah, sure,” he replied with a dismissive laugh. “Anyway, let’s get back to the motel soon. I wanna get all of this…” He stuck his index finger in his ear, digging out a chunk of vampire muscle tissue then flicking it onto the ground. “Junk… off of me.” “Good idea, let’s get this cleaned up and then it’s time to drink,” he replied then casually slung his machete over his shoulder and walked out to the Impala to put his gear away. Back at the motel, after each taking turns showering, the two brothers sat on their respective beds, beers in hand, watching cheesy Looney Tunes re-runs. “Good work today,” Dean said more casually than he actually meant, then took a sip of his drink. “Thanks, you too,” Sam replied without looking over at him, but instead looked down at his beer bottle shyly. “Wanna go do anything? Hit up some bars? Grab some real grub?” “Nah, but go ahead and do your own thing. I’m pretty exhausted.” Dean shrugged as he stood back up. “Suit yourself,” he said, then grabbed his car keys, phone, and wallet, and left. Since the restaurant had numerous 5-star reviews on Yelp, the hunter decided to go visit a classic 50s era diner called Ole Smokey’s . As soon as he pulled up to the parking lot, his vision was enthralled in neon lights and could hear rock music playing from the external stereos. “Oh hell yeah,” he told himself quietly as he got out of the Impala. As soon as he walked in, he was greeted by a cute waitress in a poodle skirt and the strong smell of fryer grease. Normally these would both be a positive thing, but for some odd reason, the smell of the grease made his stomach twist and churn. “Wh– Where’s the uh, bathroom?” He asked the woman a bit frantically. “Just over that way,” she replied as she pointed over to a small hallway with red walls with black and white tiles. “Thanks,” he responded with a pained smirk then hastily made his way to the men's bathroom. As soon as he was inside, he hurried into a stall, crouched down, and instantly began to vomit. His eyes began to water as he threw up, and if the physical pain and discomfort wasn’t enough as-is, he was now painfully confused why his body reacted so horribly to the smell. After flushing the toilet and unsteadily getting to his feet, he exited the stall and walked over to the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror, his face pale and his eyes seemingly sunken. “What the hell…” He murmured. He turned on the sink, cupped some water into his palms then lifted them to his mouth, taking in the water, swishing it around a bit, and then spitting it into the sink. He repeated this, then grabbed a paper towel from a small basket nearby, wet it slightly, then dabbed his face with it. At a complete loss for words, he just stood there staring at his reflection while trying to use the sink water to cool himself off, hoping that whatever this strange reaction was would pass. When the motel room door clicked, Sam jumped out of bed and grabbed the gun from under his pillow, and aimed it at the person who was entering through the door. “Hands where I can–! Wait… Dean?” “H-Hiya Sammy,” he replied awkwardly as he walked in then kicked the door closed behind himself. He walked over to the nearby table and set down two bags and a tray-style cupholder. “You’re…” Sam muttered out as he reapplied the safety on his pistol then placed it back under his pillow. “Back sooner than I expected…” He gave his brother a baffled look and scoffed. “Sorry, did I interrupt your lil… me time …” he made a masturbating motion as he spoke, “moment or something?” He scowled and rolled his eyes. “No, you didn’t. I wasn’t doing that sorta thing,” he grumbled. “I just figured you were gonna eat at wherever you went,” he replied and then gestured at the various items on the table. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too, honestly,” Dean said as he began to take containers out of the paper bags. “But then I realized how tired I was, so I decided to come back and eat in bed.” “Hmm, fair enough I guess,” he replied as he got up and walked over to the table. “So what’s…?” The older brother placed a fork on top of a plastic container and slid it over, then took out a few small, clear cups with various different sauce-like liquids in them. “I wasn’t sure which dressing you’d want, so I just told them to give me one of everything,” he said with a chuckle, then began to take the four cups out of the carrier. “And these two are yours,” he said as he tapped them. “One’s a diet Sprite, the other is a root beer float. It felt like a crime ordering it with diet root beer and low-fat vanilla ice cream, but it felt like a worse crime not getting you one at all.” A small smile crept across Sam’s lips, but then it quickly turned into a grin that he couldn’t hold back. “Thanks, Dean.” “Yeah yeah, don’t mention it.” “No seriously, I mean it,” he stated as he grabbed the various dressing cups and uncapped them, then quickly did a small sniff test to figure out which was which. “You got me the food that I wanted, and even cared about the extra calories and things.” “Yeah, yeah, okay, don’t mention it,” he replied a bit more defensively. “Eat your fucking rabbit food, won’t ya?” He rolled his eyes and then grumpily took out his own container of food, then grabbed his own Coke from the drink tray, popped a straw into it, and gladly took a sip. The younger brother chuckled then sat down next to him, then poured a cup of vinaigrette onto his salad. As he was mixing it up, out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Dean was holding some style of club sandwich. He didn’t say anything, but he saw a scowl as a response to his obviously perplexed look. “I didn’t say anything!” “Your eyes said enough,” he replied with a glare. “I’m just… surprised… that’s all.” “Surprised? About what ?” “Well… that.” Sam made a vague gesture to the sandwich and then at the baked potato that was also in his food container. “Since when do you go to some greasy diner and get not greasy food?” He asked in a judgmental tone where you couldn’t actually hear the slight tinge of concern he was feeling. “I don’t always eat greasy food,” he replied with a grumble then took a bite. “And since when do you eat white meat?” “This is turkey.” “Exactly! Unless it’s fried chicken, you only eat red meat!” “Hey, on Thanksgiving I–” “But it’s not Thanksgiving Dean!” “Why are you so mad?!” “Why are you–!” He stopped himself and then looked down at his salad and poked it with his fork. “I– You’re right. I’m sorry. I should be proud of you, not arguing with you. It’s just… weird to me, alright?” “Yeah, okay, whatever,” he replied, then placed his sandwich back into the plastic container, then grabbed the full container and his soda and relocated to his bed, placing his drink on the nightstand. Sam watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. Of course he wanted to be happy for his brother for making a health-conscious decision, but he couldn’t figure out what would cause that to happen, especially since he wasn’t there to berate him about what he’d order from the diner. — A week or so had passed since their vampire hunt, and the two brothers hadn’t seemed to come up with any new cases since then. Of course, getting to relax for a bit here and there was always a blessing, but sometimes it got boring. However, Dean started to somewhat appreciate having more time at the bunker away from fighting monsters day-in and day-out. Normally it was his brother’s thing to enjoy being at home and reading or watching a movie instead of being on the road kicking ass, but now he was the one that was fully content with sitting in bed all day watching hilariously awful horror movies on repeat. When yet another annoying long commercial break began on the tv as it switched into the next film in the series, Dean decided to take the opportunity to get up and go to the bathroom, so he did just that. On his way back, he decided to stop into the kitchen and grabbed a beer before heading back to his bedroom. He cracked it open, took a few sips, and got comfortable again in bed as the commercials ended and the next movie started. Several hours later, despite not remembering having fallen asleep, his eyes fluttered open and he groggily held his head as he sat up. His beer bottle had been set on the ground but was tipped over and an ounce or two of the beverage had been spilled onto the floor. His head throbbed and he winced in pain as he tried to figure out his surroundings. He looked down at his watch and tried to read the time through extremely hazy vision. He couldn’t see clearly enough to make out the thin hands on the dial, so he grabbed his phone from his nightstand and looked at it. 4:08am. He realized that the same movie that he had started watching before he fell asleep was now re-running, so he guessed that he had to have been out cold for at least six hours. He rubbed the base of his palm in his left eye as he tried to read the text notification on his phone. From Cass: My apologies that I have been so busy sorting out things in Heaven. I will update you as things keep developing. Dean sighed and set his phone back down, then laid his head down onto his bed as it began to throb more, a migraine seeming to quickly come on. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but then a wave of nausea began to hit him, and then all of a sudden he found himself vomiting over the side of his bed, straight onto the already existing puddle of spilled beer. After the past beer and a half came up and splattered onto the ground, he stared at it briefly in shock. He was hardly the type to throw up from too much alcohol, and he definitely did not drink too much either. “What the fuck…” He whispered to himself then got up, grabbing whatever random takeout napkins were nearby and began to wipe up the mess from the floor. He had to choke on his own saliva to prevent anything else from coming back up, if there even was anything else left to begin with. Once the majority of the vomit was cleaned up and he at least didn’t have to look at it anymore, he looked down at the rest of his body and realized that he was drenched in sweat. He sighed heavily, then grabbed some clean clothes from his dresser before making his way over to the bathroom. He turned on the shower head, letting the water warm up a bit before undressing and standing under it. He coaxed himself through taking deep breaths as the heat of the water thankfully seemed to make some of the tension in his body dissipate. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as it washed over him, and he didn’t even feel any additional lightheadedness as he suddenly blacked out. “Dean! Dean!” Sam shouted as he smacked his brother’s face. “Dean!” The older Winchester’s eyes flickered open, then panicked as he couldn’t figure out where he was or what he was doing. “S-Sam?” “Dean! Are you okay?!” He asked worriedly. “Y-Yeah, I think so. I–” He finally realized where he was and that he didn’t go back to bed after his shower because he was in the shower stall stark naked and laying on the ground. Thankfully his brother had the decency to toss a towel over him so neither of them had to have that unnerving moment of ‘well this is awkward…’ as he came-to. “What– What happened?” He asked as he slowly started to sit up with his younger brother’s help. “I’m not sure. I came in to take a shower and you were just on the ground passed out.” He worriedly looked at his brother’s face. “Are you alright?” “I think so…” Dean mumbled, but he didn’t sound very confident. “Do you need help getting up?” “Nah, I can manage. Can you just toss me my clothes?” “Yeah, ‘course,” he replied as he got up, then moved his brother’s fresh clothes closer and handed him a dry towel. “Here. I’ll be out there, just shout if you need me.” “Thanks,” he replied as his brother left the room, then he slowly stumbled to his feet and dried himself off before putting on a shirt and pajama pants. He walked over to the mirror and looked himself over and sighed. He couldn’t figure out what was going on with him, but whatever it was, it was really messing him up. — By now, a few more months had passed and the brothers had taken up a few more hunts here and there. Thankfully it wasn’t any of the insane shit that they’d have to deal with such as Leviathans, angel and demon wars, Knights of Hell, or anything else of that sort. It was just your typical salt n’ burn ghosts, stomping out a vampire nest or two, and the occasional werewolf fiasco. It was nearly as easygoing as it had been in the now long-ago past, you could almost say that it was easy as pie as of late. Thankfully, whatever strange flu that had overcome Dean was mostly dissipated by now, but it wasn’t fully gone. He’d still get nauseous if he got up too quickly, was more exhausted after hunts, and his tolerance for greasy food was still pretty low but at least it wasn’t zero. Despite the lingering symptoms of who-knows-what, the hunter was able to continue life fairly normally and chalked it up to a weird virus he must’ve caught at some sleazy bar a while back. While sitting at the bench in the kitchen, Dean poked at his bowl of cereal with his spoon. He watched as the frosted flakes bobbed in the milk, quickly returning to the surface just to get pushed down again. He didn’t take a bite of his food, he just stared at it as it got soggier with each press of his spoon. And with each bob into the bowl, he came closer and closer to the realization that he just wasn’t hungry anymore. Paired with a sigh of defeat, he stood up and put the bowl in the sink, not even bothering to pour any of it out and then took a walk around the bunker. As he got to the main area, he noticed his brother sitting in the library bouncing his attention between his laptop, some sort of old book, and a notepad. “Hey,” he said a bit quietly to avoid spooking him as he walked up. “Whatcha working on?” “Just comparing things…” He replied dismissively, hardly even paying any attention to anything besides his various notetaking. “Like…?” Sam pursed his lips in thought, then set down his pencil and picked up his notepad. “So get this…” “Oh great, here we go,” he said loudly and sarcastically. He gave his older brother a dramatic scowl as he watched him sit on the corner of the table. “Ignoring that…” He sighed and then began his monologue. “What I’ve found interesting is how we’ve come across so many monsters, ones that are so easily available with lore like zombies, werewolves, vamps, skinwalkers, shapeshifters, even wraiths and so-on. And we’ve come across even more niche things, like the actual Frankenstein family, Hansel and Gretel, Norse gods, and everything inbetween. So… why the hell have we never come across a mare?” “A mare?” Dean asked somewhat judgmentally. “Isn’t that just a horse?” “Yes, but no,” he replied, then spun around his laptop so his brother could see the screen. “Mares are related specifically to nightmares, where they’ll curse the dreams. Depending on the lore’s origin, some cultures do envision a mare as a woman, a horse, or a horse-woman, furthering the name of the mare.” “Huh…” He mumbled as he looked at the words on the screen and then the words scribbled onto his notepad as he felt a weird knot form in his stomach. “Yeah, we’ve never come across one of those. What are they supposed to do?” “Supposedly, they not only cause vivid, horrible nightmares, but they also entangle their victims with their own hair and/or suffocate them by walking on their chests as they sleep while sucking the life force out of them. They may also leave their victims struggling to breathe, causing them pain and agony as their body panics, leading to a sleep-paralysis-like situation where they may wake up sweating and– Yeah, kinda like that,” Sam said as he watched his brother grabbing his stomach in agony, beginning to groan in pain. “S–Sam,” he croaked out. “That’s like, a spot-on impression from what I can tell,” he praised with a smirk. “I’m– I’m being–” He tried to say but then fell onto the ground, doubled over in pain. “Dean!” He quickly threw himself at the floor to be at his brother’s side. “Oh my god, are you–” Now the hunter was in too much pain to even come up with words, he just clutched at his abdomen and gasped for breath as he experienced what felt like his insides being completely crushed. “Don’t worry, I gotcha–” Sam said as he quickly got to his feet and lifted his brother up, wrapping his arm around his shoulder and moving his other arm to his brother’s side to help keep him upright and steady as he hastily headed towards the garage. After getting his brother squared away in the passenger seat, he ran back inside to find the car keys so he could rush him to the hospital. “Fuck…” Dean whispered to himself as he folded over his own body in pain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpered, panicking at this new type of pain he had never experienced before. Once they arrived at the hospital, Dean was quickly rushed into the emergency department and multiple nurses began to hook him up to various machines to check things like his blood pressure, heartrate, oxygen levels, setting up an IV, even ordering an EKG because he couldn’t stop grabbing at his chest and screaming in agony. Sam paced around the waiting room as he waited for clearance to go back to where his brother was being held. His tall stature mixed with his high stress levels made it seem almost like he was stomping across the ground as he tried to walk off his panic that clearly wasn’t going anywhere. He chewed on his nails, only stopping to whisper out “Cas? Please tell me you have your ears on. I– I know you’re busy, but there’s something wrong with Dean. If you can, please, please come help, I don’t know what to–” His quiet prayer stopped when he heard a reception nurse call his name. He quickly ran over to her. “Hi, yes, I’m Sam.” “Relationship to the patient?” “That’s my brother.” “I see,” she said and tapped the top of her ballpoint pen to her lip, not saying anything else. “Is… Is he gonna be okay?” “Yes, he’ll be alright,” she replied flatly. “Can I go see him?” He asked hastily, clearly displaying his impatience with the situation. “Once we move him into the proper department, yes,” she replied just as flatly which showed her extreme lack of concern for Sam’s concern in this situation. “Okay, where’s he headed to?” “Floor six.” “Great, thanks,” he answered quickly, then ran off to the nearest elevator. He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the next one to arrive, and then as soon as he got in, he quickly smashed the six button so powerfully that he nearly broke it. It felt like it was the slowest moving elevator in the world because of his anxiety, but lo-and-behold, he arrived at floor six. He rushed out and sprinted down the hallway, then stopped and looked around, his face falling in confusion as he realized what department he was at. “No… This can’t be right…” He muttered to himself as he heard piano instrumentals of nursery rhymes softly playing and the entire department seemed to be decorated with pastel pinks and blues, with printed decorations of things like pacifiers, diapers, and feeding bottles. Clearly the confusion was written all over his face because one of the department receptionists decided to speak up. “Sir?” She saw him quickly turn his attention to her. “Can I help you find where you’re going?” “I– Umm… Yeah, yeah…” He said nervously as he walked up to the counter. “I was told to come to floor six.” “Well great!” She said cheerfully. “This is floor six!” “Right… But this definitely isn’t the correct department so–” She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean? Obstetrics, gynecology, and labor and delivery is the only unit on floor six.” Sam scoffed awkwardly. “Must’ve told me the wrong floor then,” he grumbled. “Who did you talk to?” She asked as she sat back down at her computer, pulling up the patient files. “One of the receptionists downstairs in the emergency department.” She hummed as she went over the files. “Let’s see here…” She scrolled through her screen, then landed on something potentially relevant. “I’ve got someone. Checked into the ER roughly forty minutes ago, correct?” “Yes.” “Can you describe this person for me?” “How?” “Height, hair color, the basics.” “R-Right, umm…” Sam fumbled for the words as he tried to think of what they’d include in his medical file. “Six-foot one, light brown hair, green eyes, tattoo underneath the left collarbone like–” He pulled his shirt briefly out of the way and showed his anti-possession tattoo. “It’s just like this.” The woman nodded, clicked a few more buttons, and then looked back up at him. “Relationship to the patient?” “Brother.” “Wonderful, then that means that you’re…” She looked at the screen for a second before turning her attention back to him. “Sam, correct?” “Yeah.” “Perfect, come right this way!” She excitedly got up and walked around the counter. Clearly she thought that he was in the correct department, but the hunter was absolutely convinced that he wasn’t. The two walked over to one of the exam rooms, then pointed at the room’s number. “Room 18, Dean will be transferred here momentarily as soon as they discharge him from the emergency department up to us. If you need any refreshments or snacks, just go down that hallway to your left,” she said as she pointed, “and there will be some vending machines there with all sorts of different stuff. If you have any other questions, just ask! My name is Tiffany, hope everything goes well with the baby!” She happily smiled at him, but he still seemed to be too stuck in shock, so she politely excused herself with a head nod and then went back to her desk. “What the fuck…” He whispered to himself as he looked around. He watched as a very pregnant woman was being pushed around in a wheelchair, and down one of the hallways was a nurse running over to one of the rooms with fresh towels. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths which didn’t seem to do him very much good. “It’s some weird misunderstanding,” he whispered. “They must’ve gotten his chart confused with someone else’s, I mean there’s no way that–” “I don’t belong here!” A familiar voice shouted loudly. “What the fuck do you mean that I belong in this goddamn department?! I’m in pain and I feel like I’m dying so why the fuck–!” He gasped as he was wheeled on a bed past his brother. “Sammy! Sammy! Help me out here, I don’t know–!” “ Please calm down–” One of the nurses said exhaustedly. “No! I won’t calm down! Are you trying to say that I’m supposed to be giving birth or something?! I swear to god, I am suing all of you for medical malpractice, and I know I can because my brother–” “That’s enough, sir,” the nurse said firmly as he rolled the bed into the room and then established the brakes on the wheels. “The doctor will be in shortly to assess you, okay?” He added calmly as Sam rushed up behind him. “What the hell is he doing here?!” He asked in a rush. “What the hell are we doing here?!” “Well, this department is for delivering babies,” he replied simply. “Yeah, and my brother is not pregnant!” “You see…” He began to take a deep breath before talking when Dean cut him off. “Oh shut up! You’re all just bad at your jobs because what the–” He stopped berating the nurse as he shouted out in pain. “Don’t worry, your contractions are still few and far between,” he said kindly. “If you need any further assistance before the doctor arrives, just press that button,” he stated and pointed to a bright red button on the wall. The nurse then quickly excused himself before either of the brothers could start yelling at him again and creating problems. “I can’t believe this,” Sam said with a scoff. “Me either,” Dean choked out through the pain. “They’re insane, completely insane. You’re right, we should sue them. I haven’t been to college in a while, and I didn’t go all of the way through law school, but I mean, this is just cra– Dean?” He looked over at his brother who suddenly seemed weak and defeated. “Hey,” he said softly as he rushed to his side. “What is it?” “I–” He bit his inner cheek as he struggled to say what he was thinking. “What if… What if they’re right?” “What do you mean ‘if they’re right’ ?” He asked, his voice a mix of anger-based concern and worry-based concern. “That I’m…” “Pregnant?” He let out a small laugh. “Dean, there’s no way that you can be pregnant. You’re a guy , first off. And that kinda requires taking a dick up your ass, so I think that that’s–” His demeanor shifted when his brother nervously looked away from him in embarrassment. “You’ve taken a–” “Shut up,” he retorted. Sam did his best to stifle a laugh, but clearly seemed to struggle with it. “I assume it was Cas’?” He watched as his brother refused to make eye contact but nodded slowly. “Huh… I see.” “I mean yeah , but–” Brushing off the last statement his brother made, he looked at him with a more serious expression. “That still doesn’t change the fact that I’m a dude ! A dude! And dudes don’t get pregnant!” “Well, not when two human dudes do it at least,” he replied with a half-shrug and too-casual tone. “I– What?” “Well I mean, if it was Cas , he’s not exactly human. He’s an angel . Maybe his powers changed your biology or… something…” He began to sound more confused, which was valid because he was in fact confusing himself. “I don’t know,” he sighed loudly. “I don’t get it, and neither do you, but apparently everyone here is convinced that you’re about to give birth and I– How did you not know you’ve been pregnant?!” “I don’t know!” He shouted defensively. “It’s not like I ever got some sort of period, and it’s not like I ever got fat either!” He pointed at his stomach. “I don’t look pregnant to you, do I?” “No!” “Yeah! And aside from the weird reactions to food, the nausea, exhaustion, and infrequently losing consciousness I– oh…” The two brothers stared at each other blankly, the silence leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I know the one time you passed out in the shower,” Sam said with genuine concern. “But the other stuff?” “I– It’s–” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I wouldn’t have guessed this !” He shouted and gestured to the decorated room around them. “I thought it was some weird stomach flu that I was fighting off!” “Wait a second… Is that why you’ve been eating less greasy food?” He asked and watched as his brother tightened his jaw. “Cause it’s been making you nauseous.” “Again, I didn’t think that I’d be–” “And why you haven’t had the energy for back-to-back hunts and barhopping.” “Yeah but like–” “Oh my god.” He gasped. “Dude, we gotta tell Cas.” “Tell Cas?! Tell him what ?!” He asked angrily then began talking in a sarcastic tone. “Hi Cas, it’s Dean, I know you’re busy in Heaven and all, but I’m at so-and-so hospital in room 18 right now because apparently you got me pregnant by shoving your dick in my ass and now I’m about to suddenly give birth and–” A large gust of wind and loud sound of flapping wings suddenly filled the room, nearly knocking Sam off of his feet. He grabbed onto the side rails of the hospital bed, that just barely prevented him from slamming against the ground. As he stood up slowly, he looked over to the angel that appeared in the room next to them. “Yeah…” He said with a chuckle. “Just like that.” “Dean.” Castiel said as he walked over to Dean’s side and took his palm in his. “You’re pregnant?” “That’s what the doctor says,” he scoffed and pulled his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest. “You didn’t tell me?” “I didn’t even know until ten minutes ago!” He shouted. “It’s not like I’d ever expect myself to be able to–” “Hello gentlemen, may I come in?” The doctor said sweetly as she knocked on the doorframe. Sam took a few steps away from Dean’s side. “Yeah, sure…” He said slowly then leaned against the nearby counter and watched. “I’m Dr. Kelsey. How are you feeling?” She asked softly as she took out her stethoscope and held it to the hunter’s stomach. “I’ve been bette–” He started to reply then shrieked from the cold metal touching his skin. She giggled and listened for a few seconds then pulled away. “Seems like you’re coming along well so far. Now, I wanted to go over options with you,” she said as she pulled out a clipboard. “Because this is unlike all of the other birth cases that we come across in this department, we are significantly more open to offering to do a c-section as opposed to a natural birth as your body’s anatomy is not quite… suited for that so you should say.” Dean scowled and rolled his eyes. He looked over at the angel who was looking between him and then the doctor and then back to him multiple times. “If they cut me open, will you–” “Of course,” he interrupted, wanting to make sure that the doctor didn’t hear about the angel powers even though she was properly wondering how it was even possible for him to become pregnant in this one-of-a-kind situation, and even moreso to be fully unaware of it until contractions started. With a small sigh of relief, he looked back over to the doctor. “Yeah, we’ll go with the c-section.” “Wonderful. We’ll go get everything set up now, alright?” She gave him a reassuring smile, which thankfully seemed to ease all three of them a bit. “Do you have any questions?” “Just one,” Dean responded. “Can he come in with me for the surgery?” He asked as he pointed at Castiel. “It would just make me feel a bit–” “Of course. As long as he’s comfortable being in there as well,” she replied, then they all looked over at the angel who smiled and grabbed onto Dean’s hand and squeezed it. “I was hoping that you’d want me there,” he said and then leaned over and gave the hunter a kiss on the forehead. “Any other questions for me before the O.R. finalizes their set-up for you?” She looked at all three men who shook their heads. “Alright, I’ll be back to come get you as soon as they’re ready for you.” She smiled once more at them and then excused herself, quietly closing the door as she left. After some very awkward and very tense seconds of attempting to wrap their heads around the conversation, the three men exchanged looks as they tried to figure out who would speak up first. “So you’re just…” Sam said slowly. “Yup…” Dean replied nervously. “I’ll be right there,” Castiel insisted. “And I’ll be right… uh…” The younger brother looked around and then found a chair in the corner. “Over here,” he said as he pointed to it over his shoulder then slowly backed over to it. They both chuckled and then Castiel turned his attention back to Dean. “I’ll be right there to make sure you’re okay, and if I need to step in and use my powers, then I will.” He squeezed the hunter’s hand in his. “I know this is sudden and a lot for all of us, especially for you , but since this is truly a miracle, I know it’ll be a great one.” He gave him a reassuring smile before leaning down and kissing him deeply. “Thank you,” he whispered back against his lips. “Anything for you, Dean,” he whispered and then planted another kiss onto his lips. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Darkness spilled like ink across Luke’s eyes, absolute and burning. Inescapable. He’d been falling for hours, or perhaps minutes. Time had no meaning here, in the infernal black. Honestly, Luke wasn’t entirely sure he was falling , exactly. He certainly jumped, had felt gravity take hold, but…. There was no wind. He did not feel weightless; he’d been in zero gravity, and it had felt entirely different. This was an absence . Yes… an absence of light, of sound, of gravity, of reality as he knew it. He wasn’t even sure he was on Ahch-To anymore. It didn’t seem possible, but he very much doubted that he was. It wouldn’t be the most incredible story he had heard – there had been references to a realm between worlds, a labyrinth of paths through time, linking key moments in history, weaving a web between past, present, and future. Luke looked, but there were no paths. He squinted, though he knew it was useless. His eyes, desperate for input, played shadows against the darkness, like clouds against a moonless night. They remained amorphous, distant, and absent in the Force. Or perhaps it was the Force that was absent. Luke felt like he should be panicking, to feel so cut off from the light, but he had jumped to darkness willingly. He had felt darkness before, had danced along its edge, fever bright. It had felt nothing like this void. He should have been afraid. Silence echoed in the chamber, a heavy punctuation to Luke’s last statement. It wasn’t often that the Council was told as a body that it was wrong, or at least, Obi-Wan amended, not by one who spoke with such weight behind his words. And make no mistake, there was power behind Luke when he spoke. Obi-Wan had seen the strength of his connection to the Force more than once: the way he caught the fighter, the way he recovered during the fight with Dooku, the way he handled the Sith Artifacts with ease, but this? Obi-Wan wondered just how deep his wells ran. Just how much was Luke hiding? ”I hope you know what you’re doing,” Leia murmured, leaning into his side, her voice filled with the same dry amusement in her voice that Luke remembered from the first moment they had met in truth. Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper? “I always know what I’m doing,” Luke murmured back, lying outright, but Leia just chuckled and stood back. He held back a sigh. This wasn’t going anything like Luke had anticipated, though, to be fair, he hadn’t really planned beyond getting to the council and telling them about Palpatine. He really should have guessed that they would get stuck on Ventress – she was a recognizable threat, but merely a symptom, a symbol of the larger problem. Palpatine. Luke knew that blame didn’t rest solely on Palpatine’s shoulders; he had pieced together enough from salvaged data files, and talks with Leia and Han and Chewie, to know that the Republic was, at the very least, stagnating. They had ceded part of the rim to the Hutts centuries before, and the Hutt influence had only grown while the Core remained focused on their own comforts. The Jedi, who were never supposed to be anything other than themselves, were stretched far too thin. And Palpatine had wormed his way into the cracks and flaws in the system – exploiting what he could and manufacturing the rest. There were times, before he took his leap of faith, that Luke wondered if it wouldn’t be better to let the Order die – if their presence wasn’t exactly the fatal flaw of the republic. He couldn’t think that way now. Not after what he had seen. Again arguing between themselves, it was clear that most of the council did not believe him about any of it - being from the future, the Dark returning to the Light: how could they, when he and Leia arrived telling stories of truths that had long since thought to be lies? How could they not, when the proof of them was right before their eyes. Your eyes may deceive you. Do not trust them. Luke sighed at the memory. It was perhaps the first lesson he had learned about the Force, and here he was, several decades later, still making the same mistakes. His life, it would seem, was a series of repeated mistakes. Of course, that was when Master Tiin had to open his mouth. “If you are not a Sith trap, then you are nothing more than a fraud.” “He is not!” Anakin burst out, and then bit his tongue, swallowing back the rest of what he wanted to say with clear difficulty. Luke sent him a gentle smile, fleeting and yet earnest. “Knight Skywalker,” Windu said, cutting through the growing tension with the heavy weight of authority. “You will have your chance to report, but there is protocol to follow.” That, at least, seemed to be a censure for the cranky Master as much as for Anakin. Luke smiled at Windu, who looked honestly a little bewildered at Luke’s reaction. “I think now is as good a time as any,” Obi-Wan countered, gently. “Perhaps once the Council understands the series of events, the circumstances that have bought Ventress to our doorstep will appear less impossible.” “I agree,” Kit said, and there was a round of nods from the younger councilors. “Very well,” Mace said. “Knight Skywalker. Your report.” Anakin stepped forward, coming to stand between his children, hands hidden in his cloak sleeves, and he bowed to the council, the depth of respect clearly practiced though badly worn. As he watched, Luke felt a pang of longing, echoes of his long ago wishes of youth. I wish I’d known him... And here he was, an Anakin who had never been Vader, who had never fallen and clawed his way back to the light. Who did not know what it felt like to fall. In fact, between the two of them, at this moment, Luke knew far more about the darkside than his father. Leia leaned back at that moment, raising her eyebrow at him, and he felt a tendril of her concern reach towards him, questioning. He met her with gentle reassurance, and wondered, idly, what Leia would think about the story their father was about to tell. Anakin began without preamble, posture straight and overly formal, and very reminiscent of the way Vader had stood, the few times he and Luke had met. “It started during the last stages of the evacuation, when we were interrupted by a separatist attack. Most of the evacuees were already safely aboard transport, but subfighters appeared to fire on those still on the ground. We began our defense immediately, but one of the fighters broke through, and was headed straight for one of the children. That’s when Luke,” he hesitated, as if unsure how else to name him, before he continued on. “...caught the fighter and landed it on the other side of the fighting.” “You mean he redirected the fighter,” said the Togruta Master, taking advantage of the pause to clarify. The strength of the flicker in her blue hologram testament to the distance between them. Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, Master Ti, he meant ‘caught.’ I witnessed the act myself. It was most impressive, and a feat that I previously believed only Master Yoda capable of.” Well that set the womprat among the banthas, as the councilors exchanged uneasy looks. They held their peace, however loud it was, and looked at Luke with new, assessing eyes. It was enough to make Anakin shift, subtly, and Luke wondered why his father felt such a need to protect Luke from the Council. Still, he had faced far worse than the Council of Jedi Masters. Luke smiled, holding back his laughter as the feel of his sister’s exasperation, and said simply, “Size matters not.” There was a story there, he knew, and knew the rest of the council would pick up on that, at least. There was no mistaking Yoda’s inflection, after all. Yoda, at least, appeared pleased that his lesson had been learned so well. “It is quite the impressive feat, size or no,” said Master Rancisis, and Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, not caring who saw. They were past this! “But we knew this much from the report. What we don’t know is who you are or where you came from.” Luke turned to Mace, an expression of false innocence on his face so familiar, that Obi-Wan nearly had to close his eyes against the coming headache. “Did I not say?” he asked. “My name is Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master. I was introduced to the ways of the Jedi by Master Kenobi,” He nodded at Obi-Wan, who felt his vein pulse in his temple. “And trained under Master Yoda.” He grinned. “And we,” he gestured to Leia, “are from the future.” Obi-Wan did shut his eyes, then, as the Council room exploded into chaos once more. Then, into the rabble of the room, came a wholly unexpected sound; Yoda began to laugh. It started with a dry cackle, like the first push of a long-dried spring through baked earth, and like the spring, it soon grew into a torrent. For a moment, Obi-Wan could do nothing but stare at his great-grandmaster, aware that the rest of the Council was similarly bewildered – none matched the look on Ventress’s face, however, and Obi-Wan was going to savor that memory. “Wrong, you say?” Yoda said, through his laughter. “Called that before, the Council has. Ignored it then, we did, and we should not .” Yoda tapped the ground with his gimmer stick in emphasis. “Skywalker, he is. My Padawan, he is, for time — pah!” Yoda hit the ground once more. “Time means nothing in the Force.” Then, to the surprise of the council, he stood and made his way over not to Luke, but to Ventress, who was staring back with wide, shining eyes. “Dark have been our dreams,” Yoda said. “Fear, anger – in they creep, with no rest. Yes – no rest.” Yoda raised his claw, and it hovered in the air between them. “Always running,” Yoda said. “Darkness creeps.” He lowered his hand. “My choice,” Ventress, her harsh voice shaking. Yoda’s ears lowered, in a display of profound sadness and grief. “Yes,” he agreed. “But not a choice that should have been put before you.” “Choices are not locked in time,” Luke said. “They are built up though the past and extend into the future. Life is choice – is constantly choosing the path to walk, and as long as one lives, one can chose to leave one path to pursue another.” For the first time Obi-Wan heard the Master speaking. This was a man who had learned his lessons, who had in turn taught them to others. Force, Obi-Wan was reminded so forcefully of Qui-Gon, he nearly couldn’t breathe. “What’s to stop her from falling in the future?” Master Mundi asked, and Obi-Wan could hear, beneath the cool serenity of her tone, an honest inquiry. It was an important question, and one Obi-Wan very much wanted to hear the answer to. “She’s succumbed to darkness before – what’s to stop her from succumbing again?” “What’s to stop you from falling now?” Leia asked, voice sharp-edged. “The galaxy is in chaos, Darkness is everywhere, every victory is met with two defeats…what keeps you in the Light?” He sat back, as if stunned. “I am a Jedi!” “So was Dooku,” Obi-Wan said, but gently. “We are trained to pursue the light – trained from infancy, so that it no longer feels like a choice, but becomes a habit , and then spend our Padawan years learning to understand our connection to the greater world, to know oneself and one’s connection with the Force. But you cannot fully know yourself until you are aware of the choices you make, unconsciously, every day.” He met Mace’s eyes. “The Order is in crisis,” he said, echoing arguments that stretched back farther than his own knighthood. “There is not a Jedi in the order who has not faced Darkness. Sometimes more than once,” Obi-Wan added, with a wry nod at Ventress, who had regained enough of her composure to smirk back at him. Force help him, Obi-Wan was beginning to like her. Mace sighed, and Obi-Wan heard warning bells begin in the back of his mind. “Several nights ago, I was woken from sleep by the worst shatterpoint that I have ever witnessed. I saw several things, horrors that I hope never come true, but the sum of what I had seen was clear: the end of the Jedi Order.” Mace turned to Luke. “Isn’t it?” It was an odd request from Mace, who, despite his ability to see, refused to put much weight on future visions. “It is,” Luke said. “A choice stands before you: listen to us, and change your path, or the Jedi, the Republic is serves, the galaxy itself – will fall.” Sabé frowned at her wrist chrono. Padmé was late, and that wasn’t like her - not without Anakin here, to distract her. She looked over at Moteé, where she was sitting at her desk, quietly typing up her report. Sabé liked Moteé. All handmaidens must be sharp, quick witted and decisive, but Moteé was particularly astute when it came to the workings of the Galactic Senate. It was why she most often accompanied Padmé to the senate meetings. It used to be Sabé herself who went, but if she was honest with herself, Moteé was better at it. Sabé preferred the courtly proceedings on Naboo, and had quite had her fill of the senate at 14, during what she believed to be an opening salvo of the war in which they currently found themselves. (It wasn’t a common opinion, she knew, but it was one the handmaidens all shared). She checked her chrono again. Padmé was still late. “Checking your watch won’t make her appear.” Sabé looked up. Moteé was peering at her from over her screen, calm expression not quite masking the tension around her eyes. Sabé signed. At least Moteé saw it too. “It’s just not like her,” Sabé said, sitting heavily on the low couch in the middle of the room. As head of security, Padmé’s safety was her prime concern. Frustrated, she crossed her arms. “I knew I should have gone with her. She gets into enough trouble—” “At the Chancellor’s office?” Moteé asked. “The same Chancellor who has been her mentor for years?” Sabé knew what she meant. If anybody would take Padmé’s safety seriously it would be Chancellor Palpatine, but that didn’t stop an uneasy ache from forming in Sabé’s gut. And she had long ago learned to trust her gut. Sabé was on the verge of saying kriff it and heading over to the Chancellor’s office herself — better to be embarrassed because she was concerned than have something happen because she was — The door swooshed open, and Padmé strode in, as if she wasn’t several hours later than she should have been. Sabé sprung to her feet, smile already growing as she took a step towards her friend... ...but Padmé didn’t stop walking. She didn’t take her cloak off, or pause to remove the heavy uppermost layer of her headdress. She didn’t tease Sabé for her worry, or ask Moteé about the latest episode of Love Among the Jedi, which all of them watched and none would admit to any except each other. She didn’t say anything to Sabé at all, or even acknowledge Moteé’s existence. She swept by, as if she were walking along the senate corridor, and headed straight into her personal office, leaving Moteé and Sabé to look at each other in confusion and concern. Sabé’s gut was all but screaming at her now. Without taking her eyes from the door, Sabé pulled out her communicator, thumbing a code she never thought she would have to use. In the chaos of the council chamber, Anakin’s comm began to flash. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text When Peter wakes up, it’s to the sound of gentle snoring at the foot of the bed, and two beating hearts. One on the bed, the other beside it. He blinks down at the bed and finds Tim facedown in the blankets, asleep, as still as a log. Peter does his best to move his legs away from his sleeping friend to keep from waking him and looks over to his side, still mostly asleep. Dick Grayson is sitting in a plush chair on the other side of Peter’s nightstand, focused on his cell phone. He’s dressed casually and looks a bit tired and vaguely stressed. Peter can only guess at how long the man has been sitting there, and hopes he didn’t sit there all night. That can’t have been a good use of his time. Dick looks up from his phone and smiles. “Hey, Pete.” He bites back a cough and rubs his eyes. It takes him a moment to orient himself, to recognize that the weird light coming from the windows is sunlight, and that morning has come. It takes him a second moment to realize that the tickle at the back of his throat is from a laughing fit and not a coughing one. “Ugh,” Peter responds, his voice thick and gravelly. He slaps at his nightstand for his inhaler. Dick plucks it from the nightstand and hands it to him. Peter snatches it up, uses it, and then sighs in relief when the medicine starts to work. “Thanks.” “Anytime,” Dick replies. He considers the Nightwing figure on Peter’s nightstand for a moment and picks it up, amused. “You know, they never did get this costume right.” “They didn’t?” Peter asks, putting his inhaler down on top of the Stark radio and sitting up. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, feeling wrung out and sick. Which he is, but still, it’s a little rude for him to feel this much of it. “Nope,” Dick says, setting the figurine down with great care. “They never bothered painting the wings across the chest. Someone I met once told me branding was pretty important for that kind of thing.” Something tickles the back of Peter’s mind when Dick says that, but the connection doesn’t quite form. Typical for waking up with a horrific cold. “Oh. They were right.” He yawns, stretches carefully, and stares at Tim for a moment before asking, “Is he okay?” “Tim doesn’t keep to a normal sleep schedule, and when he does sleep, it’s usually done in a way that’s, at best, vaguely concerning,” Dick replies dryly. “Trust me, he’s fine.” "Should we move him over to his room?" Dick shakes his head. "No. Tim’s a heavy sleeper, but he doesn’t like getting forced awake. He'll act on instinct if someone grabs him or startles him when he's asleep. His training will kick in." "Training?" Peter asks, standing up from the bed. He tosses a blanket over Tim’s sleeping form. Tim responds by curling up inside it like a caterpillar. "Martial arts training," Dick explains. "It's a family tradition around here." "That's an odd tradition to have," Peter says. "Given recent events, it's probably a good one to have," Dick says, shrugging. Fair enough. Peter thinks on that and relaxes. "That's where he got those bruises from, isn't it? When we were changing for gym class awhile back, I saw these bruises on his ribs and...well, kind of assumed the worst." "He had a pretty rough sparring match awhile back, yeah,” Dick says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a few bruises of my own from a little while ago.” Peter feels himself relax. Tim’s bruises have been bothering him for awhile now. “I wondered. You guys should probably pull your punches when you spar together. That was a really nasty bruise.” Dick’s smile turns wry. “Our sparring partners don’t always agree to that. Actually, you should think about taking some lessons with us when you’re feeling better--” His phone beeps, and Dick snatches it up, and swipes open the screen, frowning down at it. He sighs. "What were you working on anyway?" Peter asks, silently thanking whatever god interrupted that thread of conversation. A quick boxing match at school that doesn’t last longer than three minutes is one thing, a prolonged self defense lesson is another. He can suppress his innate fighting instincts for only so long. And given how weird his moods have been lately, that might not be the best idea. The Waynes seem to not care and accept his weird meta abilities, but they might not be so forgiving if he flings Dick through a wall on instinct. “Moving,” Dick says simply. “I live in Blüdhaven, but my place isn’t exactly....Uh.” He pauses. “Suitable for taking in another person? It’s a little cluttered like my car, you know, kind of--” “It’s a total dump, isn’t it?” Peter asks, amused. “Absolute trash fire,” Dick replies with a rueful grin. Peter finds himself warming up to Dick a bit more; sure, he grew up rich and pampered, but he has the same down to earth practicality as Tim and Duke. “Anyway, I thought it would just be easier to stay in the manor instead of dragging you over to Blüdhaven. I was trying to get into touch with a friend to help me move back into the manor, but Wally isn’t answering his phone for some reason.” Peter tilts his head. “Is that weird?” “Very weird. Normally if I call him, he’s at my door within the hour, but he’s not answering at all. And that’s just not like him. Maybe I should call Barry,” Dick replies, speaking half to himself. He rubs at a spot on the back of his head and frowns down at this phone for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Nevermind. Are you hungry?” “Starving,” Peter admits. “Clean up and meet me in the kitchen,” Dick says, standing up from the chair and heading for the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet. And we should talk anyway.” “Right,” Peter says. “Meet you downstairs.” Dick smiles, nods, and shuts the door behind himself. Peter gets up and stretches, briefly touching the gunshot wound in his side. It still aches and burns, but it’s a healing ache now. Alfred’s cooking has done wonders for his healing factor, thank god. If this keeps up, he might be close to full strength in a month. Maybe less. Depending on the Joker toxin, he supposes. He makes a mental note to look into that toxin when he gets the chance. Though where he’s going to find a lab, let alone one stocked with everything he needs, is anyone’s guess. He’ll need to find one soon, if only to get more web fluid. He can probably cobble together a cheap suit from the clothes Alfred has bought him... He’s getting distracted. He sighs, throws the blankets over Tim’s sleeping form, and heads for the shower, curious about this person Dick wants Peter to meet. * * * He has his answer the moment he steps into the kitchen, still a little damp from the shower and wearing warm clothes. Dick is sitting at the kitchen island with a beautiful woman wearing a purple coat. He perks up when Peter steps inside the kitchen and waves him over to a seat that has a steaming meal resting in front of it. Peter is eager to hop up onto the stool and grab a fork. “There he is,” Dick says. “Kory, this is Peter. Peter, this is Kory, my girlfriend.” The first thing Peter thinks when he meets Kory is: wow, she’s beautiful. And she is. She stands a few inches taller than Dick and carries herself with a quiet self assurance that somehow conveys both confidence and appreciative curiosity about her surroundings. Her hair is a shade of red that seems just a bit out of the range of normal human color, but is no less beautiful for all that. Of course, he’s kind of got a thing for redheads. The thought that follows immediately after that is: she’s meta. Her eyes are just a hair too bright, her movement just a bit too uncanny, and her heart beats a bit too fast. Oddities like that are common for meta people like him, especially those that have enhanced strength. Captain America’s heart was the same way. Oddly, despite the faster beat, Kory’s heart seems to match Dick’s heartbeat as much as possible. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Kory says, smiling warmly at him. “You’re Dick’s son now?” “Uh--” Peter starts, thrown by the question. “Technically, he’s my ward,” Dick says, cutting in smoothly. “I haven’t--the paperwork is more like a guardianship. I’m responsible for Peter, but not his father. A caretaker.” And Peter hears, distantly, a different voice sneer, “ I’m a little confused as to the relationship here. What is he, your ward?” Kory frowns at this, not quite understanding. “Like Bruce did for you?” “Until he adopted me, yeah,” Dick replies. “Think of the tower, back when we all moved in together.” That seems to click for her. She smiles at Peter. “I see. Well. Welcome to the family, Peter.” "Thanks," Peter says, sitting down beside her. "What did you want to talk about, Dick?" "I wanted to touch base with you, that’s all. You’re going through a lot. You’ve gone through a lot, too,” Dick says. “Bruce gave me the rundown. Something about paparazzi, and--uh.” Peter pauses. “And I think I threatened him if he made me do rich people nonsense.” “The standard threat we’ve all given him at one point or another. To his credit, he’ll do his best to protect you,” Dick says. “So will everyone else, but you’re kind of the hot topic on the internet at the moment.” “What? Why?” Peter asks. “You’re involved with the Waynes. It’s just something that comes with the territory, unfortunately. The press is going to have a field day over you for at least a month, assuming nothing else bombastic happens in the city,” Dick explains. “They can’t reach you here, and Alfred and Bruce and I can chase them away here at the manor, but they’re too rabid to deal with right now.” “I would’ve thought Spider-Man would’ve been bigger news,” Peter says, squinting at one article. ‘ Newest Wayne Heir: Peter Parker’ . Heir? What the hell is that about? “You know, since he’s out of action after that thing with the crane.” Dick freezes for a moment, and visibly fights back some kind of strong reaction. Anger, maybe. Definitely grief. That surprises Peter; he’s never seen Dick in Crime Alley as Spider-Man or in his regular day to day life. And he would’ve noticed him. Dick’s far too easy going and clean cut to blend in with the usual Crime Alley types. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Dick replies, his tone even and calm. Kory reaches out and gently places her hand on top of his and Dick shakes his head. “I just wanted to warn you to be careful. Not that it matters since you’re recovering from being sick.” “Well, noted. I’m not completely clueless, believe it or not. Tony taught me some tricks awhile back.” “Oh, yeah?” Dick asks. There’s curiosity there, but a lot more wariness. “I haven’t seen him recently.” Shocker. Peter tilts his head, looking at Dick for a long moment. Finally, he asks, “Did Tony really sign over custody to you?" "Would he normally do that?" Dick counters. Peter pauses. If Tony had literally appeared in this universe, found out what Peter had done, and knew he had only a short amount of time to help Peter, then yes. Hell, Peter wouldn't be surprised if Tony wouldn’t have managed to sketch out some rough design of a transdimensional device in the process. If May were here (the thought of her name is enough to cause a burning ache in his chest), she would probably do the same thing. But Tony wasn't at the conference. Loki was. And Peter has no idea what Loki would do. "Believe it or not, that is an unbelievably complicated answer," Peter says. "We're still looking for him, for the record," Dick says. “If only to tell him where you are.” "You won’t find him," Peter says. "He's gone." Dick frowns. “I’m pretty good at finding people. If you don’t mind telling me about him--” His phone goes off before Peter can even think of an answer (thank god), and Dick glances at the screen, frowning at it. The name on the screen reads Barry Allen. He hesitates, glancing between the phone and Peter. “You should take that,” Kory says. “I’ll stay with Peter.” Dick shoots her a grateful look and stands up, grabbing his phone and patting Peter’s shoulder on his way by. He steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Peter can hear brief snatches of conversation: ‘ Hi, Barry, what’s up?’ and ‘ No, I haven’t seen him, I thought he was busy with you?’ before Dick’s voice fades from his hearing completely. The joys of abnormally thick and weirdly soundproof walls. “So, Kory, where are you from?” Peter asks after a moment of awkward silence. Kory smiles. They spend some time speaking. By the end of it, Peter realizes he still doesn’t quite know where Kory is from , just that she lives in New York with a bunch of roommates. That works as a springboard for the rest of the conversation, at least, until she excuses herself and leaves him alone. She seems nice. After eating half of the meals Alfred left for him in the kitchen’s industrial sized fridge, Peter excuses himself and heads back upstairs, grabbing one last smoothie for the road. This one is green, and smells strongly of healthy vegetables, completely at odds with the strawberry banana smoothie he drank dry while speaking with Kory. He taps the door to his own room and peeks his head inside. Tim is sitting up on his bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets Peter threw across him earlier, clearly half asleep. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are open to bare slits. Judging by his heartbeat and breathing, he just woke up. "Dude, you look like a zombie," Peter says by way of greeting, walking into his room. Tim’s response is a grunt. “I brought you a smoothie,” Peter says. “Since I don’t think you had dinner last night.” Another grunt. A three second pause, and then Tim slithers a hand out from under the blankets and reaches for the smoothie. Peter is beyond amused and a little concerned. He hands Tim the drink and flops down across his bed, sinking into it. It’s way too soft. He wonders if Alfred would be insulted if he found Peter sleeping on the floor. Tim drinks his smoothie, gradually waking up. He watches Peter carefully. “How do you feel?” Peter shrugs, and aims for honesty. “I’m good until the next mental breakdown hits.” He’s only half joking. He feels okay now , but he’s also tired, and a little jittery from the inhaler. He can’t remember his dreams, but the thought of them sets his teeth on edge. He’s exhausted and needs sleep, but he knows the moment he closes his eyes, he’ll be dragged over the coals by his own memories. That’s going to spell disaster sooner or later. “I know how that feels,” Tim says, taking a deep drink. “As a heads up, I might get a little, uh, focused over the next few days.” “Yeah, it seemed like you were super into your project last night. What were you working on?” Tim pulls his phone out of the blanket cocoon and swipes it open. It’s much more high tech than Peter’s, filled with apps that look to be custom made. Peter idly wonders if Tim and Ned would have been friends if they’d had the chance to meet. The grief that follows that though sours his mood a little. “Just checking up on a friend I haven’t heard from in awhile. Then I got sidetracked by something else,” Tim says, holding out his phone. There’s an image of a tall, broad shouldered teenager standing in front of a modest farm house near a field of sunflowers. A kid sits on his shoulders; the two look like brothers, and both of them are wearing shirts with Superman’s symbol across the front. They look like brothers. “This is Conner. He’s my best friend. He sent me this a month ago when he and his brother went to visit their grandparents. It’s the last I’ve heard from him.” Peter is fascinated by the turns of fate that allowed an over-caffeinated old money genius to become best friends with a Kansas farm boy who looks able and willing to juggle a herd of cows with one hand tied behind his back. Actually, he looks weirdly familiar. Peter squints at the picture. "He kinda looks like Superman.” "He gets that a lot,” Tim says. He drains the rest of the smoothie down, and stands, leaving Peter’s blankets behind. “I should let you rest and get some coffee.” “Sure. Go easy on the coffee,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn. “No,” Tim says, walking for the door. He hesitates at the doorway for a moment. “Hey.” Peter, already half buried in the blankets, blinks up at Tim. “Call me or Duke if you need anything, all right?” Tim says. “I might be distracted, but I’m still here if you need me.” “I know,” Peter says. He pauses. “Thanks for putting up with me last night.” “I don’t ‘put up’ with family,” Tim explains patiently. He pauses. “Minus Damian, I guess, but also not really. Anyway, don’t think like that. You’re not a burden, Peter.” “Nightwing said the same thing to me once,” Peter says, amused. “He told me you’d say that, too.” “Nightwing’s a pretty smart guy,” Tim says, with an air of familiarity that’s surprising to Peter. He pauses again and adds, “And he’s right.” He leaves after that, stepping through Peter’s door and shutting it behind himself as he goes. Peter stretches out on the bed, annoyed by how exhausted he feels. He got up, showered, ate, and spoke to three whole people and he’s ready for a nap. Is this how old people feel? God, this sucks. His phone vibrates on the nightstand, and he grabs it on autopilot. New Message Dick: Hey, sorry I left in such a hurry. I’m going to be a little busy moving back to the manor, but I’m here if you need me. Day or night. Okay? Peter: yeah, got it! Good luck with your move! Okay, so that wasn’t the most elegant or smoothest end to a conversation, but he couldn’t just leave Dick on read. Peter sets his phone down on the nightstand, gently bumps fists with the Nightwing figurine, and then turns out the light. His room is dark, quiet, and warm. He sleeps. And dreams of his family. * * * His cold lessens by the hour; after a little bit of good rest and better food, Peter finds himself almost back to full strength. If it wasn’t for the occasional burst of laughing seizures, he’d be back to normal. Or, at least, normal enough to start up his patrols again. The problem is this: good rest means he’s no longer distracted by hunger and exhaustion. His temper becomes hotter and sharper. Harder to control. It’s strong enough to pull him out of a sound sleep. His dreams about May and Ben become nightly affairs. They’re not quite nightmares, but they aren’t pleasant either. They end with May trying to speak with him. It almost feels too real for a mere dream. * * * The nightmares become a problem two days into his new life with the Waynes. To his utter shock, they aren’t made uncomfortable by his screaming nightmares. In fact, they’re treated as almost routine , as if each of them expected this or has personal experience with nightmares of their own. Maybe that’s true. He’d bet good money that they definitely don’t have the same nightmares as he does. He dreams of Ben and May. Of Titan. Of the Vulture. He sees the Joker grinning at him from the shadows, bloody crowbar in hand. The worst nightmares are a combination of all of the above. And the absolute worst ones are chased away by indistinct figures wreathed in orange and gold. Peter gets the sense they hurt themselves doing this. He starts to avoid sleeping. Not a lot; his body is just too beaten up and exhausted to allow much insomnia. Just enough that the nightmares stop becoming a nightly occurrence because he’s simply not sleeping on a nightly basis. He’s balancing his mental health against his physical health at the moment and feels as though he’s walking a tightline between two separate disasters. Not exactly an elegant solution, but a solution nonetheless. * * * “You should sleep, man,” Duke says. He invited himself into Peter’s room a few minutes ago. It’s the first thing he’s said to Peter, and unfortunately, it sets off a level of aggravated annoyance that Peter’s wholly unprepared to hide. “No,” Peter says. He’s been pacing his room for hours now, staving off sleep minutes at a time. His tone is sharper than he intends, and his fists are clenched at his sides, and he’s moving just a hair too quick for a normal human. If Duke wasn’t currently in the room, he would literally be crawling the walls to stave off sleep for just a few more minutes. That he can’t indulge in his weird spider instincts is another annoyance to pile on top of the others. Including the sound of the rain tapping his window, the sound of Duke’s heartbeat, and the sound of electricity running through the walls. If he was less tired, he’d recognize the telltale sign for an impending migraine; oversensitivity is usually a big clue for him. Duke is quiet for a moment, clearly concerned, and then tries again. “Peter, seriously, I think you should lay down at least--” Peter crosses the room, grabs Duke by his shirt, and slams him against the wall before he realizes what he’s doing. He glares up at Duke. The anger is quickly boiling over into a simmering rage. His vision actually starts to turn red; a thing he never thought possible before. Distantly, a voice calls to him. Something golden from far away shouts, “ Peter! Enough!” It sounds like T’Challa, calling out across a fathomless void. It distracts Peter away from his tantrum long enough to realize how tired he is, and that drains away more of his anger. Duke is watching him warily, and with a steady, almost unnerving amount of calm. Either people lose their shit on him constantly or he’s not very impressed with Peter’s tantrum. Peter sets him down gently and takes several big steps back, covering his face with his hands, breathing in deep, heavy gasps. A few come out in chuckles, and he takes that for the warning it is. He staggers over to his nightstand, snatches up the inhaler, and uses it to head off the crazed laughter. He stays hunched over his nightstand, dropping the inhaler down with a heavy sigh. A very tense silence follows. Duke hasn’t moved from where Peter set him down. His heart rate is elevated, and so is breathing, but only from dwindling shock. Peter’s spider sense isn’t touching off, but well. It hasn’t pinged against anyone in this house. Peter sighs. “I need to be left alone right now,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. It comes out harsh and bitter at the edges. After a few seconds, he grinds, “Please.” Duke says nothing. He simply leaves, gently shutting the door behind himself as he goes. Peter lets out a long sigh and holds his head in his hands. What the fuck was that all about? * * * BATCHAT Duke (11:20pm): Dick, where are you? Dick (11:22pm): Crime Alley. Bane broke out of prison, Jason and I are trying to track him down. Dick (11:23pm): Correction: I’m trying to track him down. Jason might actually kill him. Duke (11:24pm): Peter needs you. Drop the patrols for awhile. Dick (11:25pm): What happened? Steph (11:26pm): A pit reaction. A pretty bad one, but Peter controlled himself. Dick (11:27pm): Where is he now? Steph (11:29pm): asleep. Cass is keeping an eye on him right now. Dick (11:28pm): I’ll be back as soon as I can. Jason (11:32pm): What’s that old phrase? History repeats itself? Jason (11:34pm): How many times did Bruce leave you alone in that manor to go chase the fucking Joker when you were a kid? Dick (11:46pm): Point made. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Eddard The yard of Winterfell was hushed, though packed with guards, smallfolk, and banners snapping in the chill northern wind. Ned stood at the front of the host, Catelyn beside him with infant Rickon in her arms. To his right stood his children in a neat row, Robb tall and eager at fourteen, Sansa graceful already, Arya restless as a colt, Bran with eyes wide, Jon at Lyanna’s side with quiet watchfulness, Daenerys with her silver hair gleaming against her dark cloak. Behind them, the household stood arrayed, the direwolf banners of Stark flying high from the walls. When the first rider bearing the stag of House Baratheon appeared at the gates, a murmur passed through the crowd. They came with thunder of hooves and the jingle of mail. At their head rode a man astride a great black mare, tall in the saddle, his cloak a storm of black and gold. Robert Baratheon. Ned’s breath caught. Fourteen years had passed since he had last looked upon his foster brother, and yet the sight of him struck him like a hammer blow. Robert had not changed — not truly. He was still broad as a smith’s forge, his arms thick as oak branches, his stride full of power. He wore no beard now, his jaw bare and square, but Ned saw the first threads of grey in his cropped black hair. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, swept the yard with a conqueror’s confidence. Behind him rode two others. One bald, with a severe mouth and eyes like hard stone — Stannis, grim as ever, Ned thought. At his side came a younger man, handsome and laughing-eyed, his dark hair falling to his shoulders, a boy’s beauty grown into manhood. Renly — Robert’s mirror in youth. Another rider followed, a boy of perhaps ten, his jaw and nose cut sharp in the Baratheon mold, bearing his house colors. For a heartbeat Ned thought him Renly’s get, though he knew better; Renly was yet wed. Robert’s son, then. Argillac. The name had cut Ned like a knife when he’d first heard it years ago. Argella for the daughter, Argillac for the son — Robert had chosen to spit on the dragon still, naming his children for the last of the Storm Kings who had defied Aegon the Conqueror. Even here in the North, the insult rang clear. Then she appeared, riding swift to join her father’s side. Argella Baratheon. She wore no gown, but trousers and a fine black-and-gold tunic, her long dark hair bound back from her face. She had the same strong cheekbones as her father, the same bold jaw, but her eyes were a softer blue, her lips small and set with determination. She looked every inch her father’s daughter, yet not without her own grace. Robert’s gaze swept the yard until it found Ned. “Ned!” he boomed, his voice rolling like thunder over the assembled. He swung down from his horse with surprising swiftness for a man of his size. His boots struck the earth, and in three strides he was before him. Ned had half a breath to brace himself before Robert’s arms engulfed him in a crushing embrace. His ribs creaked under the force of it, the air driven from his lungs. Robert smelled of horse, leather, and the faint tang of wine. Still so strong, Ned thought, half-winded, half-smiling despite himself. “Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said as he released him at last, still gripping his shoulders, eyes bright with mirth. “You’ve put on some weight since last I saw you. Tell me, do you still know how to hold a sword, or do you leave it to your son now?” Ned let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His ribs still ached from the crushing embrace, but the jape brought a small smile to his lips. “I could ask the same of you, Robert. Last I saw, your hammer was always lost under a flagon of wine.” Robert’s booming laugh filled the courtyard, echoing off the grey stone walls. The tension among the gathered crowd eased. Even Stannis’s grim face softened a fraction. Robert turned then, his eyes falling on Catelyn. “Cat,” he said, bowing his great head with a rare show of courtesy. “You have my thanks for keeping this solemn wolf fed and warm all these years. I hope the gods grant you patience, for it cannot have been an easy task.” Catelyn dipped her head gracefully. “Winterfell is his home, Robert. And mine.” Robert’s smile grew, then his gaze shifted to the row of children. One by one he greeted them, clapping Robb on the shoulder with a force that nearly staggered the boy. “A strong lad,” Robert declared. “He has the look of you, Ned — gods help him.” Sansa made a perfect curtsey, earning a fond chuckle from Robert. “Ah, she has the grace of her mother. A true lady.” Arya, scowling at having to stand still, muttered her greeting low. Robert laughed louder still. “A wild one — good. The realm could use more wild Starks.” Bran bowed stiffly, and Robert ruffled his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. Then his eyes found Lyanna. Ned’s stomach tightened. Fourteen years had passed since that fateful time, and still he braced himself for Robert’s grief, for his fury, for the words that might spill. But Robert only inclined his head, his voice lower, softer. “It is good to see you well, Lady Lyanna.” Lyanna held his gaze. For a heartbeat Ned thought she might cut him with her tongue as she had in their youth. But her smile was faint, her reply measured. “And you, Lord Robert. Time has not taken your strength, at least.” Robert looked past her then, his eyes falling on Jon. The boy stood quiet, stiff beside his mother, grey eyes bright beneath his dark hair. Ned felt Lyanna tense at his side. Robert’s expression softened. “So the babe grew into a fine man.” Ned blinked. That he had not expected. Nor had Lyanna, by the look in her eyes. But she was never one to falter. “My son,” she said quickly, her lips quirking in a sly smile. “He will be the finest swordsman the realm has ever seen. You’ll see.” Robert barked a laugh. “Will he now? We’ll judge that for ourselves before this visit is done.” Jon shifted, color rising in his cheeks, but he stood straighter. Ned exhaled quietly. Some old hurt had eased here, though he dared not hope it would last. “There is much to say,” Ned began, “long years to mend—” But Robert clapped his hands, cutting him off. “First, my blood.” He turned and called out, his voice rolling like thunder. “Argella! Argillac! To me!” The two children stepped forward. Argella strode with a boldness that matched her father, though she wore trousers and a tunic fit for a knight, not a dress. Yet when she stopped before them, she offered a graceful lady’s greeting that surprised Ned. There was more to her than her father’s fire. Argillac came next, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as a man thrice his age. He bowed stiffly, every inch a soldier in waiting. Ned wondered if he was truly Robert’s son; the boy bore the Baratheon look, but there was a hardness to him that Robert had never carried as a child. “Winterfell welcomes you,” Ned said, his voice steady. “You will be given chambers to rest after your long journey. The North is yours to share in peace.” “Rest?” Robert’s booming laugh cut him short. “Seven hells, Ned, I did not ride half the realm to sleep beneath cold grey stone. Wine! Ale! I will not wait fourteen years to drink with my brother again!” Behind him Renly chuckled, Stannis’s mouth tightened, and Catelyn sighed softly, already dreading the casks that would be emptied before nightfall. Robert clapped Ned’s shoulder once more, hard enough to make him stagger. “Come, Ned. Tonight we feast!” And with that, the King of Storm’s End strode into the keep, his children and brothers at his side, his laughter echoing through Winterfell’s ancient walls. The Great Hall of Winterfell had never seemed so alive. Torches blazed in the sconces, their smoke curling up into the rafters. Music poured from the high dais, pipes and fiddles keeping a merry tune. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison and spiced boar, with bread and honeyed mead, with the tang of ale spilled across the rushes. Robert Baratheon laughed as he drank, the sound booming over all. He had thrown himself into the feast as if it were a battle. His goblet was never empty, and the hall roared to his humor. Ned’s eyes wandered over the tables. Robb and Jon sat together, their heads bent toward Robert’s son Argillac. The boy carried himself like a youth grown old too soon, but he smiled at their jests, and the three spoke easily enough. Arya, ever fearless, had already dragged Argella into some game, the girls looked entirely at home as she wrestled for a crust of bread with Arya’s wolfish grin beside her. Further down, Sansa sat with her friends. They giggled behind their hands, their eyes darting again and again toward Renly Baratheon. The young lord caught the glances and answered each with a grin bright as summer. Stannis was a shadow amid all the noise. He sat stiffly, Selyse beside him, their daughter Shireen pressed close at her mother’s side. The child’s greyscale was plain upon her cheek in the torchlight, her eyes solemn. She did not join the other children, did not laugh, only watched, silent as stone. “Where in the seven hells have you been hiding, Ned?” Robert’s voice boomed beside him, loud enough to make him start. The king’s cheeks were flushed with drink, his smile wide. “I have been here, Robert,” Ned said, his mouth twitching despite himself. “It is you who cannot stay still.” Robert threw back his head and roared with laughter, sloshing wine over his beard. He clapped Ned’s shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. “Aye, that’s true enough!” Catelyn, seated between them, smiled politely before rising. “My lords,” she said, “if you’ll pardon me, I must see to the children.” She slipped away, her presence leaving the two men alone amidst the roar of the hall. For a moment Robert only drank, his eyes sweeping the crowded room. But when he turned back, the merriment in his face had faded. “I never meant it to be so long, Ned,” he said, voice lower now, meant for no one else’s ears. “Fourteen years… and not a word. Not to you. Not to Jon.” Ned studied him. Robert’s face was heavier, lined where once it had been boyish, but the pain there was old, not new. “I could have written,” Robert went on, shaking his head. “But every time I took quill to parchment, I thought of her. Of Lyanna. And of him.” His mouth twisted as if the name were ash on his tongue. “Rhaegar.” The hall rang with laughter and song, but the words between them sat heavy. “When I wed Sylva, I was still hers, in my heart. I was not a good husband or father. Not to Sylva. Not to Argella.” His eyes found his daughter across the hall, laughing as Arya tried to tug her into a bow. “When she died bringing Argillac into the world, I looked at my girl and realized she did not cry for her mother. Why would she? I had left her to wet nurses and servants, too lost in my cups, too lost in ghosts. I changed, Ned. Gods help me, I did. But by then it had been years, and I could not summon the courage to write you, to face Jon’s disappointment. It was easier to be silent.” Ned’s throat tightened. He reached out, resting a hand on Robert’s arm. “You did what you could. You were young, and wounded. We all were.” Robert drank deep, then let out a breath. “Aye. But it was wrong all the same.” They sat in silence for a time, the music carrying over them. Finally Robert’s gaze shifted. His eyes followed Daenerys across the hall. She sat with Sansa, her silver hair shining in the torchlight, her laughter ringing clear as bells. “That one,” Robert said softly. “Daenerys. I knew she was fostered here, but I did not think she’d grow to love the North. She’s as much a wolf as she is a dragon now.” “She is a good girl,” Ned said. “Kind, clever. She has her mother’s heart.” Robert nodded. The words hung heavy between them. Robert drained his cup, then slammed it down. “Come. I need air.” Together they rose, leaving behind the laughter and music of the hall. Outside, the night air was cold and clean, the stars bright above Winterfell’s towers. Robert drew in a long breath, his laughter gone, his face set. The night air was sharp and cold against Ned’s face, a welcome balm after the heat and clamor of the hall. Stars wheeled bright above Winterfell’s towers, the moon silvering the frost on the stones. Robert drew in a deep breath, let it out like a man tasting freedom. “Seven hells, Ned,” he said, his voice quieter now, though no less rough. “Do you remember? The Vale, when we were boys. The mountain clans always skulking about, our swords never clean, our purses never full.” Ned allowed himself a faint smile. “I remember.” He could almost see it again — two boys at Jon Arryn’s side, one solemn and lanky, the other broad and brash, eager for wine and glory. Robert laughed, softer than in the hall. “We thought ourselves kings of the bloody Eyrie. Wine, women, fighting — every day an adventure.” “For me it was only the wine,” Ned said dryly. “You were the one forever drowning in women.” That earned him another booming laugh. For a heartbeat, it was as if no years had passed, as if they were boys again, trading japes in some Vale tavern. “Aye,” Robert said at last, his smile fading into something wistful. “I miss those days. Before lordship and fatherhood, before grief.” Ned said nothing. There was nothing to say. Robert shifted his weight, his hand brushing the pommel of the sword at his side. “You know… after Sylva died, I brought Mya to Storm’s End.” Ned turned to him, startled. “Mya Stone?” Robert nodded. “Aye. I thought Argella would hate her. Bastard though she is, she’s mine, and I would not see her cast aside. But the girls took to each other. Became as sisters. I saw them laughing together, and for the first time since Sylva’s death, I thought… maybe I could do right by them. By all of them.” Ned studied him in the moonlight. Robert’s face was heavier now, but in that moment, there was no mistaking the truth in his eyes. Perhaps Robert had changed. Perhaps grief had burned something into him at last. “You surprise me,” Ned said quietly. Robert grunted. “Good. It’s about time I surprised someone for the better.” He gave a crooked grin, then clapped Ned’s shoulder. “We should spar on the morrow. See if you can still stand on those skinny wolf’s legs of yours.” Ned chuckled despite himself. “We will see.” They fell silent for a time, listening to the muffled roar of the feast behind the walls. Robert’s gaze was fixed on the stars, but when he spoke again, his voice was low, threaded with sorrow. “Do you remember, Ned? The times we called ourselves brothers. Drinking, fighting, swearing we’d be more than brothers in truth one day. I wanted it then. Gods help me, I want it still.” Ned braced himself. He knew what was coming. Robert turned, eyes hard, searching. “That dream is not over. You have a son. I have a daughter. Robb and Argella. It can still be done.” The words hung heavy between them. Ned felt the weight of them settle on his shoulders like a mailed cloak. He thought of Robb — his boy, still laughing in the yard, still too young to think of marriage. He thought of Argella, bold and bright, a storm in girl’s skin. They could be a match. Perhaps even a good one. But he thought too of the South, of King’s Landing, of Rhaella’s words whispered in the godswood: the realm was boiling, every house clawing for advantage. To bind his son to Robert’s daughter was to step into that storm. Robert must have seen his silence, for he raised a hand. “No answer now, Ned. Let the pups grow. Let them find each other first. By the end of this month, I swear it, your boy will be trailing after Argella like a hound on a leash. She is the daughter of the storm herself — fierce, wild, proud. She’ll break him or bind him, and gods, I’ll drink to either.” Despite himself, Ned chuckled. “She is… strong.” Robert grinned, his old swagger flickering. “Stronger than most knights I’ve met. A true Baratheon — no, a true Durrandon. I’ve half a mind to take back the name.” “Durrandon?” Ned raised a brow. Robert laughed, shaking his head. “I said as much, once. Stannis near shouted the roof down at me, lectured me on history, law, precedent — gods, you should have seen his face. I thought he might burst.” Ned allowed himself another small smile. The image of Robert goading Stannis was easy enough to picture. For a while longer they spoke of the past: of their boyhood battles in the Vale, of the bells at Gulltown, of nights lost to wine and the reckless certainty that they would live forever. The feast within the hall dwindled, one song after another falling silent, until only the faint murmur of servants cleaning remained. At last the night grew quiet. The stars burned high and cold above Winterfell, and the laughter that had once bound two boys together was replaced by silence, and the weight of all that lay between them. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Bill Scully shivered as the interns drew yet another group of blood samples for testing. Asking questions just got him ignored as they poked and prodded. He didn’t even know how long he’d been here! “Do you know what your big mistake was, Billy?” the smoker from Admiral Thomas’s office asked casually, holding his lit cigarette. The medical personnel around them were giving him dirty looks but didn’t say anything. It was as if they didn’t dare. “You spread something that should have been kept secret. Frankly, I’m surprised my son figured out so much. But then, Fox always was bright.” “You’re not William Mulder!” Bill Scully insisted. “And I wouldn’t want to be that pathetic excuse for a man. No wonder Teena had me father her son and daughter,” CGB Spender commented coldly. “She was almost as pathetic as her husband. How is your experiment coming, doctor?” A severe looking woman with dirty blond hair pulled back tightly stepped up to Spender’s side, not even glancing at the naval officer. “Actually, quite well, sir. The genetic changes have taken hold, and we should start seeing the first physical changes within a week. Then we can proceed with phase two.” “Phase two? What have you done to me?!?” Bill Scully screamed. But the two ignored him apart from the doctor instructing one of the nurses to give him a sedative. “I don’t want him to get too emotional,” she explained to CGB Spender as they walked towards her office. “Is the Cadre ready to do their part?” “Ready and eager, Dr. Shaumre,” Spender assured her. Punishing Knowles Rohrer had barely taken the edge off for Rohrer and the rest of the Cadre. They were ready to breed Captain Scully--and Fox’s half-brother, Jeffrey Spender--as soon as Dr. Shaumre said they could. @@@@@@@@@@ “You seemed a bit shaken up when you saw me,” Skinner said quietly to John Winchester as the others started filling their lunch plates. “Any particular reason why?” “You look like a younger version of my late father-in-law, and I wasn’t expecting it,” John answered quietly. “Samual Campbell was murdered before I went to Vietnam, and our relationship wasn’t the best before he was killed.” “Didn’t want his baby girl to marry a jarhead, huh.” “Didn’t want Mary to get married at all,” John corrected. “I didn’t know it until about five years ago, but Samual Campbell was part of a clan of hunters of the supernatural that came over from Scotland around the time of the Revolutionary War. Samual had no sons and his oldest daughter eloped at seventeen, so he wanted Mary to carry on the family legacy. But Mary wanted no part of it; she was trying to talk me into eloping when a hunt went wrong for Samual and his wife, Deanna. I was called up then and as soon as I got out, we were married.” He ran a hand across his face. “Everything was good for a while, then Mary was murdered by the demon who killed her parents when Dean was four and Sammy was six months…” John paused for a moment. “Hell, Sammy was exactly six months old! I’ll lay odds that Mary walked in on some ritual he needed a six-month-old child for.” “You’re probably right,” Mulder agreed, sipping his iced tea as he waited his turn. “Well, once I knew what killed Mary, I had to hunt it down and kill it. And once I started hunting, I started running into so many supernatural creatures, both good and evil…” His voice trailed off as he leaned back against the wall and Mulder and Skinner exchanged eloquent looks. John had been fighting a war of attrition for a long time with only minimal support. He needed a break. Hell, his entire family needed to come off the front lines. Maybe becoming guardians of this weak spot would help them step back and heal… “I was surprised to find Healing Elementals this close to a developing gateway,” Castiel commented as he joined them with a glass of sun tea in hand. “Normally they stay far away from such disturbances.” “Healing Elementals?” Skinner asked in surprise. “Are you sure?” “Very sure,” Castiel answered. “Sparkle is an Empathic Healing Elemental; her focus is on the heart and soul of a being. Pretty is more of a physical Healing Elemental; her focus is on the systems of the body, especially the immune system.” “Which makes sense when you think about it,” Mulder mused. “Phillip is a priest and Dana’s a doctor.” “And Phillip needs the help to get through what’s happened to him,” John Winchester stated. “Sasha needs the help too. He seems to be recovering but if you plop one of the Alien Greys in front of him, he’ll torture him to death without a second thought. That boy is carrying a lot of rage with almost no outlet.” “Or does he?” Skinner mused. “He’s part of the BDSM scene, more bondage and discipline, than the S&M slant. He likes being tied up and fucked hard and, from what his cousin’s said, he’s always had this kink. Hell, if he needs to be fucked raw every night from now until Doomsday, I’ll do it.” Mulder shook his head. “He’s not healing; he’s only bleeding off his rage—unless he’s talking to Phillip.” “That’s not likely,” Skinner objected. “Phillip was there beside him and Sasha doesn’t want to bring back his worst memories.” “Well, Phillip’s talking to me, and Sasha isn’t,” Mulder pointed out. “He might be talking to his cousin; Illya spends a lot of time here—or he was.” “I think Illya got his wings clipped after he stress switched in the gym,” was Skinner’s reply. “What’s this about Illya?” Dana asked, coming up to them with her plate in hand. Mulder checked on William and found Phillip and Monica feeding him lunch—which he was more interested in playing with. The two Elementals were grabbing anything that fell off the tray table. “Ah, we haven’t seen Illya since Sunday,” Skinner told her. “After he switched in the gym, he started having contractions,” Dana explained. “Susan, that’s Dr. Susan Nutt, the Head of UNCLE Medical,” she told John and Castiel, “Anyway, Susan put him on bedrest and hasn’t taken him off it yet. And UNCLE has its first extraterrestrial recruit. What triggered Illya was that one of the newer agents had a Black Oil alien as a passenger—and the alien smell triggered all his instincts. Sasha knows his cousin is on bedrest; he does not know about the Black Oil alien. I didn’t tell him because he was once under the control of one who left him locked in a missile silo until an UNCLE rescue team broke him out. He might even hate them more than the Alien Greys.” “Can’t say as I blame him,” John admitted as the table cleared out. “I sincerely hope you’re expanding the kitchen.” “Three of the four sides of the cabin are expanding out thirty feet,” Mulder told him as he picked up a plate. “Believe me, even with the cave system we need the room.” “Since this place was probably built for one or two people, I don’t blame you,” John Winchester told him. “As soon as we can get a shell up, we’ll be out of your hair.” “I hope you’ll still come over for meals,” Mulder smiled. “You can bet on it,” John grinned and went to sit beside Margaret Scully. Soon the two were having a lively discussion on protecting the household from supernatural beings without bothering Sparkle and Pretty. Sam and Jessica were out on the front porch while Dean and Castiel were sitting on the floor with Sasha and John Doggett, hashing out the logistics of building a cabin with preternatural protections built in. Skinner took his usual seat with Sasha leaning against his legs, while Mulder and Dana sat with Phillip and Monica. “Hey, Fox,” Sasha called. “Wasn’t there a log home business near the sawmill supply shop?” “Yeah, across the road and a little closer to Corning,” Mulder told him. “Why?” Krychek’s attention had shifted back to Dean, however. “There you have it, the core of your new home!” “IF they have the build kits on site,” Dean stressed. “Most of them ship the kits straight from the factory; they don’t keep anything on site but models.” “Those model homes can be taken apart and reused,” his father pointed out. “They tend to be put together just enough to show off that house style; they were never intended to be lived in.” Mulder thought for a minute, then shook his head. “I’d say have Scott deliver one of the smaller ones to your home site using his helicopter, but we still need to scout a place to build it. The site might not be air accessible and I’m not sure Scott’s bird could lift even a small cabin.” “We might end up using the trees we clear off the site just because they’re handy,” John Winchester warned them. The sound of a horse outside made him go to the door, hand on his gun. Mulder followed him to find Napoleon Solo putting his horse in the barn as he exchanged greetings with Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore. Illya wasn’t with him. “Illya’s still stuck in Medical,” he told them when he joined them in the cabin. “Susan’s not taking any chances especially as it looks like Illya has the supermodel bump. She thinks now that he’s much farther along than we thought and is not letting him out of her sight.” He turned a kitchen chair around to sit on; his arms crossed over the back. “Mr. Waverly is quite perturbed about the possibility of a gateway between dimensions out here in the woods and sent me to investigate.” “It is not yet a gateway,” Castiel stated flatly. “That is why Dean and I are here: to prevent it from becoming one.” “And you are?” “Castiel Novak, this is my soul bound mate, Dean Winchester.” “While I haven’t heard of you, Castiel, I do know of your mate, Dean,” Napoleon told them. “We had Ralsten Medical Center on UNCLE’s list of raiding sites until scouting told us it had already been hit. It was your father’s search for you that led us there, Dean. John is on a list of specialized talents to watch. When he started looking for you and your brother cancelled law school interviews to help him while Sam’s fiancé blew off her last semester for her Bachelor’s degree to help them, we started investigating ourselves. From the timeline, we were only two weeks behind you, John.” John snapped his fingers. “Bobby told me that a group had come in about two weeks after we broke Dean and the others out and practically gutted the place. That was UNCLE?” “That was us,” Napoleon confirmed. “Are you talking about Bobby Singer, Singer’s Salvage, Sioux Falls, North Dakota?” John nodded. “I have some bad news for you then. A gang of renegade bikers tried to take over Sioux Falls earlier this week. Bobby Singer and Sherriff Jody Millls were killed defeating them; both were on the front lines, and they somehow managed to take out the leader of the gang and his lieutenants before they were killed. The mayor was a veteran of the first Gulf War, and he had called for no quarter. I think maybe six of the fifty some bikers survived, all female. They are under arrest, awaiting trial and, from what I understand, were not in the fighting. We’ll see what comes out at trial. Sioux Falls lost about twenty people, including four kids the gang killed when they first shot up the town.” John got up and waked out to his truck where, safely out of Willy’s hearing, he swore for a good twenty minutes. Castiel held Dean close as he cried while Sam clung to Jessica and everyone else shuffled uncomfortably. Willy looked around Phillip to his father. “Sad?” “Very sad,” Mulder agreed. “Someone they love very much died.” Willy nodded wisely. “Hugs help.” “Hugs always help, little man,” Dean agreed, wiping away his tears. “God, Uncle Bobby was the first Hunter Dad ever worked with,” Sam said quietly. “I hope they gave him a Hunter’s funeral.” Napoleon cleared his throat. “According to the report I read, after consulting with some hunters who showed up to help, the mayor gave the twenty citizens they lost a Viking funeral with prayers from both surviving ministers. The dead bikers were thrown into a pit and covered in tar and salt before being set ablaze. As soon as they’re ash, the bikes will be thrown in and the pit filled in. The town council decided to plant fruit trees on top of the pit as a memorial garden.” “Bobby couldn’t ask for a better send off,” John said gruffly as he came back in the cabin. “Now about this gateway; we haven’t even seen it yet and Dean and Father Callahan have only seen it at night.” “At night in the rain,” Dean explained. “We need a better look at it in daylight so we can figure out where we’re going to build our cabin. And whatever alarms and precautions we need to add.” “Well, I know we should start with asking the Onondaga Elders if they know what precautions and wards were originally put in place,” John began, noting that both his son, Sam, and Blair Sandburg were taking notes. “I have a digital camera for any photographs we need,” Napoleon put in. “Good,” John said. “I don’t want to put this off. You boys done?” Sam took his and Jessica’s plates to the sink as Dean brought over his and Castiel’s. Then they trooped outside to take three prepacked backpacks out of their vehicles. John, Sam and Jessica put on the backpacks as Dean and Castiel shifted into their canid forms followed by Phillip and Sasha. Napoleon came out of the barn carrying a compact digital camera and a voice activated recorder. Blair Sandberg and Jim Ellison were waiting, Blair’s backpack full of notebooks, sketchpads, pencils, his own camera and a flashlight with extra batteries firmly in place. Ellison had a flashlight and a machete on his belt. Mulder and Dana Scully had pulled on long sleeved overshirts and carried machetes and flashlights as well. Everyone was armed. Dean and Castiel took the lead with John and Sam right behind them, hacking back the underbrush so humans could follow them. It was a ways to the area where the Veil was thinning and John told Sam to write down that they would need to smooth out and widen the trail, then get heavy duty bicycles to travel it. As he explained, they could always build carts to be pulled by the bikes, but the terrain really didn’t support a road. Mulder knew he was right; sections of the trail clung to the mountainside and would need major excavation to turn it into any type of road. But a smoothed-out bike trail was doable. After about an hour, they crossed a nearly clear section running up the mountain. Barely ten feet wide, the only trees they could see were roughly thirty years old at the most. It had to be an old road, most likely a farm road to a barn or other farm building. Mulder wondered why it was so far from the cabin, though it obviously predated the cabin. Professor David Brenner had owned the farm for just over twenty years, and Mulder didn’t know anything about the previous owners. Finally, they made it to the pocket valley where the gateway might form. The overgrown sigils on the trees were plain to see but even more mysterious in daylight. Napoleon and Blair started taking pictures while John and Sam started walking the perimeter, EMF meters in hand. “EMF is high all over the place,” Sam told them as his father stepped between the two marked trees with Dean and Castiel flanking him. Fifteen minutes later they were back, both canines quenching their thirst with water from the stream flowing out of the pocket valley, while John drained a bottle of water from his backpack. “EMF meter pegged out once we were on the other side of those trees,” he told them quietly. “I think the high EMF readings out here are leakage from that valley. The old protections are weakened, letting things leak. God, we have got to talk to the Onondaga elders.” “I’ll go with you tomorrow,” Blair told him. “Another shaman asking for help and knowledge will carry more weight than a white hunter, even one of your qualifications, John.” “You’re a shaman?” John looked thoughtful. “I figured you for a rabbi or priest, not a shaman.” But Blair’s attention had shifted to his Sentinel. “Jim, what’s wrong?” “Don’t laugh, Chief, but I’m seeing sunlight reflecting off glass in that direction,” and he pointed up the mountain and slightly West. “We better check it out,” John said, closing, then shouldering his backpack. This time Phillip and Sasha led the way with Jim Ellison right behind them. After half an hour of hacking through dense undergrowth, they finally reached where Jim had seen that glint of glass to find a two-story house. A house that looked like someone had built it here in the middle of the forest, then locked it up and walked away. The undergrowth was thick around the stone foundation, an indication of how long it had stood here. John could see blackberry canes, rose bushes and what looked like rhubarb around the building. And three or four fruit trees off to one side. The front door was locked tight with no sign of a key. No broken windows. Looking in the windows they saw sheet covered furniture in the three visible rooms of the downstairs. And no way in without breaking a window or kicking in the door. “Dad!” Dean called from the corner of the house. “We found the cellar door.” The cellar door was behind a set of wooden doors set in a concrete frame at a forty-five-degree angle. The actual door was set in the foundation itself and padlocked. Sam dug a pair of bolt cutters out of his backpack and passed them to his father who cut the padlock off. Then John shoved open the door as he thumbed on his Maglight. The cellar was slate floored with no signs of standing water. The walls were stone and mortar while two metal pillars helped hold up the main beams. The beams and floor joists on top of them looked solid with the plumbing running between the joists instead of through them. There were no electric wires, just a few shelving units holding dusty canning supplies—and a staircase along one wall. The door at the top wasn’t latched and opened into a large country kitchen with a deep soapstone sink and a large kitchen table complete with chairs. It opened into a front room with furniture that included a pair of small couches, about six armchairs and a peculiar triple seat piece none of them had ever seen before. And behind another door was a large study or office with tall bookcases, a large desk with a rolling office chair and two armchairs. Tucked away in a corner was what looked like a locked secretary. All the floors seemed to be solid. The staircase to the top floor ran up the wall between the kitchen and the front room and was as solid as the first floor. The second floor was divided into five bedrooms and a bathroom. Only two of the rooms had any size to them, a front room and an adjoining room that didn’t open onto the hall. John thought it might have been intended as a nursery from the stuffed animals scattered across the faded wallpaper. It was also the only room without furniture. It was in the back corner bedroom that they found the first real damage to the house. A heavy oak branch had broken through the roof into the attic, letting water leak through onto the bed sometime in the past. They all knew the mattress was beyond salvaging, but the metal bedframe might be repairable, and the dresser would probably need refinishing. “This building’s maybe thirty to thirty-five years old,” John told them. “Except for the hole in the roof, it’s in move in condition now, though I want that roof fixed and everything cleaned before we actually move in. I also checked the EMF levels and, though they’re higher than normal, they’re quite a bit lower than just outside that valley. I think with gris-gris bags in the outside walls and a few blessings, we can be safe here.” Mulder looked at Sam’s meter and agreed with him; the EMF levels were hovering at 5%. Normal was zero; even without the talisman bags and blessings, mundane humans could live here without problems. Then he looked at the front door and laughed. A door key on a rawhide thong hung from the doorknob. None of them had seen it until now. Shaking his head, John checked that the key was the right one, then checked the kitchen door. Like the front door the keys were hanging from the doorknob. He also noted something odd: the house wasn’t wired for electricity but there were never used electric appliances in the kitchen. Refrigerator, cookstove, KitchenAid mixer and a washer and drier set. Whoever built the house had intended to electrify it. He said as much to Mulder who told him about the windmill they would be starting to build July 1 st . “We can tie you into our system,” he offered as they locked up. “No, it’s better if we had an independent system,” John told him. “I’m thinking of solar panels if we can get them. We can build a back room onto that house to hold the batteries and equipment. What is it, Sammy?” “Do you see that old road, Dad?” Sam asked, pointing to the side of the yard. “Jess and I are going to follow it and see where it comes out.” “If we can use it, it’ll make getting supplies in here easier,” John admitted. Sam and Jessica started down the old roadway as the others started to hack a path to the original path they had used to get to the developing gateway. To no one’s surprise, it ran parallel to, then intercepted the old road about where the road went over their original path. The return trip was faster and soon they were back at the cabin. “Given how old that house is, I’m not sure we’ll ever find out who built it and why,” Mulder concluded after he and John told the others what they had found. “Not necessarily,” Skinner said slowly. “What borough are we in?” Mulder blinked. “Um, Mansfield. Why?” “Two reasons: one, we have to get a building permit for the extension to the cabin. And two, we can look up all the previous building permits for this property.” Mulder smacked himself in the forehead. “I didn’t even think of looking up past building permits!” “I’ve looked up property titles, but I never thought of building permits,” John admitted. “No reason you should,” Skinner told them. “Mulder’s a psychologist and you were trained on the job, John. I was a licensed attorney when I joined the Bureau.” Sam and Jessica came in then, immediately heading to the kitchen for a drink. “You will not believe where that road came out,” Sam told them after gulping half his glass. “It joins your road about a mile and a half away.” “We need to put in a culvert,” Jessica added. “The ditch is pretty deep where it joins the road.” “Okay,” Mulder began, grabbing a notebook out of the desk. “First, we need to put in the culvert, then we need to get that road brush hogged, and the vegetation raked off. After that we can haul in the supplies needed to fix the roof.” “Any ideas on where and how we can get solar panels?” John asked and they remembered that no one had explained the controlled looting agreement. After explaining about the agreement between the mayor of Mansfield, the head of UNCLE North America, and the military, they decided to schedule a trip to Corning in the next few days. Napoleon promised to sound out his superiors about getting them help with the solar panels. Finally, Margaret called them to dinner and the discussion broke up. @@@@@@@@ “And the chimney is finished!” Langley proclaimed as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Frohike followed him, looking like he’d gone ten rounds with their buck goat. “Good,” Byers told him from where he was transferring jars of yellow wax beans from the pressure canner to the table. “Now we can get the roof on.” “And once the roof is in place, we can slow down,” Langley added as he went out to wash up as Frohike headed for the bathroom. The tankless water heater they had installed was a godsend; now they had all the hot water they could want. “We need more electricity,” Byers told him as he refilled the canner. “Right now, we barely have enough to keep things running.” “We’re going to be tied into that windmill once it’s up and running,” Langley pointed out as he ducked into his bedroom for clean clothes. “And if bad weather takes down the power lines, we’re stuck.” Bryers answered as he turned the canner on. “I was thinking more along the lines of adding solar panels.” “Both Yves and Jimmy have asked me about adding them,” Frohike said as he left the bathroom, his hair still dripping from his quick shower. He handed Langley his dirty clothes, which Langley threw in the washer with his own. “Speaking of which, where are they?” “Jimmy nagged Yves into going hunting with him,” Byers answered as he draped an old sheet over the still hot jars. “We need to build an outdoor kitchen,” Langley mused. “Even using hot plates, canning is hot work.” “Just as soon as we finish the roof,” Frohike promised as the back screen door rattled. Yves and Jimmy were back and covered in mud. “Stay put!” Langley commanded sharply. “I’ll get you some sheets to wrap up in so you can get to the bathroom, but you are not tromping through here in muddy clothes!” And he hustled off to the bathroom linen closet. “What the heck happened to you?” Frohike asked as he watched them strip down to their wet and grubby underwear. “You know that swampy area just below the beaver pond?” Jimmy asked and Frohike nodded. “Well, this doe with twin fawns was stuck in there—” “And Jimmy had to rescue them,” Yves interrupted as Langley handed them a pair of sheets. “And before you ask, we didn’t get kicked. The doe and fawns were too exhausted to hurt anybody.” “Thank God for small favors,” Byers muttered as Jimmy shoved Yves in the direction of the bathroom. A few minutes later Yves dropped her panties, bra and the sheet outside the bathroom door as Jimmy deposited his boxers on the back porch and came inside. Langley had already put their jeans, shirts and socks in the washing machine with his and Frohike’s clothes for a rinse before he washed them. When Yves came out of the bathroom wrapped in a bath sheet (thank you, Melvin!) she found Jimmy, Melvin Frohike and John Byers all looking the other way with Ringo Langley nowhere in sight. Her suitcase sat in the open doorway to the room Byers and Frohike shared, and she dragged it inside to dress in privacy as Jimmy scurried for the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, she once again found herself grateful for the companions she had. They respected her privacy as a woman without disrespecting her intelligence and common sense. She even found Melvin’s flirty leers endearing rather than annoying when she knew many women would not. But then, Melvin was selective in whom he flirted with, picking married women who knew him well or strong single women with a sense of humor who would not be offended. Remembering the way Raven Peltier flirted right back as her husband mock growled when they delivered Melvin’s goats still made her smile. Raven gave as good as she got and her husband loved watching her in action. And Dana Scully who accepted Frohike’s compliments with grace while her lover beamed at both of them. Women, like her, who understood Frohike and the other Gunmen. She stashed her suitcase back behind the couch and joined Frohike and Byers in the kitchen where they were making zucchini relish. Langley came in with a basket of garden produce, carrot tops spilling over the side of the basket. “Man, did the carrots and parsnips need thinned,” he said as he slid the basket on the counter. “You still talking about solar panels?” “Mostly about how sturdy the roof should be,” Byers admitted as Jimmy ran from the bathroom into the bedroom he shared with Langley. “How big are they?” “Not that big,” Langley admitted, holding up a handful. “Do you want baby carrots or pickled baby carrots?” “Sweet pickled baby carrots and parsnips,” Frohike answered. “Which reminds me, we need to get more apple cider vinegar on our next trip.” Yves wrote it down on the supplies list on the refrigerator and turned to see Jimmy turning on the shortwave radio. “Jimmy, what are you doing?” “Calling Bridgit,” he answered, referring to the UNCLE engineer who was overseeing their house expansion. “She can tell us what we need to do to the roof.” And she did. 2x6 trusses set a foot apart with 2x6 spacers set roughly 30 inches apart to give the roof the rigidity and strength it needed. 2x8 would be better, but no smaller than 2x6 and no big knots, they were a possible weak point. Langley checked and the Corning Builder’s Supply Store had premade roof trusses in the size they needed. Bridget agreed to meet them at Corning Builder’s Supply the next morning so they could get started on the roof. @@@@@@@@@@@ New York City was a bust. The ruins radiated heat so intense they couldn’t get near the city. Talking to the one military roadblock they ran into netted the information that the Alien Greys had used an energy weapon so powerful it turned the center of the city to glass, killings thousands before fighter jets drove the alien warship away. The military estimated that at least half the population of New York City was killed outright in the initial blast with two thirds of the survivors dying as they fled the city, too badly injured to survive long. Defeated, the two turned towards North Central Pennsylvania, following the pull that had been tugging on them since their escape. It was near the small industrial city of Elmira that they found the first sign that some of their friends got out when they spotted Amanda Rollins’s car on the side of the road. The car seat in the back was empty, the straps cut so someone could take Amanda’s daughter Jesse. Rollins herself was sprawled in the driver’s seat, her service weapon in hand while a large caliber bullet had destroyed most of her head. The hardest part was that the blood had only begun to dry. “With this heat, it’s only been a couple of hours,” Peter told Sonny as the former detective glared at what remained of his friend and partner. “They wanted Jesse for some reason,” Sonny answered, his anger simmering deeply. “God, I wish we could track them.” “We can,” Peter reminded him, referring to all the hard work they had put in learning to control their canine alters. One thing they had quickly discovered was that anything they carried on them was absorbed into their canine form, leaving them clothed and armed when they switched back. Nodding, Sonny waited until Peter armed himself before shifting into his Lupo Italiano police dog alter form, Peter’s blond Irish Lurcher quickly joining him. Sniffing around Amanda’s vehicle quickly gave them three male scent profiles almost masked by the smell of dirty motorcycles. Following the scents, they were soon in an industrial park North of the city that seemed to have been taken over by a gang. Motorcycles with various stages of wear were parked haphazardly around a small office building, betraying the gang’s occupation. Careful scouting soon led them to a way into the building that humans wouldn’t consider but they could take in canine form. Once inside, they located the scents of Jesse’s kidnappers leading to a back room and soon could hear the little girl crying. “Look, Beryl, if she won’t stop crying, we should just take her out and shoot her,” they soon heard followed by a woman’s exasperated huff. “If you idiots hadn’t scared the living daylights out of her by killing her mother in front of her, she wouldn’t be crying!” The sharp retort cut through the air, leading them closer. When they finally looked into the room, they saw a big man facing off against an equally big woman with Jesse behind her, crying raggedly though surrounded by more toys and stuffed animals than she’s ever had before. Sonny couldn’t take it; he growled deeply then shifted into his human form, drawing his gun as Peter stepped forward, growling just as deeply, his teeth on display. “Jesse,” come here,” Sonny directed, and the little girl ran over to him, wrapping her arms around his leg. “You’re not taking my daughter!” the woman lunged forward, and Peter grabbed her arm, dragging her back away from the terrified Jesse, not caring how deep his teeth went. The man grabbed for a huge revolver on his belt and Sonny raised his own .9MM, shooting him in the head. He’d shoot every member of the gang dead if it meant he kept Jesse safe. The woman had grabbed a frying pan from the table and was beating Peter with it, trying to make him let go. Sonny just turned Jesse’s face away and shot her as well. Peter carefully extracted himself from the tangle of arms and came over to Jesse, licking her face. He knew they didn’t have much time; he could hear the thud of footsteps approaching, some of the men calling out, others joking that maybe Beryl had finally put Roach in his place, but they needed Jesse calm before they tried to slip away. Sonny picked Jesse up, muffling her sobs against his shirt as he headed back the way they had come, Peter keeping watch behind them. Soon they were in the room with the air duct they had used to get in. Jesse was calmer now, her sobs easing. Peter went first, still in his canine form, and Sonny sent Jesse after him before following her in his own canine form. Once outside the two men switched back to their human forms, picked up Jesse and left as fast as they could. Inside the building, there was an increasingly more vocal fight going on, keeping the gang distracted for crucial minutes. After going several blocks, they hid in the remains of a diner. Jesse needed to pee, and they both needed rest and fluids. “You go after the bike,” Sonny suggested after they drank some sealed bottles of water they found in the back. “You can get there faster as a Lurcher than we can as human. Grab Jesse’s things from the car and start back for us. We’ll keep heading your way to stay ahead of any search party though from the sounds of it, there might not be one.” “Good idea,” Peter agreed. “You might be faster in canine form, but Jesse needs you with her. She doesn’t know me.” It didn’t take long for Peter to reach their motorcycle going at a full run and he soon stripped all of Jesse’s belongings from her mother’s car, wishing he could do something for Amanda Rollins, but they just didn’t have the time. He covered her with a blanket and shut the car up completely while praying for her soul. Then he raided a baby shop at a nearby strip mall, taking only a new sturdy toddler car seat he found in the back. Packing some of Jesse’s belongings around it to stabilize it, he strapped it into the sidecar and headed back towards Sonny and Jesse. Sonny just nodded when he saw the new car seat, strapped Jesse into it, handed her a favorite stuffed animal and swung himself onto the bike behind Peter. Then they headed out of Elmira, swinging wide around the city as they continued on. Hours later when they stopped for the night, Jesse was calmer, having cried herself out while riding. Sonny and Peter quickly set up camp, putting up the tent, building a fire and breaking into their provisions to make a meal instead of hunting. Knowing Jesse liked Rice A Roni, Peter cooked an herb and garlic version using two boxes and warmed some asparagus to go with it. “Jesse, do you want to set in the car seat or on the ground like Peter and me?” Sonny asked as Peter filled their plates, giving Jesse a smaller portion than he dished up for Sonny and himself. “I sit on the ground,” the little girl decided, coming over to sit between them with the tent at her back. The sun wasn’t down yet, but it was getting darker—and scarier for a traumatized little girl. Sonny and Peter exchanged glances over Jesse’s head as they ate. Jesse was trying to be more mature than her years, trying to be less of a burden to them. How did they convince her that she would never be a burden; that to all intents and purposes, she was now their daughter? After finishing the food, Peter washed the dishes while Sonny prepared Jesse for bed. Then, with full night covering the land, Peter finally crawled into the tent and the linked sleeping bags beside Sonny, Jesse between them. “Mommy’s gone to Heaven with God,” Jesse finally said, both men acutely aware that she had not gone to sleep. “And Daddy’s already gone with God too. Will you be my new Daddies?” Peter stared into Sonny’s eyes, the same hope staring back at him. Could it really be that simple? “Oh, honey,” Sonny whispered, “We already are your fathers.” With that settled, Jesse snuggled up to Peter and soon fell asleep, safe and secure with the two men who would burn the world to protect her. @@@@@@@@@@ Morning found Mulder and John Winchester headed for the borough offices in Mansfield with a rough sketch of the intended changes to the cabin. Once there they found that Mulder didn’t need to file any sort of plans because they weren’t part of the township. All the borough needed to know was that they were building on the property. And the clerk was more than happy to look up past building permits for them. “Beats reading six-month-old magazines or someone else’sz vampire fantasy romance,” she said cheerfully as she dove into the old files. They soon found that the house was thirty-five years old, the building permit had been filed by one Eli Guttenstraugh, son of Eugene and Magda Guttenstraugh, the actual owners of the property. There were no tax records for the house, and it wasn’t even listed on the property deed when Professor David Brenner bought the massive farm after the deaths of the Guttenstraughs. There was no mention of Eli Guttenstraugh in the borough records after filing for the building permit. “Back issues of the Valley Gazette might tell you more,” she admitted. “But you’ll have to check the University archives for anything over five years old.” So, they went to the University library only to find that the Archives were only open to accredited scholars and graduate students. “Sam is a graduate student in Criminal Justice but not at this university,” John sighed as they headed home with another twenty gallons of diesel fuel in the back of John’s truck. “However, Phillip is a member of the Luna Foundation with advanced degrees in world history, mythology and linguistics,” Mulder pointed out. “It should be easy for him to get into the Archives.” “As hunters we rely on newspaper back issues, local libraries and local historical societies for research on hunts,” John explained. “Here all of that’s tied into the University.” “And the University won’t open their Archives for us,” Mulder sighed. “I hate it when this happens.” The biggest surprise, though, was that a handicapped accessible van was there when they got home with Bill Smith and his companion caretaker sitting in the side yard talking to everyone. “Hey, Dad,” Dean called from where he sat on the ground next to Castiel. “Guess who knows all the local gossip?” “It’s more like I’m familiar with local history,” Bill Smith corrected as John Winchester, then Mulder shook his hand. “Dean tells me that you found Eli Guttenstraugh’s house.” “We did,” John answered as he accepted a metal folding chair. “And it looks like no one ever lived there.” “That’s because no one ever did,” Smithy told them quietly. “Eli was engaged to the daughter of the President of Mansfield State College as they called it back then and he told her they would be married just as soon as he finished the house he was building for her. Well, he finished the house and went to get her to show it to her, but she had locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out. Eli tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t answer him so, with her father’s permission, he broke the door down. And they found Anna Marie gone with a long rambling letter on her dresser. Turns out that she had fallen in with a rich party crowd that convinced her she wouldn’t be happy married to a farmer, even one as well educated as Eli. Anyway, she left early that morning through her bedroom window, headed for New York City with some of that crowd that dropped out and headed for home. Eli and her father made a list of those rich dropouts and Eli went after her. Five years later he brought Anna Marie home and Lord, but that girl had learned a hard lesson. She was emaciated, sick with some type of lung infection that she just couldn’t shake, and we found out later she had active AIDS. Her family was gone, her parents fired by the college for moral turpitude when her younger sister was arrested for underage drinking.” Smithy sighed heavily, his face showing the sorrow he felt. “Eli took her home to his parents’ place, built on a room for her and took care of her until she passed away nine months later. Within six months the Guttenstraughs buried their son beside her. Most folks assume he died of a broken heart, but Ole Doc Curtis—he’s gone now—said that he was just as bad as she was, just not for the same reasons. Anna Marie got sick because of her partying ways; Eli was just completely worn down physically and emotionally.” Smithy fell silent for a moment. “She was his wife when she died though. Eugene brought out the rabbi from the Beth Israel Temple in Elmira to marry them less than a month after Eli brought her home. After losing them Eugene and Magda just…let the farm go until they too died in their sleep. David Brenner bought the place at auction, lived here for twenty years after the University retired him and now it’s yours.” The silence hung heavy between them until John Winchester cleared his throat. “We found a pocket valley near Eli’s house that just seemed…malevolent.” “I think you found the terminus of the Forbidden Trail,” Smithy said after a moment’s thought. “There was actually two ‘forbidden trails’ in the area controlled by the Iroquois Confederation; one was the Chief’s Trail that was only used by the tribal leaders, and the other was a network of one-way trails that fed into a single valley. This valley was where the tribes sent their insane and any criminals they exiled instead of killing. Kinda like that stockade they claim now that house in Amityville was built on. But what happened to it was really shocking and made the Iroquois Confederation distrust white men in general and British Army officers in particular. It seems that way back in the 1750s a retired British Army officer, a Colonel William Bennett secured a land grant for this area and decided to move all the Indians off his land. Originally, he didn’t find many until he came to that valley where he found a stockade watched over by three medicine men and a troop of warriors. Colonel Bennett was infuriated when the overseers refused to move the stockade and ordered his men to set fire to it. Most of his men were killed but enough got through to set the stockade ablaze with most of the people inside being burned alive. All three medicine men were hung by Bennett to show that he would not tolerate any opposition from “uneducated savages”. Once word got out in the Confederation of what he had done; local chiefs hunted him down and killed him. The claim is that they tied him to his horse by the ankles and sent the horse back down the trail he used to come North.” “The thing is no one’s ever found that valley so there’s historians who claim the story is false. Mostly because there’s no record of a land grant being made to Colonel William Bennett. Problem there is they’re looking in the wrong place. Pennsylvania never issued a land grant, but Connecticut did issue one to Captain William Bennett for this area. You have to understand that at that time Connecticut claimed their Charter covered all the land between their North and South borders and extended West to the Pacific. That included the city of New Amsterdam, now called New York City, and Northern Pennsylvania. Their claim was voided when New Amsterdam was renamed and declared the capitol of the colony of New York.” “So that’s why New York makes that funny little jog in the Southeast corner,” Dean remarked. “That and the New York Colony Charter guaranteed the colony a seaport,” Smithy added. “Bennett got his land grant just before the Connecticut claim was voided in London. At the time he received it, the land grant was valid, and Northern Pennsylvania was an unexplored part of the colony. Even today many historians and history buffs either ignore or don’t know about the decade Connecticut claimed land all the way to the Pacific.” Sam shook his head. “I still don’t get how Connecticut could make that claim.” Smithy smiled kindly. “Well, Connecticut’s Royal Charter specified North and South borders, the Eastern border was the Atlantic and the Western border was never specified. And at that time, New Amsterdam was a bigger seaport than Boston and the Connecticut Colony wanted it. New Amsterdam was a Dutch colony smack dab in the middle of a cluster of British colonies and Connecticut thought they could claim it and have the British Army kick out the Dutch. Unfortunately for them the New York Colony bought the Charter from the Dutch Crown, renamed New Amsterdam New York City and integrated it into their colony. British Crown courts ruled that Connecticut’s Western border was fixed by the Eastern border of the New York Colony and any claims to the contrary were voided.” “Lunch is ready!” Margaret called and most of the men clustered around Smithy, pushing his power wheelchair up an improvised ramp to the front porch. Blair, Phillip, Dean, Castiel and Mulder held back with John. “You don’t think the burning of the stockade was enough to cause that weakness in the Veil,” Mulder said softly. “No, I don’t,” John admitted. “Look, I’ve been in mental hospitals and asylums where there has been a tragedy like a fire that killed a lot of patients and, while they’re bad, they’re not as intense as the valley was. I could walk in and out of them at will. The valley’s not like that; it tries to keep you out until you hit a certain point where it starts to suck you in. Even with our protective talismans I don’t think Dean and I would have gotten out of there if we didn’t have Cas with us.” “We are dealing with two tragedies in the valley that happened several centuries apart,” Castiel told them. “I can feel the echoes of the second and Bill Smith is mostly correct in his story, but I can’t read the first one as well. The deaths of the mentally ill cover it too well…but it feels almost like…a slaughter of innocents?” Even to himself, Castiel sounded very uncertain. “We have got to talk to the Onondaga elders,” Blair said grimly. “They need to know that the old protections are failing. I can layer protections over them—and I will—but that’s not going to be as effective as renewing the original protections.” “We need to get together a gift box,” John added. “I have good pipe tobacco, but we need to have gifts of food as well.” “I have a whole haunch of dried venison and all the cheeses I’ve been making,” Mulder volunteered. “By the way, just why is Smithy here?” Blair and Dean exchanged looks but it was Castiel who answered. “He says he wants to see the mill in operation.” “We’ll cut logs after lunch,” Mulder decided and chivvied the others into the cabin. Lunch was a cold tomato gazpacho soup with fresh garlic knots, cucumbers in cream and coleslaw. After lunch, they all headed out to the mill with Phillip blessing the machinery and its operators and Dana took her usual place as head sawyer with John Winchester as her back sawyer and John Doggett as her tail sawyer. Walter Skinner, Sam and Jim Ellison stacked the lumber while Dean helped Mulder edge boards and Jessica and Monica ran the buzz saw. Dana and John rolled the next log into place with the one nearly flat side down. At Dana’s gesture he nudged the far end out a bit from the back of the carriage, then they dogged the log down and Dana made the first cut. Doggett passed the slab to Jessica Moore who carried it back of the mill to the buzz saw where she and Monica cut it into firewood, tossing it into a trailer. Meanwhile Dana made the second cut and Doggett passed that slab to Mulder for edging. Smithy nodded his approval as he watched them. Mulder and the edger were behind Doggett, making it easy for the tail sawyer to edge boards when the mill crew was small. Mulder set the width to the desired multiple of 2 inches and ran the board through, Dean catching it on the other end. Dean then used the nearby chop saw to cut off the bad end and passed the board to his brother who carried it out to the stack of hardwood boards. Monica and Jessica took the heavy edgings and the cut off section of wood back to the buzz saw while Mulder adjusted the edger again and sent the next board through. One more cut and Dana and John were turning the log onto its cut side, shoving it hard against the back of the carriage. They fastened it down and Dana made the first cut, the slab once more going straight to Jessica and Monica. Mulder cut the board out of the middle on the first and second slabs Doggett passed him but he shoved the third one up against the side fence on the edger table, cutting out a four-inch board that barely made eight feet with a touch of wane and a solid six-inch board that easily ran ten feet. Once more Dana and John rolled the log onto the freshly cut side and shoved it back flush with the carriage back and started taking slabs off. Jessica and Monica took the first slab with Mulder cutting a ten-inch board six feet long out of the next one, then a ten foot eight-inch-wide board and a four-inch wide eight-foot-long board out of the third. Dana and John turned the log again and Dana edged the log out before she made the first cut, taking off most of the remaining bark with her first pass. The next one gave her a fourteen inch board twelve feet long, then a fourteen-inch board a full sixteen feet long. She continued cutting boards, turning the cant she had sawn the log down to until she reached the 6x6 center, which she sent to the lumber piles. It took both Walter Skinner and Jim Ellison to lift it onto the pile of hardwood posts. Smithy approved of the way they were cutting their logs: hardwoods into one-inch-thick boards or structural posts, softwood into two-inch stock and logs eight inches thick that were flat on three sides. Feeling his back start to ache, Smithy touched Frank Devlin’s arm, then he and his caretaker companion went back to their van. Father Callahan came out as Frank maneuvered his lover/patient into the back of the van. “You’re leaving?” the young Irishman asked quietly. “Bill’s back is bothering him,” Frank told him as he fastened the straps that would keep the wheelchair in place and Bill in it. “He’s got to lie down for a while. I’m surprised he lasted this long.” “I’ll pray for you,” Phillip told Bill, squeezing his hand. “Thank you, Father,” Bill Smith smiled at him in thanks as he released Phillip’s hand and the priest stepped back. Frank checked the straps and squeezed Smithy’s shoulder before getting behind the wheel. He waved to Phillip, then turned the van around and headed home. @@@@@@@@@ Commander Lorthax knelt before his Emperor, every bit of him groomed to perfection. “You may rise, Supreme Commander Lorthax,” the Emperor said graciously. “We have reviewed the records you sent us, and it seems obvious that the late Commander Thrashx went mad from continuous conquest. Your actions in the crisis are to be commended. Now, what progress have you made towards retrieving my breeders?” “We have agents in the area, but they have not yet been definitively located,” Lorthax reported. “At this time, only Fox Mulder has been seen with any regularity, however he has always been accompanied by several human warriors, limiting attempts to recover him. Alexi Krychek has not been seen and there have been no sightings of Phillip Callihan since the renegade attempted to murder him.” He paused for a moment. “We suspect all three are in a hidden location near the human settlement called Mansfield and our agents are attempting to locate it as we speak.” “Excellent,” the Emperor told him. “Continue converting human males into breeders and keep the human population subdued. Another squadron group is on its way. When it arrives, you should have the forces you need to subdue the United States.” “We await their arrival,” Lorthax intoned and knelt again just before the transmission ended. He had a lot to do. @@@@@@@@@@ “Well, I found out what that weird triple chair is,” Sasha announced at dinnertime as they dug into beef & broccoli stir fry, a salad of grated turnup, rutabaga, and carrot with a hot bacon vinegar dressing and fresh cottage cheese. “It’s a courting couch.” “A courting couch?” Skinner raised one brow skeptically. “ Da, it’s for courting couples, allowing them to sit together and talk without touching. Most of them were two chairs facing in opposite directions; the three-seat model was for a courting couple and a chaperone.” “Makes sense,” Doggett commented. “It would be damn hard to do anything other than talk and maybe hold hands in that contraption.” “And we can’t even take it out of the living room without breaking it up,” Jessica sighed. “For right now I vote we stick it in a corner and park some bigger stuffed animals in the seats.” And Dean started to giggle. “Don’t ask me what he’s thinking,” John Winchester called from where he was going through Mulder’s collection of DIY books. “Fox, it looks like you forgot one. There’s nothing here on installing solar panels.” He smirked at his son Sam. “Though I have found A Man’s Guide to Embroidery and the Practical Man’s Guide to Decorative Sewing.” And Sam just gave his father an exasperated look. Dean grinned up at his mate. “When he was teaching us how to stitch wounds, Dad would bring home dollar embroidery kits for us to practice on. I think we must have left a hundred of those finished kits scattered across the country.” Dean’s grin turned wicked. “Sammy got real good at it.” And Sam dumped his glass of sun tea on Dean’s head, shoving his plate into Jessica’s hands as Dean chased him out the door. “You have the patience of a Saint,” John told her. “And more patience than most,” Castiel added as he moved to the door, his clothing and the spot on the hearth where he had been snuggling with Dean now bone dry. “Dean Michael Gabriel! Get your gluteus maximus in here before I spank it! In public!” Dejected, Dean trudged into the house, however, when Sam followed him, he found himself turned over Castiel’s knee with several firm swats being administered. “What was that for?” he demanded when Castiel let him loose. “Your lack of self-discipline,” Castiel told him. “Most of your glass of tea ended up on ME.” “In other words, you’re acting like a brat again and Castiel won’t tolerate it any more than Jessica or I will,” John Winchester told his youngest son. “No, just who is going to Corning with me tomorrow?” “I intend to start cleaning the house,” Jessica told him. “Cas and I will help,” Dean volunteered. “Now that it’s settled,” Jessica gave Sam his plate and dragged him to the front porch. John just shook his head. “That boy is way too much like me.” “And the demon taint doesn’t help,” Castiel added as he filled his plate. “Sam was tainted by the demon that murdered Mary?” John stared at him, white with shock. “Azrael tainted a number of six-month-old children by feeding them his blood,” Castiel answered, confused. “I thought you knew this.” “I knew a number of six-month-olds had fires in their homes the night they turned exactly six months old but not about the demon taint,” John told him. “And I had no idea which demon we were dealing with.” “Could…could this trigger prophetic dreams?” Sam asked from the front door, Jessica holding him tightly. “The blood taint would strengthen any parapsychic abilities you have,” Castiel confirmed. “Sam, your prophetic dreams are a part of you. Azrael’s blood only made them more intense and frequent.” “I’ve been dreaming of Alien Greys attacking us,” Sam said in a rush. “One of them has yellow eyes, not black.” “When?” Jim Ellison barked as Blair pulled out a new notebook. “In wintertime,” Sam answered quickly, closing his eyes to better remember details. “There’s deep snow and Phillip is holding two babies.” “Could mean this winter or just maybe next,” Skinner speculated. “Phillip’s twins are due about late January or early February. So is Sasha’s little boy.” “Well, we have time to set up defenses,” Phillip told them. “I need to bless this house again and yours and the cave system.” “Eat first,” Margaret Scully advised. “You don’t want to make a mistake because you’re hungry.” @@@@@@@@@ After dinner, Phillip filled a pitcher with tepid water, stirred in both salt and sugar, then added fresh rosemary and yarrow from outside. Dean brought him a rosary from the Hunter’s kit in the Impala’s trunk and Phillip murmured in Latin as he dunked the rosary in the pitcher. Then he grabbed an infuser spoon out of the silverware drawer and headed into the caves, Willy toddling after him. “Huh,” Dean said as he watched them go. “Most priests just bless plain water to get holy water.” “Remember your lore about rosemary and yarrow?” his father asked. “Phillip layered a Catholic blessing on top of the old Celtic recipe for holy water—and I’m fairly sure this isn’t the first time he’s done it. Irish Catholicism isn’t quite like Roman Catholicism; it incorporates many of the pre-Christian practices and beliefs.” He finished wrapping six pouches of good pipe tobacco in buckskin, then tucked the bundle into a plain terra cotta bowl in the corner of one of the totes they had stored away. Mulder brought out a deboned haunch of dried venison wrapped in butcher paper, tucking it in beside the bowl. John frowned and took the bowl out, then stepped back to let Blair add three bags of corn meal and a container of Lakota Blue popcorn. Four two-pound bags of various dried beans went in along with fresh canned green beans and wax beans. Mulder wrapped some of his hard cheeses in wax paper, then added them along with boxes of spaghetti and a bag of Phillip’s homemade egg noodles. Margaret added a few jars of pasta sauce and stewed tomatoes, then they piled yellow summer squash, pattypan squash and zucchini on top with John nestling the terra cotta bowl of tobacco in the middle. Willy came toddling back, giggling. “Pip throwing water,” he announced. Margaret scooped up her grandson. “Phillip’s laying down protections for us,” she explained. “He’s trying to do something to keep the bad things away.” “Things that would hurt Sparkle and Pretty?” “Yes, things that would hurt all of us if it had the chance.” Margaret smiled at her grandson, once more awed at his understanding. Blair came over and lightly bopped Willy on the nose. “And after Phillip’s laid down his protections, I need to lay down some Chopec protections. And, no I won’t be using water, I’ll be using a smudge stick so Jim can’t be in here. Could you keep him company on the front porch?” And Willy nodded so vigorously it looked like his head would come off. Phillip chuckled as he stepped into the great room. “You’re a good lad, Willy.” “You done?” Blair asked. “Not quite,” Phillip admitted and began sprinkling water around the fireplace, murmuring a steady stream of Latin. He went over all the walls in a counterclockwise direction, ducking into the bathroom and Mulder’s room to cover them as well. Finally, he strained the remaining holy water into three small flasks that went into the refrigerator. “Don’t worry, it’s safe to drink,” he assured Willy’s parents and grandmother. Meanwhile Blair tied his hair back with a braided cord, then marked his face with Chopic sigils of protection and power. Jim Ellison picked Willie up and headed for the front porch swing as his lover lit a homemade smudge stick and began directing the smoke towards all corners of the room with a condor feather fan as he chanted in Chopic. John Winchester and his two sons watched intently, taking notes as he worked. Sparkle and Pretty popped out of Phillip’s shirt pocket, scurrying up Blair’s body until they were perched on his shoulders, humming as they had while Phillip laid his protections. Like Phillip, Blair covered everywhere within the cabin and the cavern system just in reverse, ending with the big cavern. Soon he was done, laying what was left of the smudge stick in the fireplace, then headed for the kitchen where he took his facial decorations off with a little cooking oil and some soap. “My turn,” Castiel said, taking a stance in front of the fireplace, his feet shoulder wide and planted firmly. Once again Sparkle and Pretty climbed up his body to perch on his shoulders as they had Blair’s. Castiel jerked his right arm, an oversized poniard blade in his hand. Grasping the handle with both hands so it pointed down, Castiel raised it to shoulder height and began singing in a language even Phillip didn’t recognize, both Elementals singing with him. The air around everyone seemed to tighten, holding them in place until Castiel drove his blade into the floor between his feet and, with a gigantic thunderclap, it began to rain. “Scary,” Willy told them as Jim brought him inside. “But it’s a good kind of scary,” Mulder told his son as he took him out of Jim’s arms. Then he took Willy to the window to watch the thunderstorm outside. “You never said anything about putting up protections,” Dean told his mate, his tone curious. “Until I felt Blair’s protections meshing with Phillip’s, I didn’t realize I knew how,” Castiel confessed, petting Sparkle and Pretty. “Once I realized I knew how to form them, it seemed ridiculous not to.” “Well, I for one am glad you did,” Dana told him before she joined her son and his father at the window. @@@@@@@@@ Sonny Carisi brought the motorcycle to a gentle halt in front of the Mansfield Municipal Building just off Main Street. One of the soldiers at the Corning roadblock had told them that Mansfield was looking for good, experienced police officers—and the area was friendly to chimeras. It was the first time either man had heard the term for men who had been changed by the aliens, and they liked it. It sounded like survivors, not victims. Peter Stone gripped his shoulder hard. “When Jesse wakes up, I’ll take her over to the park.” “Gotcha,” Sonny rumbled low in his throat as he got off the bike. Little Jesse had been cooped up in the side car for three days after witnessing her mother’s murder; though she had the time and privacy to grieve for her mother, she needed to stretch and play as well. Sonny would have wondered if Jesse even understood that her mother was gone but Jesse insisted on talking to her every night, telling her everything about her day from the time she wet her pants because Sonny forgot how small her bladder was to what they ate to helping Peter skin a rabbit. Yeah, Jesse knew her mother was in heaven. Peter admired Sonny as he did one last check of his appearance. All three of them had dressed with care that morning in dress shirts and slacks with Jesse in a pretty summer sweater and knee-length shorts. Peter could still remember Jesse’s mother, Amanda Rollins grumbling about how short they made girls shorts compared to boys. Peter agreed with her, having seen the four-to-six-inch difference for himself. He had ended up buying Jesse another stuffed rabbit instead of the short set he had intended to for her birthday before… Before he and Sonny were in the aliens’ hands and forever changed. Before New York City and many others were destroyed. Before Jesse lost her mother. “How do I look?” Sonny asked nervously. “You look good,” Peter told him, admiring Sonny’s rangy frame once more. They had both lost weight while in the aliens’ hands and were slowly putting it back on as they rebuilt muscle. “Kiss for luck?” Sonny gently pressed his lips to Peter’s, the kiss ending quickly since Sonny didn’t want to pressure Peter in any way. Life hadn’t been kind to Peter, and he deserved to make his own choices. He straightened up, squeezing Peter’s shoulder before turning to go inside. At the door he looked back to see Peter hugging his leather jacket tightly. Sonny straightened up and opened the door, praying he was doing the right thing. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Jon bit his lip as he stared at people milling about the small port. This was the fourth port he’d tried along the Rhoyne as he racked his brain trying to remember every story that his brother had told him over the last three lives they’d met. He’d give it one more port town after this before he’d turn back, either head to Westeros or perhaps Qarth where he knew Daenerys would eventually head with the remnants of her Khalasar. He’d already heard rumors of the death of Viserys. It wouldn’t much longer before she hatched her dragons. Ghost whined next to him, pressing against his leg. He’d shorn his companion's thick fur twice now during their travels and it was starting to get too long, too thick, again. Tonight, he thought, I’ll trim his fur again once the sun has set. Ghost shuffled forward, eyes suddenly focused, jaw snapping shut. His paws made more noise than they should, covered by thick socks with leather stitched to the bottom. Jon had purchased the material and made the little boots himself after spending two weeks rubbing ointment on the bottom of the direwolf’s feet after they had been burned by the hot sand. “What is it, boy?” Jon asked, trying to follow his gaze. His world shifted for a moment, causing him to sway, as he saw briefly from Ghost’s eyes. His head snapped up and he quickly found what the direwolf showed him. A familiar face in the crowd. Haldon the half-maester was speaking with a merchant, purchasing goods. Next to him was a familiar head of blue hair. Aegon was biting into a candied date, eyes glancing between Haldon and the merchant as they haggled. Jon smiled down at Ghost, relief coursing through him. This hadn’t been a fruitless endeavor after all. Now, though, came the hard part. He had to convince them he meant them no harm. Convince him that he was Aegon’s brother and that he had no interest in the older boy’s birthright. That he would stand by Aegon’s side as he took the Iron Throne and killed the Lannister’s for their crimes against House Targaryen and House Stark. That the Iron Throne was nothing but a distraction and the true war lay to the North. Ghost whined at him again and stepped forward. Jon swallowed thickly and followed him. At nearly two years Jon’s senior, Aegon Targaryen was a man grown more clearly than he himself. His hair was dyed a dark blue the same shade as Griff’s, the color of it helping to disguise the bright violet of his eyes in the brighter light of the cabin they found themselves in. It was Haldon’s, Jon knew, and the largest of the cabins on the Shy Maid. Books and jars of a variety of substances Jon thought he could identify, given enough time, covered every surface in the cabin. He remembered much from his time learning at the citadel and at the side of men and women throughout the lands, but much of the details came slowly to him now, refreshed when he encountered them. Haldon himself was eying him speculatively as the silence grew between the small group; no one wished to break it. There were six of them in the cabin, Aegon, Griff, Haldon, Duck standing near the door, Jon himself, and Luca standing behind him. Kyne and Gomer were waiting outside, as there was not enough room for all of them, and they’d shared guest right shortly after Aegon appeared and demanded to know what was going on. They were lucky that Ysilla had bread to spare after an afternoon spent baking the evening's meal and rolls to break the morning’s fast. Upon settling into the cabin Aegon had taken the letters to read for himself, perusing them slowly as he read each line, word once and then again and then thrice. Occasionally he’d glance up to stare at Jon for a moment before dropping his eyes back to the letter. “So,” Aegon said finally, “you’re my brother. Jaehaerys Targaryen.” “Half-brother,” Griff bit out softly. “If that.” His eyes were slanted as he stared at Jon, gaze as cold as ice. Choosing to ignore him, Aegon eyed Jon, his gaze sweeping over Jon’s face, searching for some familiarity. The features they shared were faint, but present, he knew. He hoped Aegon was observant enough to find them. “Aye,” Jon murmured, sitting straighter. “That’s what I’ve been told and I cannot help but believe.” He smiled slightly, glancing down at his hands. “My father abandoned my mother to run off with yours,” Aegon said, voice harsh as he handed the letters to Haldon to read. “They caused a war that lost my . . . our House the throne.” “Aye,” Jon agreed. “They did.” He watched his brother for a moment, waiting, but the blue-haired youth said nothing. Squaring his shoulders, he continued, “They were young and made a brash, stupid decision. Those around them reaped the consequences. We are still dealing with them today.” Aegon nodded after a moment, the slightest amount of tension seeping from his features. “In the letter, you swore an oath that you won’t challenge my claim to the throne.” “I did,” he acknowledged. “I’ll swear it again before the Old Gods, the New . . . before Rhyllor, the Old Man of the River, the Faceless God, Balerion . . . any you wish.” He paused, setting his jaw, leaning forward slightly. “Though I must warn that I follow the Old Gods. Any oath I swear to them will bear a higher meaning.” Aegon frowned, idly picking up a piece from the cyvase board that sat to his right. “I would accept your oath . . .” he trailed off, staring down at the piece for a moment. It was a pale dragon, “ . . . but why?” “Why?” “Why would you swear such a thing to me?” he asked, glancing aside to Griff who was still tense, eyes blazing as he watched Jon. He shifted, leaning back in his chair, fingers tightening around the dragon piece. “The realm believes me dead. You could rally the North and dozens of other lords behind the Targaryen name.” He lifted his gaze to meet Jon’s again. “You could take the throne for yourself.” “I don’t want it,” Jon said immediately, shrugging. “You don’t want it?” Griff asked, practically scoffing the words. “Why not?” Aegon tilted his head, strands of vibrant blue slipped across his forehead. He brushed them away. “Lots of reasons,” Jon shot a look at Griff. “I was raised a bastard, no matter the truth of my birth. All my life I expected to either stand in my brother Robb’s shadow or join the Nights Watch once my lord father’s wife declared I could no longer live in Winterfell. The only thing I wanted was to one day hear that my father asked the King to give me his name.” He sighed and turned back to his brother. “And then I found out the truth. I have a name. Jaehaerys Targaryen. Then my uncle gave me his, adopting me into his House formally as Jon Stark—” Griff flinched, sitting straighter. “—now I two names. Two families, though I didn’t dare hope I’d ever meet my father’s family.” He shook his head. “Politics and the niceties of court have never interested me. I can deal with them, but I wasn’t born for it. Not in the way you,” he met Aegon’s gaze, “or my brother. . . cousin Robb were. I want a family, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Someplace to belong.” Truth colored his words and Jon had done nothing to mask the emotions he felt regarding them. In many ways, he had what he’d dreamed of—what he’d always wanted. In this life, unlike so many others, he’d gained it all so soon; quicker than ever before and somehow without the bloodshed that usually darkened the accomplishment. He didn't need a throne in this life. Jon had sat upon the Northern Throne and the Iron Throne oft enough. He didn't relish the bureaucracy that came with ruling. He preferred the lives he stood beside Aegon as his Hand, beside Robb as his General. He could handle being heir presumptive if it came to that. “You must understand our hesitation,” Haldon spoke, glancing up at Jon over the letter he read. “You are a stranger whether you are young Griff’s brother . . . or not. That you’ve found us means his secret has been released.” “I and my men mean him no harm,” Jon attempted to assure him. “The Spider sent me . . . if he had not I would have only known that Aegon was alive, nothing more.” “And it was the Iron Bank that told you of his existence.” Gryph’s words stunk of incredulity, sharply spat into the small room. “They did, as clearly as the Iron Bank would provide any information.” Jon glanced at Griff, grey eyes glinting silver in the lamplight as they narrowed. “I gathered they were growing more and more annoyed at the accounts access being cut off. Legally speaking. It has been fifteen years, after all. The Iron Bank is nothing if not opportunistic.” “And you were their opportunity.” Jon suppressed a growl and leaned back, chin lifting slightly. “I was there,” he stated simply. The conversation devolved a bit then, between Haldon and Griff arguing over the necessity of secrecy, of what Jon’s arrival could lead to, and of what danger Jon posed to them—to Aegon. Jon sighed as he listened, glancing down at his hands where they were clenched into the fabric bunched at his knees. His fingers were quaking, ever so slightly. The nerves back again, this time worried over whether his brother would accept his existence or if he’d turn away. That had so seldom happened, but each time, just as the times where their encounter ended up with a knife in his back or throat—usually courtesy of Jon Connington—stung deep. Aegon stood sharply, interrupting the debate beginning to heat up. His eyes still locked on Jon’s face. “I wish to speak with my brother.” Jon blinked at the words, mouth dry, as he watched his brother face down the man he’d long saw as his father. “Aeg—” Griff started, standing as well. “Alone,” Aegon’s eyes danced between his traveling companions, “or near enough.” He turned back to Jon, expression tight. “If we speak on deck will your men stand back far enough to allow us privacy?” “Aye.” Jon nodded, standing. “They will.” “Good.” The older youth turned, striding to the door. He paused, hand poised to open it and met Jon’s eyes. “Shall we?” His brother had half a head on him; he stood at least as tall as Duck and the still lanky form told of possible growth to come in the next few years. Jon knew he’d always be shorter than Aegon, for all that he would catch up a few more inches himself before he finished growing. His stride was long and confident as he led the way to the prow of the sip. He passed Gomer and Kyne without a glance and Jon motioned the two men to stay back. Duck and Luca trailed behind them, remaining a good twenty feet away. Griff watched wearily from the afterdeck near the brazier. Aegon leaned against the rail of the ship and stared up at the stars. Coming to a stop a pace away, Jon settled a hand on the rail and watched the older boy. “I had a sister once,” Aegon said finally, voice soft. It was almost hard to hear over the lapping of the waves against the hull. “Griff tells me she had curly brown hair and skin shades darker than mine. He can’t remember if her eyes were like our father’s or mother’s.” He sighed, fingers clenching around the wooden rail. “I don’t remember her or my mother . . . or father.” He glanced at Jon. “You didn’t know yours either.” “No, I didn't.” Jon shook his head. Sometimes he wished that he could go back further, see his father and save him on the Trident or even view his mother’s face from the eyes of his infant self. He wished he knew the sound of his father’s voice tangled with the tune of harp as he entertained crowds. “But, I grew up thinking my uncle was my father and my cousins my half-siblings.” “You grew up with a family.” The words had an edge of bitter sadness to them. Staring at his brother, Jon inclined his head because he had. Robb had and always would be his brother. Arya was his sister no matter and Bran, Rickon, and Sansa would always be his siblings as well. No matter how close he and Sansa ended up in some lives. He might not be as close to them as Robb or Arya, but he still loved them all dearly. In this life, he was even closer to them than ever before. “I did.” “I thought Griff was truly my father,” Aegon admitted, “for years. When he finally told me . . .” he glanced back at Jon, smiling sadly. “I was devastated to learn the truth. I tried to deny it, convince him to tell me he was lying . . . but he only said he could no longer dishonor my father by hiding the truth from me.” “I was, too.” He had been, that first time, when Bran had told him in the Godswood what he’d seen . . . Jon hadn’t believed it. It had been Sansa that had written to Lord Reed requiring his presence. After the lord confirmed it . . . Jon had torn father’s solar—what remained of it after fire and the occupation of the Bolton’s—apart and then gone to the crypts to rage where no one would see their King fall apart. “But just because he didn’t sire me doesn’t mean Lord Eddard isn’t my father. He raised me and I still see him as such. Like you see Griff.” It had shredded what little confidence in his right to hold his station remained, no matter what Bran and Sansa said. The fact that he wasn’t Ned Stark’s son . . . during his third life, he screamed the truth of things at the man in the middle of the Great Hall. He had raged and cried and then ran to the Wall. It was the first life he’d been assassinated. A dagger to the heart by a Baratheon man sent to the Wall by order of his King. Aegon glanced away, staring up at the stars. “He hates it when I call him father. I see it in his eyes.” “I doubt that,” Jon said. “I saw how he looks at you and how outraged he is about me. He cares deeply for you . . . he probably just feels guilty for claiming you. For raising you when . . . when Rhaegar will never see you as a man grown.” His brother’s lips quirked up slightly and he shifted, crossing his arms to rest his elbows on the rail, forearms running the length. “We haven’t had a scare like this before,” he admitted. “You’ve made him nervous, striding in unexpectedly with words on your lips, knowledge few have, and promises that seem too sweet to be reality.” “I only promise what I can keep,” Jon insisted with a sigh. “Neutrality at worst if my campaign begins after the death of the usurper.” His eyes were dark and narrowed when he looked at Jon. “He killed our father.” “Aye,” Jon acknowledged, “but my uncle has made oaths and will not turn against the man that helped the North avenge their Lord and Lord’s heir. Lyanna was not the sole or even main reason the North rose against our mutual grandfather. My uncle will not rise against the man he helped place on the throne unless he threatens his family or the North. I will not go to war against House Stark.” Aegon sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it. There was a slight wave to the strands, but nothing close to the thick curls crowning Jon’s head. “I won’t fight a war against House Targaryen either,” Jon said after a minute or two of silence of watching the waves lap against the ship’s hull. Though I may make an exception for Viserys. “Family is precious to me. I’d rather not lose anyone . . . Stark or Targaryen.” “I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother.” Aegon was watching him when he finally looked up. “Well,” Jon started, smile slipping across his lips, “I don’t have too much experience being a bratty younger brother,” Robb and he were too close for that and Lady Catelyn wouldn’t have liked such behavior, “but I can promise you that I won’t steal your birthright.” Aegon chuckled then. “What makes you think you could?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not a threat,” he said after waiting for a response from Jon for nearly a minute. The smile had dropped from his face. “I just—” Jon chewed his lip and then glanced at the sky. He reached out mentally and then, as Aegon began to speak, darted his gaze to a particular spot on the horizon. Shifting closer to Aegon, he pointed, interrupting him. “Watch there.” “—meant—What?” “Please,” Jon said, glancing up at him. Aegon pressed his lips together and then shifted, tilting his head to follow the line Jon’s finger made. It was barely half a minute before a line of flames appeared, drifting in brilliant hues across the dark sky, lighting it before a white shaped slipped through them, breaking the line of flames and helping it to peter out in the air with great sweeps of white-blue wings. His brother gasped and drew back, glancing at him with wide eyes. Jon quirked a grin. “Her name is Winter.” Aegon turned back, eyes darting over the night sky. It was too dark and the moon too empty for light to reflect off her scales. After several minutes, he turned back to Jon. “In your uncle’s letter, he stated the North would not support me against Robert Baratheon.” His eyes narrowed. “Why did he not include Robert’s children as well?” Jon set his jaw, staring seriously at his brother. “Perhaps, if King Robert had any trueborn children he might have.” He continued on, ignoring the confusion tainting Aegon’s features, “As it were, Lord Stark, and the North, will not support the Lannister’s cuckolding the throne. Prince Joffrey and his siblings are lions through and through. Children born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother, Jaime.” “How do you know this?” Aegon asked, voice rough. “I know a lot of things, Aeg,” Jon murmured. He still wasn’t sure if this was a route he could take. He’d often claimed to have the sight, to have dreams like Daenys, but this . . . perhaps it wasn’t the smartest move but in his gut, something told him it was the right one. Aegon himself had never turned on Jon if their initial meeting went well—and had never sought to kill him even if it didn't—and there was so much good his brother could do . . . with the right knowledge. Nodding slightly to himself, Jon pressed his lips together and turned to face Aegon fully. “I would tell you . . . if you would hear.” Aegon stared at him, eyes darting over his features. His brother took in a shaky breath. “I would.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Irileth glared at the ruins of the watchtower. The tower itself was mostly intact, but one of the battlements that had been built around it was almost reduced to nothing. Little fires still blazed here and there, and she could already see one corpse in the wreckage. She searched the skies with a frown. "No signs of any dragon right now," she noted, sourly. "But it sure looks like he's been here." She turned to face the others. They'd grouped up behind a rock just across the road from the watchtower. The doubting soldier had crouched directly behind it with his bow out. And Bradley was just standing there, surveying the scene with a small frown. "I know it looks bad," she said, more for the sake of her soldiers, "But we've got to find out what happened, and if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere." She drew her blade, and the men surrounding her followed suit. "Spread out, and look for survivors," she ordered, lightly jogging over to the tower. "We need to know what we're dealing with!" The men followed her orders, with Bradley making a beeline for the tower. Irileth frowned, wondering what he had seen that she'd missed. As soon as he set foot on the stone steps leading into the tower, another guard emerged. The man was missing his helmet, and was crouching as he approached. "No," the new guard cried, waving his hands erratically to get everyone's attention. "Get back! It's still here, somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!" Irileth grimaced. This operation was getting worse by the second. "Guardsman," she called out, running over to Bradley's side. "What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly, now!" "I don't-" the helmless guard began. He was interrupted by a distant roar, and paled instantly. "Kynareth save us," he groaned, "Here he comes again!" "I see him," Bradley growled, motioning to the south. "Just coming over the mountain." Irileth swallowed, turning to see where Bradley was pointing. There it was, streaking across the clear, blue sky with another, bestial roar. She grit her teeth and summoned the Lightning Bolt spell in her free hand. Her soldiers drew their bows even before she shouted, "Here he comes! Find cover, and make every arrow count!" Mirmulnir was starving . Of course, over a thousand years without food will do that to a dragon; but he'd hoped that, since he'd been pretty much dead for all that time, he'd be an exception. Still, it felt good to hunt nords again. And the two he'd already eaten would satisfy his hunger for now. But he would be hungry again. Very soon. He could feel it. Which is why he'd chosen to return to the watchtower at this point. And what a surprise to find that the place had been almost immediately restocked! Overstocked, even. And there was even a dunmer amongst their company! How convenient, he'd just discovered a hankering for elf. Sure, the dark elves were a bit overcooked for his tastes, but when a dragon emerges from a death coma, they typically discover that they are too hungry to be picky; so long as the flesh wasn't undead. There was a one eyed man, too. Unlike the soldiers, who were preparing for battle even now, he was disappearing inside the tower. Cowardly, but he would probably outlive the others. Mirmulnir bellowed once again, proudly announcing his upcoming victory as he swooped around the tower. "YOL TOR SHUUL." Fire erupted from his innards, strafing the ground as he passed. He didn't hit any of his prospective meals, but then, he hadn't intended to. Instead, he scattered them, as they leapt out of the way of his torrent of flames. "Brit grah," he sneered, soaring around the tower once more as he laughed. "I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide." In response, the little joorre had rallied, letting loose their own attacks. Arrows clinked and broke against his scales, falling impotently to the ground below. The elf, on the other hand, let loose a bolt of lightning. It stung, eliciting a growl from the great dragon. But it was such a little sting, it barely mattered. He flapped his mighty wings, crashing down onto the ruined battlements. The force of the landing shook the one soldier that had taken perch here, who fell over in a heap of limbs. Mirmulnir smirked, raising his head even as the soldier got back to his feet. With one swift motion, he'd trapped the man within his jowls. The dragon shook the poor man around, feeling his lifeblood drain down into his gullet, then spat him out. The swiftly dying man was tossed aside into the fields. A mere whimper was the last sign of life the man ever showed, and it went completely unnoticed by all but Mirmulnir. And he savored it every bit as deeply as the blood. He licked his jowls with deep satisfaction. All that fire and food had left him a little parched. More arrows ricocheted off his scales, and another lightning bolt struck him. He briefly considered the uselessness of the mortal saying, "Lightning never strikes twice," in a world with mages like this. He shook his head. No more reminiscing. That lightning was starting to get annoying, and it was about time he did something about it. The dragon turned towards the elven woman, who had taken position between the tower and the battlements. With a toothy grin, he reared his head back and let loose another stream of flame. And this time, he had a specific target. To his chagrin, she threw up a ward just in time, slowly backing away. Sweat dripped generously from her brow, and the hand she used to keep the spell up was quivering. An arrow slammed against Mirmulnir's face, only an inch away from his eye. He blinked and spluttered, shaking his head as the flames died down. He heard a crack as the elf's ward failed, but her failure to scream in agony gave him the hint that she'd also failed to be incinerated. He glared at the only soldier in the right position to hit that. A single guard, standing atop the other set of battlements. His helmet hid his face, but it couldn't hide the trembling of his limbs. The dragon chuckled, taking to the sky once more. Oh, this was too easy. How had the people who had killed him once fallen so low? Another arrow hit his face, an inch away from his other eye. Even as he swooped around to gain altitude he had to shake his head again, clearing it of the panicking instincts. He was a dragon . And such instincts would submit to his will or suffer. And who was that, anyways? It couldn't have been the soldiers, the angle had been all wrong. It had been from above. So whoever it was... He narrowed his eyes as he found the offending archer. The one eyed man had taken position atop the watchtower. He was grimacing, muttering to himself quietly as he adjusted his grip on the bow and arrow in his hands. The man let loose once more, and Mirmulnir found himself frowning as the arrow bounced off the scales just below the wing joint. He knew the armor his scales provided well. And that arrow had felt suspiciously close to one of its few gaps. Mirmulnir roared once more, swooping over the tower. He belched out another column of flame, grumbling to himself as the man simply dove for the stairs. Something didn't sit right with Mirmulnir about this mortal. Despite his apparent frustration with his weapon of choice, he seemed too... calm. He needed a closer look at him. More arrows pelted at him from below, though it seemed he was out of the elf's range. Oh, well. The one eyed man could wait. There were plenty more mice to snatch. He dove, aiming to do just that to the one with the closed helm. The soldier screamed with fear, dropping his bow and diving off the platform. Mirmulnir missed him by inches. He roared with frustration, climbing back up to the heavens once again. Only to find an arrow lodged under his wing. It stung. And unlike the damage from the lightning bolt, it bled. He roared yet again, this time expressing pain for the first time in an age. His course stumbled, but he quickly corrected it. There would be no fancy flying until he dug it out, that was for sure. Mirmulnir growled. Once again, the angle betrayed the archer. The one eyed man had reassumed his position, and was even now preparing another shot. The movements were strange, clearly alien to the man. But if every shot was like that... The dragon dove to dodge the arrow just as it was fired. It glanced off the top of his head, just above the eye. And down below, the soldiers were preparing their own shots. Another lightning bolt hit his underbelly as he passed over again. Those below didn't matter. Clearly, the only real threat was at the top of the tower. But how to deal with that now? He supposed he could stomach the pain for a sudden climb, and then it was all downhill from there. Just snatch him up, and let him drop somewhere. No human could survive a fall like that. Another arrow hit him, this time in the shoulder. It lodged in an old battle scar, bringing forth another bellow of pain from the beast. How? How had this one man turned the tide of battle so quickly? No. Not turned the tide of battle. Mirmulnir had been one of Alduin's top lieutenants. And he was not grounded yet. Ignoring the pain spiking beneath his wing, the dragon climbed once again, turning just as more arrows clinked off his armor. It was time to be over and done with this man. The man had tossed aside his bow, flames suddenly flickering within his grasp. And Mirmulnir hesitated. Was this little, war torn mouse goading him? The mighty Mirmulnir? The dragon snorted, and began his dive. The man calmly stepped back, and let his own flame loose. It was small, pitiful in the face of a dragon's flame. So why was he casting it? At the very last second, the dragon realized that the torrent of flames was aimed directly where it would meet with his own, reptilian eyes. He grunted in surprise, twisting off to the side in the nick of time. And for a brief moment, his gaze met with that of a single, icy blue eye. It was only a moment, but the dragon got the distinct impression it was being played, somehow. And the scent. Never mind the familiar tang in it; there was something wrong with this man. Like flesh that had once been real was... forged into something else. Something similar to, but most certainly not any strain of human Mirmulnir knew of. And nothing like the almighty gods' design. Mirmulnir righted himself, taking another lap around the tower. But as he rounded it yet again, he could see the soldier with the closed helm. He had retrieved his bow, and was aiming squarely for the dragon's face. This time, there was no opportunity to correct his course. The arrow was let loose, and it found a new home in the beast's eye. He roared in agony, soaring clumsily over the battlements. This was not what was meant to happen. Everything was falling apart, and he needed to do something, fast. Even as those thoughts occurred to him, something landed on the dragon's back, causing him to stumble again. He blinked his good eye, craning his neck to see what the hell it was. The one eyed man straddled his back, only just recovering from the fall. He smirked, drawing one of the blades on his hip. "Hello, there," the man shouted at him over the air currents. He twirled the sword in his hand, then drove it into the same scar he'd shot the arrow into. Mirmulnir roared again, bucking this way and that. But the man held onto the sword, which had been driven in deep. Not enough for a mortal wound, but certainly enough to cause problems. The dragon hadn't realized he was heading for the ground. Not until his face made contact. He grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, and dust flew as he skidded to a halt. The collision had knocked the warrior off, sword and all. But as the dust cleared and Mirmulnir blinked it out of his remaining eye, he saw the one eyed man charging him. He was moving fast, faster than any human he'd ever seen. Mirmulnir growled, puffing up his chest. No mortal would best Mirmulnir the Mighty. Not ever again! "YOL TOR SHUUL!" he bellowed, and fire issued forth once again. But to his dismay, the man had darted to the side. Try as he might, the dragon's flame could not keep up with the human's rapid pace. Now, Mirmulnir was beginning to panic. The world had turned upside down. Men were raining from towers, bringing pain and the captivity of the ground with them. But a dragon should show no fear. So, when he finished bellowing out flame, Mirmulnir grinned, sure to show the slowing human every last one of his teeth. "You are brave," he told the one eyed man. "Balaan hokoron. Your defeat brings me honor." The man smiled, rolling his shouders. "All I see is a lizard who doesn't yet know he's dead," the mortal dared to say, with a bright, infuriating smile. Mirmulnir's smile turned into a sneer, and he pulled back, ready to pounce on the man. Only, he wasn't there when the dragon's mouth closed. Mirmulnir pulled back, this time to search for the one eyed man. Where had he gone? Was he ever there to begin with? There was a sharp pain in his wing, and he could feel the leathery flesh splitting. He roared, thrusting that wing out. The man flew back, righting himself in the air and landing on his damned feet. And he hadn't stopped smiling. The arrows were back, pelting against Mirmulnir's flank. One actually found purchase this time, slipping between two scales and catching flesh. He needed to get back in the air. To go back to his new cave, and dig all of these blasted things out before they festered. He tried to spread his mighty wings, but the man stepped back into his line of sight. The one eye met Mirmulnir's remaining eye, and the mortal let loose another stream of flame. Directly into Mirmulnir's dead eye. The dragon roared once again, shielding its face from the blaze. It stopped, and he heard the sound of feet hitting the grass beneath them. Mirmulnir growled, unfurling his wings to torch the man. And he was right there. Inches away from Mirmulnir's stunned face. The blue eye stared into his, and the world around the dragon slowed to a crawl as realization set in. There was only one kind of warrior that could bring a dragon so low so quickly. And as the dragon hearkened to those old memories, he remembered what that draconic tang in the man's scent meant. "DOVAHKIIN," he bellowed, trying to put as much distance between him and the warrior as possible in the milliseconds left. "NO!" The warrior's blade met his remaining eye, and drove in all the way to the brain. Mirmulnir froze, briefly wondering how he was still capable of sensation. And then, he collapsed, and knew no more. Bradley landed on his feet, leaping away from the dying dragon as it fell to earth. He landed yet again, panting heavily as he studied the twitching corpse before them. His sword was still lodged in the dragon's eye. Probably in its nervous system, if he'd calculated the angle right. It wouldn't be moving again. He decided he hated dragons. Or, rather, this dragon in particular. It had forced him to improvise the use of a bow. He'd missed his mark twice due to miscalculating the wind trajectory's affect on the arrows. That, and the arrow's arc. But he'd been able to see his mistakes, thanks to the Ultimate Eye, and adjust accordingly. And now, he was covered in blood and the dragon's ocular fluids. There was no saving this suit, as far as he knew. Besides, he needed more clothes anyways. And a bath. His eye narrowed as a crackling sound issued from the dragon. Its flesh and scales began to burn from the inside out. Golden energy was beginning to gather about its corpse. "Everybody get back," ordered Irileth, who had been approaching the corpse with the remaining four guards. All four backed off obediently. Bradley took a single step back, and the energy surged into him. His eye widened as a strange sensation passed over him. It brought him back to the time when Prospective Fuhrer Number 12 had been injected with the Philosopher's Stone. Felt all those souls enter his flesh, and begin the deadly free-for-all to create Father's Wrath. But this was different. Calmer . And instead of this soul attacking him, Bradley could feel something innate transferring from it to him. Latching onto his soul. Becoming one with it before the invading soul fizzled out. Fus. Force. Pure, and unadulterated displacement of whatever was in front of him. He could blow it away, with but a single word. He knew this. He knew this as well as he knew how to breathe; how to focus his eye on any detail he desired. And this power was his, won by right of conquest. Bradley snapped back to reality just in time to see his sword fall out the eye socket of a dragon's skull. Where a dead body of flesh had been was naught but the bones. And the unfortunate remains of a guard's armor, right where its guts would be. The guards and Irileth were surrounding him now, all afraid to approach, and all with looks of worry on their faces. He stared openly at the skeleton, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Would someone be so kind," he said calmly, after a long moment of silence, "As to explain to me what the hell just happened here?" One of the guards swallowed. "You," he said, hesitantly, "Must be Dragonborn." Bradley turned to the guard, slowly blinking at him. "I must be... What, now?" "Dragonborn," the guard repeated. "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power." He smiled hopefully, adding, "That's what you did, isn't it? Absorb the dragon's power?" Bradley turned back to the skeleton, frowning as he studied it carefully. There was no flesh to be found, only bare bones. But why? Certainly, it couldn't be this ridiculous story being sold to him now. "I have no idea what has happened to me," he announced with finality. "Well," said the oh-so-helpful guardsman, scratching his hairy chin as he thought. "There's one way to find out. Try to Shout, that would prove it." Bradley snorted. "Yes, shout. As if raising my voice proves anything." The guardsman scowled, but pressed on. "According to the old legends," he said, doggedly, "Only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way dragons do." "Dragonborn?" asked the guard in the closed helm. "What are you talking about?" "That's right," piped up the one who'd been taking refuge in the tower. "My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with Dragon Blood in them. Like old Tiber Septim himself." The last one frowned, glancing at the third in puzzlement. "I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons," he mused suspiciously. The original speaker gave the fourth a glare. "There weren't any dragons then, idiot," he scoffed, as if that was common knowledge. "They're just coming back now, for the first time in..." He blanched, concluding darkly, "Forever." "But," the third said, holding up a finger with a triumphant smile. "The old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power." He beamed at Bradley, proclaiming proudly, "You must be one!" Bradley huffed, folding his arms and scowling at the dead beast. "What say you, Irileth," asked the one in the closed helm. "You're being awfully quiet." Irileth, who had joined Bradley in staring daggers into the dragon's remains, glanced up with a scowl. She huffed, shaking her head. "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about." She kicked the dragon's jawbone, spitting on it. "Here's a dead dragon," she announced with no small amount of satisfaction. "And that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them." Bradley kept himself from openly scoffing. She wasn't the one who had to deal with strange, magical energies entering her without consent. No, that was his problem. And, at the moment, he could come up with no solutions. Irileth approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder as she turned to her guards once more. "But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn," she said, giving him an approving smile. "Someone who can put down a dragon is good enough for me." The third guard snorted. "You wouldn't understand, Housecarl," he grumbled, pointedly not meeting her gaze. "You ain't a nord." Irileth shot the guard a dangerous and offended glare. "I've been all across Tamriel! I've seen plenty of things as outlandish as this." She shook her head, grumbling, "I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends." The first guard turned to Bradley with a sigh. "If you really are Dragonborn, like in the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?" Bradley rolled his eye. Had he really been reduced to a mere spectacle for guardsmen to gawk at? Then again, there was this new knowledge, dancing around in his head. Tantalizing and infuriating him with its confusing existence. Perhaps it was time to try it out. "Alright," he groaned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You've convinced me. I'll give it a try, I suppose." He raised a finger, glaring at the guard. "However , I am making absolutely no promises that anything will happen. Now..." He turned to the side, facing the open plains with a heavy sigh. "Here goes nothing." This was the critical point. If nothing happened, perhaps that was the end of this madness. A brief glimpse of insanity before sanity's blissful return. He could see it now; the guards muttering to themselves in disappointment, and himself simply moving on, forever ignoring this moment from now until the end of time. But he had to shout first. And the only fitting word to shout was on the tip of his tongue. He simply had to stop procrastinating and get it over with. Bradley took a deep breath, then let it out in a single word. "FUS!" To his sheer horror and fury, a wall force issued from his mouth, dissolving in the air before him. It wasn't as powerful as that which had issued from the draugr or dragon's mouths, but it was there. Laughing in his face, and telling him he was overdue for a straightjacket and a padded room. "That was Shouting," called out a clearly delighted guard. "What you did, just now! You really are Dragonborn, then." Irileth cleared her throat. "That's enough lollygagging, soldiers," she barked. "Start putting out these fires, on the double! Move it!" As the guards slowly went to their work, she threw one last glare at the dragon. With a sigh, she muttered, so that only Bradley could hear her, "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few." Her gaze turned to the homunculus, and she managed a sad smile. "I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you're with us." Bradley forced a pleasant smile to his face, and nodded to her. First, the awful dreams, then the barrow. And now, this? He had some serious words for whoever was running this hallucination. Irileth sighed yet again, now surveying the remains of the watchtower. "You better get back to Whiterun right away. The Jarl will want to know what's happened here." "At once, Housecarl," Bradley answered, turning to stroll back to the road. He wanted to be alone, anyways. There was too much churning away in his brain for him to entertain company. He hated this place. He hated this entire world. Back in Amestris, everything had made some sort of sense, unless you counted ideologies. Even alchemy was built upon the principles and laws of science. But this? This? He had been born human, in a world where dragons truly were myth. Certainly, he was human no longer, but that had been changed by Father and his Philosopher's Stone. So, logically , there could be no possible way for him to be this... Dragonborn these primitives kept going on about. His mind flashed to last night's dream. God handing him over to the colossal dragon. Its words. Whatever it had done to him. Bradley grit his teeth, shaking his head. No. He was not about to give his dreams any credence. They were just funny pictures his brain played for him because it hated him. Nothing more, nothing less. It was probably all God's fault, now that he thought about it. Hell, this was probably Bradley's own, personal hell, created especially to torture him by a laughing, infuriating deity. He glanced upwards as a movement caught his eye. And it widened in shock. The mountain to the east; the tallest mountain he could see; was trembling . It had started from a point near the top, and was spreading quickly downward. He threw himself to the ground just before the world shook around him. He loosened his jaw, rolling up his tongue to avoid any accidents. And in the distance, he could hear the voices of several men, all calling out a single word in unison. "DOVAHKIIN!" The ground settled, and Bradley pushed himself back up. There was that word yet again. First, his dream, then the dragon, and now here. He groaned, shaking his head as he marched up to the walls of Whiterun. The Dragonborn business seemed more and more likely with every step he took. And he hated that. Bradley disregarded the citizenry this time around, including the two strangers in robes arguing with a guard just inside the gate. Whatever his reward for the dead dragon was, it had better be good. As he entered Dragonsreach, he caught sight of a young woman right next to the door. She was dressed in steel armor, wearing a shield on her arm and a sword at her hip. Her brown eyes widened as they met his own, and she awkwardly offered him a small nod. He nodded in return, marching past her and up to the throne's dais. Balgruuf was seated there, apparently deep in conversation with his apparent adult relative. Proventus, standing before the dais, approached him with a nod. "Good, you're finally here," he said, motioning to the throne. "The Jarl wants to speak with you." "And I want to speak with him," Bradley answered, passing him by. "So it all works out." "You heard the summons," Balgruuf was saying, a contemplative look on his face. "What else could it mean?" He turned away from the other man, staring off into space and muttering, "The Greybeards..." The younger man turned towards Bradley, his bearded face beaming down at the homunculus. "We were just talking about you," he said, cheerfully. "My brother wants a word with you." So he'd clocked that relationship correctly. He nodded, ascending the steps, then knelt before Balgruuf, bowing his head. The nord turned his gaze down to him. He waited for Proventus to assume his usual position at his side before speaking. "So, what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?" "It was, my lord," Bradley answered smartly. "It destroyed the battlements and battered the watchtower itself. I'm afraid you lost three good men." His head rose, and he gave the man a smile. "But it is dead, now. The operation was a success." Balgruuf grinned, nodding in satisfaction. "I knew I could count on Irileth," he said, before the smile disappeared again. He studied Bradley carefully, adding, "But there must more to it than that." Bradley fought off his instinctual grimace with flying colors. He'd hoped he could get through this conversation without acknowledging that, but he'd known it was always a probability. "I..." he began, sighing heavily as he shook his head. "When the dragon expired, I... absorbed something from it. And when that was done, there was nothing left of the beast but bones." Balgruuf leaned back, a look of awe written plainly on his face. "So, it's true," he breathed, still staring directly at Bradley. "The Greybeards were summoning you." Bradley frowned. That name was bound to come up at some point, but he needed more information. "The... Greybeards, my Jarl?" Balgruuf nodded, sighing heavily himself. "Masters of the Way of the Voice," he answered, his voice dripping with reverence and respect. "They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World." So, a secluded group of monks, high up on that mountain he'd first seen shaking. Where else could they be, really? And the Way of the Voice had to have something to do with Shouting. If anyone would have answers for him, it would most certainly be them. Still... "And, what do these... Greybeards want with me?" he asked cautiously. Balgruuf shrugged. "The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice- the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout." Wait. That was what he'd done? No wonder the process had felt so... involved. But that just led him back to the question of how this was possible in the first place. "If you really are Dragonborn," Balgruuf continued, "They can teach you how to use your gift." The other nord piped up, "Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar!" He was grinning from ear to ear as he said this. "This hasn't happened in..." He frowned, doing some math on his fingers. He quickly gave up, waving the hand dismissively. "Centuries, at least! Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned, when he was still Talos of Atmora!" Proventus held up a soothing hand. "Hrongar, calm yourself. What does this nord nonsense have to do with our friend, here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this... Dragonborn. " Bradley sighed again. As much as he appreciated Proventus' words, he could not see this world being so kind as to deny him this fresh, new hell. Hrongar, in the meantime, wheeled on the Steward, his eyes flashing in anger. "Nord nonsense?" he repeated, indignantly. "Why, you puffed up, ignorant- These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!" Balgruuf raised a hand now. "Hrongar," he gently admonished. "Don't be so hard on Avenicci." Proventus bowed his head. "I meant no disrespect, of course," he said, apologetically. "It's just that..." He motioned vaguely to Bradley himself. "What do these Greybeards want with him?" Balgruuf shook his head. "That's the Greybeards' business, not ours." He then turned back to Bradley, saying, "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue?" He smiled again. "You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor." An honor, eh? Yes, that was certainly a word that could be used here. Not quite Bradley's first choice, of course. No, that would be something along the lines of traumatizing . The Jarl chuckled fondly, nodding to Bradley. "I envy you, you know. To climb the 7,000 Steps again..." He turned to Hrongar, asking, "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that?" He sighed, his eyes shining with nostalgia as he absentmindedly remarked, "High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." He finally shrugged. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you." Bradley nodded, and was just about to stand when Proventus chimed in. "Er, my Jarl?" he asked, a look of confusion on his face. "There was, er, one more little piece of business we wanted to touch on?" Balgruuf frowned at him. "Hmm?" He blinked, then quickly nodded, getting to his feet. "Aye, of course," he said, clearing his throat and looking down at Bradley. "Rise before your Jarl," he ordered. Bradley got to his feet. To be honest, he'd almost forgotten about the reward he was due. To his surprise, Balgruuf clapped him on the shoulder, smiling brightly. "You have done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn," he announced, snapping his fingers. Yet another guard stepped forward, holding up a steel axe which glowed with veins of orange light. And my reward, Bradley thought sourly, Is yet another weapon I am uncomfortable with. Balgruuf took the axe from the guard, who backed away again. "By my right as Jarl," he said, "I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant." Ah, so the axe came with a fancy title, eh? Bradley briefly wondered if he'd need to update his wardrobe to go along with it. "I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl," Balgruuf continued, holding the axe out to Bradley. "And this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office." Bradley humbly accepted it, frowning as his hand clasped around its handle. It felt... unnaturally warm to the touch. Perhaps he should have let Arvel live after all. He would have made an excellent guinea pig for the axe the last daugr warrior had used. Balgruuf grinned, releasing the axe. "I'll also notify the guards of your new title," he added, chuckling warmly. "Wouldn't want them to think you're part of the common rabble, now, would we?" Yep. He'd definitely need a wardrobe change. Then, the Jarl bowed his head to Bradley, saying, "We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn." Bradley forced himself to smile, bowing in return. "It is a duty and a privilege to serve Whiterun, my Jarl." Balgruuf nodded, patting Bradley's shoulder again before returning to his throne. "Unless there's any further business, Bradley, you are dismissed." It was then that a thought occurred to him. "There is one thing, but it's more for Proventus, my lord." "Ah, yes," the Steward said, stepping forward. "And, how can I assist you, Thane?" Bradley sighed yet again. He'd have to get used to the title, even if it hadn't been his original goal. "The Jarl mentioned earlier that I had been granted permission to purchase property in the city?" Proventus nodded, pulling a slip of paper from his satchel. "Of course, sir. We currently have one house up for sale, if you're interested. Breezehome, right next to my daughter's shop." Bradley nodded in consideration. He'd seen the house several times by now. It was a nice enough little cottage, from the outside. But through the windows, he'd seen that the inside was dusty and unfurnished. "I assume I'll have to provide the decorations and such myself?" "Oh, no," Proventus answered, shaking his head. "I'll be happy to provide the furnishings and whatnot. They'll just be a separate purchase. Here-" He dug in his satchel again, this time producing a book. The title on the spine read, Whiterun Home Decorating Guide. "This ought to explain better than I can." Bradley accepted the book, asking, "And the house itself? What's the current asking price?" "Five thousand septims," the Steward answered happily. Bradley's eye narrowed as he considered the weight of his purse. He'd tucked it in his pack, and no matter what calculations he used, he did not see himself in possession of nearly that much gold. "I'll have to check back in with you, I'm afraid," Bradley finally said, turning to walk off. "Very well," Proventus answered, probably waving. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me." Bradley merely nodded, marching back to the doors. "Farewell, friend," called Balgruuf. "May the ground you walk quake as you pass." Bradley stopped in his tracks. The Jarl of Whiterun, the highest authority he'd seen thus far (beyond the Military Governor, Tullius, that is) had just casually named him as a friend. He really was moving up in the world, wasn't he? He glanced over his shoulder, giving Balgruuf a smile and a nod. "And you as well, my Jarl." Lydia could hardly contain her excitement. Despite her earlier protests, she really was glad to finally have an assignment like this. Irileth had refused to share any details concerning the new Thane. Just that it was a man, and he had performed great services for the Jarl and the Hold. It was Balgruuf himself who provided the physical description. As well as the name. So when Bradley entered the palace, she knew exactly who was underneath all that blood. He hadn't been wounded; not that she could tell; but he had been drenched in the stuff. He was also limping slightly, but that she could attribute to bad joints as opposed to any open wounds. And the look in his single, blue eye. He was clearly annoyed by something. What that could be was anyone's guess, but he'd been cordial, and moved on from her without a remark. Which didn't surprise her at all. He hadn't been named Thane of Whiterun yet, after all. But now, he was coming back. More pleased than annoyed now, thankfully. And he was carrying the Axe of Whiterun. Lydia took a deep breath, and stepped forward. She thumped a fist against her chest, bowing her head. "The Jarl has appointed me to be your Housecarl," she announced smartly as he came to a stop before her. "It's an honor to serve you." The one eyed Thane took a moment to examine her critically. She restrained herself from shivering. It was as if that piercing eye could see into her soul. He then smiled and asked, his tone warm and grandfatherly, "Ah, you must be Lydia, then. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Housecarl." She smiled back, despite her nervousness. "The pleasure is all mine, my Thane. How can I serve you?" He simply strolled past her, his hands clasped behind his back. "Walk with me," he said. "My day is just about finished, but that just means we have time to get to know one another." "Lead the way," she answered dutifully, following him out into the afternoon sun. Bradley marched down the stairs, the very picture of elegance and military propriety, despite his attire and the blood across his face. "So," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her, "I'm certain word has already reached you about the..." He grimaced. "Dragonborn business?" Lydia blinked. Was this a test of some kind? "Like, the old tales?" she inquired hesitantly. He smiled again, facing forward once again. "Ah, good. You haven't. I would like to not speak on this topic for some time." Her brow furrowed in her confusion, but she nodded. "Understood, sir." If the Thane decided something wasn't her business, it wasn't her business. Still, her curiosity also reared its head. That was bad. Unless she was investigating a possible assassination attempt or something similar, a Housecarl had no business being curious. So she kept her mouth shut. "So," Bradley said, just as they entered the Wind District. "The Jarl has named me Thane of Whiterun. It seems to be quite an honor." He strolled around the wilting Gildergreen, adding, "And yet, I find myself ignorant as to what exactly that title entails. Perhaps you could enlighten me?" Lydia blinked. Had... Had no one explained anything to this man? She knew he was an outsider, but to give him the honor without explaining it... "The Jarl has recognized you as an important person in the Hold," she answered, following him to the Plains District. "A hero. The title of Thane is an honor, a gift for your service. Guards will look the other way, if you tell them who you are." Bradley pursed his lips, passing by the stands laid out before the stairs. "So, the title grants me special privileges while not really adding to my responsibilities?" Lydia frowned, considering his words. "I... Suppose you could look at it like that," she replied, hesitantly. He stopped in the middle of the road, turning towards her with a smile. "And you? What responsibilities are you given, exactly?" Lydia hesitated again. "... As my Thane, I am sworn to your service," she said, silently wondering how much he actually knew about Skyrim. "I'll guard you, and all you own, with my life." "I see," Bradley muttered. "It sounds like I get a lot more out of this deal than Whiterun does." She smiled sadly, shaking her head. He still didn't get it. "Skyrim is in dire need of heroes," she explained. "Having a Thane around makes everyone less worried, less afraid." She motioned to the sky, adding, "Especially now that the dragons have returned, sir." Understanding shone in his eye as Bradley nodded. "Ah, so it's a morale issue," he mused. "Has the civil war been that damaging, then?" Lydia paused, studying the man for a moment. "Not really," she answered, watching for his reaction. "Ulfric's uprising and, really, most of Skyrim's problems were caused by the Great War." Bradley's expression did not change as he listened. "I see," he muttered, his eye darting around. "I shall inquire more, of course," he said, turning towards the general goods store. "However, I am covered in dragon blood, and this is the only change of clothes I currently own. You may do as you wish in the meantime, but I intend to correct both of these issues. If you would kindly meet me in the Bannered Mare later this evening, you are excused for the moment." "As you wish, my Thane," was all she could say as she watched him enter the shop. How? How could this man, this clearly intelligent and well learned warrior, be so... ignorant of the world around him? And did he just say dragon blood? She could see Irileth entering the city now, followed by four, soot covered guards. Now that her assignment had been given, she had several questions for the elf. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text It is at that moment that Rex chooses to finally make his appearance, charging into the command tent. “We just finished cleaning up—last of the clankers have been sequestered and we’ve captured the tactical droid leading the campaign,” he pants out. He rips his helmet off and glances around at Anakin, Obi-Wan, Cody, and Luke. He does a visible double take. “What did I miss?” There’s a beat of silence. “Well, apparently Jedi can time-travel now,” Cody drawls, voice as dry as Tatooine’s desert as he gestures to Luke. “Dimension travel,” Obi-Wan corrects distractedly, still staring at Luke with wide eyes. Both Obi-Wan and the boy have their heads tilted, that trademark, curious examination pose that Obi-Wan often adopts now reflected in this small stranger. Anakin half expects Luke’s hand to rise up to rub against his non-existent beard. “And technically anyone can do it, not just Jedi.” Rex blinks. “I see,” he says. He pulls up a chair and collapses into it with a heavy, long-suffering sigh. Anakin sees him exchange a look with Cody as his brother scoots a steaming hot mug of the sludge that passes for caf on the front closer. Rex gratefully takes the proffered drink and cradles the mug between both hands as he takes a long sip. He closes his eyes, inhales, and then turns back to Obi-Wan and Anakin. “Okay, care to explain that a little further?” There’s silence and Anakin nudges at Obi-Wan with the toe of his boot, breaking his former Master’s reverie. “Hmm?” Obi-Wan says. He looks up. “Oh, yes. Well, dimension travel is rare, but not so rare that we are unaware of the possibility. These alternate universes are usually just a tad ahead or behind of one another, so it can appear very much like time travel on the surface, but it’s technically inter-dimensional travel.” “Wait, so I’m a time-traveler?” Luke pipes up, eyes round. “And you’re like a super young version of my dad?” Rex spits out his caf. Obi-Wan looks pained. “Dimension traveler,” he corrects. “But back to Cody’s point—the phenomenon is hardly limited to Jedi. All you really need is a powerful Force well, which yes, generally does tend to be Jedi since not a lot of other people are visiting such places but also doesn’t completely preclude the possibility of a non-Force sensitive from doing the same thing. It’s one of the few major Force disturbances that non-Force sensitives can experience and influence to some degree. That we know of at least. So it’s actually quite the point of fascination as I’m sure you’ll understand. Unfortunately, the exact cause has proven elusive and we’ve never been able to replicate the phenomena in a controlled fashion—all of the travelers we have records of report completely spontaneous trips. And a little over half of them prove unable to ever figure out how to return to their home dimensions—” Anakin clears his throat pointedly. Obi-Wan stops abruptly. He’s not one of your science experiments, Master, he says quietly across the bond. He tilts his head towards Luke, who is looking between the four adults in the room with a distinct wobble to his lip. “Oh. Um.” Obi-Wan pauses and reaches out awkwardly to gingerly pat at Luke’s shoulder. “There, there. I’m sure we’ll figure out something.” Rex, Cody, and Anakin look on, gaping. “Wasn’t the General in charge of you when you were a kid?” Rex asks Anakin, sounding vaguely horrified. Cody shakes his head. “Yeah and look how that turned out,” Cody mutters. Anakin bares his teeth and narrows his eyes—he and Cody have an ongoing love-hate relationship that mostly borders on hate. They keep it civil for Obi-Wan’s sake, when he’s conscious at least, but they’ve exchanged more than one or two bitter barbs over Obi-Wan’s hospital bed. “Luke,” Anakin calls, drawing the boy’s attention back to him. His blonde head whips around. “You have to know we’ll get you home again—Obi-Wan’s right that we may not be able to do it right away, but if anyone can figure it out, it’s Obi-Wan. And you’ve got two of them—I know your father will be looking for you back in your universe too, so we’ll be attacking the problems from both ends. In the meantime, I know it sucks but you’ll have to be really brave.” The kid sniffles and nods. He takes one deep breath in, holds it, and then exhales his worry on his next breath out—just as Obi-Wan always does, just as he had taught Anakin as a young Padawan. Only this kid is clearly much better at it than Anakin ever was—in the Force, Anakin can feel the boy’s equanimity returning, like sunshine struggling to peek out from behind a raincloud. “I can be brave,” Luke says, resolutely. “Just like my mother.” “Oh, uh,” Anakin fumbles. He squints at the kid’s blonde and blue eyes and makes his best guess. “That’s great—I think you take after her, you know.” Luke beams. “That’s what Ben says! He says I’ve got her heart. And she was the bravest—she stood up for dem-ah-cracy even when no one else would and even when she knew they might hurt her.” Obi-Wan goes pale, his pain lashing across the Force before he snatches it back and locks away under the durasteel trap of his shields. “What happened to your mother, Luke?” Obi-Wan says, very quietly. Luke glances down at his toes. “One of the monsters hurt her really bad. I was still in her stomach and she should’ve just died right away, but she wouldn’t, not until I was safe. She saved all her strength for me. Ben says Mama was really stubborn when she wanted to be.” Luke pauses, kicks his feet. “That she was—is, I mean,” Obi-Wan says finally, into the silence. He clears his throat. “Satine is the most determined being I’ve ever met. She’s one of the only people I’ve ever lost an argument to, you know.” “Huh,” Luke says. He scrunches up his face. “That makes sense. I never win our arguments. I’m trying to convince you that seven is way too old to have a bedtime, but I haven’t really had a lot of luck so far.” Anakin fights really hard to keep his lips from twitching, despite the situation. “The monsters—do you know their names?” Obi-Wan ventures finally. Luke shrugs. “There’s Vader and the Moffs. And the Emperor, of course. Plus the In-quiz-i-tors, but Ben says it’s not always their fault—a lot of them are just like me, but they were taken from their parents and didn’t have a Ben to protect them, so they only know what the Emperor tells them.” “Emperor?” Obi-Wan repeats dumbly. Luke cocks his head. “Wha—why is there—what happened to the Republic?” “For Force’s sake, Master,” Anakin grumbles, “he’s seven. He probably doesn’t have a stellar idea of Galactic geopolitical history.” “Hey! I’m almost eight!” Luke protests. He pauses. “But yeah, I don’t like politics. Ben doesn’t either. Says its uncivilized.” His voice changes pitch and accent on the last word, an rough but excellent impression of Obi-Wan’s Coruscanti accent. “Okay, hold on now,” Cody interrupts, looking between Anakin and Obi-Wan’s grim, stricken visages with a furrowed brow. “You keep insisting that this kid here is really just a dimension traveler, not a time traveler, so why do we even care? Yeah, maybe his universe has some kinda dark Empire, but there’s gotta be at least one right? Maybe he just happens to come from a really different sort of universe?” “The universes are always close together,” Obi-Wan says, his voice carefully neutral. “With few, if any observable differences. The energy required to catapult someone from one dimension to another is just too great for the sort of wild leaps like you’re suggesting.” “So,” Rex says. He and Cody glance at each other. He swallows. “So that means…” “Yes.” “Ah.” “At the very least, this future is probably decently far away—the universe may be a little ahead of ours and it is usually still fairly close time wise, but close can be relative to Force. We’ve probably got at least a decade or two,” Obi-Wan says reassuringly. “Do you know when this Empire was founded? When the monsters started following you and your father?” Anakin asks. Luke screws up his face and thinks. “Well, my life day is the same as Empire Day—I know cause when he gets really sad, Ben likes to say that just as the Force took everything away, it gave him one small bit of hope,” Luke declares. He pauses, looks around, and clarifies. “That’s me. I’m the hope.” Anakin frowns, something niggling at the back of his mind. “Luke,” Anakin says slowly, quietly, a small pit growing in the center of his stomach. “Do you know what your father means when he told you the Force took everything away? What happened on Empire Day?” “I dunno the details, not really,” Luke says, with a shrug. “Ben doesn’t like to talk about it, so I’ve only heard the Empire’s story, but Ben says that it’s all lies.” “And…” Anakin prompts. “And everyone died—all the Jedi, all the people who tried to help them, everyone .” Silence rings through the tent. “All of the Jedi?” Obi-Wan clarifies, his voice cracking. “Uh-huh,” Luke says solemnly. He reaches out and twines a hand with Obi-Wan’s and then touches his chest with the other hand, right over his heart. “It’s okay, you know. Well, not okay. But we keep them alive in here. All things must die, but not all things must be forgotten.” He adds a common Temple refrain, often spoken over the pyres of the fallen. “And one day the Empire will be gone and then we’ll share their stories with everyone. I’ll make sure of it! I’m going to join the Rebellion as soon as I’m old enough and Ben can’t tell me what to do anymore.” “Oh really?” Cody asks. “A Rebellion? Now that sounds exciting.” “Yup! We were with them for a while but Ben says that’s it’s too dangerous because the monsters are hunting us, and we might accidentally lead them to the other Rebels,” he explains. “But I gotta go back—my mama helped start it back before she died.” “And before that?” Anakin continues, hastily forcing the conversation away from the topic of Satine before that awful burnt feeling of Obi-Wan’s pain can fill the Force again. “It’s hard to understand things that happened before you were born, but do you know anything, anything at all that would help us figure out the difference between now and then?” “I already told you the year. Shouldn’t that help?” “I think your Empire uses a different calendar system—the number you gave doesn’t really mean anything to us,” Cody admits. “Oh. Um—I didn’t know that,” Luke says, twiddling his thumbs. “Okay, then,” Obi-Wan continues. “We’re in the third year of the Clone Wars—does that help you figure it out?” Luke shakes his head silently. “Very helpful, kid,” Rex observes drolly. Anakin taps out a quick cut it out with his fingers as Luke’s lip begins to wobble once more. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve never asked—it just didn’t really seem important.” “It’s not your fault, Luke,” Anakin replies, gently. “None of this is your fault, you know that, right?” “Yeah, right,” Luke repeats woodenly. “Okay,” Cody declares, holding up a hand to forestall any further questions. “I think that’s enough for now.” “But—” “But nothing,” Cody interrupts Luke, that same stern manner he uses whenever he catches Obi-Wan trying to wheedle another set of stims off of Bones and Painless. “You’ve been very helpful, but even the best soldiers need rest, you know.” Anakin nods in agreement. “You can’t help us if you’re dead on your feet,” he declares. “And we do still technically have a siege to finish,” Obi-Wan chimes in. His brow furrows. “The droids may have been neutralized but the Sullustian government will need to be contacted for the official surrender.” Cody types something into his wrist com and hits send with a satisfied nod. “Not to worry, sir. I’ve just contacted Booster—you know how he is with shinies, he’ll be the best choice to help Luke here find a bunk and get settled in.” “Excellent,” Obi-Wan says with a relieved nod. “We can focus our attention on the negotiations in the meantime—I believe the Senate will be sending a diplomat to aid us this time around, so we’ll also have to check our security measures and assign a squadron to act as guards.” “Lovely,” Anakin groans. Luke smiles, quick and unsure. Anakin shakes his head and gives Luke a playful little push. “Hey now, no laughing at me—you’d groan too if you ever had to work with one of these diplomats! Give me a droid battalion or Sith acolyte any day.” “I just,” Luke says, then hesitates. “Ben always makes you sound super grown-up and important, but you’re mostly kinda funny.” “Oh ho ho. Now I don’t know what sort of stories Ben has been telling you about me, but you shouldn’t believe a word of it!” “So you weren’t the best pilot in the Order? In the whole Galaxy?” “Best pilot in the Galaxy!” Anakin hoots, eyes gleaming. “Tell me more!” “Well,” Luke says, warming up to his subject. “You were super brave and you always pulled off these super wild feats that no one else would even dream of trying—that’s why there are a lot of good pilots, but only the craziest can call themselves Skywalkers.” “Call themselves?” Obi-Wan says, faintly, his Force signature suddenly tinged with inexplicable dread. Anakin shoots him a puzzled look. “Yup! The Skywalkers are the bestest pilots in the whole Rebellion,” Luke continues. They’ve clearly hit upon one of his great passions. “Ben says it was a joke that Fulcrum started, but the pilots took it super seriously and now after every mission they all rush the hangar to see if they made the cut. Only Fulcrum and the Captain can make the final call, but once they do, everyone starts cheering and whooping and celebrating. I saw it once, when I was super small and we were still with the Rebellion.” He shifts his voice to a whisper and beckons Anakin closer. Anakin bends down, smiling. “One day, I’m gonna be a Skywalker,” Luke whispers in a not-so-soft whisper that even Rex and Cody, with their unenhanced ears, can still hear. “But you can’t tell—it’s bad luck to tell everyone your wishes.” “Of course,” Anakin nods solemnly, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m honored. Am I your favorite Jedi then?” “Well—it’s kinda tie between you and Master Plo,” Luke admits. Anakin sniffs, as if insulted. “Your stories are my favorites though for sure, if that makes sense? Ben is the best at your stories—he does all the voices and sounds really well. I guess I didn’t know that you were friends, but it makes sense now—he was there too, that’s why your stories are always the best!” A broken noise slips out from between Obi-Wan’s lips. Anakin ignores it. “Hmm. Well, how about we make sure to tell you some new stories? Ones your father hasn’t told you before, that way you can go back and tell him all about what you learned. How does that sound?” “Wicked cool!” Luke breathes out. Booster slips into the tent and hovers awkwardly in the background. “Good,” Anakin says with a nod. His eyes flick meaningfully to Booster and then back to Luke. “But only if you’re really good for Booster and get ready for bed quickly—I’ll swing by as soon as we finish up here.” Luke nods happily and easily slips his hand into Booster’s. He waves cheerily as he leaves the tent. “Bye Mr. Skywalker! Bye Mr. Cody, Mr. Rex! Bye Past Ben!” he chirps, practically dragging Booster out of the tent in his eagerness. Anakin watches him go, hands on his hips. He can hardly wait for the two to fully exit the tent before he whirls around, smiling from ear to ear. “You hear that, Master?” he crows excitedly. “Best pilot! after all your complaints too. I’m never going to let you live this down—” “Anakin, do be quiet,” Obi-Wan snaps, before ripping the tent flap open and stomping away. Anakin turns back to Rex and Cody, bewildered. “What’d I say?” Cody gives him a pitying, pursed lip look and stands to his feet. “Sir,” he says and only Cody can make a respectful sir sound so much like you utter nerfherder . “Some future version of General Kenobi shares all these glowing, nostalgic stories of your adventures with his son—in the past tense. All the Jedi are dead, Luke didn’t even recognize you at first, and apparently the Rebellion decided to name one of their suicidal pilot squadrons in your honor. What do you think that means? ” He follows his General out of the tent. “Oh. I’m dead,” Anakin says, just a beat too late. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Chapter 15 Katara stepped into her prison and stood gritting her teeth, as she waited for the Earth Bender to raise the wall. Once she was certain she had her privacy, Katara allowed herself to be overwhelmed and dropped down on the floor. Her shoulder was throbbing mercilessly, and every movement hurt. She lay her head against the wall, scrunched her eyes shut and her mouth opened in a silent scream. It was only when warm, calloused fingers curled through hers, that she registered the presence of Zuko. Without thought or reservation, she lay her head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand tightly. “It hurts,” she said in a quivering voice. “It hurts so much.” He ran a hand through her hair and lay his cheek against her head, “I can only imagine. Part of your shoulder has literally been eaten away. Nights make pains worse, for some reason.” Katara felt tears in her eyes, “When the moon comes out, can you please help me get into the moonlight?” “Sure. What are you planning?” “A Water Bender’s power rises with the moon.” “Oh! Like I rise with the sun.” Katara nodded. He smelled of smoke and sweat, not surprising, given that neither of them had had a chance to bathe for days. She would have liked nothing more than stepping into the lake to wash off the dirt, grime, sweat and the bits of dried blood that Zuko had not been able to wipe off her body. “I feel filthy,” she groaned against his skin. “Join the club,” he replied. “I hope they will let us take a bath. I’m itching all over.” Katara dug her nails into his skin and grit her teeth against the wave of pain that coursed through her. Once the throbbing abated, she looked up at him. His stubble had grown thicker and with a joly, Katara realized that she quite liked the way he looked with that. Shaking her head, she forced herself to talk about what she wanted to. “What do you make of our abductor?” “Well,” Zuko said, biting his lip in thought. “I’m not sure how he ended up here or why, but I can tell he was born rich. Very rich.” “That’s an odd observation. Are you sure?” “Yes, absolutely. His body language, his manner of speech, his diction – they scream money. I know because I am royalty. I can see it.” “Takes one to know one, huh?” “Precisely. What about you? What are your thoughts?” Gritting her teeth, Katara sat up straight. Instantly, Zuko dropped his hand from her hair and she rued the loss of the tiny comfort he had been providing. Katara tamped the rising confusion within her and turned her thoughts to the question that had been bothering her the most. “I’ve been thinking about Toph, actually.” “Hmm? What about her?” Katara breathed through her mouth, clenching and unclenching her right hand in an effort to keep reduced circulation going. “Does she seem like the kind to take orders from anyone?” Zuko pulled his hand away from hers and stretched his arms above his head, “No. She doesn’t. But she seemed rather uncomfortable when Jet showed up. She seemed… I don’t know… different around Utakata. Not her usual abrasive self. While she was in my war camp, she was rude, sassy, and uncompromising. In the tunnels, while you were unconscious, she seemed genuinely worried about you. She made sure I took proper care of you. But, as soon as Jet showed up, she has gone rather quiet.” “What do you make of her behavior?” Zuko sat up straight and hooked an elbow over one knee. “I’m not sure. I’d say that someone like Toph would follow a person only for two reasons. Either out of loyalty or because the person is holding something over her.” “Like a hostage?” “Possible.” Katara nodded, feeling a renewed surge of pain travel through her. “Won’t put it past Utakata to take hostages.” Zuko chuckled. “Indeed.” “You didn’t seem at all worried that he would use you as a bargaining chip against your father.” Zuko shrugged, “It won’t work.” “What do you mean?” “Fire Lord Ozai won’t stop unless either he has gained complete dominion or he’s dead. Minor things like my abduction won’t deter him from his goal.” “But you’re his son!” Katara said. She had read reports that the father and son didn’t get along very well, but surely that didn’t mean that Ozai would let his son rot amidst enemies, did it? “And the sky is blue,” Zuko replied. “What?” “Oh, I thought we were listing out pointless facts. The moon is out, by the way.” He helped her to her feet and led her to the little patch of moonlight that trickled through the tiny window. “Will this much light be enough?” “I just need to feel the moon,” Katara said, sitting down. “Had it been full moon, I would not need this. But because it’s the waxing moon, I need to be in the moonlight.” “What are you planning to do?” “I have a clot. I’m trying to ease that up. The moonlight will help. I’m trying something I haven’t done before.” Zuko acknowledged her words with a nod and knelt in front of her. Katara closed her eyes and let her senses take over. First and foremost, she regulated her breathing. Deep and steady. Next, she focused on her heart, beating at a steady pace. She had never bended blood outside of full moon, but she could not let her clot go untreated. The chances of it breaking away and traveling through her bloodstream into her brain or heart were far too high. She could not risk that. Besides, she needed the use of her arm. She was in hostile territory, she needed to be fully functional. Additionally, she couldn’t keep relying on Zuko to change her clothes. The one time that he had done so had been far too sexually charged for her. She needed time to sort through her confusing jumble of thoughts and hormones. In short, she needed her right hand to work. It took her an agonizing few minutes before she could finally feel it. Her blood. Flowing through her veins. She followed the fluid to the injury sight. With the aid of her blood, the injury looked worse than it had done when she had seen it with her water. The bug had eaten away a chunk of her muscle and tissue. It was at least three inches deep and about an inch wide. She allowed her blood to move around till she zeroed in on the clot. The water she had seeped into the clot had loosened it a bit. Katara let her blood flow through the clot. In and out. In and out. Four, five, six times before the clot began to dissolve. Slowly, eventually, the clot dissolved. Katara lifted her right hand and sighed in relief to know that her arm was mobile. She opened her eyes to find Zuko looking at her expressionlessly. “What kind of bending was that?” Katara swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “Something I’d known about and wanted to try.” “What did you do?” “I used my blood to dissolve the clot.” His face remained expressionless, but he raised his brow, “So, you basically bended your blood.” “Yes,” Katara was now beginning to feel uncomfortable at is unwavering scrutiny. She had become used to seeing the warm, friendly side of his and seeing him looking at her with the cool, expressionless visage, made her realize something. There were two sides to him. One was Zuko. The one who took care of people, who cracked joke and could be fiercely protective about the ones he felt responsible for. But on the flip side, there lived in him Fire Prince Zuko. Cold, tactical, prone to anger, brutal, and lethal. This was his dangerous side. Zuko would give his life in order to protect the one he wanted to. Prince Zuko was perfectly capable of snuffing the life out of people. She was currently staring at Fire Prince Zuko. A small tremor of fear trickled down her spine when she realized that his shields were back up. The walls she had breached were erected yet again and she had no idea how to get past them. With Zuko, she could be herself. Truly. But with Fire Prince Zuko, she had to walk cautiously. One wrong step could have her incinerated. And out here, in the middle of a camp of Earth Benders where she was an extra, no one would care if he did. Despite her bravado, she knew that if she were to survive and break out of here, she would need his help. She could not afford to antagonize him. The silence stretched between them, taut and crackling with tension. Just as it was getting unbearable for her, he said, “Interesting ability. Not something many Water Benders possess, do they?” Careful. He’s laying a trap. “No.” He ran a finger along his chin, as though weighing her monosyllabic answer, “I see. You know what I’m thinking now?” Katara shook her head, careful not to break eye-contact, as she weighed her odds. His element was within him at all times. She had half a canteen of water which he could evaporate in two seconds flat. She was injured and exhausted. She had Blood Bended using the waxing moon for the first time. She wasn’t confident enough that she would be able to use it to save herself. There was no exit for her, unless an Earth Bender opened the wall. In short, slip but a little and she was toast. He pushed himself up and began to circle her, like a predator circling his pray. Katara’s tongue stuck to its roof, as fear cleaved her stomach hollow. Jet’s lewd suggestion of a gangbang had not unnerved her as much as Zuko’s eyes were doing at that moment. Show no fear. She told herself as she pulled herself up to a kneeling position, trying and failing to keep an eye on him. Suddenly he was behind her, whispering in her right ear. She knew he had chosen her injured side deliberately. “I’m thinking that you’d be a brilliant assassin.” When he had put the necklace on her, his breath on her neck had aroused her. His breath was tickling her neck yet again, but this time it made her want to cry in terror. “I’m not an assassin,” she replied steadily. Zuko straightened and walked into the field of her vision. “You would admit if you were one?” He had a point there. “No.” He crossed his arms across his chest and gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You see why I’m disinclined to believe you?” Katara remained quiet. A flame roared in his hand and he moved closer to the point that Katara could feel its heat on her face. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you into a pile of ash.” Katara stared into the cold whorls of gold, unblinking despite the dancing flame near her face and said, “Because I am the only one that can get you out of here.” “You think I can’t get out of here?” “No, you can’t. Fire Lord Ozai won’t give a fuck, you said so yourself,” Katara said, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. “And Earth Benders outnumber you by atleast thirty to one. On the full moon, I can pull the river up to flood this place and tip the scales in our favor. Left alone, you can’t escape from here.” Unbidden, Vamik’s words came back to her. You look like a dragon. The boy had been paying him a awed compliment. But at that moment, Katara felt as though he was a dragon. Just as the thought came to her mind, he breathed out twin tufts of smoke from his nose. The fire in his hand, and the torch on the wall, went out, leaving them in the bluish light of the moon. “I’ll be watching you,” he said and retreated into darkness, leaving her kneeling in the moonlight. Katara woke up suddenly with the sound of stone being bended. Her shoulder protested as she sat up groggily. Two people, one of whom she recognized as Vamik, walked in. The second man signaled for Zuko to stand up. Once he complied, Vamik tied a rope around Zuko’s wrists. “Rope? You are trying to restrain a Fire Bender with a rope ?” Vamik and the other man exchanged a look as though they had not thought about this particular detail. Zuko rolled his eyes and without moving a muscle, turned the rope into ash. “What do we do now?” the other man asked Vamik. “I’ll go with you,” Zuko said. “You don’t need restraints. I won’t try to escape.” Vamik stood there, looking uncertain. To Katara’s surprise, she realized that something about the young Earth Bender brought Zuko forth. He gave a soft smile and said, “Why don’t you bend stone cuffs?” The boy’s eyes lit up and he did exactly that. Knowing it was her turn next, she began to stand up but the other man held out a hand. “You stay here. You’re not needed.” At that Zuko’s head whipped to her and she saw a brief flash of concern in his face before it went blank. Something was not right. Why were the Earth Benders separating them? Don’t go, Katara mouthed, pleading with Zuko. No choice, he mouthed back. “Come on, move,” the other man said. Zuko looked at her one last time before stepping out of their enclosure, followed by the other two. Vamik raised the wall behind him. Katara sat in the prison, wondering what was going on. After a few moments, the answer came in the form of a blood-curdling scream from Zuko. Elsewhere, a woman named Raan sat in a chair, unsure of what was happening. Her hands were cuffed to a chair and stones bound her torso to the chairback. All around her was darkness. She could not see anything save the silhouette of a man and lantern. As she watched with mounting confusion and fear, the lantern began to spin on some kind of circular device, orbiting the man standing in the middle. Her eyes were drawn to the moving light, her mind slowly, steadily growing lethargic. All it wanted was to see the light. It was then that the man spoke. “My name is Katara. I am Avatar Aang’s betrothed.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Morden moved with purpose toward the quarters for the Abassadors which breathed a non-Earthlike atmosphere. His associates were incensed at the intervention by the Vorlons. The attack by the Vorlon fleet could solidify alliances against them and the insult could not be borne. He looked around, knowing that two of his associates were cloaked behind him. There was no one coming, so he entered the airlock and put on one of the masks. He took the took out the tools necessary to bypass the lock to the Vorlon quarters while waiting for the inner airlock. They were through. Just two passages over. Suddenly, between Morden and his associates and their target there was a bright blue light. A figure materialized in front of them. Human-shaped, the figure gasped in the atmosphere. His associates materialized, curious about this. The figure took out a stick and tapped his head. A bubble of non-colored atmosphere appeared around the head. The figure looked around and spied Morden - and his associates. "Where am I?" Morden was used to uncommon sights, and so didn't lose his composure. "Babylon 5. You're in the non-human area. You might want to go," Morden grinned and pointed behind himself, "that way." His associates could take care of this man, with him providing misdirection. Harry looked at the man who was in front of him with curiosity. He, along with the creatures that appeared to be metallic looking Acromatulas, were fairly dripping with malice. He was familiar with the feeling. It was obvious that whatever they were doing it was something he would consider not good. He didn't move. "And why are you here, if this is the non-human area?" Morden was annoyed and it showed. "We have business with one of the Ambassadors. It's not your concern." Harry nodded. It was obvious politics was involved: Harry hated politics. "Do they know you're coming? It's terribly impolite to arrive without warning." Morden retorted, "And it's rude to delay others in their business." Harry smirked. "I'm not always polite. You probably should exit and call ahead." The Shadows were incensed. This creature was interfering with their purpose. He would be killed. They surged forward. Harry saw the creatures move and he erected a Protego. The creatures bounced off and screamed at him. The screaming caused his scar to hurt in a way it hadn't in so many years - far before his Traveling. However, he was quite practiced at moving through the pain. He shot several spells at the creatures. He was reminded of the maze during the third task. The man shot some weapon at his associates. This was not acceptable. He moved to take the PPG he had acquired out of his pocket. He would get his shot in. Morden lined up his shot. The man waved his stick toward him and a scarlet light raced toward him. When it hit, he lost his grip on the PPG and it flew out of his hand. It was really the least of his concerns as he also felt himself struck and he flew backwards against the bulkhead. He was in a daze when he got up. His associates were also hard pressed. He heard the retreat command. The two Acromatulas and the man suddenly disengaged and moved down the hallway and out. Luckily, he had not lost his bubble as he was out of breath. He heard a rustle behind him. He turned quickly with his wand drawn. There was a figure in a large odd suit and oddly shaped helmet. There was no eye - just a red light or a hole on the front of its face. A rich looking fabric draped down from the large collar. The figure cocked its head and asked, "Who are you?" Harry thought about it for a moment and said, "There are so many ways of answering that question, but I am myself. My name is Harry Potter." The figure drew back as though surprised by something. Finally it said, "The circle is interrupted." Harry smirked. "It isn't always fun traveling in circles. Makes for a tiring trip where you don't get anywhere." The figure cocked its head again. Finally it replied, "Yes." Harry didn't feel the figure was a threat, so he finally stood up and pocketed his wand. "I take it you were the one that the spider-looking creatures were coming to visit." "Yes." "Well, I told them to call ahead as it was rude to arrive unannounced." Harry got the distinct impression that the figure was amused. "Yes." Harry was led out of the section with the weird atmosphere by the figure in the hulking suit. Several were quite curious with the human who walked next to the Vorlon as it was rather late and none had seen the Vorlon out and about at this time of day (or night as the case might be). Zack Allan hated the night shift. He was in charge until 5:00 AM when he would be relieved by the normal officer which monitored the station. He casually glanced at all the monitors, not expecting to see much as it was the "night" part of Babylon 5's cycle. He noticed something curious in one of the monitors. Why was Ambassador Kosh around at this time of night? He also saw the man next to the Vorlon. The man was wearing an outfit right out of History. He moved the camera to focus in on the man and toggled a switch. "Identify Human on Station Monitor 37." The computer took a few minutes to respond as it searched through several thousand records for people that were registered on the station. Finally, it said "Subject: Unknown." "Is there any mention of this individual in any record?" The computer searched through several databases and records. The door to the security office opened and the man and Vorlon Ambassador entered. The computer happened to answer just as they walked in. "Confirmed. Identity: Potter, Harry. Subject matches records from the following dates: …" Zack looked at the man and then at the list. There were records dating back for over a hundred years – since before the inception of Earthforce. There were records from several places and times – all unconnected and random. Zack looked back to the man. He was about to go in to interrogation mode when the computer added one more thing: "Several Records marked: Caution. Several Records marked: Assist upon request. Several Records marked: Apprehend. Several Records marked: Release if Apprehended." Harry heard the machine-like voice and its descriptions. It was obvious that this wherever he was he had done or would do his Traveling regularly. He still wondered if there was another Harry Potter that had landed himself into the same boat he had landed himself into. He decided that it was more likely than not – because he wasn't in all of the places that the computer listed and he had been doing this for a while now. Of course it could be that it WOULD be him. He was getting quite tired of being the Universe's spittoon. Zack finally turned to Ambassador. It was obvious that the Vorlon would be less problematic – as strange as that seemed. "Ambassador, what can I do for you?" Kosh, who had heard the records results, said: "A visitor. Aid him." Zack turned to the man. Harry said, "It looks like it's late. I just need a cot for the night before we sort out my presence." Zack stood up and said, "It's kind of late to get you quarters. We do have racks for emergency personnel." Harry nodded, "That's fine." The Ambassador bowed his head and left. Zack led the man to a Spartan room with four beds, used when Security was on 24-hour notice and backup was needed close at hand or when there were several prisoners and guards needed to be on call. Harry took one look at the bed and lay down. Harry was bone tired. The last couple of trips had tired him out. He had visited Hogwarts in 1982 when Snape became Potions Master and then had landed in some weird world where he met a little Goddess that played pipes. She was traveling with a woman who was apparently her High Priestess and a bunch of guys in Medieval armor. He had helped catch some drunk guy that the surly Knight in the black armor had been after. The little Goddess had kissed his cheek and thanked him for helping to save her mother. It was very confusing – even if the kiss did not seem to be one that came from cute little girls. He could figure out where he was tomorrow. After the man was put up for the night, Zack made his way back to his desk. It was late, but he was certain that someone should be notified. He accessed a menu. Michael Garibaldi was in a deep sleep. He was dreaming about Lise Hampton. He was trying to get to a date with her but kept getting interrupted by different people including Jeff, Sheridan, Delenn, his father, G'Kar, Londo, that Ranger Cole, Ivanova, Morden, Kosh, and a host of others. It was a very strange sequence. He had finally arrived at the restaurant and was about to go in when he heard a beeping. He searched his pockets for the link he obviously had on him somewhere when he woke up and realized he was in his quarters on Babylon 5. He cursed to himself as he moved out of bed and then yelled, "Receive!" His 2IC was in the monitor. Zack had a very weird expression. He recognized when Zack was dealing with something he didn't know what to make of. "Chief, I thought I should call you." Michael was curious. "What is it?" In a tone of annoyed confusion, Zack said, "Ambassador Kosh brought a guy in for a room for the night." Michael was taken aback. "Huh?" "I know. I saw them coming in the monitors and had the computer do a search. This guy, Potter, has some very weird records. I didn't know what to make of it." Michael started thinking. "Where is he?" "Emergency racks. It's late and I couldn't send it on to anyone else." Michael nodded. "Okay, that'll work. We can keep our eye on him. Can it wait until tomorrow?" Zack was uncertain. "I don't know. Let me show you what the computer had." Zack pushed a button and the record came up on the screen. Michael whistled. Finally he said, "That's just about as weird as it gets in this place." He thought for a moment. "Since he was brought by Kosh, it ain't likely he's trouble enough to wake the Captain or Ivanova. I'll come in early and do a check and get it sorted out when the guy wakes up." "Okay, Chief. Allan Out." Michael shook his head ruefully. "Only on this nuthouse," he commented to himself. He set his alarm for early and went back to bed, hoping he would arrive at the restaurant in his dream and his date with Lise. Instead, he dreamed about Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny, and Marvin the Martian. Harry awoke to a chime. He sat up and looked around. He heard the chime again and looked to the door. "I'm up!" The door opened and a new guy came in. He had a black uniform and a weird look on his face. "Hi, I'm Security Chief Michael Garibaldi." Harry nodded, "I'm Harry Potter, the Universe's Compost Pile. How do you do?" The man grinned at his comment. "I heard about your arrival from my guy. I wanted to ask you about it." Harry shrugged. "Sure. Right here?" The man indicated the door and Harry was led out to a room with snacks. It looked like a small dining room. "I thought I'd let you eat while talking to you. Your records are kind of weird." Harry looked at the man with an expression which indicated he knew Giribaldi was lying. "Okay, VERY weird. Weird enough that I'm just going to ask questions instead of interrogating you. Someone like you is just weird enough to be normal here on Babylon 5." Harry chuckled ruefully. "I have to admit, weird is a good descriptor for my existence." Harry accepted some warm drink and a small breakfast. Michael asked, "So, why did Kosh bring you here last night." Harry swallowed the bite he had taken and said, "Kosh?" Michael looked at Harry like he was crazy. "Kosh? The Vorlon? The guy in the Encounter Suit?" Harry said, "Oh! I didn't know his name. He found me outside of his quarters." Michael was suspicious. "What were you doing outside of his quarters?" Harry sighed, "It's a long story. But last night I found myself there right when a guy and two spider-like creatures were making a nuisance of themselves." Michael sat stock still. He asked harshly, "What happened?" Harry described his encounter with the man and the creatures and the fact that they had withdrawn. Harry pulled out the odd gun he had picked up off the floor. "The man had this, which I took from him." Michael looked at the PPG and whistled. "Okay, your story just moved you up the food chain. I have to tell the Captain about this. Right after that, I have to yell at Zack for not checking you for weapons." Harry shrugged. "Sure, whatever. I was tired enough last night that I forgot the gun. I didn't mean not to mention it." Garibaldi pressed a small metal item on his hand. He said, "Captain Sheridan." A voice came through, "What is it, Michael." "Code 7-R. Fast." "I'm in the War Room." "I have a visitor you have to hear." "Bring him along." "Okay, on our way. You might want to call Delenn and Ivanova in on this." He paused, "Kosh too." There was a pause on the other end. "Huh?" Michael grinned at Harry. "That was my reaction last night when Zack commed me about this guy." There was another pause. "I'll see what I can do." Captain John Sheridan looked at his link in confusion. Why did Michael ask for Kosh to come. Usually, you came to the Vorlon. Finally, he commed to the Ambassador's quarters. "This is Captain Sheridan." He heard a voice. "Yes?" "I am told that I should request you come to a meeting about a visitor. Do you know about this?" "Yes." "Will you come?" "No. Listen to him." "Who is he?" There was a pause. "There are mountains. There are pebbles. He is a boulder." John Sheridan was confused. "A boulder?" "The circle is deformed." The link died. As he saw the "End Transmission" message, he thought to himself that sometimes Kosh confused the hell out of him. Delenn and Ivanova were both in the War Room with the Captain when Garibaldi made his way in with Harry in tow. Marcus was also there. Harry looked around the room at the screens flashing, the people bustling, and the frenetic pace. He then looked at the group at the table which the Security Chief was leading him to. He finally stood there. The Captain said, "Please, have a seat." Harry sat down. "Hello." Marcus started. "British?" Harry nodded, "Yeah. Your accent sounds … London?" Marcus shook his head. "Arisia Mining Colony. Edge of known space. Grandparents were from London." Harry's mouth moved to an "O" shape and he nodded. The Captain said, "I am Captain John Sheridan, in charge of Babylon 5. This is my second in command, Susan Ivanova. The Minbari Ambassador, Delenn. …." Harry started when he heard that name. He looked at the beautiful woman curiously. Delenn stared at Harry just as intently. Finally Sheridan asked, "Do you know of Delenn?" Harry nodded, "She looks different. The last time I met a Delenn, she had no hair." Delenn was very curious. "You said met 'A' Delenn. Can you explain?" Harry nodded. "I'll explain in a moment. And you are?" he asked the man in the robe. "Anla-Shok Marcus Cole." Harry smiled. He recognized that word. He said in Minbari, using the Warrior Caste's dialect that he knew, "A strange thing to meet a Human in a Minbari force." Marcus stared at Harry with intense curiosity. Marcus himself spoke Adronato, the Grey language of the Religious Caste. He did understand Feek, which was the Dark language of the Warrior Caste though. He replied in Feek, "The Anla-Shok are now both Human and Minbari. You have a very good accent." Harry nodded, "The result of a past trip." Harry switched back to English, to the vast relief of those that didn't speak Minbari. "Anyway, I am Harry Potter." He explained his past and his current circumstance. "I have become known to my community as 'The Lone Traveler.'" Delenn gasped. When everyone looked at her she only said, "The Lone Traveler is a Legend among my people." Harry sighed. "That has happened in other places and with other societies as well. It seems I am doomed to Travel for reason I still do not understand as of yet." Everyone noted the deep pain Harry exuded when he made this statement. He shook himself out of it. "Anyway, the first time I Traveled and met a Minbari, I had to stop some idiot from shooting up the ship with the Leader of their people. In that Universe, I saved a Minbari named Dukhat from the idiot who was in charge of a ship called 'Prometheus.'" Everyone now gasped. The incident in question was the beginning of the Earth-Minbari War – a terrible struggle for both. Harry looked around. "I take it that wasn't this Universe." Captain Sheridan shook his head with some sadness. "No. A damn shame it wasn't." Harry nodded. "Well, I am finding there are multiple Universes along multiple timelines and with a multitude of situations and circumstances. I've only been to Universes where there are humans but otherwise I've met the strangest beings." Everyone was fascinated. Finally Garibaldi said, "Tell them what happened when you came here." Harry nodded, "Well, last night I found myself in a corridor with a poisonous atmosphere. Using skills I have, I arranged a bubble of regular air to breathe. As I looked around I found myself in front of a man and two large spider-like creatures." Everyone at the table gasped. Shadows! Harry described how he had fought them to a withdrawal. He described the man in detail. The Captain took on a grim look. He recognized the description of the man he hated above all others in the known universe. "After they had run off, the Vorlon (Kosh apparantly) found me outside of his quarters and took me to Security and asked them to help me. The man, Allan, put me up and the Security Chief woke me up. I told him what happened and turned over the gun. And here I am. So, what is the deal with the spiders?" Everyone at the table was shocked by the account. No one had heard of anyone, not even a Vorlon, that could force two Shadows to flee. Finally, Delenn (with help from the others) explained the current conflict and its history. Harry got more and more annoyed as he heard it. Finally, when the explanation was done, Harry stood up and paced. "Merlin! You people are in the same kind of conflict I came from. It gets really, really old, really, really fast." Sheridan asked, "What do you mean?" Harry stopped. "Good vs. Evil, Light vs. Dark. The Bad guys create conflict. The Good guys try to keep the status quo. Only it's not Good vs. Evil. It's 'Us vs. Them." Sheridan, and the others were intensely curious. "Us vs. Them?" Harry waved his hand in dismissal. "Ideology. Politics. Most people don't consider themselves Evil. They have an opinion and try to get other people to agree. The more powerful ones use whatever methods to get people to agree with them. Of course the only people really hurt are the innocents and the bystanders." Harry sat down. "Let me tell you about my world." Harry started explaining the Blood Wars he had grown up around. He told of the competing ideologies. "And the truth is, the whole thing boiled down to the two strongest people: Dumbledore and Voldemort. People called Dumbledore 'Light' and Voldemort 'Dark' but the truth is both used manipulation to get others to follow them." Harry shook his head. "At some point, the Light won, but nothing really changed. I really wonder how much bloodshed could have been avoided if everyone else had stood up and said, 'We don't want to fight for you two anymore. Go away and leave us to live our own lives.' It'd been much better in the long run I think." Kosh entered the War Room just then. He walked up and looked at Harry. He then looked at Sheridan. Sheridan asked, "Is this conflict all about you vs. them?" Kosh said, "Understanding is a three-edged sword." Sheridan was annoyed. "So you and the shadows fight. And we get caught in the middle." Kosh nodded. "Yes." Sheridan was amazed when Kosh confirmed his analysis. Harry chuckled. He said, "I take it that some of your people are getting tired of it. You want to end it and the leadership just wants you to fight." Kosh nodded. The people in the room were floored. Captain Sheridan said thoughtfully, "So the trick is not how to beat them. The trick is to get the Vorlons and the Shadows to see that we really would prefer not to play the game." Harry clapped as he stood. "Now THAT is a worthy goal." He grinned. "If you can figure that out, you have the answer for every conflict that is based only on ideology. It's a cruel certainty that sometimes you have to fight for your beliefs, but it's also a certainty that you have to decide that the beliefs are worth it." He took on a more serious look. "You might call yourself good and the other guy bad, and you might be right. Certainly you have to protect yourself. But fighting someone else's war? It's ugly and painful and in the end it's fruitless." Everyone turned toward Harry. Captain Sheridan was about to say something when Harry felt the pull. He waved to the people at the table and turned to walk away. The War Room looked on in amazement as the man turned into a ball of blue light and moved and disappeared through the air. A haunting music was heard. The room was amazed at what they had seen. Finally Garibaldi interrupted the silence. "I'd say that was about a twelve on the Babylon 5 Weird-Crap-o-Meter." Sheridan, Ivanova, and Marcus all nodded emphatically in agreement. Delenn just stared at the empty space. Kosh was amused. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Haymitch stands off to one side, feigning interest as the three teens lean over an intricate snare. It’s not that he doesn’t care about learning to make snares, - well, he doesn’t - it’s just that he knows Katniss will be upset with him if he murders the Hawthorne boy. And he will murder him if he doesn’t stay as far away from the kid as possible. To put it simply; Haymitch Abernathy does not like Gale Hawthorne. He doesn’t like the smug look on his face. He doesn’t like the way he looks at Peeta, as if the younger boy is weak, or soft - like Peeta is wholly undeserving of having survived the Games, and of having Katniss’ help to do so. He doesn’t like the way he continually messes with Katniss’ head. The way he acts as though he’s entitled to her time, to her affection. Most importantly, he despises the petulant little tantrums Hawthorne throws. The way he walks around town, declaring the Capitol evil, the Games wrong, is going to get Haymitch’s kids killed. So the man watches from a distance as Peeta beams up at Katniss and lays a hand on her forearm when the girl compliments him on finally executing the trap. The boy doesn’t remove his hand when he announces that this was the last task on today’s agenda, and they are all free to go. Peeta is too focused on the girl beside him - still basking in her praise - and the girl much too emotionally inept for either to pick up on the change in Hawthorne’s mood. ‘Sundays are for Gale’ is a phrase Haymitch has heard thrown around since the Everdeens arrived at the Victor’s Village. “Oh no, she isn’t here right now. She spends Sundays with Gale,” Prim would say. “Why’re you here and not over bothering the girl?” he would ask Peeta, “Katniss is hunting with Gale, it’s Sunday” the boy would reply. While Peeta and Haymitch have been joining in on the sacred ‘Sunday time’ for the past few weeks, Gale has remained quite content, if not a little awkward. Until now. Given he looks somewhere between suspicious and angry, Haymitch gathers he was only fine with this arrangement as long as Katniss and Peeta were on the outs. Now that the girl is no longer pretending her co-victor doesn’t exist, and treating him as more than an overbearing drill sergeant, Hawthorne seems pissed. Matters are not helped when Peeta stands up. Instead of letting his hand fall to his side, he confidently places it on Katniss’ shoulder. “I made some bread for you to take home Gale, for helping us out. I’ll run in and get it.” Peeta heads into his house, leaving Haymitch to watch the ‘best friends’ who are still crouched on the ground together. Katniss begins to methodically pack up the loose snare supplies as Gale watches her intently. “Why’s he always touching you?” Gale’s gruff voice asks. Katniss winds up a spool of wire as she replies. “I already told you, Gale. We need to be in love,” her voice is bored, as though she has no idea what he is implying. Knowing her, Haymitch is completely sure she doesn’t. “No, I mean now. When we’re on our own, and no one is around. He’s always touching you.” Katniss’ head whips up, the spool falling to the ground as her body tenses. “He does not,” her voice is fierce but laced with uncertainty. Gale’s laugh is mocking. “God Catnip, you are clueless.” The girl's face pulls into a scowl. “Why was his hand on your shoulder just now? Who were you acting for? Me? He’s touching your arm or your back or bumping your knees together the entire time. Obviously, he does it a lot because you don’t even react.” Fucking Gale Hawthorne and his fucking head games. Haymitch can sense the anxiety and confusion rolling off Katniss in waves. Fan-fucking-tastic. Peeta and Katniss are finally back to what counts as ‘normal’ for the pair, and Hawthorne just has to fuck it up. “Don’t you have places to be, Hawthorne?” Haymitch calls out, walking towards the pair. “Must be a bunch of girls waitin’ for you down at the Slag Heap. Wouldn’t wanna keep ‘em waiting,” Haymitch nods his head towards the gate that leads back to town. Before, he had the buffer of slurred speech and drunken double steps to soften his words, to hide his motives. It’s much more difficult to manipulate people inconspicuously now that he can’t be - or at least pretend to be - drunk. Now, his actions don’t get passed off as the ramblings of a drunk man. Now, Haymitch watches on as Hawthorne stands slowly and rises to his full height. He’s almost half a head taller than Haymitch, and 25-ish years his junior, but he isn’t a victor. The whole ‘tall, dark, and brooding’ thing he has going on doesn’t intimidate Haymitch the way he’s sure the boy was expecting it to. “I’ll leave you to your-” the boy looks Haymitch up and down once in pure disgust, before turning back to Katniss, “mentor, Catnip.” That stupid, stupid, nickname. Haymitch rolls his eyes at the moniker. “Okay,” the girl responds. She’s put some distance between herself and her hunting partner in the time he and Haymitch have been ‘talking’. Hawthorne pauses, as if waiting for his best friend to elaborate; maybe he’s hoping she’ll beg him to stay, Haymitch thinks, hoping that she’ll apologise for her mentor’s behaviour, promise to never speak to Peeta again, declare her undying love for him. She does none of that, standing stiffly as the boy swipes up his equipment, huffs, and stalks towards the path back to town. “Where’s he going?” Peeta asks from behind the pair. Peeta, with his bread for Gale. “Gale!” he yells, jogging towards the older boy. Hawthorne, realising Peeta will chase him all the way back to the Seam rather than let him return home without an arm-full of baked goods, pauses at the gate and waits for the victor to reach him. If only Peeta wasn’t so bloody nice, Hawthorne would be out of Haymitch’s sight by now. At least it’s given him time to confront the girl before she goes and blows up another relationship with her bluntness. “You need to stop letting ‘King of the Slag Heap’ mess with your head, sweetheart,” Haymitch says to his mentee. “He’s not trying to mess with my head. He’s my best friend,” the girl says. She crosses her arms across her chest, and drops her gaze to her feet, letting her fringe obscure her face. Haymitch watches as she shuffles her feet anxiously, digging the top of her boot into the dirt and boring a small hole. Maybe she’s hoping the ground will just swallow her up. “He’s not wrong though,” she mumbles. “I didn’t realise it, but Gale’s right.” Haymitch is almost certain that if he could see her face, the girl would be pouting in confusion. She really could be dim. Set her loose in the wild and she can identify every plant in a hundred-mile radius, but ask her to identify basic human emotions… “Don’t you dare bring this up with the boy,” Haymitch says harshly. It catches her attention, her head snapping up to look him directly in the eyes. “I’m serious. None of this ‘socially inept, blunt’ shit. Not with this.” Her brows furrow in obvious confusion. “If you don’t want me asking him about it, then you explain. Now.” Confusion has moved quickly to annoyance, and Haymitch knows if he doesn’t shut this down right now the girl will implode. This is why no one lets her in on the plans, he thinks. Haymitch looks to make sure Peeta is still occupied - he and Gale seem to be talking - and focuses in on Katniss. “The boy’s touch starved, sweetheart.” The girl’s face is back to confused. “When you were a kid, your parents hugged you, yeah? Held your hand, ruffled up your hair? Piggyback rides and kisses?” Katniss nods once, her eyes taking on that far-away look she so often wears when her father is mentioned. “I’m willing to bet every bottle of liquor in Panem that every instance of physical contact he had as a kid, ended in bruises.” Haymitch has seen the girl before him literally end multiple lives. He watched her volunteer to die, and stare down the most powerful man in the known world - who is actively trying to kill her - without flinching. In all those times, Haymitch has never seen the girl's face darken so intensely, her jaw clenched so tightly as it has now. “His dad? You think his dad did it too?” she asks stiffly. “Nah, but he certainly didn’t help. I doubt he was rushing in to comfort the boy. Not with that cow watching.” Katniss nods and turns away from Haymitch, her eyes focusing in on the boy. “So what, it’s comforting or something?” she asks. She says it so offhandedly that Haymitch would have thought she was completely indifferent. That is, if he couldn’t see the desperate way she is watching the object of their conversation. As though her gaze alone can keep him safe. Haymitch only hums in agreement. He sees the boy wave at Hawthorne and begin to make his way across the lawn towards them. Haymitch moves the small distance back to his house and collapses down onto the porch step, balancing his head in his hands so he can keep an eye on the girl. As soon as the boy is within her grasp, Katniss reaches for him. He looks shocked when her hand lands on his forearm, so unused to open displays of affection from the girl. “We’re having family dinner tonight. Can you bring over some dessert?” the girl asks, as blunt as ever. “Of course, what are you having? I’ll make something to match.” “What am I having?” the girl says. Haymitch watches her face pull into a scowl. “Did you think I was asking you to drop over dessert for a dinner you weren’t coming to?” “I, umm-,” the boy uses his free hand to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly. He has the entire country eating out of his hand with a few words, but talking to the girl? He’s tongue-tied. Haymitch suppresses a laugh. “You said ‘family dinner’. I just thought..” “Exactly. Family dinner. So you’re coming. So is Haymitch, even though he’s insufferable most of the time,” she shouts the last bit for her mentor's benefit. “Ok,” the boy smiles. “Should I make enough for the Hawthornes?” And there it is; that silver tongue. The one that makes loaded questions seem so innocuous that people don’t even realise what they’re being asked. Haymitch doesn’t even think the boy does it on purpose most of the time. “What? No. Just the five of us.” “Okay, great,” the boy smiles. “Great,” the girl replies. They are both still for a moment, neither knowing how to part ways after such a conversation. Haymitch is just as surprised as Peeta when Katniss moves first. The smaller girl launches herself at Peeta so quickly, and with so much force, that the boy stumbles for a moment before he’s able to right himself and hug her back. Her arms are wrapped so tightly around the boy's neck, that his head is pulled down to rest on her shoulder. Haymitch doesn’t miss the way Peeta turns his head towards her, burying his face into the girl's thick braid. Katniss is stiff when they separate. Her back is ramrod straight, elbows locked at her side. “I will see you tonight,” she says. Her voice is completely without inflection, but her cheeks are beginning to heat. She doesn’t give the boy time to reply before she turns and all but runs into her house, slamming the door behind her. Peeta doesn’t move for a minute. He seems utterly dazed by what has just occurred. His face reacts first; his smile so wide, the twinkle in his eyes so intense that Haymitch is sure the boy could implode with pure joy at any second. Haymitch smirks at the boys blushing face as he pushes himself up to standing. “See you at dinner, lover boy,” he throws over his shoulder as he lets himself inside. He hears Peeta’s laugh carry through the village as he shuts his door behind him. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Amity POV: "Hey!" "Oh gods why now?" I thought. His grip on my wrist loosened as the anger left his eyes, and for a moment I thought it was replaced with fear as his ears went down in shock. Both of us slowly turned to the alleyway opening. And just like I feared, there was Luz, who was looking beyond pissed. The creep's eyes widened, his ears somehow going down even further. Then, a low growl erupted from his throat, his eyebrows furrowing tightly together. From what I could see, the anger in his eyes was reignited, this time this time from a low flame to a whole bonfire. He put even more pressure on my wrist, making me wince in pain. Luz noticed, and took a few steps closer. I tried to get her to stop, violently shaking my head. I knew she didn't have any paper on her, and even if she did, her magic would probably be rendered useless due to his relic. "I can't move!" I mouthed, but she didn't pay any attention. No, her full attention was on the guy holding me in place, glaring at him so hard he'd probably drop dead if it was possible. "Back. Up." Her grave tone made my eyes widen. I couldn't think of another time where I heard her voice like that. Her voice is normally bubbly, the kind that makes you perk up when you hear it. Now, it was cold, monotone and full of venom, matching the look in her eyes. And that scared me most. It wasn't the guy that's managed to render me defenseless, the guy who could kill me in an instant, no. It was Luz, who not only looked like she was about to rip this guy limb from limb, but she could also get hurt in the process. "Luz Noceda." He hissed, startling me. He knew her name? They've met before? When? Somehow, that didn't phase her and she simply took another step closer, her hands clenched into tight fists. "Luz, stop-" I started, but he quickly snapped his head back in my direction, shooting me an intense glare. "Not another word." He told me, tightening his grip once again on my wrist. I glared at him, hoping he couldn't see how afraid I was. Suddenly, a small rock nailed him in the side of the head, making him twitch. "Did you not hear me? I said back the fuck up!" She yelled, once again taking me by surprise with her cursing. I heard the creep huff, then he backed up. I still couldn't move, meaning that whatever spell he cast earlier was still in place. "Why do you always have to ruin things?" He hissed, folding his arms over his chest. Luz tensed up, struggling to find something to say. "Are you serious right now?" She angrily waved her hands around for a moment, murderous intent in her eyes. "The only thing I'm doing is stopping you from being a creep!" The guy popped his fingers, his lip twitching before curling into a sick smile. "Well then, if you want me to stop, you'll have to do it yourself." "Or, you could just leave." Luz glared, holding her ground as he took a few steps closer until he was right in front of her. Then, he leaned down until he was in her face. "And what will you do if I don't?" His voice fell low, just barely loud enough for me to hear where I was at. "Te haré suplicar piedad." She stated, confusing the guy slightly. He laughed, taking a step back as he held his sides, absolutely losing it. I frantically tried to move while he was laughing, hoping that he was distracted enough to let the spell slip. Unfortunately, the spell remained unwavering, leaving me stuck in place. I tried to signal Luz to leave, but when she saw what I was doing, she shook her head. I may love the fact that she can be stubborn when she needs to be, but right now I didn't. "Was that supposed to be some kind of spell?" The guy finally managed to get out before wheezing, shakily reaching up to his neck to show her the relic. "Good luck trying to get that to work!" Luz blinked a few times, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She glanced back at me, her eyes searching for answers. "It's a relic!" I managed to say, but quickly froze in place when I felt something wrap around my neck. The guy clenched his hand into a fist, tightening the thing around my neck, which I assumed was a binding spell. "I told you, not another word." His tone suddenly shifted to a serious one. He made sure it was tight enough around my neck to be uncomfortable, but not enough to strangle me. Yet. Suddenly, Luz grabbed onto the guy's shirt with no hesitation, pulling him back down to her level. "Let her go. Now." He quickly shoved Luz away, making her stumble and nearly fall. She quickly regained her balance, making sure she didn't look away from him for even a second. He pulled back on his jacket, revealing two bottles of some bright green liquid. Grabbing one in each hand, he shot Luz a cocky smile. "Come on then human!" He spat, making her twitch. "You want me to let her go? You're gonna have to force me!" "We really should've taken care of you last time we saw you." Luz hissed, holding her fists up. I shot her a confused look, still wondering how this guy knew who Luz was, let alone whatever she meant by that. Then, before I could even blink, Luz was barreling towards the guy, ready to hit him. He immediately threw one of his bottles at her, which she narrowly avoided. It shattered on the ground, burning and eating away at the dirt. My eyes widened as I watched him wind up for another throw. At this point, I could feel the spell around my neck loosening, meaning that he was losing his focus. I struggled to move my arms again, finding that I could just barely inch them forward. "If she can just distract him a little longer, he'll lose focus and I can tackle him." I thought to myself, watching the fight that was unfolding. A hint of guilt crept up in my head at the thought that Luz was acting like bait right now, but I shoved it down. The creep threw his second bottle, which Luz was barely able to duck under. She popped back up and instantly right hooked him, making him stumble. He hesitated for a minute, wiping his nose as blood began to pour from it. Luz flapped her hand she used to hit him with, grimacing at the pain. "You hit hard..." He chuckled, slowly breaking out into full blown laughter. "But not hard enough!" Drawing another spell circle, he launched Luz into the wall. She smacked the wall fairly hard, then fell to the floor. I could see she was struggling to get up, resting on her elbows because the wind was knocked out of her. She reached up to feel the back of her head, whining in response. The creep walked over and picked her up by the collar, dangling her off the ground. "Stop! Please!" I begged, watching as he tightened his fist again, probably to tighten the spell around my neck. However, it did nothing, because the spell had already worn off. Either he didn't notice or didn't care because he turned back to Luz. "Is that really all you got? One little hit to the wall and you're through?" He taunted, Luz wrapped her hands around his wrists, keeping a tight grip as she dug her nails into his skin. Her eyebrows tightly furrowed together, but she didn't say anything. For a second, I could see her eyes flick over to me, probably seeing the fear plastered on my face. Her gaze turned back to his, a new fire ignited inside her eyes. "Nope!" Luz shot him a smirk, then she spat in his face and kicked him in the chest, effectively getting him to let go. He stumbled back with a wheeze, trying to clear his vision. Luz landed feet first on the ground, then charged towards the guy with a loud battle cry. She jumped up and managed to land another solid hit on the guy, making him fall to the floor. She kept throwing punches, and with each one, I could feel more and more of the spell wear off. But, Luz's punching suddenly stopped and she froze in place. I could see her struggle to bring her fist back down to his face. Then, she was suddenly flung back towards the opening of the alleyway, rolling a little ways before bringing herself to her feet. The creep managed to get up, stumbling slightly. Luz started charging towards him again, but froze once again. "Not. Another. Step." He growled, sounding out of breath as he wiped a sleeve under his bleeding nose. He drew another spell circle, summoning some kind of item in his hand. It was some kind of rectangle that had a brown handle and a trigger, something I didn't recognize. But based on Luz's reaction, she did. Her eyes widened, her expression dropping as her entire face went pale. She stared in fear at whatever he was holding. I heard it click, then he slowly pointed it in my direction. I stared at the thing he pointed at me with, noting the hollow circle in the middle and that it seemed to be made of some kind of metal. "Don't!" Luz exclaimed, reaching out towards him. Her tone completely shifted, instead of being angry and full of venom, now it was full of panic and desperation. The creep laughed, still pointing the thing at me. "Don't what?" He asked, making Luz swallow. From where I was standing, I could see she was trembling, her eyes darting from me to him. Luz's reaction was making me tense, the longer he kept that thing pointed at me, the more I started to shake. What was that thing even capable of? "How do you even have one of those? They're, they're not..." She stuttered, maintaining eye contact with him. He laughed again, lowering the rectangle weapon as he ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn't concern you." He laughed again, reaching for the relic around his neck. "Though I'd have to say, it was a lot easier to get this little thing than this stupid charm." "Do you even know how to use that thing?" Luz cried, still staring at the weapon in his hand. The creep tilted his head, then chuckled. "Sure I do." He pointed the weapon to the side, not breaking eye contact from Luz. "You just point this at whatever you want and pull the trigger." He pretended to pull the trigger, acting like it had recoil. "Then bam!" He aimed the weapon back in my direction, Luz tensing up in response. I could see her chest rapidly moving up and down as she tried to think of what to do There was maybe three seconds of silence, then Luz lunged at the creep. They both fought over the weapon, Luz desperately trying to rip it from his hands. His concentration was split between me and Luz, meaning that he couldn't fully focus on the spell. I could now barely move my arms, but I still couldn't move my legs, meaning I was still useless to the situation. The creep let go of the weapon with one hand, baring his teeth. "You really have a death wish, don't you?" He yelled, roughly punching her across the face, making me gasp. Luz stumbled back, holding the cheek where she was struck. With no hesitation, he aimed the weapon at Luz. Then there was a loud bang. My ears instantly started ringing, making me drop my guitar case to bring my hands up to my ears and cover them. My eyes tightly closed and I felt myself move forward slightly, but I was too busy trying to figure out what had happened to care. Opening my eyes, I looked over towards Luz only to see her collapsed on the ground with hints of red scattered around her. The creep waved his weapon around, saying something that I couldn't understand. The ringing slowly started to thin out, his voice becoming clear. "You really had no idea what you were doing, did you?" His voice sounded muffled to me, but I could still understand what he was saying. "Wow, if I knew it would've been this easy I would've just wiped you out last time." He took a step closer to Luz, who struggled to scoot away from him, whimpering the entire time. Bending down to her level, I watched as he roughly grabbed her face and pulled her up, giving me a good view of her pale, tear stricken face. He said something to her, but he said it too quiet for me to hear. Throwing her back down to the ground, I could hear her hiss in response, curling into a tight ball. The creep laughed and stood up straight, placing his free hand on his hip. Then, he aimed the weapon at Luz again, a big murderous smirk on his face. "I hope you had fun trying to act like a hero, cause now it's time for you to die like one." My eyes widened as his words quickly sunk in. It took me a second to realize that the spell had worn off, probably because he was distracted by the sound his weapon made. So, without even thinking, I snagged my guitar case off the ground and sprinted towards him. When I was only a few steps away, he finally realized I was moving. He turned his head in my direction, but that's as far as he got. I slammed my guitar case in his face, a sickening crack following after. The weapon dropped from his hand as he twisted and fell face first to the floor, knocked out cold. I heard something break under him, which I assumed was the relic. That made me wince, knowing just how rare relics are. Kicking the weapon away from him, I gave him a swift kick to the side of the head. His head turned and I could see just how much blood was flowing from his now broken nose. Luz let out a low whine, diverting my attention from the guy. I quickly knelt down next to her, instantly noticing how she was clutching her side. "Luz?" My voice was thick and I didn't even bother to hide it. "What did he..." I slowly trailed off, my gut dropping like a ball of lead when I caught onto the amount of red that was spilling between her fingers. She barely lifted up her shaking hand, wincing at the sight. "This... really hurts." She managed to get out with half a chuckle before she broke out into a fit of coughing, red spilling past her lips. My brain kicked into overdrive, bringing both of my hands down over hers and putting pressure, hoping to stunt the bleeding, the metallic smell of blood hitting my senses. I grimaced at the feeling of warm blood, Luz hissing in response to the contact. "You're an idiot! Just throwing yourself in there like that!" I told her in a shaky voice, bringing one of my hands up to cast a healing spell. But, halfway through the spell, I paused. Healing spells could easily revert wounds like these, patching them up like they were nothing, but that was how it worked for witches. Luz is human, I had no idea if the spell would react any differently to her, maybe make things worse rather than better. Not only that, but I have no idea what else that weapon did to Luz, so who says that some kind of spell wouldn't somehow aggravate it? With a shaking hand, I wiped away the half cast spell, noticing just how heavy my breathing had gotten. Luz tried to shift, but stopped moving soon after, her face scrunching up in pain. "Hey... at least I managed... to get him away from you." She managed to say with half a smile, barely cracking open an eye to look at me. Even though I could see she was in pain, her face flashed with concern as she brought a clean hand up to my face. She cupped my cheek, her thumb wiping away a tear that I didn't even know was there. I knew there was no point in her action, because the tear was quickly replaced. "That doesn't matter! You rushed in without any spells and now you're hurt!" My voice cracked as I struggled to swallow a sob. She gave half a smile, but I could feel her trembling. "Better me... than you." Her eyes fluttered for a moment, nearly closing before forcing themselves open. Tears ran down her face, but she seemed to ignore them. "No! Not better you than me!" I hissed, watching her hand fall from my face and catch onto my shoulder. I couldn't just sit here and let her bleed out, I had to do something. Spells wouldn't work, and pretty much no one dropped by this part of the market, so there was only one other option I could think of. "Amity..." She started, her eyes halfway open. I shook my head, blinking away the tears to clear my vision. "Please, just save your strength." I begged before taking a deep breath. "And I'm sorry for what I'm about to do." Before she could question anything, I scooped her up off the ground. She let out a low whimper, gripping onto her blood soaked shirt as she leaned her head on my shoulder, a few curses escaping her lips while I frantically apologized. My eyes caught my guitar case for a moment, but I shook my head. I could leave it behind, no one was around this part of the market anyways. And besides, Luz was much more important than some guitar. I dashed out of the alleyway opening, making sure to keep a tight grip on Luz the entire time. She kept her head leaned against my shoulder, struggling to put pressure on her wound. Glancing down at her, I noticed just how pale she really was. The bags under her eyes seemed so dark now compared to before where you could barely tell they were there. Her eyes would flutter shut for a moment, but she'd quickly open them in an attempt to stay awake. "Gods why does the hospital have to be so far?" I panted as I made it to the edge of the market, still running. My legs were going numb and my lungs felt like they were on fire, but my mind kept screaming at me not to stop. "Ami...ty?" Luz managed to whisper, looking up at me. I glanced down at her, noticing how more tears were gathering in her eyes. She was afraid, it wasn't hard to see. "Luz, stop talking, just save your energy." I managed to say, but she softly shook her head. I could see her hand slipping off of her wound, her head leaning with more weight against my shoulder, the little bit of energy she had left was slowly dwindling away. "But you... deserve to know. Especially if... I'm gonna die." She mumbled, nearly making me trip. I quickly picked up my pace despite the fact my legs felt like they were on the brink of collapsing. "You aren't going to die!" My voice faltered, more tears blurring my vision. "You won't! You can't... I can't lose you like this." I tried to keep my voice steady, but failed as a sob pushed past my lips. "You're going to be just fine, I promise." I managed to choke out. Luz let out half a wheeze, which I assumed was supposed to be a laugh. "Still... better be safe... rather than sorry." Another half a wheeze escaped her, her fingers slowly teasing with her shirt. "Cause hey... if I do survive we... could probably have a happy little ending." Her breathing was shallow, which was starting to send me into a panic. I could feel myself slowing down, and I couldn't stop that if I tried. We couldn't be too far away from the hospital now, but I still silently cussed out whoever built the town. Who in their right minds would put the market a decent ways away from where the healers were? "What do you mean?" I managed to say despite being completely out of breath, finally giving up on getting her to stop talking. I glanced down at brown haired girl, the pain written on her face was clear, and it was obvious she was going to slip out of consciousness at any moment. Her glazed eyes looked up at mine, as she struggled to put on a smile. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my pace, seeing the vague outline of the hospital in the distance. "Oh thank gods! Please Luz just stay awake a little longer." "I... really like you Amity." Luz managed to mumble before letting out a pained chuckle. "Ain't this cliche? Me... telling you this while... I'm dying in your arms. I swear I've read... something like this before." She continued to chuckle, but I could tell it was forced. Her words left me floored, nearly making me freeze in place. Nothing came to mind on what I should say back. Under normal circumstances, I'd be a blushing mess, barely able to stutter out a sentence back. But now, with Luz's life on the line, the only thing on my mind was getting her to the healers. Then, because I wasn't paying attention, I nearly fell when I tripped over a rock. I managed to keep my balance, but I knew the sudden movement didn't feel good to Luz. Her face twisted up in pain, her bruised knuckles turning white as she clutched onto her blood soaked shirt. "Oh gods I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I frantically apologized, feeling her trembling in my grasp. Luz didn't say anything, she just kept her eyes scrunched closed as violent waves of pain wracked her body. The outline of the hospital was becoming clearer, so I picked up my pace again. "Hurt..." Luz managed to finally say, her voice just barely above a whisper. Guilt coursed through my veins, knowing that I made it worse. "I know it hurts, I know. I'm sorry." Was all I managed to say, more hot tears violently stinging the corners of my eyes. "Just hang on a little longer, please." My voice went into a higher in pitch as more tears rolled down my cheeks. She fell silent, making me worry that she passed out from the pain. However, looking down at her, I found her eyes were barely open, struggling to stay awake. Then, she shivered, leaning closer to my body. "I'm... getting cold Amity." She mumbled, her voice sounding so vulnerable, a low whimper escaping her lips. "You're warm." I could barely hear her say, her hand sliding off her wound and hanging to the side. None of this was good, and it was all my fault. If I hadn't been so stupid and just stayed in the shop when the guy was following me, none of this would've happened. But now, because of my stupid choices, Luz was hurt, Luz had the chance of dying. "Luz you've gotta stay awake!" I managed to tell her, feeling my chest tighten when I didn't get an answer. When I looked down at her, I saw her eyes closed, her chest barely moving up and down. "Luz? Luz!" That sent a sudden burst of adrenaline through my veins, numbing my legs as I broke out into a faster run. I passed by a few people who stared at me without saying a word. Making my way to the doors of the hospital, I threw them open and stumbled into the room, catching the attention of a few healers and the people waiting inside. "Somebody! Please!" Was all I managed to get out before healers started to flock me, one of them taking Luz from me. I watched someone wheel in a cot, then carefully lay Luz down on it. For a moment, I swore her eyes fluttered open, but she laid still as they took her away. A few healers recognized who I was while one asked me what happened, floating a clipboard over to take notes. I stood there trembling, explaining to them what happened to her. They nodded their head, scribbling down a quick set of notes when I finished before motioning for the other healers to scatter. "Just wait out here, we'll make sure to keep you updated on her status Ms. Blight." I reached out to stop them, but noticed my hands were still sticky with blood. I stared at my shaking hands for a moment, feeling my breathing quicken in pace. My eyes darted around, finally finding a bathroom. I dashed over, pushing open the door and locking it behind me, not caring that everyone else was still staring at me. Turning to the sink, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess and my eyes were red and puffy from crying, my shirt and part of my pants were coated in drying blood. Luz's blood. I turned on the faucet and quickly put my hands under it, watching the red wash down the drain. The sight made me sick, my throat tightening up as my breathing got even faster to the point I was practically hyperventilating. Violently scrubbing my hands together, I tried to rub the red away, which only blurred as even more tears filled my vision. My entire body was trembling, the look on Luz's face burned into my mind. Once I was satisfied with how clean my hands were, I pulled them away from the water, quickly drying them off. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling just how fast my heart was pounding. Tears continued to roll down my cheeks as I stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes remained transfixed on the red staining my shirt, which was only making things worse. I backed up until I hit a wall, then I slowly slid down it, wrapping my arms around my knees. Everything that just happened kept playing through my head, finally forcing a sob from my lips. And that just opened the floodgates. I was an absolute wreck, sobs violently wracking my body as the metallic smell of blood lingered in the air. My body hurt from pushing myself so hard, but I didn't pay that any mind, the only thing I could focus on was Luz. This time though, it wasn't in some happy little world in my imagination. Now it was me worrying if she'd pull through, wondering exactly what that creep did to her. Then something else hit me, no one else had a clue what was going on. Everyone else was none the wiser that Luz was dying. I quickly summoned my scroll, barely able to read any of my contacts. "Emira." I could barely manage squeak out in a shaky voice, tapping on a contact I hoped was hers. "Em will pick up." I hit call and put my scroll up to my ear, listening to it ring while I waited for her to pick up. It rang once, twice, then finally a third time before her voicemail started up. A low string of shaky curse escaped my lips as I shut down my scroll, more tears rolling down my cheeks. "Pull yourself together." I struggled to say aloud, wiping tears away from my eyes that were quickly replaced with more. "Take a minute to pull yourself together, then call Edric." So I sat there on the bathroom floor, struggling to calm myself down while my worry for Luz increased. My tears splattered against the cold tile floor. When I figured I could properly form a sentence, I pulled my scroll back up, giving my brother a call. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text When four more days pass of Sorek being reclusive and unresponsive, Jim decides that giving him solitude and time is not going to work anymore. Jim corners Sorek one night after he’s locked himself in his room again, claiming tiredness. He knows the whole routine is bullshit now, so he doesn’t feel any guilt in hotwiring the control to Sorek’s door and breaking into his room. Sorek’s not sleeping when he enters—he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at a chess piece that he’s gripping with his right hand. His knuckles are white, and the expression on is face is defeated. That is, until he notices Jim and schools his expression into a neutral one. “Shit,” Jim says, entering the room and sitting close beside Sorek on his bed. “I knew I should have done this sooner.” Sorek stands and moves towards his bathroom. “I was just about to retire, so if you would not mind—” “Nope,” Jim says, grabbing Sorek’s wrist before he can run away again and hide. He pulls him back to the bed. “You and I are going to talk. So, tell me: what did I do to upset you?” Sorek wrenches his arm out of Jim’s grip, but he doesn't move away. “Vulcans do not get upset,” he says, his voice flat and hard. “Yeah, and you don’t lie either,” Jim rolls his eyes. “So, let’s be honest with each another, okay? Do you want to go back to New Vulcan?” Sorek had been looking over Jim’s shoulder, but now his gaze drops to his own lap. “If you would like to send me to New Vulcan, I will respect your decision,” he says quietly, and it’s the first time Jim’s heard emotion in his voice in five days. But Jim doesn’t like what he hears now, Sorek’s resignation and dejection. “I don’t want to send you anywhere. But I can’t force you to stay here if you’d be better off elsewhere.” “You stated that we should be honest with one another, and yet you have just lied,” Sorek says, finally looking at Jim, his eyes burning with accusation. “Four point two one days ago, you called me a ‘problem’ and stated that it was ‘too late’ to get out of adopting me.” “That’s what this is about?” Jim asks, holding his breath—could this really just be a misunderstanding, a miscommunication? “You aren’t freaking out because you realized how ridiculous and illogical I am?” Sorek frowns. “I was made aware of this fact the day we were introduced, Captain.” Jim laughs, relief flooding his limbs. The past few days, it’s been like sprinting on a planet with twice of earth’s gravity, feet dragging and lungs burning; but now, he feels like he’s floating in zero-grav, weightless, light. “Sorek,” he says, grabbing him by his upper arms firmly, “You only heard part of that conversation. If you’d stuck around, you would have heard me tell Spock that I’d never want to actually get rid of you.” Sorek’s cheek turn green in a blush. “Oh.” “Oh, indeed,” Jim teases, pulling Sorek to his chest and holding him there tightly. “Don’t you get it by now, Sorek? I’m in this for good.” “You do not long for the freedom you possessed before you were responsible for a minor?” Sorek asks into Jim’s shirt. “Nope.” Jim doesn’t hesitate. “And you do not resent me for a marriage that you were forced into?” Jim’s glad Sorek’s still tucked under his chin and unable to see his face. “Oh, it’s not so bad, being married to Spock.” Vulcans are pretty awful when it comes to emotional intelligence, but something in Jim’s tone must catch Sorek’s attention, because he pulls back at Jim’s statement and stares him down with suspicion. “You are romantically interested in Spock,” he says, and it’s not a question. His eyes widen. “Is he aware that your intentions have undergone this alteration? Are you now married in reality rather than in technicality?” “Whoa, Sorek.” Jim’s panicking a little. “I—yes—I have… feelings for Spock. Romantic feelings. But he doesn’t know and you can’t tell him, okay?” “Why do you prefer Spock to remain ignorant?” Sorek cocks his head to the side—Jim’s not sure if he’s trying to defend Spock’s right to knowledge or if he’s just curious about Jim’s confusing, human request. “Because, Sorek, he doesn’t need to know.” Jim tries to be stern: crossing his arms over his chest and retaining eye contact. He’s developed this method of parenting from all his training in dealing with hostage negotiations—do not let the enemy see your desperation. “You are asking me to lie to Spock?” Sorek looks put out. “I am not certain I can accomplish this.” “Sure you can. Just never mention this conversation. It’s easy.” “It is then a lie of omission you are requesting?” Jim sighs. “Look, Sorek, I really care about Spock, alright, and right now we’re just good friends—good friends who happen to be married and are raising a child together. But if Spock were to know that I’d like us to be more than good friends, it’ll mess up this awesome, happy family thing the three of us have got going.” He pleads with Sorek silently, brushing a finger along his wrist so he can read his emotions. Sorek stares down at the point of contact, then back up at Jim. “You do not think that Spock returns your regard.” “I know he doesn’t,” Jim says firmly, even though he’s really not sure about anything now. Luckily, Jim’s a much better liar than any vulcan, and Sorek doesn’t see through him. “Can we please stop talking about this?” Sorek nods, bringing his arm away from Jim’s hand, but only to pat him lightly on the knee. Jim recognizes the gesture as one he’s given to Sorek many times before in comfort. “Before we abandon this topic, I feel I must inform you that I would be pleased if you and Spock were to engage in a romantic relationship. It would be most logical.” Jim groans. “Thanks a lot, Sorek,” he says drily. 000 By the time Spock returns to their quarters that night, Jim’s lying on the floor laughing his lungs out, and Sorek has an honest-to-god smile on his face. That closed-mouth smile is the strangest composite of slightly creepy and damn adorable, and every time Jim looks at Sorek his middle heaves with another bout of laughter. Jim’s deep, belly-laughs, in turn, cause Sorek’s smile to stretch wider, and it’s an endless cycle of mirth. That’s why Jim is currently lying prostrate on the ground: about three minutes ago, he fell to the floor as his legs gave out. “Have you both been inhaling hallucinogenic substances?” Spock asks in alarm as the door closes behind him. Both of his eyebrows are high enough on his forehead that his dark fringe covers them, and the sight only makes Jim laugh harder. “Am I to assume that you have discovered and corrected the cause of Sorek’s anomalous behavior?” Spock asks, crossing his arms over his chest and still standing at the entry to their quarters. Jim motions for him to come closer. When Spock is standing over him, Jim stage whispers: “He was being stupid , Spock.” He extends his arm to the side until he hits the couch where Sorek’s sitting. He pokes his foot. “Sorek, you’re smart, but you were being really stupid .” Sorek lets out a snort that might be a laugh, and it’s the most ridiculous sound he's ever heard. Jim beams at Spock. Spock, however, is not so amused. He glares down at Jim. “Are you inebriated ?” “Nah.” Jim waves a hand through the air lazily. “Just high on life, Spock.” “That statement is nonsensical.” Jim just giggles and reaches up to grab ahold of Spock’s wrist. He tugs hard. Jim doesn’t actually have the strength to move him if he doesn’t want to move, but Spock must be more affected by the giddiness in the room than he lets on, because he allows himself to be pulled down to the floor. “What is the source of your incessant laughter, Jim?” he asks as he settles himself with his back against the sofa. He stretches his legs out in front of him, his thigh brushing against Jim’s hand that's stretched above his head. Jim doesn’t move it. “Not sure,” he says. He lifts his head up to see Sorek better. “What started it, Sorek?” “I believe your laughter began when I asked you to explain the mechanisms involved in coitus.” Hearing the nine-year-old vulcan say the word coitus starts up his laughter again. “Right,” he says breathlessly. “Spock. He asked me about the birds and the bees .” “I never mentioned any form of avian or anthophilan animals, I asked you about sexual congress,” Sorek corrects. “And you have yet to answer my query.” Spock looks vaguely horrified, so Jim moves the hand brushing his leg and brings it up to pat Spock’s thigh instead. “Don’t worry, I was gonna tell him to look it up on the ‘net. The diagrams there are much better than any I’d draw.” “I— Jim ,” Spock glares down at him. “Need I remind you that Sorek is only nine Terran years old?” “I am nine point two three years old,” Sorek says, and he sounds smug. Jim looks up at him to be sure, and, yep, he’s definitely pleased that he managed to correct Spock. Jim smirks at Spock. “I knew about sex when I was nine,” he says, mostly teasing him at this point. Spock ignores Jim and looks over him to Sorek. “What has caused this recent interest in coitus?” It’s a fair question. Jim had heard enough references to sex by the time he was Sorek’s age that he’d just looked it up himself one night. But there can’t have been many references to sexual activities on Vulcan. Sometimes Jim forgets that, as intelligent and mature as Sorek is, he’s still just a naïve kid. “I was researching a few specific areas of human behavior this evening,” Sorek tells Spock. “I came across several references to sexual intercourse, and I wished to ascertain its significance in courtship rituals.” It’s the last part that catches Jim’s attention, and he sits up so fast, black dots cloud his vision momentarily. Jim can only think of one reason why Sorek would be researching courtship rituals. Jim’s back is to Spock now, so he can’t see what expression he must have made at Jim’s sudden movement, but he can see the seemingly innocent look on Sorek’s face. Jim narrows his eyes. Spock, luckily, chooses to ignore Jim. “If you have any similar inquires during the course of your research, I am willing to provide further insight,” Spock says to Sorek. “I assure you, I will react quite logically to your queries.” Sorek’s ignoring Jim too; he’s too busy nodding his head readily at Spock’s offer. Jim’s standing before Sorek can ask any of his questions—all related, he’s sure, to romantic relationships. He leans down and grabs Sorek by the waist, tossing his torso over Jim’s shoulder. “Bedtime,” he says before Sorek can complain at being manhandled. “Tell Spock goodnight.” “Goodnight, Spock,” Sorek says obediently over Jim’s shoulder. “I shall join you for mediation in approximately four point three nine hours.” “Goodnight, Sorek,” Spock replies, and Jim can hear a blend of amusement and confusion in his tone. Carrying Sorek into his room, Jim makes sure the door shuts firmly behind them before he sets Sorek back on his feet. He pushes him towards the bathroom and then takes a seat on Sorek’s bed. While he waits for Sorek to finish his bedtime routine, Jim crosses his legs and arms, foot swinging impatiently. Jim shoots Sorek a stern look once he steps back into the room, dressed in his pajamas. Sorek doesn’t look at Jim, just walks to his bed and slips between the sheets. “I know what you’re doing,” Jim tells him, pulling a blanket up over Sorek and tucking it around his shoulders like he prefers. “I am currently doing several things at once,” Sorek says. “To which are you referring, Jim?” Jim groans, “You learned that from Spock.” Sorek looks pleased. “I’m referring to your not-so-subtle attempts to meddle with my love life.” “I have done no meddling,” Sorek says, and Jim can practically hear the silent yet there. “Just leave it alone, okay?” Jim’s trying really hard to be stern and not start begging. “I am afraid I cannot promise you that.” Sorek is wearing that smug, not-smile that’s become a frequent expression for him. “Will you at least try to be more subtle?” Jim might actually be begging now, digging his fingers into Sorek’s shoulders over the blanket. Sorek finally takes pity on him. “I shall endeavor to do so.” Jim sighs, but he leans forward to press a kiss to Sorek’s forehead anyway. “See you in the morning. I’m glad you’re alright.” “As am I.” Jim leaves Sorek to sleep and heads back to his own bedroom. When he walks in, Spock’s already in the bathroom brushing his teeth, so Jim joins him at the counter. Spock rinses his mouth and then spits in the sink, looking at Jim in the mirror after he straightens again. “Might I enquire as to the source of Sorek’s earlier behavior?” he asks as he wipes his mouth dry with a hand towel. Jim laughs around his toothbrush, but he waits until he’s spit the toothpaste out before speaking. “He eavesdropped on us the other day,” he says, pausing to rinse his mouth with a cup full of water. “He heard me talking about the whole thing with Jalloh, but didn’t stick around for the whole conversation.” “He heard you call him a problem,” Spock surmises, memory as flawless as ever. “Yep.” Jim steps back from the sink and Spock follows him back into the bedroom. “He thought we wanted to ship him back to New Vulcan,” he says, approaching the drawers and pulling out his sleepwear. He tosses Spock his own. “And I assume you were successful in correcting this misapprehension?” Spock asks, catching the clothes easily in one hand. “I think so.” Jim fingers the hem of his gold shirt before pulling it up. He and Spock got over any weirdness about changing in front of each other a long time ago. “You saw him earlier, he was pretty normal.” When Jim’s tugs the shirt over his head, Spock’s looking away, chest bare as well. Jim stomach drops the way it always does when Spock’s pale skin is revealed. “He was certainly rather… jocund,” Spock says, slipping his pants over his hips. Jim swallows and quickly yanks off his own. “Only you would use a word like jocund,” Jim says, slipping into his thin cotton pants and then shrugging on a t-shirt. Spock’s already in bed by the time he’s done, watching Jim with a not-smile. Jim joins him between the sheets and can’t help the smile that splits his face. “Sorek’s actually happy here.” “He does appear to be content here,” Spock agrees. “With you , Jim.” Jim flushes, turning his head towards Spock. “With you too. Sorek’s crazy about you—he wants to be just like you.” “Sorek perhaps views me as a sort of standard, a prototype, if you will, of appropriate vulcan behavior in a human environment, but it is your company he craves and enjoys, Jim.” “Parenting isn’t a contest,” Jim frowns. He doesn’t want Spock to feel like he’s not important to Sorek too—Jim has no idea what he’d do without him. “Nevertheless,” Spock says, “preferences are inevitable.” He doesn’t sound or look upset, just thoughtful. “Sorek is like me in this: I, too, sought the affection and attention of my human mother over that of my father. Even when I was older and strived to avoid it, I always craved it.” “I wish I could have met your mom,” Jim says after a quiet moment, turning his head back to the ceiling. “I am certain she would have liked you,” Spock says. “She would have been delighted to learn that we adopted a child; she spent several years during my youth lamenting that I would never be able to beget children due to my genetically-engineered hybrid status.” This is news to Jim. “Sorek’s the only chance you have to be a father?” he asks. “Damn, Spock. I had no idea.” “That is because I never told you,” Spock says simply. Jim exhales. “Spock, I want you to know that if— when we quietly divorce, I still want us to raise Sorek together. This, the three of us, is maybe the best thing that I’ve ever done.” Spock reaches into the small space between them and laces his fingers with Jim’s. Jim has done this every night since Sorek started shutting them out, holding Spock’s hand until he falls asleep, and it's starting to feel natural. But this is the first time Spock’s initiated the gesture, and it sends tingles down from his spine to his fingertips. “I believe we are of one mind in this, Jim,” Spock says, his voice steadier than Jim’s would be if he tried to talk at this moment. “I have derived great meaning and personal contentment in raising Sorek alongside you.” Jim can’t help but squeeze Spock’s hand—too filled with emotion for words. Jim’s been trying not to read too much into the cultural implications of holding Spock’s hand so intimately. He knows that it’s some kind of vulcan kiss, that Spock’s telepathy is channeled through his hands, but he has no idea as to Spock’s intention behind the gesture. Jim’s kissed plenty of people without being interested in them, and he learned a long time ago never to expect too much of people. “I can’t believe it’s already been six months,” Jim says eventually, concentrating on the imperfections in the ceiling until his heart rate decreases. “In my youth, my mother often commented on the swift passage of time as it related to my maturation,” Spock says, his thumb brushing along Jim’s. “For many years, I could find no logic in these ruminations. It was not until I joined Starfleet and found myself alone for the first time in my life that I began to accept the relativity of time. I have related this story to say this: time has, indeed, ‘flown,’ Jim.” Jim laughs at Spock’s use of the idiom, and it brushes away the tendrils of Jim’s anxiety and uncertainty. He’s still feeling too light from his earlier conversation with Sorek to let himself get caught up in worrying about something he can't change. Maybe it’s that levity which causes Jim’s next actions too. After only a moment’s hesitation, Jim rolls to his side and into Spock, bringing their entwined hands up to rest on his chest and pressing his smiling face into the crook of his neck. Spock’s skin is warm under his lips, and Jim can feel his steady, too fast to be human, pulse jumping just under the surface there. Every time Jim breathes in, he’s assaulted with that unique scent of his—it’s spicy and dry, and Jim likes to imagine it’s how Vulcan's air might have smelled once. “Is this okay?” Jim whispers into Spock’s skin, lips brushing against hot flesh. Spock untangles their hands, and Jim’s certain he’s about to push him away. Jim tenses, but Spock just moves his arm behind Jim until it wraps around him, pulling him further into Spock’s personal space. “Go to sleep, Jim,” he says, hand brushing along Jim’s shoulder blades. And Jim, surrounded by the warmth of Spock’s body and his own contentment, does. 000 Something in the air between them changes after that night, and it all starts when Jim wakes up with a particularly painful case of morning wood the next morning. And this is why you can never cuddle with someone you’d like to fuck. Jim’s about to take himself in hand when the door to their bedroom opens with a whoosh. Jim barely manages to pull a pillow onto his lap before Spock steps in. “Ah,” Spock says, meeting Jim’s eyes. He’s already dressed in his uniform, but his hair is still slightly wet from his shower. Jim feels like weeping he’s so attractive. “Sorek believed you might be awake. He acquired breakfast for us and thought we might like to enjoy the privacy of our quarters rather than the mess.” Jim tries to smile, but it probably comes off more as a grimace. “Sure, Spock. I’ll just hop in the shower real quick.” “We shall wait for you.” After Spock has left again, Jim falls back onto the bed and covers his face with his pillow. He lets out a groan into the fabric. Looks like his shower is going to be cold this morning. These events serve as a prophetic vision of how the rest of his day goes: perpetual sexual frustration as Spock somehow manages to make mundane actions seem inexplicably arousing. Spock offers Jim a bowl of oatmeal, and Jim has to adjust himself under the table. He comms Jim during Alpha to let him know that Sorek’s visiting Doctor Chapel, and Jim breaks out into a cold sweat just at the sound of his voice. And when Spock walks onto the bridge at shift change with his ass in those tight, regulation pants, Jim’s mouth waters like a damn Pavlovian reflex. Jim’s panicked and awkward as he hands the conn over to Spock, and he can practically feel the heat of Spock’s stare as he rushes into the turbolift. He never does manage to look Spock in the eyes. He hurries to Sickbay to pick up Sorek and maybe calm his nerves with Bones. Sorek’s standing beside Christine when he walks in, closely observing as she patches up a few electrical burns on the arm of one of Scotty’s engineers. Jim waves at them then hooks his thumb towards Bones’ closed office door. Sorek nods at him, so Jim ducks into the office. Bones is reading something on the console at his desk, and he scowls at Jim when he enters. “What do you want, Jim? These reports aren’t going to read themselves.” Jim starts pacing around the small office. “I think I might be going insane, Bones,” he explains. “I cannot stop thinking about sleeping with Spock. I’ve had a hard on all fucking day! Do you have any idea how awful it is to sit in the Captain’s chair with your dick trying to burst out of your pants?” Bones looks as if he’s going to be sick, and his frown somehow manages to get more pronounced. “Fuck, Jim, I do not want to hear about this shit.” “I don’t know who else to tell!” Jim walks around the desk until he can grab Bones by his arms. “ Fix me. ” “I can’t fix that messed up brain of yours,” he says, pulling out of Jim’s grip. “But it sounds like you just need to knock some boots.” “Right, sex." Jim starts pacing again. "Yeah, that’s easy.” He wonders why having sex didn’t occur to him in his panic. Sleeping with Spock was out of the question for obvious reasons, but hadn’t he given Jim permission to have casual sex a few months ago? A few months ago… How long has it been since Jim’s had sex? He counts back in his head silently, then falls into the chair in front of Bones’ desk. He feels vaguely horrified. “Bones,” he says slowly, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I haven’t had sex in a year…” “A year?” Bones’ raises an eyebrow. “Jesus, Jim, I didn’t know you had it in you.” “I haven’t gone this long without sex since I was fifteen ,” Jim’s pretty sure he’s having an actual panic attack now. “Fuck. When did I turn into someone that can go a year without sex? I love sex. I’m good at sex.” Bones snorts, the sound he typically makes when he thinks Jim’s being an idiot. “I dunno kid, maybe around the time you started mooning over that green-blooded husband of yours?” Jim thinks back to a year ago, and finds that Bones is right. It was about the same time Spock and Jim started spending time together off-duty—playing chess, sharing meals, sparring together. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the beginning of the mission; he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep around as much as when he was at the Academy, but he was okay with waiting until shore leaves. But then he started spending his leaves with Spock, and then they’d adopted Sorek. Things have been going pretty much non-stop since. “Fuck,” Jim says again, because he’s not sure what else there is. It’s always been easy—well, not really easy , but doable—to brush aside those inconvenient feelings he has for Spock, but now, knowing that he’s voluntarily gone without sex for a year and not even noticed, Jim has to acknowledge that those feelings might reach deeper than he thought. “You know,” he says eventually, staring down at Bones’ cluttered desk, “I honestly never believed I’d be capable of that kind of relationship—being with just one person, committing for life. I’ve always loved the possibility of space, the thrill of running, and those dreams never once included marriage or fatherhood.” “And now you’re not only living in space, you’ve also got yourself a husband and a kid,” Bones sums up. “You’re damn lucky, Jim—not all of us get the full package.” Jim knows he’s thinking about his little girl, Joanna, on earth with a mother that doesn’t let him see her but once a year. “I think you’re forgetting that Spock and I aren’t really married.” “Are you sure about that, Jim? I mean, as much as it pains me to admit, I’ve seen the way Spock looks at you sometimes, looks at that kid of yours. Seems to me he’s pretty damn fond of you both.” “Yeah, Spock’s fond of me. We’re a family now, he can’t help that.” Jim shakes his head, knocking all those stupid hopes right out. “But that’s all there is.” “Bullshit.” “What?” “You heard me,” Bones glares at him. “I reckon you’re scared Spock does care about you. Let’s face it, Jim, you’re childhood was rotten. You weren’t loved enough, and now you can’t accept that someone might actually want to stick around and put up with your nonsense. Rather than let that happen, you’re just gonna cut and run early. I know you, Jim.” “I—” Jim can’t deny it. Bones is not only well versed in the field of psychology, he’s also intimately acquainted with Jim’s particular psyche. “Okay, you might be right. But you don’t get it Bones; this isn’t just about me. If this were to blow up in my face, I don’t think I could work with Spock anymore, let alone raise Sorek with him. So, I’m not gonna do that—not to either one of them.” “So, what, Jim, you’re just gonna keep ignoring this?” “Next shore leave, I’m going to have fun, meaningless sex, and then I’m going to suck it up and stop obsessing over my own bleeding heart.” “Alright, Jim,” Bones says, sarcasm coating his words. “Good luck with that.” “Thanks for this,” Jim says sincerely, despite Bones’ sarcasm. When Bones just waves him off—like he always does when accepting thanks—Jim lets him get back to work and goes to find Sorek. He and Christine are sitting next to each other on a biobed, looking at a padd on Sorek’s lap. It’s apparently been a quiet day in Sickbay, with the previous engineer treated and released, it’s almost empty. “What are you guys looking at?” Jim asks as he gets closer. Sorek looks startled at Jim’s sudden appearance, sitting up straight and shutting the padd off immediately. Jim narrows his eyes. Christine, apparently, doesn’t notice the exchange. “Sorek was just asking me about the ‘necessary parameters of the human social occasion known as a date.’” She winks down at Sorek. Jim turns back to Sorek sharply—he’s determinately not making eye contact, but the tips of his ears turn green. “Oh, was he…” Christine just laughs at the both of them and hops off the bed. After she’s smoothed down her blue dress, she pats Jim’s shoulder in pity. Maybe she’s more aware of Sorek’s intentions than he’d thought. “You two enjoy your evening,” she throws over her shoulder as she walks back to her office. When she’s gone, Jim crosses his arms and stares at the top of Sorek’s head until he looks up. “Is there anything I can assist you with?” he asks. Cheeky little bugger. “Hmm,” Jim runs a hand along his jaw, “let me think.” He taps his lips. “Yes, that’s it. You can tell me why you want to know what makes up a date.” “I was merely curious,” Sorek says. “I’ve encountered the term several times and wanted to learn about its particulars.” “Uh huh, I’m sure that’s the only reason why.” Jim sighs and lifts Sorek off the biobed and to the floor. Jim wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Kid, you are going to kill me with all this matchmaking business.” Sorek frowns in alarm. “I am certain I shall do no such thing.” “You don’t know it,” Jim says, thinking back on his day spent in acute longing, “But you will.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Spark - Interlude I: Prim smiled softly as she patted the rump of her goat, Lady. The animal was old,but it did its job well. She got the goat as a birthday present from Katniss and Solanum the other year so she took care of it as best as she could. They were really the best older sisters a girl could have. Katniss with her overall protectiveness, reliability and the bottomless affection. Her calloused hands brushing her hair every night and tolerated Prim's incessant need for cuddling. Solanum with her subtle ways and actions that screamed out care and love in equal spades. Jaded gray eyes identical to Katniss' own flashing fondly as she tried to teach Prim to defend herself as much as she could. She honestly wouldn't exchange them for anything in the world. Prim admitted it was...difficult and infuriating sometimes when they baby her or tried to spare her from the realities of life - something she's already familiar of despite what her sister's might think - but that's alright. They were together. As long as three of them were with each other, well- Everything would be alright. The blond-haired girl just finished getting milk and making cheese from her goat. Her mother called on her a while ago to dress and get ready for the reaping, but Prim was stalling - rather preoccupied about how she would give the gift she painstakingly saved for weeks to Solanum. It was a bit late, for about several months give or take, but this would a good way to cheer her older sister up. Solanum's birthday had always been a sad affair with the death of their father and all, so no one was in the mood to celebrate the event - least of all the birthday girl herself. It was her way of saying thank you too for giving her the comfort she needed after being the focus of Katniss wrath when she persistently brought up the subject concerning tesserae that other month. It was admittedly...impulsive of her to bring it up. Prim, at that time, was illogically fed up of being the baby - of being the youngest that needed to be taken care off while her sisters do everything they could so they wouldn't go hungry every day. Despite Sol's comforting words - about how she was their inspiration and "innocence" during the first and last time she went beyond the fence, Prim couldn't help but feel like a burden to both of them. She didn't have Katniss strength and cleverness or Sol's intelligence and cunning. Even with her work with Lady, it felt like she wasn't doing as much as she possibly could. However, Solanum really did have a way with words. Her attempts were clumsy - as if she was trying vainly to emulate another person - but it did the trick. After a talk with her, Prim felt a little bit better. It was a pleasant surprise considering the older girl always liked to keep to herself even from before. Solanum used to scare her, actually. Prim could remember asking her mother or Katniss why Solanum was always screamed in her sleep and well- No one really knew or understood what's Solanum's going through. And if she was being honest, no one really cared or put enough effort to get to the root of all the tortured screams and ceaseless crying. They soothe , yes. They hug and wipe the tears but- Her father was too busy, her mother too tired and her sister, Katniss, too preoccupied by how unfair their life was. And well, Prim just got into line and ignored how Solanum was pushing all that unexplainable grief down and repressing it the best she could. ...Solanum deserved better. Prim really hoped her sister liked her gift. Walking inside the house solemnly, Prim shot a smile at the sight of Katniss sweaty form. "Come on, little duckling." Katniss murmured teasingly as she took Prim in her arms and patiently untangled the knots out of her hair. Prim sighed and let herself lean into her sister's shoulders. "Where's Solanum?" She asked. The fingers in her hair stopped. "I don't know. I thought she went ahead when we parted in the fence." "Oh." Prim frowned. "Okay." She'll just give the gift to her later then. Prim could only scream in anguish as both of her sisters volunteered themselves in her place at the same time. It echoed throughout the silent clearing hollowly. " No no no ." She sobbed frantically, fervently hoping that this was just a dream. This wasn't real. "Please no! Katniss. Sol." Prim fought against her mother's grip valiantly. " Don't do this." Always a burden- Always so useless- "Why is this happening to us?" She whispered, her voice hoarse. "It wasn't fair. It wasn't - isn't right. Why? " Prim looked at the closed-off look in Solanum's face and the utterly devastated one on Katniss. Everything hurt. ... .. . Katniss couldn't deny that Solanum was strange. Someone too mature for her age. Someone too hardened, too cynical, too... wrong . It hadn't always been that way. She could distinctly remember a time before the drama. A time where little Solanum was the girl with the pretty blond hair like their mother and the same gray eyes like their father. The girl who was like a little kitten - always scampering towards her and accompanying her practically everywhere, eager to please yet adorably prickly at times. Until everything just...changed. Her sister became withdrawn and seemed to curl in on herself until the Solanum Katniss once remembered seemed to fade. Until the previous her was nothing more than a memory. It took a while before Katniss accepted that. And, if Katniss was being frank, she probably couldn't bring herself to do so in this lifetime. She admitted it was horrible of her to think that way, but Katniss wasn't particularly nice. That was Prim's job and well - even with Solanum's persistence and help, the most she could give was a spot below their younger sister. Don't get her wrong. Katniss still cared - they're blood , after all - and she would give her life for her, but given a choice between Prim and Solanum, she would choose Prim every time. Yes, it was horrible of her to care for one of her sisters more than the other, but Prim was light and unbroken and innocence and Solanum- Solanum was...shattered - a fragmented version of the sister Katniss once knew. Katniss sighed as she walked towards the Hob - the black market were they usually trade their catch - her and Sol's haul in hand. Although their relationship was different now, it wasn't - it wasn't that bad . Both of them were trying their best to build a bridge and Solanum's help in the hunting was always appreciated. Her sister had a gift with knives and traps and, as good as Katniss was with her bow, Solanum's mostly the reason why they were eating like - or even better than - the merchants in the nicer part of the district. They could even spare some meat for their neighbors once or twice. With Gale's family mostly, even after what happened in the forest. They needed the help and Katniss' family had the luxury to be benevolent. Besides, Katniss was sure she could cash in on the favor when the time came. Gale was prideful and well, a favor or two from a hunter as skilled as she was wouldn't be amiss. Lugging her bag in Greasy Sae's place, Katniss plastered a smile on her face. "How about six of the fish for good bread?" Katniss could only look on blankly at the people in front of her as she stood on stage with her sister. She- She didn't really know how things could go so wrong this fast. Why did Solanum have to volunteer, damn it? Why?! "Since this was particularly unorthodox," Effie announced energetically once she convened with the higher-ups. "The Capitol had decided to let only the best between our two brave female tributes to pass on to the official competition! After announcing the male tribute, the two of you would be having-" She paused dramatically. "a fight until one surrenders or incapacitated. Death isn't out of the rules too so if you have some hidden grudge against the other, it wouldn't be frowned upon." The eccentrically-dressed woman clapped her hands in front of her happily even as the crowd looked at her in disbelief. "How utterly exciting! I didn't expect for something like this to happen, but the drama , the intrigue . Who between the two sisters -" Effie glanced at the two beside her in the stage. "You are sisters, right?" When Katniss nodded jerkily, she continued. "would get the chance to win the gold, the fame and the big fancy house at the top." Effie laughed. "What more could you wish for?" All was silent. Not a sound was heard. And Katniss- Katniss was trembling. ...She's scared . . .. ... Gale, as he grimaced at the sight his trap was reduced to, wondered why he didn't just ask the blond-haired Everdeen girl for tips when he and the two sisters were cordial with each other. She was brilliant with the traps, even better than he was, and it was stupid of him, he admit, to let his pride to get the better of him. And now he had nothing to show for it but fishes and strawberries he managed to found somewhere. He didn't want to owe them again, but, unfortunately, it would look like he would. The youngest Everdeen girl, Prim, if he remembered it right, would probably drop off another bunch of meat as a sign of good-will and- Gale sighed as he stood up from his crouch and packed up his things in frustration. He hated being a charity case. He wished he could have handled the hovercar debacle better. It wasn't fair of him to take it out on the blond-haired girl, but there was just something about Solanum Everdeen that pushed his buttons. He never really did like her all that much. She was... unnerving . There was something decidedly odd about her that Gale couldn't pinpoint and it didn't help that he hadn't gotten over how, on the first time they've met, just as he was offering to teach Katniss for a partnership in exchange of his knowledge in traps, the younger Everdeen girl just have to reveal how good she was at the trade. He didn't like how... extra he feel when she was there. How he wasn't needed because with her on Katniss' side, he was nothing. Not that it mattered now really, since he and Katniss weren't talking to each other much. Gale shook his head in disgust. He couldn't hunt like this. He should probably get ready for the reaping. The two sisters volunteered. Of course they would. Gale wouldn't expect anything less since their devotion to Prim was obvious, but it made his blood run cold nonetheless. The thought of the two fighting for the spot- The two would probably do their best so the other wouldn't fight on their behalf. This would get ugly. When Effie Trinket continued to the drawing for the boys, he could feel himself tremble. Even before the woman could open her lips, Gale knew this was it. That's just the kind of shitty luck he had. "Gale Hawthorne." It was him. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “I still can’t believe you left early because you don’t like crowds. Why did you even come to the dance?” Edward lifts his head as the buzzing mind of Jessica Stanley waltzes into the cafeteria, Isabella Swan walking along right beside her. She’s sporting bruises, injuries gained from a fall on Jessica’s porch steps after the dance. He’s not quite sure why the other girl had felt to the need to gossip after the event and neither is Bella. Admittedly, Edward should have been able to glean some ideas given his ability to read minds. He’s still clueless. “I have a policy of always trying something at least once before I let my opinions settle. Besides, it’s not my fault Fork’s school hall is hella small.” Once again brimming with positivity and a zest for life Edward had thought the majority of the world long past experiencing, Bella bounces up to her regular table, plonking herself down on her usual stool with a wide grin and an eagerness to devour her pasta-based lunch that Edward will never get the chance to comprehend. He can’t recall if he ever sampled the popular Italian cuisine in his human life and there’ll be no enjoyment from dining on such a thing in this life. Bella must sense his (their; all of them are shooting covert glances her way) eyes on her. She straightens, a gazelle in the wildness who has sensed the predator’s interest has fallen solely upon her shoulders. She twists, and Edward does not allow himself the opportunity to turn away from her, instead meeting her curious look with an even stare. Just to see what she would do. As usual, she bucks all expectations he has of her to duck down and ignore his weighty gaze and instead she waves at him. It’s an excessively obvious motion and he almost wants to hang his head in shame for being the recipient of it. “That’s it,” Emmett hisses, shoving his cafeteria slop aside and rising to his feet, “I’m tired of not being involved in this.” Even Rose’s hasty, furious growl doesn’t deter the biggest vampire among them from making his way over to the very startled collection of girls. Beside him, Alice huffs out a little laugh, a light giggle that doesn’t leave the general vicinity of their table, a smile on her face as Emmett muscles his way into the seat that would have otherwise been occupied by the startled Mike Newton, who can do nothing more than stare form his place in the lunch line. He’s just another insecure teenager and Edward does feel a little sorry for him; it’s in the nature of teenagers to grasp at the shiny new oddity present in their lives. It’s why Mike believes himself to be enthralled by Bella right now. On the table that is suddenly the centre of everybody’s attention, Bella looks delightfully surprised, eyes wide and lips parted before she recovers. She hoiks her bag up and off the stool beside her just in time for Emmett to replace it. Edward flicks a quick glance to Alice in askance but the small vampire just waves away his concerns, forcibly removing her own gaze from the scene to give an illusion of privacy. As if all the vampires in the room aren’t going to be earwigging every last line spoken on that table now. “Hey, I’m Emmett. What’re your intentions with Jasper?” Cutting straight to the chase then. Why on earth would he expect anything less from Emmett? The younger vampire is well aware of how bulky and intimidating he can look, often using that to his advantage whenever necessary. To the humans, he’s the most physically intimidating. Because, of course, it’s Jasper that terrifies the venom out of other vampires, given the vast array of scars that span his body. Sometimes, when he’s hunting and catches sight of the other vampire from the cover of his eyes, even Edward tenses up before his brain registers, he knows who that is. There are so terribly few vampires who can survive the number of fights that Jasper has, after all. Yes, for vampires, Jasper is without doubt the most intimidating. For humans… Bella stares at Emmett with wide brown eyes, brain skipping in an attempt to catch up with the question. When it does finally register, she laughs, bright and bold and brilliant. Planting her cheek down onto a closed fist, elbow on the table, she wiggles her eyebrows at the vampire, as if he’s not currently disturbing the fragile peace between the other occupants of the table. “I wanna show him a good time, if you get my drift.” Emmett laughs as Edward grimaces, looking to Alice with a pained expression. Even if he can read the joking attention from her mind, it’s still a crude comment. This is what society has degraded into, after all. “Oh ho?” “Yeah, making friends through good experiences; the life goal is to gather enough friends that I can use the power of friendship to kill a god.” “I like the attitude. Lofty goal though.” Planting his own arm down on the table with a thump that’s perhaps too loud for a limb meeting table-top, Emmett considers Bella through eyes that indicate he’s freshly fed. “Now, I gotta know, is it Edward, Alice or Jasper you’ve got the hots for? ‘Cause I honestly can’t tell.” “You mean I can’t have all three?” At that, Edward does startle, head shooting up and spinning around to look directly at Bella. Her attention, however, is completely on Emmett and, while he cannot see through her eyes, Edward is more than capable of reading her mind right now. The sheer surprise that Emmett is currently exhibiting on his face is clear enough even the humans can read it. “Greedy! That hilarious and I still have no fucking clue if you’re serious, Sunshine. Name’s Emmett.” “Bella, but Sunshine is fantastic, and I’m honoured to light up your day.” “Ha, you make me sparkle, Bella.” And he needs to stop talking, right now. Rose clearly believes the same thing for she rises from her feet, crossing the cafeteria perhaps a little too fast in order to collar her wayward husband. It appears as if Rose’s presence is the signal to kill all conversation; the boys too dazed and the girls too intimidated by her appearance. Even Bella. “Well, see you around, Sunshine.” The day rolls on much as an armadillo would, bouncing over all the uneven path that lays before it with all the grace of a fish on land. People are giving her side-eyes and all Bella can do in response is give them a bright grin, utterly unsure why Emmett Cullen had seen fit to interrogate her in front of Fork’s High’s gossip monger. Jess hasn’t left her alone at all, seemingly unable to believe that Bella hasn’t somehow magically orchestrated the Cullen clan’s interest. Probably with some kind of witchcraft. Hey, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities, given the whole ‘Cold-Ones’ thing Jake had so helpfully clued her in on. Perhaps more pensive than she has any right to be, Bella makes her way over to Ol’ Red, a bounce in her step but a frown to her face. The sky is still covered by a thick blanket of clouds, tucked away ready for nightfall. It may be March, but the lingering touch of winter still persists in parts. “Bella.” Peeling her key free from the depths of her pocket, Bella flicks her gaze up to find Jasper Hale, in all his sweet, Southern glory, leaning against the chipping paint of her trusty truck. A worn brown jacket hugs at his broad shoulders, a butter-soft leather that stretches across the swell of his biceps in a way that Bella perhaps pays a little too much attention to. Hey, it’d a hard job for anyone to ignore the man that’s currently relaxing back against her ride like he’s on the set of a photoshoot instead of a school parking lot. “Hello, Jasper. I hope the humans haven’t discomforted you too much today.” At this, Jasper Hale smiles, that same high-definition thing she’d been treated to upon asking him to the dance. It’s a KO attack, floors her mind so that when he enquires if they can talk, her mushy shell of a brain can do nothing but comply before the words even register. Her non-human friend seems to register this as well, for his gives an apologetic dip of his head, all bashful long eyelashes fluttering away. As if he isn’t too tall for the looking through his eyelashes thing to work. Magically, he still manages it, despite the significant height difference between the two of them. Holy hell, she needs to get him to teach her that. That look is killer. “Not catching a ride with the rest of the clan?” “I was rather hoping for some privacy to talk, Darlin’.” “Cool, privacy is a’okay with me. Especially since your sis is sending me the ugliest look I’ve even seen. Which is odd as hell because she’s an utter bombshell. How can she even twist her features like that?” As if capable of hearing that comment across a carpark and stretch of schoolyard, Rosalie Hale sneers. Bella offers a shallow little wave back, just enough to kind of showcase she has only a small incline of whatever Jasper wants to speak on. It’s why she jams her key into the lock of Ol’ Red, peeling the door back with only the weakest of protests from her rust-bucket. “Wanna chat as I give you a ride home, if that’s easier for you?” “As kind as that would be, Bella, I feel you’ll have a few questions for me.” “Right, cool. Considerate then. Either that, or you’re gonna drop a life-changing bombshell on me and don’t trust my ability to focus on the road.” Jasper Hale only smiles at her words, giving no indication that she has guessed correctly or incorrectly. Which, yeah. This could be interesting. But she’s going to be learning something new, something about the world she is now in (or is this actually her previous world and she has access to secrets that she never did before?). Incredibly conscious of the entire Cullen clan (minus the obvious one) watching her drive out the carpark with Jasper Hale in her passenger seat, Bella shoves Ol’ Red into his highest gear as she hits the open road, not too sure where on earth she’ll be driving to. “Bit of a rough gear change there, Darlin’.” “Passengers don’t get to complain, Sweetheart,” Bella snipes back before she’s truly thought about it and Jasper laughs. It’s magical, a sound she can listen to for hours on end and never tire of. For ‘Cold-Ones’, they sure sound warm enough. Flicking a quick glance at the non-human that currently shares her space, Bella has a split second to take in the vibrant honey of his eyes, the glimmer of his teeth, before she returns her attention to the road. While she’s not sure if a crash will kill Jasper, it’ll definitely do her in. She’s quite happy living her best life right now, anyway. “I don’t need to turn you into a snack, do I?” “I’ll have you know I’m a legit snack already, thank you.” Stopping at the traffic lights, Bella forces the shift into neutral, hefting the handbrake on before she risks another glance at Jasper Hale. He looks incredibly out of place in her rust bucket, but no more so than he did her home. Too big a presence, too… otherworldly. He doesn’t fit in anywhere, she’s found. No, that’s not quite right. He fit in perfectly before she was informed he was anything but human, before he confirmed it himself. Now, now she cannot stop seeing him as something extraordinary. “Excuse me?” “It means I’m attractive and confident in myself. In ten or so years, it’ll be a world-wide saying. I know it.” The lights go green and Bella pushes Ol’ Red into gear again, releasing the handbrake as she does so. Her passenger is silent, absorbing her statement, though Bella likes to imagine she can feel the amusement curling off him. “Do you mind if we swing by my house, so I can drop my bag off?” “Go for it, Darlin’.” The rest of the journey’s auditory experience is filled mostly by Bella’s own tales, recounting her many adventures with her mother in all sorts of extra-curricular activities. Not once does Jasper Hale tell her to be quiet, nor give any indication he’s anything other than a very attentive listener. He makes all the right noises in all the right places, asks the right questions where he should to prompt more of the story to fall from Bella’s lips. She’s recounting the moment Renee had walked in on her attempting to paint her own bedroom walls when the pull up on her drive. The cruiser isn’t present; Dad’s still at work. By her own estimations, she’s got a half hour before she has to start getting tea ready, an hour before Dad should be walking through the front-door. “So, is this a conversation we can have in the back-garden, or is a closed-doors, Jess would spread rumours of what we’re up to like wildfire kinda conversation?” “The backyard will do,” Jasper confirms with a smile, running a hand through the half curls of golden blond that tops his perfect little head. Ridiculous, how can he look so good at the end of a school day? Bella’s relatively sure her own mascara (cheap brand though it may be) will have crumbled to cake the bottom of her eyes with panda like markings. Then again, she doubts Jasper wears mascara like she does. Maybe when she goes crawling home, Rosalie experiences the exact same thing. Though Bella’ relatively certain that the other girl will look far more appealing lounging in her pyjamas than Bella would. Mainly because Bella can’t do sexy if her life depending on it. Fun and flirty, yes. Seductive and sexy, no. That’s fine, seductive and sexy isn’t ever man’s cup of tea, after all. There’s gotta be some willing to get down and dirty with a fun and flirty. Shaking her head, Bella comes back to herself as Jasper opens her door. She hadn’t even noticed him getting out the truck, nevermind rounding the vehicle to open her door like the good Southern gentleman he is. She opts to leave her bookbag in the truck, making a silent promise to return for its contents once the visitor she, in some states, might have appeared to kidnap has left. “Are you not nervous about being on your own with me, Darlin’?” “I don’t think I could stop you from hurting me if you wanted to, but you all come to school. If you wanted to be out and about hurting people, I don’t think you’d bother with the human façade,” Bella mumbles, gathering up the hulking mass of her hair and hoisting it up into a ponytail. A loose strand, missed by her useless fingers, brushes up against her left cheekbone and Bella determinedly ignores it. How cares about a loose lock when Jasper Hale seems as if he’s willing to offer her the secrets of the universe? Or, the secret of being a ‘Cold-One’. She’s getting vampire vibes, but given the lack of red eyes and previously mentioned diet of animal blood, she’s hesitant to make any assumptions. “Race you to the swing!” Bella shoves Jasper in the arm but it does nothing to his stance, even as she takes off running for her intended target. Her lungs burn with the sudden challenge, booted feet eating up the distance between herself and the swing. But she blinks and misses the moment her companion moves, for one second the wooden board is void of all occupant, the next, Jasper Hale is standing on the plank as if he’s been there all along. He’d moved so quick she’d missed it. Worse, he’d done so when she was within touching distance and her crappy human reflexes won’t allow her to stop instantly. She crashes into him as literally as the word is implies, huffing out a startled breath with how the motion winds her. “Holy hell, you’re rock solid. Rock solid and quick. Both your non-humanness?” Dropping to sit back on the grass, Bella does her best to ignore how the wet dew seeps into the tough hide of her jeans, peering up at the occupant of her homemade swing. He even makes it look good, like it’s purposefully rustic and not a ‘I threw this together in half an hour’ kind of bumpkinness. “You can call it what it is, Bella.” “Cold-One-ness? I’m hesitant to use any other term, because that’s the only technical term I’ve heard others use and I don’t want to mislabel. Not that anything I’ll say will change what you are, but I don’t want to offend.” “Don’t worry too much about not offending, Darlin’. It’ll take more than a few inconsiderate words to offend me.” “Doesn’t mean I should just blather on with whatever because you’re not human though, does it?” Grinning, Bella forces herself up to her feet, grabbing hold of the swing and planting one foot on the wooden plank. Jasper hastily removes himself from her home-made contraption before she fully clambers on, standing tall and proud with both handles clenched in each hand. “Vampires is the term we use for ourselves, Bella. Since you know the bare bones, I might as well flesh it all out for you. Especially because my family do not know that you’re… well informed now.” “Hey, I can keep quiet. No one needs to know you’ve told me if it’s gonna get you in trouble. I can play along like I think you’re still human.” At that, Jasper huffs a laugh, husky and low, as he leans back against the tree trunk. With his arms folded over his chest, he looks good. Too good to be just a friend; god, she hopes Dad doesn’t come home early, otherwise he’s gonna have awkward questions and she’ll have to bluster through them without blushing. Which, given the lily-white skin she’s been cursed with, will be impossible. And Jasper will probably laugh and she’ll end up even redder… which might be a problem for the vampire. Oh. She’d never considered that; would blushing make him hungry? How does that even work, is it scent or sight based? Or both? “That’d be a good idea, if Edward couldn’t read minds.” “He can what now?” Shit. While she can’t remember every thought she’d ever had on the Cullens, she knows there’s been more than a few daydreams. “I’d say I’m sorry for every scenario I’ve ever dreamed up, but I’m not. You’ve got amazing shoulders and Edward’s fingers are very pleasing. As is everything about Alice. Though I should probably prepare for your sister to gut me, given the handful of thoughts I’ve had on Emmett: I swear I’d never actually try it on with him, I know he’s in a relationship and I’d never disrespect a fellow human being by trying to steal their man.” Her hand has found the back of her neck and she’s rubbing sheepishly, suddenly finding the wet grass below very interesting. It’s hard to be embarrassed by the usual teenage stuff when you’ve got an adult’s brain. Being called out on all the NSFW thoughts you’ve had on the pretty people in your life is a new experience though and Bella can already feel her cheeks burning away. “My shoulders?” Jasper mutters around soft laughter, the kind that has Bella chancing a glance up to meet his warm eyes. “Bella, unless someone’s onto our secret, Edward rarely discloses other people’s thoughts to us.” “Oh.” There’s a still moment of silence between them as Bella lowers herself down until she’s sitting on the swing, fingers twiddling with one another in her lap before a sharp bark of laughter escapes her throat. “Man, I’ve just really dropped myself in that one, haven’t I?” “And what exactly have you been planning to do with my shoulders?” Jasper enquires around her own amused laughter, soft smile transforming into a dangerous smirk. Twisting her weight about on the balls of her feet, Bella rocks back and forth on the swing, toes not quite leaving the comforts of the ground but coming close to doing so. “Well, it involves my legs going over them.” Accompanying the words with a wiggle of her brows, Bella laughs again, fully pushing off the ground this time. She keeps her legs up, lets gravity pull her back and forth, the force of movement slowly dwindling. “That’d be dangerous for the human.” The words are spoken with a soft consideration, as if the topic’s never been touched on before. What does Bella know of vampire relationships? Nothing. Given that she’s relatively certain humans aren’t supposed to find out about their predators (until it’s too late and they’re being drained of their blood), then there’s probably never been any thought given to a human-vampire relationship. Which is a shame. Though, if all vampires look like the Cullen clan, she can see why no vampires ever go for humans. Not when they’re all pretty and smart and just all around better. “What else would be dangerous for the human in a human-vampire friendship? Just for future reference?” “…You still want to be friends, even knowing this?” “Of course,” Bella murmurs, licking nervously at her lips and forcibly stilling the instinctive motion to start chewing at her lips, “just because you’re not human, doesn’t change the time we’ve spent together. Short as it is. We went to the school dance and we had fun and danced in the rain and you very kindly didn’t point out how ridiculous I looked with mascara streaking down my face. That’s a solid friendship foundation right there.” Heels digging into the earth, Bella halts all the motions of the swing, taking care to meet Jasper’s gaze. “So, tell me it all.” “Well, to begin with, we’re fast. Fast and strong. I could untie this swing while you’re still sitting on it.” “You could wha- HEY!” He spends the next half an hour torn between informing Bella of all the aspects of vampirism he considers relevant to Bella and helping her create a better swing after he’d taken it apart. The look on her face as her ass had met the grass had been hilarious but Jasper had done his best not to laugh, instead grinning down at her from where he’d been lounging on the tree branch. She’d tried launching the plant of wood up at him but, with how it’d still been attached to the duo ropes, it hadn’t gotten anywhere near him. Bella had laughed after once she’d clambered off of the floor, all awkward human movements. Up in the tree, her scent hadn’t been so potent and he’d been able to draw in a longer breath, been able to watch her flustered face without the usual huger clawing at his belly. “So, how much shit are you gonna be in with the fam once they realise you’ve told me everything?” Bella enquiry is innocent; she’s not hounding for gossip, but her eyes are filled with a mischief that’s rarely directed at him. Not unless it’s coming from Emmett. It’s no wonder the other vampire had introduced himself to her earlier today; they’re two peas in a pod. Both mischievous, both full of energy. Heaven help them, should Bella become a steadfast fixture in their lives, the two are going to spend days trying to outdo each other. He’s almost looking forwards to it, what with the emotions that’ll pour out of them both. Rose may still be unhappy with how he cast his vote (not that two votes would have won her the argument anyway), but it is so very rare a chance when he gets exposed to nothing but contentment, nothing but bubbling happiness. “A lot. Wanna be there when it happens?” Bella laughs, the noise deep and clear. She’s used to laughing, used to seeing the brighter side of life. It takes her a moment to realise he’s serious. “By god, you’re serious. I mean, sure, why not? You’re clearly cool with keeping the helpless human alive, Alice saved me from becoming a truck sandwich and Hot Doc-” hot what? “-will have taken the oath to do no harm. That’ll be three who don’t want to kill me and I like those odds. Is this your first time bringing a girl home, Jasper Hale?” “Whitlock,” he corrects absentmindedly, realising that she is indeed right. Alice had been the one to present him to the Cullens, not the other way around and they’d been the last additions to the coven. Bella will be the first new face in half a decade. Not to say that he is taking her there with the intention of having her turned but… he does want the rest of the family aware. To know they do not need to hide from one other person in Forks. He wants this friendship, Jasper realises. He wants to keep this easy-going interaction, to know a human but not have to hide himself. Even if it is all interactions, he is hyperaware of, it is nice to speak with someone new. He’d never have thought to build an old-fashioned swing, but he’d enjoyed doing it. “I could take you to the house tomorrow after school, if you want to meet Esme then?” “Vampire mum? If she’s half as nice as Hot Doc and half as pretty as you, I’m sure we’ll get on fine.” “Try not to have any day-dreams about Carlisle’s wife.” Bella chokes, near falling off the tree-branch she’s spent the past five minutes straddling. He reaches out and gently corrects her posture, so there’s no chance of her tumbling out of the tree. The last thing he needs is her cracking her head open. Edward would kill him and Carlisle would be very disappointed. “I’ll do my best. No promises though,” Bella ruffles the one lock of hair she’d not managed to tie up, shifting along the tree branch until she’s managed to get to the trunk. Jasper watches her work her way down, each careful movement calculated to ensure she won’t fall. The second her feet touch the ground, he jumps down, landing with a muffled thump before the human at the tree’s roots can even look back up to find him. Bella turns to the noise and scoffs, folding her arms and grinning all the while. “We can build a swing in your garden too.” They don’t need a swing in the backyard. It’ll ruin Esme’s aesthetic with the house. The thought of that doesn’t dissuade Jasper from thinking such a thing would be a good idea. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text She held tight to the saddle, armor clinking against her reigns. Her thighs griping tight while she brought Syrax around. They decided to announce their presence to the Crabfeeder and his pirates in typical Targaryen style. With fire and blood. Daemon was coming in from the front, while she would surprise them from behind. On cue, she saw Caraxes’ flames light up the night as Daemon incinerated the pirates below him. Wheeling Caraxes in a circle, he landed in the middle of the beach. As he yelled for the Crabfeeder to come out and face him, she watched from the sky as the archers on the ridge took aim, and then she made her move. Before they could loose so much as a single arrow, she was behind them and burning them in dragon fire. The thrill of finally unleashing Syrax’s flames in battle was intoxicating. She’d never felt anything like it. Once they were done, she brought Syrax down and around, to hit the edges of the beach and trap in any trying to make a run for it. Daemon brought Caraxes up at that. They both watched as the Crabfeeder’s silhouette was illuminated. Daemon looked over to her and nodded. She understood, this was him. The rest of the pirates, those alive, where all in the caves now. So they turned and made one last sweep, making sure any still alive down there were put out of their misery quickly. Then they turned and made for another of the islands, where they would make their base camp for the rest of this war. Syrax and Caraxes landed with a thundering boom. Seasmoke was already waiting in the clearing, but they were alone otherwise. As they dismounted, Daemon made his way over to her. Her blood was high, the thrill of being in battle still with her. As it clearly was with him. He grabbed her by her hair and smashed their lips together. He roughly took her mouth, his tongue invading. She moaned in response. She did so love when the beast within her husband was let loose. “Do you have any idea…” he trailed his lips up her neck, sucking and marking her as his, “how fucking sexy you looked, bringing fire and blood to our enemies,” his hands ran down her sides at that, “in this armor I had made for you?” He moaned, low and rumbling, almost more a growl than anything else. “Why don’t you show me, love?” Her voice was thin and breathy, overwhelmed by the feeling of him and the come down of the high she just experienced. “I would, but I’m afraid we’re about to have company.” She looked up to see her own frown reflected back at her. “What company?” She asked. He titled his head to the left and she looked over his shoulder to see that indeed, their people were making their way over to them. She sighed in frustration. “Soon. Soon I will get you all alone.” She leveled a fierce look at him. He returned it in kind, “Soon.” Was his heated promise. They made their way over to the others. Meeting with their Lords and soldiers, verifying the tents set up, and where they wanted the war council to be. When the war council convened, it was made up of her and Daemon, Coryls and his brother Vaemond, Borros Baratheon, and various other lords and knights. “The pirates are currently cowering in the caves when we bring the dragons down. To start, we should begin sending small troops of men over to try to start dwindling their numbers.” Daemon spoke with a hard voice. Watching him commanding was incredibly sexy. No one questioned him with that fierce look on his face that spoke of fire, with the promise of blood in his eyes. “Our plan is to eventually hit them full force using the hammer and the anvil approach. We get them to let their full force loose, then our soldiers come in from the front, while the dragons hit from the back. It should break them.” She began, trying to keep her voice hard and spine stiff. She needed these men to take her seriously as their commander. To take orders from her. “Lord Borros, if you could prepare your men to take their first charge of the beaches at noon. We will switch out soldiers on each rotation. No one goes two days in a row. We’ll whittle down their numbers in these skirmishes.” She looked to the lord and waited until he gave her a nod in recognition. She moved the pieces on the map to follow her explanation. “Lord Stokeworth, you and your men will take tomorrow, and the following day Lord Corlys, you’ll do the same. We’ll do this in rotations. During these, we’ll do one dragon at a time. Alternating between myself and Prince Daemon for now. Laenor may join us later if he feels comfortable doing so.” She nodded to her cousin. “Only on the final charge will we hit them with all the dragons at once. This will hopefully lead them to think we won’t send more than a dragon at a time, and the additional dragons will surprise them at the end.” She felt good about their plans and by the men looking at the map and nodding, it seemed they agreed. She could see in some of the Lords eyes that they were impressed to see her leading here, armored out and readying to fly off to battle. Men won’t follow her if they don’t respect her. Here, she’d earn their respect. Some though, looked at her dubiously. Switching their eyes back from her to Daemon, clearly waiting to have him take the lead. “You all know your parts! Those of you fighting today, go ready yourselves. I will be flying out with you for this.” She’d fought Daemon on that. He didn’t want her to go alone the first time, but she needed to show she could be a Queen that could lead men to battle. That she deserved their respect. That she would not be a feeble woman, made to sit in a castle and birth heirs. Those like Alicent might be fine with that fate, but not her. She had no problem marrying and having children. Looked forward to it with her Daemon by her side. That didn’t mean she couldn’t also be a ruling Queen who rode to battle. These lords needed to see that duality in her. Later that day, as the sun crested in the sky, it was time. She walked over to Syrax and checked her saddle was tight and ready. She watched her husband come over out of the corner of her eye. She smirked, “Can I help you, my love?” He smirked in return. “Actually, I’m here to help you.” With that, he handed her a wrapped package. Her eyebrow rose at him, “Another gift, now?” She was slightly incredulous at his timing. “Just open it.” He rolled his eyes at her, smile pulling at the corner of his month. She opened it and inside was a short sword. On the hilt, the pommel was a red dragon head, with dragonglass for eyes. It was breathing golden flames that went down the grip of the sword. The other side of the grip was covered in a scale like pattern, to match her armor. The cross guard was covered in rubies straight across. While the blade shone with black and red in a swirling pattern. “This is Valyrian steel.” Her mouth hung open. “Daemon, how did you get this?” He smiled at her, “I was gifted the blade itself by a noble in Volantis after I saved his life and killed his assassin. I’ve held onto it for awhile, trying to decide what to do with it. This seemed like the perfect thing. I had the hilt added of course, to suit you.” He watched her twirl the blade in her hands. “Thank you, my love. I don’t know how to fight with a sword though.” She bit her lip at this weakness. She was mildly terrified. Wild and rebellious as she had been, she’d never truly been a warrior in this way. Now she was being given a sword all her own. She was truly touched by the gift regardless of her inability to wield it. He smiled down at her, “This is just in case. You never know what can happen and if you find yourself without Syrax, training or no, you’ll have protection. Just try to stab whoever comes at you, and not yourself.” He chuckled, eyes alight with that mischievous look she so loved. She bumped her shoulder into his, giggling. “I’ll do my best.” He put a scabbard, elaborately decorated with the same scaled pattern, around her waist. He certainly went all out with full armor and sword for her. It was all beautiful though. She put the sword into the scabbard and looked into his eyes. She saw him open his mouth, stop, gulp, then close his eyes and mouth momentarily. She stepped up and wrapped her arms around his waist, closing her own eyes. Her forehead against his. She was certainly nervous about this, but she had to believe she would be successful. They didn’t come back and do all of this to be separated now. She felt him kiss her hair. “Please be careful, my love.” He murmured into her silver tresses. “I promise I’ll show you a thing or two with the sword, enough to keep you safe. If you promise to be careful and come back to me.” She stepped back and they locked eyes. She swallowed down the nerves and said, “I promise, husband. We have a long, happy life to live after this. With a long marriage and all the babies we could want.” He chuckled wetly, as did she. Then his face descended and she met him halfway, their lips connecting in a desperate rhythm. She felt him lick her lower lip and opened up to his tongue. They dueled for dominance in their kiss. Before he broke off. He grabbed her by the shoulders, looking intensely into her eyes, “You better. I refuse to loose you now.” They heard steps in the background and one of the many squires spoke up, “Your Grace, the men have left for the beach.” They both sighed and stepped apart. She nodded at him and gave his hand a last squeeze, then went to mount Syrax. Her dragon seemed to be anxious to go. As she pet her nose, she shared with Syrax her own anxious excitement for the fight to come. She gave one last look to Daemon. Their eyes connected and then Syrax was taking off, wings flapping and throwing dust in the air, blocking her view of her husband. She went high in the sky, asking Syrax to watch the boats rowing toward the beach that the pirates had claimed as their main refuge as the siege began. When Syrax began descending, she steered her around to the front to make sure the men had made it to beach. She pulled around toward the caves and saw men beginning to run out to meet them. As they knew, small batches were sent only. Keeping the main bulk of the force safe in the caves. She went higher in the clouds as she spied the Crabfeeder, looking in the sky. Clearly, he expected the dragons. As another batch of men were sent out and her force reached halfway down the beach, the archers began pulling back to shoot. She told Syrax to go to them and fiercely yelled, “Dracarys!!” Syrax’s flames were a thing of beauty. The archers gone, she swung around to hit the second force the Crabfeeder sent out. “Dracarys!” she yelled and once more, Syrax ignited the men running to her own, swords drawn. She gave a wild smile in joy at her success. She felt Syrax’s roar before it came. Her mount tipped to the side and she held on, realizing arrows were being fired at her and Syrax was protecting her from them. “Thank you girl!” Gratitude for her dragon was appreciated as she hear the rumble in response to it. Then she took Syrax up and turned her toward the second batch of archers. “Quick like the wind, girl! Light them all up! Dracarys!” She told her. Hoping she could get the fire out before another round of arrows was loosed, or she would be directly in the line of fire. Luckily, Syrax was quicker than their draw. They went up in flames and she heard her men cheer down below. Looking down, they had their swords in the air and were yelling, “Wooo! Princess Rhaenyra!! Princess Rhaenyra!!” A tear came to her eye as she realized they were cheering her on. She flew over them then, raising her fist in the air in triumph, as they cheered. Then they turned back to the boat. She watched to make sure they were safe, then turned Syrax back. Their first real battle in this war was done, and she looked forward to further proving herself to the men. And seeing her poor, worried husband once more. ***** Laena was doing her hair while Cassandra Baratheon got her jewelry laid out for her to choose from. Alla Tyrell was putting together her outfit for the day while Jeyelle Lannister was getting their tea ready. Elenor Tully and Sela Celtigar were out fetching breakfast for them all. The rest of them were all chatting happily in her tent while doing their tasks. Despite being in a war camp, they had a good time together. Her tent was as luxurious as a tent could be. The sleeping and living quarters of her tent were separated by a curtain. This side had an armoire holding her clothes, a vanity to get ready at, a large floor length mirror, and a huge grand bed. The other side was done up with rugs, couches, tapestries, and a tea tray. It was all a bit ostentatious for a war camp, but her father had insisted. She thought this was a concession she could easily grant him, especially with all he’d done for her, letting her change so many of his plans and politics. All her ladies slept in her tent with her, which is why her bed is so large. It made sure no one would question her maidenhood. She has witnesses in her bed that no man was there. She rolled her eyes at the very thought. No one in the camp truly cared. A couple moons into the war in the Stepstones, they were all adjusting to being around one another. The men who at first took issue with the women in their camp, quickly shut up after watching her scorching Triarchy pirates and practicing her sword work with Daemon. It hadn’t hurt that her ladies charmed them all. Flirting and playing cards and dice with them. Drinking around the fires at night. They all often joined in on the guy’s fun. With no whores on site for the men, they clearly appreciated having the girls to look at. Their guards made sure they were vigilant and no one tried anything with them though. Her ladies had even begun training with various weapons after Daemon had begun training her with a sword. They figured it was safer to know some self defense in case something happened. She wanted to encourage more women to be independent in this way and not rely on their fathers and husbands for protection. Often times, those were the men they needed protection from truly. If she could get these women from major houses throughout the realm to start thinking more autonomously, then they could help spread that to their people as well. She felt like she was truly earning her place as heir to the throne here, and she couldn’t help but be proud of their efforts. Her husband was as much responsible as she was. He was constantly helping her, be it in their plans or training her. Or just being a sounding board for her. Today, the girls were readying her for something other than war, however. Daemon wanted to take her away for the night. Laenor agreed to provide air support for the day they were gone. His father was incredibly proud. Laenor, while nervous, he had confided in her the other day, was excited as well and happy to make his father happy by participating. She does feel a bit bad though. When Laenor heard they were going away for the day and he wouldn’t be needed as Daemon’s squire, he was looking forward to spending that time with Joffrey Lonmouth. Before they told him he would be in charge of the dragon attacks in their absence. Seeing Joffrey made her feel awful, just remembering what happened to him at her wedding, but she was glad they had this second chance as well. And his killer would never be rewarded as he was before with a damn promotion. She didn’t know where Daemon was taking her, exactly. Just “Pentos”, was all Daemon told her. She knew he’d lived there for 10 years. With the very woman doing her hair now. He seemed to want to create new memories there though. He wanted it to be a surprise as well. He knew she had always longed to see the Free Cities. To fly there on dragon back and explore the world. Her position had seemed like a prison sentence in her first life. Chaining her to the Red Keep. Now she could see she had done that to herself. Here she was in the Stepstones, about to visit Pentos, and before long they’d be traveling all seven of the kingdoms. Her position was one of diplomacy and politics, and traveling to these places would only assist her in that. That fact that Daemon wanted to give this experience to her, only made her love him more, if possible. He wanted her to have that freedom, to be a dragon and take what she wanted. Unlike other men, who would seek to stifle her and lock her away. As the girls finished readying her for her trip and they ate their breakfast, she couldn’t help bouncing her knee a bit, anxious to get going. Laena and Cassandra both started laughing at her. “Princess, you must be the most restless soul in this whole camp!” Laena looked pointedly at her knee and twiddling fingers as she said this. She immediately stopped, looking up sheepishly. “You clearly haven’t seen my betrothed then. Sorry, I’m just excited to be able to go to Pentos. I thought I’d never get the chance.” “And no doubt you’re anxious to be alone with your betrothed as well!” Jeyelle laughed and wiggled her eyebrows at her, moving them up and down ridiculously. The girls all broke out in loud cackles, which is when a squire outside announced that Daemon was ready and waiting. “I could have fucking told her that myself. Useless. Get out of here.” She heard Daemon grouse. She couldn’t help giggling at him. He had limited patience for the courtly graces. Granted, it did seem especially ridiculous here in a war camp. “Come in, my Prince.” Alla untied the tent flaps and let him in. He nodded to her in thanks before his eyes landed on her. “My Princess.” He lifted her hand to kiss it while his eyes shot fire into her soul. She heard her ladies swooning. The brash and dangerous Prince Daemon Targaryen acting the romantic for her never failed to set them off. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text com·pa·ny/ˈkəmpənē/ Noun: A commercial business. Verb: Associate with; keep company with Synonyms: society - association - firm - party - corporation 1. It had been Cloud's original plan to join ShinRa and try for SOLDIER. It was all he had ever wanted ever since he had decided what heroes were – big and strong and invincible – and ever since his young mind had associated the concept of a hero with ShinRa’s big and strong and invincible super SOLDIERs. If he had known what the real definition of a hero was – someone who selflessly helps and rescues others regardless of his own safety – he would've never wanted it. All he had really wanted was to be strong – strong enough to never be hurt again, strong enough to never be bullied again. But he had been a kid and in the end he had never joined ShinRa or tried for SOLDIER. And although his life never did gain the rosy gleam he had always dreamed of and things never got easy – they only got harder, really – maybe that was for the best. The reason why he didn't pack his bags at fourteen like he planned to was simple. That was the summer his mother got ill. It was such a simple looking thing at first – just a cough, nothing more than that – but he hadn't been able to just leave her. He had reasoned that there'd be time – it wasn't like there was an age limit to try for the SOLDIER program, not really – and he could go later. So instead, he had stayed to nurse his mother to health, only to find that… she wouldn't get better. Two months of coughing and hacking and getting paler by the minute, he finally managed to put together just enough money to take her to the hospital to see what was really wrong with her, hoping that they could just give her some antibiotics and everything would be alright again. Except, of course, nothing was so easy, especially not for a family named Strife . She had a blip in her x-rays. A blip, which was about the size of a golf ball. A blip, which after it nearly shorted the x-ray machine, could only mean one thing. A crystal tumour. "It must be all the time she spent around engines, breathing Mako fumes. I'm so sorry," said the doctor, and it didn't help much. Mako tumours could be operated on, sure, but they couldn't really be healed outside ShinRa's most high tech laboratories. You took one out and another one popped in its place almost instantly – when you got enough Mako in you, like some people did, and when that Mako decided to be an asshole, that was that. In a backwater place like Nibelheim, for a family like theirs that barely had enough money to feed themselves? There was no way. It could've been worse, of course. She still had time and if anything, she was lucky that it was just one and just in her lung – most people started to grow them in their brains or skulls, and the tumours ended up crushing their brains. It didn't change the fact that she was dying, that soon the tumour would grow so big that her lung would collapse around it and after that it would start putting pressure on her other lung, on her heart, until her body would give in. And that was if, of course, no other tumours started to form. "A year, maybe two at most," the doctor said when Cloud asked, and with a nod Cloud put aside all his plans for joining ShinRa. Instead, he took his mother home, ignoring the knowing looks of their neighbours, and started to look for a job. Faced with two years of a sick mother, a lot of hospital bills, and also a house he had to now maintain himself, there was no choice – what little his mother had made at the garage she worked at wouldn't last them more than a couple of weeks. They needed a source of income – and so, he needed a job and fast. "You don't need to do this, honey," his mother whispered with a cough ravaged voice, barely audible. "Weren't you going to leave, go after your dreams? Go, I'll be fine." Cloud didn't even have to answer that – they both knew that if he went, she'd die a lot sooner, and probably of starvation if not hypothermia once she wasn't able to pay the bills anymore and got kicked out of the house. Nibelheim wasn't a kind town and it wouldn't give the sick or the poor any sympathy at all – it would eat her alive now if he let it. But he wouldn't. If his mother had to die, she'd do it while tucked in her own warm bed, comfortable and happy. And so, he got his first job – in the same garage she had worked in, mostly running errands for the mechanics and engineers, cleaning and arranging the place and picking up after the men. It was a lousy job with a lousy pay, but it kept them going past the eventual point when their savings ran out. Almost. After the first week of that life, Cloud knew that he would have to sacrifice a lot of things to make it work – the money would be enough for some things they had, but not everything. And so started the rigorous money managing in the Strife household. The main things which got paid were the bills, of course, plus his mother's medicine. All the curiosities and shiny new gadgets that had the other town kids quivering with excitement were ignored from then on. New clothing was instantly struck out of potential things to buy as well – instead, Cloud learned to sew. Food was a necessity, but one he could compromise on – and maybe the meals from then on were cheap and simple, but they could still eat. He eventually started to figure out ways to shrink the bills a bit – and maybe Cloud had to start taking cold showers to bring the heating bill down a bit and maybe the television was off the hook constantly, but the money held and they managed. That was all he cared about. For a while, he considered selling his mother's only money worthy possession – the Hardy Daytona, her motorcycle that was older than Cloud and in mint condition thanks to the fact that she had spent all those years maintaining it religiously. It was what had given her the job at the garage in the first place – the accumulated expertise she had from working on the bike. Now, it was a potential ten thousand gil in their pockets, maybe more. "No, honey, not the Hardy," his mother begged, reaching out to grasp his hand with feeble fingers. "It was a gift from your father and it's going to be your inheritance, once I'm gone. You can't sell it." "My father?" Cloud murmured, frowning, but she didn't answer. In the end, he didn't, couldn't, with her looking at him like that – they weren't at that point of their finances, not yet. It was still out of necessity that he started pushing for a better job at the garage, however. Managing now didn't mean that they'd manage always and there wasn't an inch of give in his lists of what could be paid – should something break, should the drains get clogged, should anything a little unusual happen, and they'd be screwed. So they needed better income and for that, he needed a better job. So, with determination and desperation powering his every move and word, he began pushing himself forward in the garage, and begged the mechanics to teach him, to show him a few tricks, to help him be more useful – to help him eventually do a better job and get better pay for it. They didn't like it much at first – he was still that Strife Bastard and his mother's illness would never change the fact. But he was tenacious and headstrong and wouldn't let himself be cowed anymore, not when his own lifestyle and his mother's comfort was on the line, and so he kept at it until one of them relented and showed him how to change oil in a car, until another one gave in and explained how Mako cells were replaced in an engine, until the rest started giving in too and let him watch and help as they changed tires and replaced crushed hoods and bumpers and doors on this or that car. "You're filthy," his mother commented tiredly at the sight of him, coming home with ever increasing oil stains. Cloud just smiled and washed it all away in a cold, cold shower before heading to the kitchen to make the cheapest, blandest mush one could make, and calling it food. In the evenings, he often retreated to the back yard, where his mother's Hardy stood and put his newly learned skills into practice on the motorcycle, cleaning it and twiddling around with the engine until he began to understand it, until the bike became as familiar to him as it was to her. He didn't get an engineer's spot in the garage – knowing the tricks didn't give him an engineer's degree no matter how he tried – but he did get another sort of new job. In the midst of haphazard lessons, driving lessons were included somewhere along the way – the vehicles the garage fixed had to be tested, after all – and it turned out that he had a knack for driving and figuring out what was wrong with this or that engine just by the way it reacted to his controls, the way it sounded. It wasn't something the other guys at the garage liked to do much anyway. Problems with Mako engines tended to end up with explosions, so the testing part never had many eager takers – not before Cloud, who got the job without contest, and who got the appropriate pay rise for taking it. And so, warm baths and vegetables were included into the list of things they could afford. For nearly a year it worked like that, still tight but manageable – and Cloud could even put a bit of money aside, little by little, to be used in case things went awry around the house. And they did – he had to fix the roof after a winter storm and replace a bit of piping that had burst in the cold, and though it made things cheaper that he now had the hang of doing these things by himself, it didn't make the replacements any less expensive. But the money held, with Cloud stretching every gil to its absolute limits and dragging every possible use out of every single number on his paycheck. Then his mother’s illness got worse – two more tumours were found in her latest x-ray, one in her other lung, and another in her stomach. In a single day, their expenses nearly doubled with the price of her new medicine, and suddenly, his pay was nowhere near enough. So there went the warm baths and vegetables and the savings jar emptied in one afternoon, and all his lists had glaring minuses on them. "All the spots are filled, kid. You're doing a great job as the tester, but…" his boss shrugged his shoulders in the perfect picture of sympathetic understanding, not giving an inch. Cloud knew as much – it wasn't like the garage was that big or wealthy a business; it could only barely support its workers as it was – but he had to try. After that, it was back to the papers, to finding another job – either a better one, or one he could work on while staying at the garage. He didn't find a job like that, and was on the point of considering selling the Hardy again – maybe he could do it without his mother noticing? – when another ad, one he had previously ignored, caught his attention. It was from one of the villagers, offering a reward to anyone who could deliver a package from her to CosmoCanyon. A hefty reward. It made sense, though. The only way to really deliver anything in the west was to either use ShinRa's couriers – who only got the job done about half the time, and most of the stuff they managed to deliver got to its destination broken – or to take the thing yourself. Unlike in the east, there were no trains in the west and no proper roads – mostly it was just narrow monster tracks and whatever flat, smooth ground one could find. Plus, there was the monster problem too – monsters tended to attack anything that moved, and vehicles were always prime targets. The lack of proper roads with a lot of monsters translates to the high number of wrecked vehicles stopping by the garage. Plus a good amount of money to the person who did get the delivery made. "Mom, what would you think if I took the Hardy out?" Cloud asked thoughtfully, considering the ad. With that money, they wouldn't have to worry about much of anything for two, maybe three weeks. The trip would probably take him a couple of days with the Hardy, maybe less. Granted that he find CosmoCanyon of course; the word was that the canyons were like a maze and easy to get lost in. But he had always been good at navigating… "That would be wonderful, honey," she assured him sadly, probably regretting the fact that she couldn’t drive it anymore herself, not without considerable risk. "Just be careful." "I will," Cloud answered, taking out his cheap PHS and making the call. When his mother finally slipped away – killed more by the medicine than the illness, really – Cloud was knee deep in the more or less accidentally established and rather unofficial Strife Delivery Service. He wasn't too surprised when it happened; she had been worn into a ghost of herself by the drugs she had been taking, and he had known for a while that it was only a matter of time. Plus, for weeks before that, she hadn't been able to breathe without mechanical help, so there had certainly been enough warning signs. "I just wish you were happy, honey," were her last, half coughed words – and Cloud hadn't managed to assure her that he was, not really. At the age of sixteen, the last of what had already been the very small Strife family used almost half of his savings to pay for her cremation and released her ashes to the Nibel Mountain. It wasn't as sad of an occasion as he had expected and he didn't cry much at all. He only felt hollow and alone, wrung out and dried up and completely spent. Directionless. Empty. And the home he had spent so much time away from since starting to deliver packages felt emptier still. "Now what?" he wanted to ask, but there was no one there to answer – so instead he picked through his lists for his next delivery, and kicked the Hardy into gear. Running a delivery business was pretty much like running a household, except brought to a higher level and with a different meaning. Gil was still stretched, of course – even though the payments he could demand were high, so were the costs. After most deliveries he had to take a break to do the maintenance on the Hardy, to fix this or that that had been broken somewhere along the way, either by the weather or the terrain or by some monster that had gotten too close. There was also the fact that he himself needed gear – he got his first sword immediately after his first delivery, not willing to go out again without a weapon; and after that he had added protective gear and eventually Materia to his repertoire – and those occasionally needed replacing, or adding to. He didn't mind the budgeting, though. He was used to it by now, to the give and take of finances, to squeezing every use out of every bit he got. It was still balancing on the edge of bankruptcy; it wasn't just his own gear and the Hardy's maintenance he had to look out for, but also the empty house in Nibelheim, which he still owned despite how rarely he stayed there. It would've been easier if he had just given the house up, sold it to someone who could better use it, but… it was his home. It was where his mother had died, where he had grown up. He couldn't just give it up. He wouldn't. So he managed his money as keenly as he ever had, adding time management to it – a necessity due to the fact that some deliveries could take days – plus business managing. He planned routes that would let him make most deliveries at one time; he planned stops along the way; he made contingency plans for possible equipment failures; and when he had the time, he practiced swordsmanship from the saddle of the Hardy, to make sure that the next time he ran into this or that flying beast, it wouldn't be able to take him down. It wasn't the best sort of business around – there was only so much he could do and so much he was willing to do; a lot of the deliveries people wanted to make were way above the weight limits he had set – the Hardy could only carry so much and he had no interest in becoming a trucker. It was also a pretty thankless job – the prices he set were high for a reason but the people didn't like to pay them much, and most times tried to wheedle their way out of the high costs. Especially so since he was never what they expected, and who wanted to do business with a kid? But he kept at it. If anyone had cared to ask – and no one did after his mother's death – he couldn't have said that he loved this life. It was too desperate, too hard, too… flimsy. Most days, everything seemed to depend on whether or not he could make this or that delivery on time – the house, the Hardy, his next meal – and even though he liked riding the bike and travelling was as close as he had gotten to something he truly enjoyed, the stress was a constant, nagging companion. But he liked some aspects of the business. He liked how the papers and notes, shipping forms and signature sheets filled his empty house and made it seem like it had a purpose. He liked the intricacy of the business side of the thing, how it all distracted him from the fact that he was alone and that others of his age still lived with their parents, were still going to school, and still had something like security. He liked that in the midst of it all, he could forget that he had grown so far apart from the village of his birth that he might as well have been a stranger. Even his old co-workers from the garage no longer waved hello when he came back from another delivery with windswept hair and a new sword on his back, bought from RocketTown because the previous one hadn't had a good enough reach. None of the kids whom he had gone to school with paid much attention to him, though at least no one tried to bully him anymore. Wouldn't dare, with him nowadays walking around with an arsenal of blades and Materia and protective gear on him – all necessary for his job, and intimidating for the onlooker. The only ones who talked to him at all in Nibelheim were his customers, and Tifa. And it was always with a note of disappointment. "Weren't you going to become a SOLDIER?" she asked him while he was unloading the Materia delivery from Corel to Nibelheim's general store. "You stayed because of your mom, right? But she's not…" Cloud didn't answer. His mother wasn't there anymore and he could go to Midgar to have a try, sure. Except, he didn't much want to anymore. In the intervening years, he had learned what the word hero really meant and he was no hero, nor did he want to be one. He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted from life – what he wanted to be when he grew up like everyone said – but that… that wasn't it. For all his tries and hard work, his mother had still died in pain, coughing and bleeding from her lungs, unable to breathe, unable to eat, unable to live . Tifa still held onto the hope that someone would save her from the boring normal life she was leading, that maybe Cloud would hold up his end of the stupid bargain they had made and bring her out of the redundancy of Nibelheim. He didn't. Unlike her, he had seen too much of life to believe that anybody ever saved anyone. "Plans change," he answered and carried the box of Materia inside, to get the signature, planning to then ignore her and head home for some quick maintenance before continuing on his way to Rocket Town with the rest of the deliveries from Corel. That was his life and maybe it wasn't the best one a guy could have, maybe it wasn't his dream, maybe it wasn't his shining future… but it worked for him. 2. It was around that time, that the news from Midgar reached the west – about the incident that had happened at the ShinRa Electric Power Company. Cloud didn't much care for news coming from outside the west one way or the other and mostly ignored them, but this caught even his attention in the midst of a delivery run. Things that happened to ShinRa tended to affect everybody, after all. So, he glanced at the news while everyone else whispered and talked. Apparently, the President, his son and some of ShinRa's Department Heads had been killed in some accident or something – the news was pretty vague on what had actually happened, whether it had been an accident or some sort of assassination. It was enough to send Nibelheim and most of the other small towns of the west buzzing with rumours – and for days it was all anyone would talk about. Eventually, Cloud grew bored of it – so ShinRa was going to get a new President and a whole lot of new administrative staff, whatever. He had deliveries to make and a lot of ground to cover – and no matter what happened to ShinRa's ruling elite, nothing would really change. They'd still have reactors, there'd still be Mako everywhere and he would still have deliveries to make. He figured he'd hear about whoever had become the new President soon enough, and decided to ignore it all. And when he didn't hear anyone saying much about any new President or even new Department Heads to replace the lost ones, he figured the changeover had just happened quietly, and went about his business as usual. Then what little control ShinRa had over the west began to fall apart. It didn't really matter to him at first, not until ShinRa's couriers stopped running and suddenly his was pretty much the only delivery business still running in the west. When the calls doubled, tripled, and multiplied beyond his ability to manage them, he started to take notice. And when the little military presence on the roads trickled into nothingness and the monsters began to multiply explosively, he started to get worried. When he glanced at the news more closely, just to see if ShinRa had any intention of doing anything about it, he only found that it would probably get worse. For some reason, even though it had been weeks now, ShinRa neither had a new President, nor did anyone seem to have any idea of who would be the new President. The few Department Heads still left had all vehemently declined the position – one of them had even resigned from the company entirely. And according to the news, ShinRa was reacting badly to the lack of proper command – hence the withdrawal of the road patrols, hence the disintegration of the courier system, hence a sudden withdrawal from Wutai as well, something that had shocked pretty much everyone on every continent. A headless ShinRa was surprisingly inefficient, Cloud mused. He, much like everyone else, had always thought that ShinRa was like a machine, always working and always in motion, unstoppable by anything but the end of the world. But all it seemed to take was the cutting off of its head, and it fell apart. He couldn't really understand why no one had so much as volunteered to become the company's President, though. Surely everyone would've loved the position – as ShinRa's President you were essentially the overlord of the entire Planet. But no, apparently not. "Maybe the job is tougher than people think," he mused. If running a one man business was as difficult as his was, then it wouldn't surprise him much if being the President of ShinRa was actually the most exhausting job on the planet. But a big company like ShinRa had departments and Department Heads just so that the President wouldn't have to run the whole thing, right? At least that was what he had thought. Well, it wasn't his business, he thought, and turned away to do some sword maintenance. After that he had packages to take to their recipients, signatures to get, and then it was back to Corel with him. While running the whetstone across the blade's edge, he wondered if he ought to try and start hiring people – he could make about a quarter of the deliveries people needed made nowadays. That was when the knock came. What he found at his doorstep wasn't another delivery request, though, nor a neighbour hoping that maybe he could take this letter to their family member free of charge, since they were neighbours and all. Instead it was a long haired man in a black suit, tilaka on his forehead and briefcase in his hand. "Mr. Cloud Strife?" the man asked. "That's me," Cloud agreed cautiously. "What can I do for you, Mr…?" The man smiled grimly. "My name is Tseng of the Turks. I have some business I would like to discuss with you. It concerns your father. May I come inside?" "My father?" Cloud frowned before remembering – the Turks were from ShinRa, weren't they? They were ShinRa's spies and assassins. One of them at his door, intending to talk about business that had something to do with the father he had never met… that couldn't be good. "Sure," he said, opening the door wider. "Come on in." Even though Tseng gave his house a not so covert glance, Cloud didn't bother to feel embarrassed. The house was more or less a large office to him, a place to stop at in the middle of deliveries and a place to stash all the paperwork, with a corner for him to sleep in, and nothing more. If he would've bothered to be embarrassed about anything, it would've been the state of his clothing, the sleeveless jacket he wore and the stitched up cargo pants which had seen entirely too many monster encounters. But he didn't. If his business had taught him anything, it was to not get embarrassed. Delivery boys got a lot of jeering in certain places – it was apparently a common way to open porn, to have a delivery boy enter the scene. "I don't have much to offer, in way of drinks," Cloud said while clearing some of the clutter from his kitchen table – office table – so that Tseng could sit. "I am here only on business, Mr. Strife, not pleasantries," Tseng answered, setting his briefcase on the table and opening it. From it he took out a sheet of paper and handed it over to him. A birth certificate – Cloud's own. Cloud had never been all that curious about his father. The man had been a nonentity his whole life and for all the troubles he and his mother had, he had been happy until her death, happy and somewhat comfortable – they hadn't needed a man around the house. He had known that his father had been wealthy – the Hardy Daytona had been a courting gift from the man, after all – and he had known that part of his family's shame was the fact that his mother had been nothing but a conquest to the man, someone to catch, use and leave with a bastard child and nothing but shame – and the trinkets he had given – to her name. The villagers had certainly jeered enough about his mother's naivety and simplicity concerning the matter, back when she had been alive. He wasn't surprised that his father had been the recently killed President ShinRa. If anything, it made sense. There was the ShinRa mansion, sitting just on the outskirts of Nibelheim, and from what he had heard they used to throw some wild parties there. And his mother had been a handsome woman even when the tumours and medicine had turned her into skin and bones – she had been the beauty of the town in her youth. Easily a worthy conquest to a wealthy, successful man. The situation, the timing and of course the after effects all fit. And the jeering too – Nibelheim wasn't that backwater, and Cloud wasn't the only bastard there. He was the most hated one, though, and this made it clear why. Hated by association – ShinRa had never been that popular in Nibelheim. "You don't seem surprised. Were you aware of your father's identity?" Tseng asked, coolly curious. "Not really, but it's not that big of a shock," Cloud answered. What he was surprised about was what Tseng told him afterwards, delicately circling around the subject for a while before getting to the point and handing him the contract. Surprised and suspicious as hell. "I am sure you are aware of the situation at ShinRa?" the Turk asked. "Heard of it, yeah." "Due to the recent incident at ShinRa, we have been hard pressed to find a suitable candidate to take over the company," Tseng said calmly, like he was talking about any old business rather than the one that ran the world . "None of the surviving Department Heads feel equipped to do the task, and there is also the fact that ShinRa is, at heart, a family company. It is believed that the people would feel most secure having a blood relation of the former President at the helm." Cloud narrowed his eyes at the words before turning to read the contract. The man couldn't be saying what he thought he was saying. Could he? It seemed just too ridiculous, so he was trying to find the flaw that would mark the whole thing as a fake, as a joke. After all, it wasn't like anyone would ask a country boy like him to run a company like that, no way in a million years. Maybe someone in town had hired Tseng to play this elaborate ruse, somehow? Either that or Tseng was a con-artist, trying to get what little gil he had in the Strife Delivery Service's bank accounts. Except Cloud doubted very much that any proper con-artist would resort to stuff like this, it was just too fantastical to work on anyone but complete simpletons. He could buy being ShinRa's bastard, easily enough. This, though, not so much. Him being ShinRa’s bastard probably wasn't true either – even though the birth certificate certainly seemed real, people could make very convincing fakes given the incentive. "Surely the President had other bastards," he answered finally, lowering the contract. It didn't have any glaring flaws he could see. It had some conditions he didn't much care for, but they sounded pretty much like what you'd expect from a company like the ShinRa Electric Power Company. Pretty convincing. Not convincing enough. "He… did, indeed," Tseng almost grimaced saying the words. "However, the first one we considered declined the offer most vehemently, and the others we have considered so far are quite unsuitable, as far as personality, skills, and expertise goes. After our first candidate, you, seeing that you have some experience in running a business… are the next viable option." "You've looked into me?" Cloud asked, glancing up from the papers, now leaning more towards con-artist than a jokester. "Due to the variety of risks such people pose, all of the President's progeny are watched over," Tseng answered, leaning back a bit in the chair he was sitting on, across Cloud's kitchen table. "As I said, ShinRa is a family company." Cloud shook his head at that, a bit amused. "Well, I don't buy it," he answered, standing up. "It's very well done, all of it, but stuff like this just doesn't happen in real life. I don't know who set you up to this or why they would bother, but…" "This is not a ruse, Mr. Strife," Tseng answered calmly. "Or a joke. And I can prove it to you, if you let me." "Sure, make my day," the blond man snorted – and then watched how Tseng made a quick call, not really believing the man could do it. Maybe he'd find another person in a neat black suit on his front steps, but that would probably be it, and not entirely convincing. What the guy and whoever was working with him thought they'd gain, he didn't even want to know. But at least Tseng didn't look too strong, so he could probably force the man out of the house, if not with his bare hands then with the blades of his many swords. Then the windows of his house rattled as the noise of a landing helicopter made the whole village echo. With disbelief, Cloud inched to the window, to watch as a black helicopter with ShinRa's logo emblazoned to the side landed right in the middle of the village, piloted by not one but two guys in suits exactly like Tseng's. "Convincing enough?" Tseng asked calmly. "Getting there," Cloud answered, a little dry mouthed. He swallowed and turned to the man, frowning and considering what he had heard again. "So, to recap, you want to make me the President because I'm ShinRa’s next most skilled bastard?" he asked. "What's the catch?" he demanded to know. "Why hasn't anyone else taken the position – why didn't the first one you considered take it? Why haven't any of the Department Heads? There's got to be a reason." "I'm afraid that is a company secret and I cannot answer before you take the position," Tseng answered, still cool as anything. "Company policy, I'm sure you understand." "I'm not going to sign anything before I know," Cloud answered back, folding his arms. Tseng considered him calmly for a moment before turning back to the papers scattered across the table, and starting to neatly pile them. "Then I'm afraid our business here is concluded." "Fine," Cloud answered, not taking the bait. "Nice meeting you." Tseng didn't hesitate at that, just put the papers back into the briefcase and stood up. Cloud considered him thoughtfully, only barely seeing the line of dissatisfaction between the man's brows. "ShinRa's been without a President for, what, three months now?" he asked thoughtfully. "And the company is falling apart because no one's taking the helm. They don't want to – no, I think they're too scared to. I'm guessing that what happened to the previous President, his son, and the Department Heads that died wasn't an accident. I'm guessing they were murdered and whoever takes the helm is probably likely to get similarly dealt with." That made Tseng pause, frown, and turn to him. Cloud smiled faintly at the man's expression. "So now you're desperate to put anyone you can into the spot, so you come here, to get me, an ignorant bastard with a little business, maybe just good enough to work as the President for a little while, or maybe enough that he can seem to be running the company while someone else does it from the shadows, safe from the possible assassin who took out the previous head?" Tseng smiled grimly at that. "I'm afraid that wouldn't work in this case," he answered, looking at him thoughtfully. He seemed to make a decision, as he placed the briefcase back on the table. "It was a coalition that killed the former President, his son, and the Heads of Science, Weapons Development, and Public Safety Maintenance Departments, as well as a number of ShinRa's top scientists. A coalition consisting mostly of First Class SOLDIERs. However, they have a spy, a telecommunications expert, on their side as well, who we believe is currently monitoring all of ShinRa's communications and most likely has most if not all of ShinRa's employees under his surveillance, including the Turks. If we try to plant a… puppet President, they would know immediately." "If you know who killed the former President, why haven't you dealt with them?" Cloud asked, curious. "There is no one who can," Tseng answered with a shrug. "They are the strongest warriors on this Planet, invincible in every sense of the word, and their spy's sheer capability makes covert assassinations impossible. They would know what we planned before we even started. And we do not wish to kill them in any case – currently SOLDIER is all that is keeping ShinRa together." "And the Turks?" the blond asked thoughtfully. "We are trying to keep the company functional. It is borderline impossible – there is no command structure left and those with a bit of power and any influence in the company are too terrified to use it, not wishing to seem like they are the ones controlling the company now," Tseng answered. "Only the SOLDIER section, which is only a part of the Public Safety Maintenance Department, runs as it ought to, because it is led by General Sephiroth and Commanders Hewley and Rhapsodos: all First Class SOLDIERs and all part of the coalition." "And why haven't they taken over the company? Since they were the ones who killed the President, wasn't it their goal to take over the company?" Cloud asked, now a bit confused. They had killed the President and then… gone back to work, business as usual? How did that work? Tseng sighed and sat back down. "Because they are SOLDIERs, not businessmen. It was never their intention to take over the company; they only eliminated the elements they considered… unseemly," he answered. "The fact is that President ShinRa and most of his Department Heads – the Science Department Head in particular – have done some questionable things over the years, and the SOLDIER section itself is one of those things, the First Class SOLDIERs in particular. When the Firsts found out about it… they decided to simply seek their retribution as well as stop it from happening again." "By killing everyone accountable and leaving ShinRa headless and terrified of another purge, huh," Cloud murmured. "Did they make any demands?" he asked. "Full disclosure to them at least, though they’d prefer full disclosure to everyone, they understand why it is not feasible," Tseng answered. "They also demand a complete overhaul of ShinRa's ethics. The experiments ShinRa did… are not approved." "Just that?" Cloud asked and sat down, thinking about it. The murderous Firsts obviously weren't against ShinRa in general, otherwise they would've done more – and they weren't against the notion of ShinRa having a President, or they would've said something, demanded changes there too. So what they wanted was… just a bit of an overhaul. "And no one thinks they can meet the demands?" he asked. Tseng smiled faintly, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward a bit. "Are you considering it, Mr. Strife?" "Just keep talking, let me wrap my head around this," Cloud answered with a frown. "No one really thought they could do it?" "Either they didn't want to risk making a mistake and invoking the wrath of the Firsts or they had questionable things in their pasts already, that they figured the Firsts wouldn't approve of," the Turk answered. "If you know anything about ShinRa, you must understand why a clean morality is a tough order for anyone involved in the company." "I guess that's true," the younger man answered and leaned back in his seat, thinking about it. Hell, he didn't want to join ShinRa, neither as a soldier nor a President or anything else. He just wanted to… be comfortable. And he was, running the delivery service and minding his own business. But, at the same time… If ShinRa kept on unravelling, how comfortable would he be? Hell, how comfortable would anyone be? All ShinRa had done was withdraw their people from the west, and things were going to hell in a hand basket – the monsters were already almost unmanageable, and given time, they would only multiply beyond anyone's control. The lack of ShinRa's already mostly useless couriers was being felt in Nibelheim and, before long, it would probably choke the west's small settlements – soon, people would start getting hungry and angry. On top of that, ShinRa had withdrawn from Wutai, leaving that situation unsettled, which would only explode in their faces… And what the hell. As much as he liked his life here… actually he didn't really like it that much. He couldn't call his life exactly full of joy and happiness. The only thing that kept him going was the fact that he had gotten too used to it to stop. Travelling was more enjoyable than sitting still but still mostly pointless besides earning gil. He had no family, no friends, no relationships whatsoever, and nothing that he really… nothing to really look forward to, in his life. He doubted very much he'd be happy in ShinRa, but… he'd be well distracted. "I'm not going to sign that contract," Cloud said. "It's stupid and embarrassing and restricting and I am not signing my future progeny to the company." "But…?" Tseng asked slowly. "But I'll take the position," Cloud answered and shrugged, standing up. "If the Firsts want to kill me for it they can go ahead. My life isn't that great anyway." 3. Tseng froze the Strife Delivery Service with a phone call, while Cloud packed his things and then watched how the Hardy Daytona was rigged for transport – it would be carried on the bottom of the helicopter and he did not want any damage to occur to it during transport. Thankfully, the other two Turks, Rude and Reno, seemed to be more than competent and did their work well – though Reno cracked jokes the whole time and made somewhat pointed comments to Rude. Not to Cloud, though, he couldn't help but notice. Despite his behaviour, appearance, and overall lack of seriousness, Reno didn't address him with anything but perfect respect, just like Rude. Just like Tseng. "The Turks are a surprisingly polite lot," Cloud commented when Tseng came out of the house. "You are our superior, President Strife. There is nothing else we can be," Tseng answered, having stepped into the position of subordinate the moment Cloud had said yes . "Now, if you might permit it, I would like to bring some things to your notice concerning the Nibelheim Reactor and the ShinRa mansion here, sir." He glanced around – the townsfolk had gathered to watch with wide, confused eyes. "In private, perhaps," he added. Cloud smiled faintly, looking around as well. Those of his neighbours close enough to hear were staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and everyone was whispering. No one made a move to get any closer though, held back by the guns and other weapons the Turks were carrying as well as the helicopter's rather impressive looking machine guns. But they were certainly watching – and the incident would probably be enough to stir Nibelheim's rumour mill for years to come. "Let's go to the mansion, we'll talk there," the new President of ShinRa answered, after catching a glimpse of Tifa and deciding that he'd rather avoid that discussion. "I've always wanted to have a look at the place anyway." The mansion isn't much like he had expected – it's in pretty bad condition, full of dust and cobwebs and what looks like the droppings and corpses of half a dozen small monsters. While they're there, Tseng briefly explains the human experiments that were performed there, sidling into the creation of the first SOLDIER and of course, the SOLDIER Firsts. Sephiroth himself had apparently been born there, in the mansion, as a result of experiments with Mako and the genetic material of something discovered in the Northern Crater. "Genetic material which is being held at the Nibelheim Reactor," Tseng added. "I guess this knowledge was what made the Firsts decide on their coup?" Cloud asked thoughtfully while they wandered around the mansion. "Yes. Commanders Rhapsodos and Hewley are also products of such experiments, although they were created in the village of Banora, not here, sir," Tseng answered. "I believe that most information about Sephiroth is kept here, however." "Hm. Let's have a look at this basement, then," Cloud decided, and they did – Tseng finding the way down and Cloud following with a couple of his better swords at his back, ready to be pulled out in case something decided to attack. And something did – the basement was much richer in monsters than the mansion above, and not just monsters, but experiments as well. Tseng turned out to be a pretty good shot with his firearm, but Cloud was the one who took most of the beasts out, more used to close combat after his time on the road. He might not have been trained, but he had had good motivation to learn how to swing a sword just right. "Perhaps some private swordsmanship lessons once we reach Midgar, sir?" Tseng offered while Cloud cleaned the blade of his shorter sword. "Why not," Cloud answered, and they spent an hour or so examining the laboratory and the many, many books and notes strewn around the place. They painted not just one gruesome picture, but several dozens of them – with some hundreds of small and big experiments thrown in the middle to spice things up even further. Cloud felt a bit sick after just a few of them – and it certainly didn't help that his mother had died because of Mako tumours. It was no wonder that Sephiroth and the coalition had decided to kill the President and the others, if what he read on the files was anything close to the truth. Most of the experiments had been huge failures, no surprises there. Cloud wished he could've been surprised by how cheap human life seemed to be to the ShinRa scientists, but he wasn't, not really – the murderous Firsts had killed them for a reason after all. It did disgust him to read how many spent test subjects had been disposed of, though. Many, many people, with no indication of who they had been, why they had been a part of the experiments – had they ever even agreed to them? So many, in fact, that it was the mention of someone living that caught his attention. "Tseng, take a look at this," the new President of ShinRa said, holding out a note he had found, concerning an experiment on a subject called V. "According to this, there should be a guy in a coffin here, somewhere – alive." "I will go and see, sir," the Turk director said with a nod and slipped away, leaving Cloud to look through the note about subject V, who had apparently gone through some transformation experiments before Professor Hojo – one of the dead Department Heads – had gotten bored with him. "A subject lives, and this guy gets bored with him?" Cloud muttered. And meanwhile when a subject had died, Hojo had felt it necessary to repeat the experiment some four times just to make sure it was always fatal. "I think I'm starting to like the murderous Firsts more and more," Cloud murmured, dropping the paper onto the table and going to see if he could find anything else useful around the place. He was through a report about the thing in the Nibelheim Reactor when Tseng returned with subject V – who turned out to be a long haired man in a red cape, with a golden claw in place of his left hand, and boots that could've been used as murder weapons. He was pale, red-eyed and his dark hair looked like no one had gotten anywhere near it with a brush in twenty years – which was pretty much what had happened, according to the reports. The guy was surprisingly spry and mobile for someone who had been in a coffin for that long, though. "You are the new President of ShinRa?" the man asked expressionlessly, his voice low and gravelly with disuse. "It seems like it," Cloud answered, closing the report and considering the man, wondering what to do, what could be done. Should he feel sorry, apologise, what? The guy wasn't as pitiful as he had expected, not really – if anything, he seemed dangerous despite his long sleep. "What is your name?" he asked in the end, figuring he should start with the basics. "…Vincent Valentine," the subject answered and Tseng at his side cleared his throat. "He was part of the Turks some twenty five years ago. And judging by what he said, he objected to project S – the project that made General Sephiroth," the Turk director said, with a look on his face that almost hid how furious he was. "Professor Hojo then shot him, and by the looks of it, proceeded to experiment on him." "Yeah," Cloud answered, frowning. Looked like he was going to come face to face with ShinRa's nasty past faster than he thought. What to do about it, though? "Well, Mr. Valentine. I'm sorry for what's happened to you," he said cautiously. "Judging by what I've seen from the report of your… experimentation, your current condition is stable and you aren't in danger because of it. I would like to extend an offer to undo what's been done, but it's not a promise I’ll make not knowing if it can be undone," he said and then shrugged. "You are free to go if you choose, or you are free to stay if that is Director Tseng's choice." Valentine frowned and glanced at Tseng. "I am the current head of the Turks," Tseng explained. "And… you would let me just walk away, knowing what's been done here?" Valentine asked. Cloud smiled faintly. "Yep," he answered. "Didn't Tseng tell you what's been happening at ShinRa?" he asked. "There didn't seem to be enough time, Sir," the Turk answered calmly. "And besides, sir, it's classified." "Well, I'm declassifying it. Let the world know, it's what the murderous Firsts want," Cloud answered with a wave of his hand, and looked around the office of the basement laboratory. "I kind of want to destroy the Jenova creature, but I'm guessing I shouldn't, considering all SOLDIERs have bits and pieces of it inside them, and destroying it now might mean we can't use it to cure the SOLDIERs later," he murmured. "Are there any good scientists left in ShinRa?" "Not of this calibre, no, sir," Tseng answered, frowning. "Sir, does this mean… you are declassifying everything?" he asked, looking uneasy. "Not everything. Just stuff concerning me," Cloud answered. "We'll see about the rest later, once I know what's what." He glanced at the confused looking Valentine and smiled grimly. "According to Tseng, there is an element in ShinRa that doesn't approve of human experimentation and secrecy and all that – the First Class SOLDIERs mostly. They're the ones who dealt away with most of the previous heads of ShinRa. I'm one of former President ShinRa’s bastards and Tseng roped me into being the new President because no one else wanted the job, seeing that it might get me killed like the previous President. So I figured that I'll do what the murderous Firsts want, and do the right thing by the people. So yeah. You're free to go if you want to." "I… see," Valentine murmured, eyeing him keenly. "And you are thinking of destroying Jenova?" "It just doesn't seem like something people should be using like this," Cloud answered. "Most of the experiments concerning it seem to have turned out pretty badly – barring Sephiroth and the other murderous Firsts." "Sephiroth is part of this… element? The Murderous Firsts ?" Vincent asked, narrowing his eyes. "The President is referring to the First Class SOLDIERs and yes, Sephiroth is most likely the ringleader," Tseng agreed. "He is the current General of all of ShinRa’s military forces since Director Lazard Deusericus resigned from the company." "And most likely the guy who will kill me if I don't work out as the President," Cloud agreed with a shrug. "It's one hell of an incentive to do good work, I'll grant that," he muttered with a snort. "I see," Vincent said again, looking between him and Tseng. "And knowing what you do about me, knowing what I know, you would be willing to take me in to this… renewed ShinRa Company?" Cloud glanced at Tseng, trusting in his judgement more than his own since it seemed that the man knew more about Valentine than he did. "Yes," Tseng said. "Although I do not have the full details of your career as a Turk, the final act of your career is a great defining factor, especially in this case. You opposed Professor Hojo on grounds of morality and ethics – and the… Murderous Firsts, as the President calls them, killed Professor Hojo precisely on the same grounds. Therefore, yes, I believe you would be suited for the company, as it is now." Valentine narrowed his eyes slightly and turned to Cloud. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "Aside from appeasing the Murderous Firsts?" Cloud shrugged. "Whatever feels right," he answered. He didn't really have an agenda and was mostly winging the whole thing now and would probably continue to do the same later. "I think I'll be handling the previous President's mistakes first and trying to keep the company from falling apart. If I can do that, the Firsts don't kill me, and ShinRa is still functional afterwards, I'll figure the rest then." The former Turk considered that and then nodded. "This I would like to see," he said. "I would like to formally request a reassignment to the Turks." "Granted," Cloud answered with a wry grin. The three of them left the mansion behind soon after, with Tseng hurriedly writing down Cloud's orders to have all the Material from the mansion transported to Midgar for further study. "Also, send a request to the Murderous Firsts to put the reactor here under guard – not by SOLDIER, though. If what I read about the Reunion thing is real, I don't want anyone with even a hint of Jenova in them near that place before I figure out what to do with it," Cloud added while peering ahead. It seemed that Reno and Rude had gotten tired of waiting in the village – the helicopter was now sitting on the street in front of the mansion, rather than in the village. "Yes sir," Tseng answered, not so much as looking up from his phone. "Also, sir, it seems that Jenova has been listed as Sephiroth's mother on his birth certificate. It might cause some complications if Sephiroth believes it to be the truth." "It isn't," Vincent, who hovered behind Cloud's shoulder like a particularly dark shadow, said. "His mother was Doctor Lucrecia Crescent, one of the scientists who worked on the project." "You have any proof of that?" Tseng asked sharply. "No, but unless Hojo has tampered with the registry, her genetic information should be on the Company database – a maternity test would be enough to verify it," the gunman answered quietly. "Have someone do it and once you have the proof, let our murderous General know. Let's not make any mistakes about that," Cloud said to Tseng and walked closer to the helicopter as Rude jumped out of the helicopter to open the door. "All done here, sir?" the dark skinned Turk asked, yelling over the roar of the engines and the rotors. "Do you wish to see the Reactor?" "Not really. How is my bike?" Cloud asked. "Tucked safely, sir. Please watch your head sir, the door has a low frame." They entered the helicopter, and Tseng showed Cloud where to stash his swords and how to buckle in before handing him a pair of headphones to use for the noise. "If you would like, sir, I would suggest we head straight for Corel to refuel and from there to Costa del Sol. I can have a plane waiting for us, which will take us directly to Midgar," the Turk Director said through the connection of the headphones. "Unless you have any objections." "Not for now, no," Cloud answered, speaking into the microphone attached to his headphones. "In the meanwhile, you can tell me more about the state ShinRa is in. It lost at least three Department Heads. How many are left?" "Two. Reeve Tuesti is the head of Urban Development, who had no part in the experiments whatsoever, which is why I believe he was left alive; and the head of Space Exploration Development, Palmer, whom we believe was considered too incompetent to be of any threat," Tseng answered. "The Science Department lost more than the other departments, as several scientists were killed along with Hojo – it has been in a complete standstill since, and the only function it has been performing is the standard Mako injections to SOLDIERs, plus some Materia fusion. The Weapons Development Department has been concentrating on the manufacture of standardized weapons and all its incomplete projects have been put on hold until a new head can be found. And when it comes to the Public Safety Maintenance Department, sir, I have covertly taken some of the head's duties and seen that the department doesn't fall apart, and of course General Sephiroth is looking after the military for the most part… but we are sorely missing a proper Department Head as well." "Okay," Cloud muttered, trying to engrave it all in his mind and make sense of it. Thank the Planet the delivery service had done some good to his memory and he could actually keep up with most of the data Tseng was dumping on him. He had thought ShinRa had more departments than that, though, but it seemed that the loss of three Department Heads was a pretty serious thing. Three out of five. And no one aside from Sephiroth had dared to step into the places of the lost directors? "Looks like you have your work cut out for you, sir," Vincent commented from beside him. "Yeah," Cloud answered and straightened his back. So the whole thing would be a bit trickier than he had thought it would be. He could work with that – or get killed trying, whichever came first. Now that he had started, though, he wasn't about to give in. "Okay, run all that by me again, but in full detail. Let's start with the Science Department, what's its function, what are its duties – and what has it been doing that got so many from it killed." "Yes, sir," Tseng answered, turning to his phone and no doubt pulling up some digital documents as Cloud's lessons on the company he now was supposed to run started. 4. Cloud had too much information crammed in his head in the space of the eight hours that took to get them from Nibelheim to Corel and from there to Costa del Sol. He felt exhausted and stupid, knowing now how much over his head he really was, and regretting ever agreeing to Tseng's rather ridiculous proposal. When they boarded the plane in the Costa del Sol airport, with the staff all giving Cloud and Vincent wide eyes while Tseng followed closely behind, phone still at hand, he was half asleep and dreaming of a simpler life. "We'll continue at Midgar," he said after buckling into his – very fine, very comfortable, and very big – seat in the plane. "Any more and my head will burst. I'm going to have a nap, if I can." "As you will, sir. Do you want the cabin lights lowered?" Tseng asked, while Vincent silently took the seat directly behind Cloud. "It's fine," Cloud answered, used to sleeping in much weirder and harsher conditions. Sighing, he relaxed and closed his eyes, turning in his mind the facts he now knew about the company. Planet but there was a lot to do. When people had said that ShinRa seemed to be falling apart, they didn't know the half of it – as it was, the company was held together by duct tape and fear right now. If it wasn't for the Murderous Firsts, pretty much every single person higher than assistant would have ran off – certainly all of them seemed to have rendered their resignation after the unfortunate resignation of Director Deusericus. Most of the people who were supposed to be in charge of this or that section were either not doing their jobs anymore, or they were trying to do each other's jobs in order to compensate for those who didn't, and thus were wearing themselves too thin. Worst of all, the military was in shambles. The SOLDIER program was doing more or less fine thanks to the fact that the Murderous Firsts were running it, but the infantry? Not so much. The loss of their Department Head, Heidegger, had affected ShinRa's Private Security Force – the infantry – badly. Apparently, Heidegger had had a lot of projects no one but he knew anything about, and a lot of staff was send out on those projects. When Heidegger had died… well, most of the army had no idea what they were doing anymore, a lot of them had just gotten themselves killed having no clue what their missions were, thus the general recall command that had left the roads of the west unmanaged. What little damage control Tseng had been able to do from inside the Turks – which was only one part of the Public Safety Maintenance Department, which looked over the military, the Turks, and the SOLDIERs – was just barely enough to keep things running. The Science Department was of course held together by nothing but luck, at this point. It had lost some fifty percent of its staff and what remained were low level doctors and assistants. Enough to keep the Mako injections and simpler Materia fusions going, but leaving no one with any idea of what to do with the variety of projects professors like Hojo and Hollander had left behind – and it was a lot of projects, most of them potentially very dangerous. The Weapons Department wasn't so badly off, because it was still doing its job for the most part, it just wasn't currently inventing anything. Which was fine, because according to Tseng the things that Weapons Development pushed out tended to be only sixty percent complete, forty percent faulty, and a lot of SOLDIER missions consisted of damage control due to this or that malfunction with this or that robot. The Space Exploration Department wasn't even worthy of mentioning – the only good thing it had managed was the manufacture of helicopters, planes, and a variety of other flying crafts, but even most of those projects had been taken over by the Weapons Development long ago, leaving only Cid Highwind's rocket project under the Space Exploration's management, and the project itself worked better with as little interference from the department as possible. As it was, the Department Head Palmer seemed to have nothing better to do currently than whimper and avoid the Murderous Firsts as much as possible – and he, like Deusericus, had tried to resign several times. Of all the departments, Urban Development seemed the best off – mainly because it wasn't doing anything and hadn't been doing anything for a while now. According to Tseng, most of the Urban Development funds had been channelled to the other three big departments – weapons, science, and military – due to the fact that Midgar had been completed. Reeve Tuesti had kept most of his staff during the budget cuts and kept things working business as usual after the purge by the Murderous Firsts. It didn't seem that Tuesti was taking any advantage of the situation, though, but it was probably because no one dared to touch anything with the word budget in it currently, due to the fear of seeming like they were channelling the money and with it the control to themselves. A big whopping mess. Add to that the hundreds of failed missions, the mess in Wutai, the unguarded roads and lots of robots going haywire because Weapons Development wasn't doing any proper maintenance, and you had ShinRa Company as it was inherited by Cloud Strife. Unable to sleep with the hum of the plane's engines, as quiet as it was in the very well made cabin, Cloud started listing things in his head. He was already dividing the whole debacle of ShinRa into pieces he could easily manage – and pretty much like with Strife Delivery, it was a matter of management. Granted, he didn't know the state of the finances of ShinRa and there were no deliveries to be made for now, but it was still the same in principle – first things first on the long route of a lot of things to do. First thing in this one was a meeting with the Murderous Firsts; that, he needed to do before he could do anything else. The Murderous Firsts wanted full disclosure to them, and Cloud would arrange that. Depending on how that went, Cloud would have a look at the state of those unknown finances – something which was only available in full detail for the President, it seemed. Depending on how those looked, he would have to tackle the departments. Science first because it was the biggest problem – he needed to put someone in as a temporary head and start cleaning out all the messes while ensuring that it would keep functioning as usual… "Tseng?" he asked without opening his eyes. "I do have a private office, right?" He heard a quiet chuckle. "No, sir. You have a private floor , consisting of three apartments all equipped with private offices, three meeting rooms, plus a general audience hall." "Oh. Good to know." The flight from Costa del Sol to Midgar was shorter than the one from Nibelheim to Corel, mostly because the plane was a lot faster than the helicopter. By the time the plane touched down in Midgar airport, Cloud's headache was on its way to a migraine – despite the fact that he had never had that particular ailment before – and according to Tseng, the initial meeting with the Murderous Firsts would happen in half an hour. "Oh goodie. Let's go then," Cloud said, thinking that he'd be driven to headquarters. But no. Instead, there were two other Turks waiting for him and his small party, with yet another helicopter, to fly him directly over the city to his destination. "I thought you might appreciate an aerial view of the city," Tseng said as they climbed into the helicopter, Vincent shadowing Cloud silently. "I guess it would be interesting," the new President answered – and it was more than interesting. He had always known Midgar was big, especially by the standards of a country town nobody like him. Midgar was bigger though, much bigger. Divided into sections with the ShinRa HQ in the middle, it looked like a dark, technological pizza, with countless amounts of buildings filling every section and HQ itself standing the highest smack in the middle of things. And of course, each sector was crowned at the edge by its very own Mako Reactor, which added their eerie green glow to the buildings. "How many people live in Midgar?" Cloud asked, glancing at Tseng while Vincent beside him still took in the vast city below. "Close to five million, sir." That was a lot more than he had expected. Hell, it was about as many as there were in the whole west continent in total . "Ah. And how many of those work for ShinRa?" "About two hundred thousand, sir." Cloud narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and turned back to the window. Four percent in total worked for ShinRa in Midgar. Who did the rest work for? Did they work at all? Of course there had to be other companies aside from ShinRa in Midgar – it wasn't like ShinRa did things like dry cleaning and car washing or such, so there were other businesses there. But how many? And what was ShinRa's relation to them? Considering that pretty much all of Midgar was owned by ShinRa – ShinRa had built it after all… Well, it was something else to look into. Tseng cleared his throat. "Sir, it's time we head to HQ, or you will be late for your meeting with General Sephiroth and Commanders Hewley and Rhapsodos." Cloud nodded and the helicopter veered to the left and towards the centre of the technological pizza below him. As they approached the central building, he began to see just how big it was. He had heard, of course – seventy floors in total in the main building – but seeing it was a whole different thing. No wonder Midgar was called ShinRa's crown jewel. They landed on top of the building, on one of several helipads there, and while the Turks piloting turned off the engines, Tseng ushered Cloud and Vincent out. Collecting his swords absently and slipping them back to their straps on his back, Cloud wondered idly how many helicopters ShinRa had and how many departments had access to them. "You'll make sure my bike gets taken care of?" he asked idly, after checking that his swords were secure. "Yes, sir, I will have it delivered to ShinRa Headquarters’ private garage, where the previous President's vehicles are held," Tseng assured and motioned him to follow him away from the helipad and towards a pair of doors nearby. "Valentine," the Turk director said when the former experiment made a move to follow Cloud. "I'm sorry, but until we have time to properly arrange things, this sort of meeting isn't one you can attend. I'm sure you understand." "Let him come," Cloud answered, waving a hand. He was getting used to having the man there, looming over him. "It might be an example of my better morals, if the Murderous Firsts see who I found in Nibelheim. And besides, full disclosure, remember?" Tseng looked a little strained at that. "But sir –" "It can't be that you're afraid for my health – I'm in more danger from the Firsts than him. What, you think he will reveal company secrets to someone?" Cloud asked and glanced at Valentine. "Do you have anyone in mind yet?" "I would have to check to see if they're still alive first," Valentine answered with chilly dryness and Cloud smiled. "See?" he said, turning back to Tseng. "Fine, sir," the Turk said with a sigh. "Come this way, sir." After a short elevator ride, Tseng took Cloud through a sort of office space into what he assumed was his floor. It opened into an enormous hall, an audience room probably, with only a large desk – his most likely – as its single piece of furniture. "Through that door you continue into the apartment section – it used to be that one of the apartments was the President’s, another his son's, and the third his wife's, but of course all of them are now empty and have been cleaned. You may of course choose whichever you wish. And from here, sir, you get to the meeting rooms, the lounge area, and the balcony." Cloud nodded absently, walking to the large desk and around it to look at the computer sitting on the top. "So, this is mine. I'm guessing it's locked?" he asked and at that point Tseng handed him a paper full of passwords which opened this or that section of the ShinRa database. "Huh," Cloud muttered, reading through them. He'd need to change a lot of them, because he was not memorising eight digit pass codes mostly consisting of random numbers and letters. "I would advise you not to show the list to anyone and destroy it as soon as you have the pass codes either memorised or changed to something you are more likely to remember." "Alright," Cloud agreed, folding the list and tucking it into the pocket of his sleeveless jacket. "So," he said. "Where am I meeting the Murderous Firsts? Here?" "I thought the sixty sixth floor meeting room would suit the best as a sort of neutral meeting ground," Tseng offered. "It is where the meetings between the President and the Department Heads took place, and is less likely to make you seem arrogant as demanding a meeting here might seem." Cloud raised an eyebrow at that and then shrugged. He hadn't really thought that he could ever even manage to appear arrogant, considering that the Murderous Firsts had him at sword point, but whatever. "Let's go then." It took a walk down the stairs and an elevator ride to reach the correct floor – which was completely empty of all staff by all appearances. As they walked, Cloud wondered if Tseng had emptied it or if the people there had heard of the meeting and hurriedly cleared out, not wanting to become collateral damage in another potential purge. The meeting room was… a bit gaudy, with red carpets and walls that made it seem a bit more like a temple than a meeting room. The table was long, with a row of monitors running in the middle, lighting the table with its neon glow. While Cloud took the place in, with Vincent close behind him and Tseng already walking across the room to pull up a chair for him, he couldn't help but notice a particular stink in the place. "I'm guessing this place has seen a lot of assholes," he muttered, waving a hand over his face and then nearly jumping as Valentine made an odd sort of huffing noise. Turning to face the man, the President raised an eyebrow and the red caped man quickly looked away. "Sir, if you would?" Tseng said. And shaking his head, Cloud walked over to find that Tseng had started the monitor in front of the head seat – his seat – and it was now displaying the pictures of three men. "These are the Murderous Firsts as you call them," the man said, motioning Cloud to sit. "General Sephiroth, Commander Genesis Rhapsodos, and Commander Angeal Hewley. You can access their files here, if you wish." "Nah, better to get into this without any assumptions. Had the blood test been done yet?" Cloud asked, considering the pictures. "Our Murderous General's, I mean." "No, sir, not yet," Tseng answered with a cough. "There is a difficulty regarding the necessary genetic sample from the General – it can't be stored due to the Mako in his blood, and the material tends to disintegrate after a while. And I thought it was better not to order anyone to try and procure a new one, the General might take it… badly, considering the circumstances." "The General might take what badly?" a new voice said, and Cloud more sensed than heard how Vincent reached for the gun Tseng had provided him with. Looking up, Cloud saw that the meeting room door had silently opened and the very men displayed on the screen in front of him were all entering the room – Genesis Rhapsodos at the head, Sephiroth in the middle, and Angeal Hewley taking up the rear. "The General might take what badly?" Genesis demanded to know, already looking suspicious – and the two others didn't seem any more at ease, though Hewley did raise an eyebrow at Cloud, probably due to his age or clothing. "Someone asking him for his blood," Cloud answered and stood up, looking at the Murderous Firsts. They were all armed, all very tall, all very intimidating – and all surprisingly pretty. Sure, he had known some of it – he did read the newspapers occasionally, and these people made the headlines often during the worst of the Wutai War. But it was one thing to know, and another to see it in person. "And why would you need my blood ?" Sephiroth asked in a low, threatening voice. "For a maternity test," Cloud answered, while Tseng took a discreet step back, to stand beside Valentine just behind Cloud. "Because according to your birth certificate, Jenova is your mother, and I thought it would be… polite to have definite proof before we went about unravelling the reasons behind that lie," he said and folded his arms.” You guys are a lot more attractive than I expected," he had to say it just to get the thought out of his head. Meanwhile, the Firsts exchanged dark frowns. The blond shook his head. "Well, at least my possible death will be pretty. Would you like to sit down?" "What do you mean, lie?" Sephiroth asked with narrowed eyes. "What do people usually mean by the word?" Cloud asked and since none of the others were making any move to sit down he shrugged and did so himself. "Jenova isn't your mother. After Tseng roped me into this mess, we looked into the stuff in my home town's local ShinRa resort and found some stuff out – including some rather uncomfortable things about Jenova, and this guy, who was there during the time of your… conception," he added, motioning at Valentine. "He informed us that Jenova was not your mother – which, considering that the thing isn't even alive, is not hard to believe – but it was instead a professor named Lucrecia Crescent who gave birth to you." The Murderous Firsts shared a look, Sephiroth scowling darkly and Hewley placing a hand on the General's shoulder. It was Rhapsodos who spoke. "And who are you?" he asked almost snidely. "Cloud Strife, one of the late President ShinRa’s bastards," Cloud answered with a wry smile. "Would you like to sit down now? I've got a company to untangle and departments to try and fix and I'd rather find out now if you guys are going to let me live long enough to do it or not." After another shared look, the Murderous Firsts walked over and took seats closest to him, Sephiroth at his right, Rhapsodos at his left with Hewley taking the seat beside Rhapsodos. "You don't look like much," Rhapsodos commented. "How old are you even?" "Old enough. And you don't look like a bunch of murderous super soldiers," Cloud answered with a shrug and leaned back on his way too well cushioned seat. If he lived that long, he needed to get a new chair. "I don't think any of us are here for our looks," he added and considered the three. "So, you guys want full disclosure and a change of ShinRa's ethics according to Tseng. Anything else?" "You're willing to comply with the first demand?" Hewley asked, leaning forward a bit. "So long as it can be done in a way that doesn't get in the way of me actually doing my job. I figured your techno spy or whatever can hook me up with some bugs or something and keep me under surveillance so I won't have to worry about making any reports," Cloud said. "If that suits you. I mean, there's lot of work to be done. You guys messed up ShinRa real good and if you want this company to stand to see next year, I won't have the time to pander to you guys. I'll be way too busy." "Um, sir, is that wise?" Tseng asked uneasily while the SOLDIERs exchanged glances. "What? They want full disclosure so they get it. I'll disclose my bathroom breaks to them if that's what it takes," the new President said, shrugging. "Though admittedly that would be mortifying," he added and turned to the Firsts again. "So, will that work?" "It might," Sephiroth said slowly, leaning back and folding his arms. "What is your intention with the Science Department?" "I'll try and get it running again somehow, maybe make someone half competent be the temporary head until I can find someone better," Cloud answered. "Non-consensual human experiments are from here on out of the company’s agenda, though, and you have full authority to deal with anyone who does otherwise. I can't say more than that before I take a closer look at the records and the budget though, but I think I can promise that much." "Do you know how easy it is for a scientist to decide what is and isn't a human?" Rhapsodos asked darkly. "None of us are listed as fully human in ShinRa's archives." "Okay. Non-consensual experiments with anything that can be considered even half sentient are out of the agenda," Cloud corrected. "I'll figure the wording out so that no one can do anything to anyone, okay? I'll send you a copy or something; you can figure a wording that suits you. Anything else?" The Firsts shared a look. "You," Hewley started. "You don't seem worried at all. Tseng did tell you what happened here?" "More or less and no, I don't fear death," Cloud answered. Although he did hope that if it came to it, it would be quick and not like it had been with his mother… no, he didn't worry. "And considering the reason of why you killed the other guys, I'm relatively certain I can avoid their mistakes." "Are you?" Rhapsodos asked, with a dark voice and narrowed eyes. "Well, I have no plans of experimenting on foetuses or using human beings as fodder for somewhat questionable science experiments," the President shrugged. "And with the full disclosure to you on top of everything, I figure I'm off to a better start than the previous President." "True," Hewley agreed. "But we will be watching you," Sephiroth answered darkly while standing up. "One wrong move and it will be over for you, President Strife ." As the three of them left, Cloud leaned further back on his seat and watched their retreat thoughtfully. "That went better than I thought," he murmured. And the Murderous Firsts certainly weren't as murderous as he had thought. Murderous? Maybe. Loose cannons? No. Tseng sighed behind him. "You are willingly giving away a lot of freedom, sir," he said. "If it's my freedom or my life, I'll go with my life for now, thanks," Cloud said and spun the chair around to face him and Valentine. "Now, though, I want a good night's rest and then I want to get to work. What do I have to do to get status reports from all departments, budget reports from the whole company, and full details of all transactions from any and all company accounts for the past, say, half a year on my desk first thing in the morning?" "All you have to do is ask, sir," Tseng answered, straightening his back. "Then I'm asking," Cloud answered and stood up. "I'm going to pick an apartment and start working from there," he added. "You said they all had private offices. Do any of them have proper terminals?" "Only the main suite, sir." "Then that's where I'll live. Valentine, if you want to keep me company you're free to do so, but it'll probably be a bit boring from here on," Cloud said. "So long as Tseng assigns you a proper security detail, I will refrain for now. I believe the Director wants to interrogate me," the red caped gunman said dryly, glancing at the younger Turk who looked like he would've liked to roll his eyes. "Alright," the young President agreed. "Let's get to work then." 5. The next day, it took Cloud two hours before he was through his repertoire of curses. An hour after that, he ordered a meeting with anyone who had anything to do with the assignment of ShinRa's budget. Half an hour after the meeting, he had fired and sued five people, the most notable being the Department Head Palmer for some scandalous embezzling. If any of the other Department Heads were still around, he would've done the same to them – and the fact that Reeve Tuesti hadn't been stealing from the company had him calling pretty much an immediate meeting with the man. "Okay, I've been here for less than twenty four hours and I've seen enough already to be suspicious of the one man who isn't trying to steal from me, " Cloud said as a way of opening the conversation with the head of Urban Development, who turned out to be a dark haired, kind eyed man with a neat suit and trim beard. "Who are you and what are you doing wrong?" Tuesti looked taken aback by that. "Well, sir," he said slowly, looking like he wasn't sure how to take the question. "I am a bit of an idealist and I might have a bad habit of industrial spying and I might've stolen some of Scarlet's designs." "Oh. Okay," Cloud said, relaxing a bit. Scarlet was the former, now deceased, head of Weapons Development, which meant… guns. "Why, though?" "Because Scarlet had the irritating habit of coming up with good designs and then ruining them with function," Tuesti answered with a sigh. "I joined Urban Development originally because I like building things, repairing things, working with machinery to bring out a perfect balance of design and function, and seeing Scarlet use a perfectly good hover engine to create a robot that attacked with spinning rotor blades was just irksome." "…spinning rotor blades?" Cloud asked slowly. "Heli Gunner mark one," Tuesti answered, shaking his head. "Plus Sky Armour, Sky Gunner, Spitfire… the design was used on some half dozen different robots. Granted, they have guns, but it's the rotor blades they're designed to use." Cloud blinked at that. "And I'm thinking that's not a good design?" "That would be negative, sir," Tuesti agreed with a grimace. The young President nodded. "And I'm also thinking this is not an isolated incident." "Not at all, sir," Tuesti agreed again. "Okay. That's something else to look into," Cloud sighed and wrote it down. "So, what precisely did you steal?" A lot, but it turned out that Tuesti was only implementing a few of the ideas he had snatched from Scarlet – and they were implemented on a toy robot, called Cait Sith, which Reeve had had plans to use as a sort of supervising element in Midgar. "Midgar is of course patrolled twenty-four/seven, but it's not the same as recorded surveillance with the freedom of reviewing security tapes later," the man said. "There is a lot of crime in Midgar and it is my job as the head of Urban Development to do something about it. I considered installing a network of video cameras, but I figured it would be too big of a task to get funding and it would have its flaws. A number of nondescript robots equipped with a state of the art A.I., all capable of individual movement and decision making…" "And you think this Cait Sith toy would be a good way to go about it?" Cloud asked, considering. "Why a toy?" "Who would ever be suspicious of a cat toy?" Tuesti asked with a shrug. "They are also small and agile enough to hide and escape from most situations. And of course not much has to be changed in the design to turn the robot into a simile of an actual cat, a much more nondescript version of the model. And with them being mobile, I would have a flexible network of surveillance and there wouldn't need to be as many of them as I would need fixed cameras" Cloud smiled faintly at the use of the personal pronoun. "You're the telecommunications expert, aren't you?" he asked. "You spy on the company for the SOLDIER Firsts. You help them – you helped them get rid of the former heads." Tuesti smiled, looking almost satisfied at Cloud's accusation. "Guilty as charged, sir." "Okay, that makes more sense. Why let me know, though?" the President asked. "You could've covered yourself up, made yourself seem like a nobody, and I would've ignored you." "I have nothing to fear from you and you have a lot to gain from my aid, sir – and thus, the company has a lot to gain. I've been monitoring Tseng since he met with you, and I listened to your conversations in the ShinRa mansion, plus the ride from Nibelheim to here," Tuesti admitted. "And I've been watching your progress through the database. I think… Tseng made the right call, not pursuing Director Deusericus and going after you instead. You will make a better President for ShinRa." "Deusericus. The Director of SOLDIER, who resigned and ran away?" Cloud asked, frowning now. "Your half-brother, sir," Tuesti agreed. "He was the first considered as the next President of ShinRa but he declined and, as you say, ran. I've later figured out that he got into the company with a similar goal in mind as the one the Firsts and I went about completing – he wanted revenge on the President for abandoning him and his mother. When the Firsts killed him… Well, Deusericus is a good director but he was never a soldier himself, Mako enhanced or otherwise." "He got scared," Cloud murmured. "That, and the goal he had been after had been completed, sir," Tuesti agreed with a shrug. "He might've made a decent President, but his familiarity with ShinRa would've been his downfall there, and I think he knew it – he was too adjusted to the company's ways to really change things. You, on the other hand… you ran a delivery service . So you're used to much more straightforward ways of thinking." "Yeah, we delivery boys can be very simple minded like that," Cloud snorted and leaned back in his seat. Half-brother. Well he had known he had half siblings from his father’s side, but to know that one of them had been so close… "So, does this mean you are going to help me fix this company?" he asked. Tuesti hesitated and then nodded. "ShinRa has the potential of being great, which the previous President never cared to consider and the now dead Department Heads would've only squandered. I would like to see that potential truly realized, but… it depends on your agenda," he paused for a moment, considering Cloud silently. "What do you plan to do, once ShinRa is stable again, sir?" "I have no idea. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," the young President answered and smiled. "You can rest assured, though –I'll be trying to do the right thing. Don't know if I can, if it's even possible. But I'll try." "That's good enough for me," Tuesti nodded. "You have my support, sir. Also," he added, "if you don't mind, I would like you to have one of the Cait Siths as your constant companion. It would be the bug you spoke of with the Firsts." Cloud laughed, shaking his head. "Fine. So long as it's not going to try to sleep on my keyboard or shed all over my paperwork, I don't mind." Tuesti left soon after and Cait Sith arrived not much after that. It was a small thing, black and white and walking on two legs rather than all fours, so the fact that it wasn't a natural sort of animal was pretty obvious. It was very convincing though, the movements, the facial expressions, everything. "Tuesti made you pretty well," Cloud commented to the cat, while lifting it to sit on the corner of his desk. "Thank ye kindly, sir. He tried," Cait Sith grinned. "He told me to tell ye that if ye want me in silent mode, so I won't be bothering yeh work, ye just gotta scratch me on top of me head." "You gonna be blathering unless I do?" Cloud asked amusedly. "Nah, but I'll make random comments. Reeve likes to listen to people talk while he works," the cat admitted. "Okay then," the young President answered. "I'll give you a head scratch if you get bothersome." It took him five minutes of jumping at the cat's randomly interspersed, "Yikes, that's a lot of print," and, "Maybe ye need a magnifying glass," and, "Goodness gracious me!" before Cloud reached over and put the cat into silent mode. Cait Sith just grinned at him through its silence, looking like it had been expecting it, and then made itself comfortable just watching the teen work. Vincent returned to his side near the afternoon, followed closely by Tseng. "Valentine has been fully approved – unless you have any objections, he will be your primary bodyguard from here on," Tseng said, while staring at the cat toy on Cloud's desk with a puzzled expression. "He is currently the strongest Turk in the company and unless SOLDIER feels like assigning a bodyguard to you, he is the best you can have." "And I need a strong bodyguard?" Cloud asked, glancing between the two dark haired men. "Yes," Valentine answered, having only raised a single eyebrow at Cait Sith before moving to stand behind Cloud once more. "I will fully brief you on the potential hostile elements that might wish you harm, sir, if you wish it," Tseng added and apparently decided to ignore the toy for now. "Maybe later, for now I'll just trust you to keep me alive. I'll look into it once I have more time," Cloud answered, giving all the paperwork a rueful look. So, so much worse than running a delivery service. "Was there something else you wanted, Tseng?" "I have a few things to report, sir. First, the General acquiesced to the blood test and the result confirms Doctor Lucrecia Crescent as his biological mother," Tseng answered, placing a copy of the test results on Cloud's desk. "Secondly, I have taken the liberty of putting the company into a temporary media silence. The rumours of your arrival are already circulating, and the media are demanding answers, interviews, and press conferences. I thought it would be better to give you some time to settle in before we make your presence known planet wide." "Appreciated," the young President answered with a frown. He hadn't even though about reporters or the fact that people might be interested – though of course they would be. It was ShinRa after all. "Also, I have taken the liberty of putting together a list of people that might have the proper qualifications to take over the management of the Public Safety Maintenance Department, at least temporarily," he added, placing another piece of paper in front of him. "I thought that having at least one of the headless departments settled might ease your workload." "Hmm," Cloud answered, looking through the list. "Commander Hewley?" he asked with surprise and Cait Sith perked up a bit from its slouch, turning to look at him. Cloud ignored the cat, staring at the list instead. The SOLDIER First was right at the head of the list. "Really?" "He has the qualifications, possessing a keen strategic mind and understanding over the intricacies of the military and he is of all the three Firsts the best military Commander. He is universally looked up to by the entirety of ShinRa's military elements – everyone from SOLDIER to Infantry privates admires him," Tseng listed. "And he is well known for being tight-fisted and I believe he would manage the Public Safety Maintenance Department's budget admirably." "I like that last bit," the young President admitted. Public Safety Maintenance's budget was a godforsaken mess of embezzling and wasted resources. "I thought you would," Tseng agreed. "But he is also a SOLDIER and General Sephiroth's subordinate," Cloud added, glancing towards the pile of papers concerning the department a bit uneasily. Sephiroth might be an admirable General. But to be the director of a department that needed a lot of specialised gear and Materia… not so much. Putting Hewley into command would be better, yes, but only if Hewley really went about things as tight-fistedly as Tseng assumed – because if Hewley fell under Sephiroth's rule even when he was supposed to be the man's superior… Cloud didn't want him in command of anything that had to do with gil. Sephiroth, for all his might, couldn't budget his way out of a paper bag according to his reports. "You don't think he could take a superior position to Sephiroth, sir?" Tseng asked. "I don't know any of them that well. You said Sephiroth is the ringleader among them. Do you think Hewley could take command over Sephiroth as the head of the department?" Cloud asked calmly. "If he can, and if Sephiroth falls under his command at least as far as the damn budget goes, I am all for it." "You've read his monthly reports," Tseng said with hint of a smile. "Bad?" Vincent asked quietly from behind Cloud. "It's like the guy doesn't know how money works ," Cloud lamented with a sigh. "He's not losing any large sums of money, thank the Planet, but…" he shook his head, not even wanting to think about the reports. They just… didn't make much sense – most of the time it seemed like Sephiroth had just listed numbers randomly, only checking to see if the end figures matched up with the allotted budget and leaving everything else at random. Frowning, he turned back to the list. "What about these other people?" "All possess some good qualities, good leadership skills, and experience in business managing and so forth. Most are long time employees of the department as well – but Commander Hewley would be my first choice," Tseng admitted. "Except for the fact that he doesn't have experience in managing a large department such as Public Maintenance, he is the best qualified – and with assistance, I believe he will grow to the position well." "If he wants it. The man might decline," Cloud mused and then stood up. "I think I'll go and ask him; I need a break and I want to see the rest of the building anyway – no, Tseng, I don't want you to come along with me. You're intimidating and scare everyone away and I want to talk to people. Vincent's more than enough." "Intimidating?" Tseng asked, almost sounding indignant. "Obvious Turk," Vincent commented, from the lofty position of someone who looked like a vampire who had escaped from a theatrical play. Cloud grinned while reaching a hand for Cait Sith – who quickly clambered up to sit on his shoulder, still in silent mode. "I'll be fine. I'll call you if I get lost. Now the SOLDIER floor is the… fifty-ninth?" "Forty-ninth, sir," Tseng sighed. "Do you even know if he's in the building?" "Well, if he isn't I will have gained valuable experience and know to check first the next time, won't I?" Cloud grinned and headed out, with the silent Valentine close behind him. Despite the fact that the company itself was a writhing mess of corruption, embezzlement, and near incompetence, the ShinRa Headquarters was a pretty well designed building, and easy enough to navigate – though it helped that Tseng had been quick to give Cloud the master key card and thus he could go anywhere in the building without anyone being able to stop him. Cloud made a mental note to ask Tuesti if the building was his handiwork, as he and Vincent stood in the elevator, waiting for it to reach the right floor. "Didn't Tseng say that the SOLDIER floor was the forty-ninth?" Valentine commented quietly. "I'm hungry so I am swinging by the cafeteria," Cloud answered and grinned, waving his PHS. "I do actually know what's where. I downloaded the building plans on this thing last night." "Ah," the gunman answered and fell silent again. The cafeteria was a part of the three lowest floors, collectively known as the commercial floors that included the entrance, the cafeteria, and the exhibition – which was sort of on the same floor as the entrance since the two lowest floors weren't fully separate. Above them on the third floor were the ShinRa shops where people could buy anything from food to medicine to Materia, weapons and vehicles – all ShinRa manufactured. Cloud ignored the shopping level for now and just made his way to the cafeteria, watching the people around him curiously. Most of the people there seemed to be civilians, even though there were some infantrymen and a couple of SOLDIER Thirds judging by their uniforms, probably on break going by their relaxed appearances. All of them more or less ignored Cloud and Valentine, except to lift a silent eyebrow at the gunman's clothing. "The atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed here," Cloud murmured, just looking. ShinRa was such a monolith of a company, with its own army, super soldiers, and fleet of military robotics and yet there were people laughing in the cafeteria. He hadn't really been expecting that. "ShinRa does manage its outlook as well," Valentine commented quietly. "It does need customers." "True," Cloud answered. Still, he had expected that it didn't need to be customer friendly, considering that it was the only supplier of energy on the entire planet – it wasn't like ShinRa had any competitors. But it seemed that maybe the previous President hadn't been a total idiot and while it seemed like the man had been doing everything in his power to turn ShinRa into as an inhumane company as possible, he still had paid some attention to his customer service personnel. Something else to look into, Cloud mused, and then headed to the counter to get himself a sandwich. While Valentine hovered behind him, almost scaring a random little boy who had been trying to take a closer look at Cait Sith on Cloud's shoulder, the young President wondered what would've happened if these people had known who he was – what the poor woman behind the counter would have done, if she had realised it was her ultimate boss she was asking exact change from. "Running low on small gil?" Cloud asked idly, while rummaging through the pockets of his riding trousers to see if he had any coins. "It's been a busy morning," the woman answered with a smile and thanked him for the trouble. Imprinting her face and name plate into his mind, Cloud picked up his sandwich and headed back to the elevator, only to be stopped when she called back, "Sir, you aren't allowed to take food to anywhere but the cafeteria area – it is forbidden both in the exhibition room and the shopping area!" "Oh?" Cloud answered, glancing back. "And the rest of the company?" he asked, flashing his key card while carefully covering the master part of it with his thumb. "You are still supposed to eat in the cafeteria area," she answered apologetically. "You going to pull rank?" Valentine murmured, sounding amused. "Nah. It's just a sandwich. I suppose they don't want people dripping mayo all over the place and giving the cleaning staff more work," Cloud shrugged and leaned against the wall beside the elevator to eat his sandwich. As he did, he watched the people in the cafeteria, the civilians, the grunts, the SOLDIERs. Considering that they were sitting inside the building of a rather wobbly company, they looked happy. If only they knew of the mess things were in. "I don't suppose this place was built back when you were working?" the young President asked, halfway through his simple lunch. "No. ShinRa was based in Junon at the time," Valentine admitted. "This area was still called Middangar back then. ShinRa hadn't yet started building, though I think I might have heard some rumours about the plans..." "Middangar," Cloud said, raising his eyebrows. He had been referring to the ShinRa HQ, but Midgar itself hadn't been built then? Well, it made sense, he supposed. Midgar had been finished only recently. The gunman shrugged. "It was a popular town," he murmured. "An old town mostly surrounded by orchards and crop fields then, all the way to Kalm. The buildings were all stonework, beautifully made, mostly from the time before construction machinery…" he trailed away and was silent for a moment. "I was born there." "I'm sorry," Cloud offered quietly. Midgar had been built a good fifty meters above ground, so it was built probably right over the old town. And judging by what he had heard about the slums, about how the above plate trash was just dumped there… there was probably very little of Middangar left. If anything. "Don't be. Not your doing," Valentine said and Cloud finished his sandwich in thoughtful silence, wondering about the slums, about old Middangar. Yet something else to look into, once he had the time. "Well, time to see the SOLDIER floor," he murmured after throwing the sandwich wrapping into the nearby trash bin and turning to the elevators. He wasn't sure what he expected from the SOLDIER floor. Neatness, order, the same metallic design that the rest of the building had – to be instantly accosted by disgruntled SOLDIERs wasn't it. "Okay, who sent you this time? And just for your information, no matter what the assholes at Security say, we did not order any entertainment," one of them said with a tone of exasperation. "How the hell do those guys keep getting the key cards to this level anyway?" another asked. "Why guys?" another asked with folded arms and a disappointed air. "I didn't mind the girls so much." "And what's with the cat toy?" "Maybe it's part of the act or something…" Cloud blinked at them and then glanced at Vincent. "Do we really look that out of place? Well, you do a bit, no offence meant, but me? What's wrong with me?" The Turk cleared his throat. "You're wearing biker leathers," he pointed out. Cloud blinked and glanced down. "True enough," he mused. He had just pulled on whatever he felt like that morning, and truth be told his leathers were the neatest set of clothing he had – the rest were full of stitching and patches. "Well, I'm not getting a suit," he murmured and turned to the SOLDIERs who were still talking about whatever entertainment Security had sent them before – Cloud would need to have a look at that, employment of strippers wasn't exactly on the company agenda. Clearing his throat, Cloud looked around. "Could anyone tell me where I might find Commander Hewley?" he asked. "They hired you to… Commander Hewley? The nerve of those guys!" someone snapped. "Okay, seriously, you two, you can go," another said with a smile. "We'll handle this whole thing and I'm sure you'll get paid and everything, but we don't really need…" "And besides you really don't want to either. The Commander can get real scary when he's ticked off." Cloud frowned. "Tell me, is this sort of thing commonplace around here? One section of a department sending entertainment to another?" he asked thoughtfully. "Bit of an inter-department rivalry," one of the SOLDIERs grinned. "I think they're getting back at us for the Wutai catering we sent them last week. They're pretty unimaginative so they keep sending us strippers and the like." "And who exactly pays for these games and how much does Wutai catering cost?" Cloud asked, his voice taking on a chilly note. "The one who accepts it, of course. So Security paid for the catering," the SOLDIER answered with a shrug. "What's it to you?" Cloud smiled sweetly, with a muscle twitching below his eye. He certainly hoped they had paid the catering from their own pockets because if they hadn't … "Where can I find Commander Hewley?" he asked as calmly as he could manage and held up his key card – this time, with the master in full display, his ticket to every floor, every room, every office and in this case, to every high level officer. "Where the hell did you get that –?" one of the SOLDIERs asked, making a move to grab the key from Cloud's fingers only to be faced by the barrel of Valentine's gun – which, despite the Turk's outfit, was very much convincingly real, and very threatening. "Back off," Valentine commanded, gun held levelled just between the SOLDIER’s eyes while Cloud tucked the key card back into his pocket and into safety. The SOLDIERs looked taken aback, but only for a moment – then they seemed to decide to make a stand and were closing ranks, a few already squeezing their hands into fists and one looking like he might pull his sword. "Threatening SOLDIERs already, sir?" a familiar voice spoke from behind the crowd, which separated instantly to reveal Commander Rhapsodos. "That didn't take long." "Well, they're the ones stopping me from meeting with one of my employees. And that one there tried to take my key card. I'm sure you understand why Valentine disapproves," Cloud answered calmly. "Did you know that your SOLDIERs spend their time sending entertainment to the other sections of the Public Safety Maintenance Department, including high class catering, forcing them to pay for it?" he asked a bit irritably. Rhapsodos blinked at that and then laughed. "Bit of an inter-department rivalry, nothing more," he answered. "What can we do for you, Mr. President?" Ignoring the way the SOLDIERs around him all took a horrified step back, a few going pale and all going wide eyed, Cloud rested a hand on his waist. "I want to see Commander Hewley. I have a job for him." "You do, do you?" the First Class in the red coat instantly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Yes, I do," Cloud rolled his eyes. "He's free to decline. Now, is he here and will you take me to him or not? I don't have all day." Rhapsodos just eyed him for a moment before glancing at the silent Cait Sith on Cloud's shoulder and nodding. "This way," he said while turning and pulling out his PHS, tapping a few keys and lifting the phone to his ear. "You might want to come to the briefing room. The President's here to see Angeal." Rolling his eyes, Cloud followed him with Valentine – his gun safely hidden away again – close behind him. "Do I have an untrustworthy face or something?" he wondered. "They are understandably suspicious of authority," Valentine commented, at which Cloud just sighed. Commander Hewley was in the SOLDIER briefing room, with another SOLDIER – this one a Second Class – who stopped in the middle of what looked like a squat as Rhapsodos entered with Cloud and Valentine close behind him. "President Strife," Hewley said, standing up and almost sending the SOLDIER Second Class falling over with shock. "He has a job for you. Sephiroth's on his way," Rhapsodos said, sitting down in front of the briefing room terminal with a dramatic whish of his coat hems. The red haired man sent Cloud another suspicious glare which the blond answered with a strained smile. "A job?" Hewley asked, with a hint of suspicion coming to his face as well. "We wait for Sephiroth," Rhapsodos said before Cloud could answer. "You guys are going to be such headaches, you know," the young President sighed, and sat down as well, taking Cait Sith from his shoulder and setting the cat onto the table in front of him. Of course it was understandable, considering everything, but he really hoped they wouldn't be like this during his whole stay in the company – because if it turned out he was going to stay for longer than a few days, the constant suspicion from the SOLDIERs would probably drive him bonkers. "Like you aren't," Rhapsodos answered. "I'm here just to do a job," Cloud said with a roll of his eyes. "I don't really care enough about any of you guys to go out of my way to screw you over. I don't have the time for it anyway, or the inclination," he added. "We'll see," Rhapsodos answered, while the poor spiky haired SOLDIER Second looked between Cloud, the Firsts, and Vincent with a puzzled look on his face. Thankfully, Sephiroth wasn't slow in arriving and came to the briefing room with a dramatic stride, carrying a very long sword in his hand and looking like he was ready to use it. Giving the man a slightly uneasy look, Cloud wondered what the hell he had been doing to need a sword . Training maybe? "What is it?" the General demanded, levelling Cloud with an eerie green glare. Figuring he might as well get straight to the point. "I want to put Hewley in command of Public Safety Maintenance," Cloud answered. "As the Head of the Department." That didn't seem to be what the Firsts had been expecting – and the Second's eyes widened rather dramatically. "What?!" Rhapsodos snapped, standing up. "Why?" Hewley asked at the same time, looking stunned. "Because he's qualified and came well recommended, because I need someone to do that job, because that would be one department less that I would have to worry about for a while," Cloud listed with a sigh. "Because honestly it can't do more damage than having no Department Head is doing, pick your choice." "You… honestly want to put Angeal in command of ShinRa Military?" Sephiroth asked, eyes narrowed, sword lowering. "Why not Sephiroth?" Rhapsodos asked. "Because the General's budget reports make me want to kill myself," Cloud answered flatly. "I've seen enough to know you're a good military Commander; it's what you're trained for, it's what you know. But Planet, people should not let you near money." While Sephiroth blinked, looking like he didn't know what to think about that, Rhapsodos and Hewley shared a look, Rhapsodos actually cracking a small grin. Hewley shook his head, looking a bit bewildered. "A… Department Head. Me ?" he asked. "Are you serious, sir?" "Yes. Do you think you can do it?" Cloud asked. "I don't know anything about managing a department!" "You are a commander in a military, that's a good enough start, and the department still has some secretaries left that might be able to help you. I don't care if you do a half assed job, that's still better than no one doing anything," the young President answered. "So long as you don't take General Sephiroth's stand on money," he added and looked between the three Firsts. "So, can this be done, or do I have to choose someone less qualified and probably less liked by the ShinRa military?" The Firsts shared a look, Sephiroth finally putting his long sword away. "We will talk about this," the General said. "You will have your answer tomorrow." "Excellent. I'll be looking forward to it. And General, do me a favour and don't write a report this month. Just send me the end figures and I'll be fine with that," Cloud added, standing up and lifting Cait Sith back to his shoulder. "Yes, sir," the silver haired SOLDIER answered with a disgruntled air, while Commander Rhapsodos snickered. 6. Hewley did become the Department Head. Even though Cloud suspected that both Sephiroth and Rhapsodos ended up having a large hand in the management of the department, he didn't much mind. He happily left the untangling of Public Safety Maintenance's budget mess to Hewley and instead turned to solve the bigger mess of the Science Department, which also needed a head and a whole lot of new staff. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions for a Department Head for that place?" Cloud asked Tseng, who was a constant visitor at the President's apartment, bringing him reports and suggestions about what might help here and there. "Sorry, sir. I'm afraid the purge of the Firsts was very thorough. There is no one of Hojo's level left in the company," Tseng answered. "The closest would be Doctor Elanor Giweth but she is a Materia specialist and has already expressed her disinclination to take over the department." Scowling, Cloud leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. It wouldn't be so bad, except the Science Department also covered ShinRa's infirmary and all the health care staff, and although the infirmary was functional, it wasn't… quite as efficient as it ought to be. There was no communication whatsoever between the experimental section and the health care section, which, considering how many times the SOLDIERs’ Mako injections went awry, was not a good thing. "Cait Sith. Does Tuesti have any suggestions?" the young President asked after a while, turning to the cat that was lying on its side on top of his monitor. "No sirreh," the cat toy answered. "But he can have a look-see if ye want. There might be someone ye could recruit." "I'd appreciate it," Cloud nodded, turning back to Tseng who was frowning at the cat. "Okay, let's leave the Science Department aside for the moment. I still have the Weapons Development and now the Space Exploration to re-staff," he said, turning to those stacks of paper. "Honestly, though, I've been considering putting the two departments together." "Sir?" Tseng asked. "It’s been a long time since Weapons Development took over pretty much all of Space Exploration's aerial vehicle projects – which leaves the Space Exploration with only a couple of projects under its management, the main one being the project based in Rocket Town and that's not even a company project," the young President said, opening a few files. "Space Exploration is a withered sliver of a department. It barely hires any people and mostly works as a financer for projects outside the company. Weapons Development… develops weapons, granted, but it also handles most of ShinRa's technological manufacturing, everything from PHS to troop carriers." "So, putting the two departments together would be more efficient," Tseng said. "And I'd be renaming the department. Weapons Development has a rather nasty ring to it, especially considering that it's only one part of what the department does. How about Technological Research and Manufacture? Or something like that," Cloud said, trailing off thoughtfully. "The new department would also be in charge of sponsoring technological projects – such as the project of Cid Highwind – though I am considering making a new department for sponsorships. Research and manufacture of technology and sponsoring seems a bit too much for one Department Head to chew." The Director of the Turks nodded slowly. "It does sound like a viable option, sir," he said. "But finding a Department Head will still be an issue." "So let's lower the bar a bit. It seems to be the company standard that whoever runs a department also works for the department's mandate – let's ignore that this time," Cloud said. "And focus on finding a manager rather than an inventor and a manager. So, what I want is a person who can head the department efficiently, handles its budgets without too many mistakes and makes sure it runs smoothly – I don't need them to also head all the research projects." He considered it for a moment. "That will probably only work with the Technology department, though. The Science Department will demand a head with the right know-how." "Yes, sir, my thoughts exactly," Tseng agreed. "Shall I arrange a meeting with Weapons Development and Space Exploration to start the merge of the departments?" "Yes. And also get me a secretary," Cloud added thoughtfully, scowling at all the paperwork. "I have a feeling that I am going to start getting a lot of traffic now that we're finally making changes and I can't be answering my door all the time." "Yes, sir." He got his secretary, a middle aged woman by the name of Caslie who reminded him a bit of his old teacher back in Nibelheim, who used to bruise his fingers with a ruler – she had the exact same tight bun and pencil skirt and constant look of displeased irritation. She turned out to be a very efficient secretary, though – within an hour of her arrival, she had arranged herself a desk, had arranged Cloud's desk, and was going through the messages he had been getting without noticing. She took over the enormous official President's office and manned the enormous desk there, while Cloud kept working from the President's apartment, which worked just fine for him. "I would like some assistants, sir," the woman informed him after a mere six hours. "A couple to handle the incoming reports from the departments, one to cover the media side of things, one to manage the database entries, and maybe one more to run messages between us and the offices below though that one isn't strictly necessary." "If you want them, you will have to pick them for yourself," Cloud answered. And she did – the next day found the President's office with new desks, new people, and a whole lot of new activity, as Caslie went about managing the influx of information coming from the company, arranging it by priority to be brought to Cloud's private office. It brought to light a lot more flaws in the company, more hang ups, more scheming and embezzling, and many, many things going wrong. But it also showed them in a manageable order. And after Cloud waved his hand at the mess, Caslie started delegating the problems to the still functioning aspects of the company. Robots going haywire were sent to Hewley, chemical spills to whoever was still working in the Science Department, and so on. "I think you need to start considering a press conference, sir," Caslie added when Cloud had come out to the main office to watch his growing army of secretaries work. "The stations and newspapers are getting twitchy and apparently the rumours are getting wild." "I guess I should. But what should I say?" Cloud wondered. "I can write you a speech, sir," one of the secretaries peeped up nervously, trying to not look at Vincent who stood, as always, just behind Cloud – and who seemed to make most of the secretaries rather nervous. The woman swallowed, and continued. "I took a speech writing course in university. So if you just make a list of the things you want to cover and how you want to cover them, I can put something together." "Hm. Give me a moment. I'll chat it over with Tseng and we'll see what we'll do," Cloud answered, and did just that. In the end, the speech was written – something short and succinct about how he was grieved about his father's unfortunate passing, yadda yadda yadda, how he would be doing all he could to bring the company to its former standards and so on, and how changes under a new management were inevitable and so forth. "No press conferences for now," Tseng decided. "Too risky. Having the speech televised and broadcasted will work better." "You will need a suit, Mr. President, and possibly some hair styling," Caslie added, making Cloud sigh heavily. Though he forcibly rejected any attempts of having his hair slicked back, he did get a suit – Caslie ordered it especially to his measurements. And after he had been instructed on how to wear it properly and to not push his sleeves up for Planet's sake, they started setting up for the broadcast. It was decided that it would be filmed in Cloud's private office – to seem friendlier or something – which meant that it had to be tidied up, every place scrubbed clean and polished. Then, there was setting up the lighting just so, angling the camera just right, lots of fiddling with the curtains for some reason, before everything was pronounced ready. It took seven takes. Cloud had never been much of a public speaker – or a speaker in general. He had never done as much talking as he did as ShinRa's President and speech making took it to whole new levels. At first, he messed up the lines, then he made weird faces, then the autocue messed up and so on. In the end, when they managed to get one take somewhat alright and Cloud only came out sounding slightly mechanical, it was decided that that would be it and they left it at that. "I don't have to give that many speeches, right?" Cloud asked, quickly loosening his tie. "Some, but I will see what I can do about keeping the number to an absolute minimum," Caslie promised while Vincent – who had for the duration of the session kept his distance – moved back to Cloud's side. "After this, you might be asked to give some interviews, but I will see what we can do about satisfying the public's curiosity without you needing to make an appearance." "Thank you," Cloud answered. "Back to work then. I want the paperwork you carried out back on my desk, a.s.a.p." "Yes, sir," Caslie said with amusement, and headed out while the televising crew started removing their gear. "It could've gone worse," Tseng commented, lifting Cait Sith back on top of Cloud's computer screen. "Could've gone better too," Cloud said. "So, what can I expect next?" "Yourself on the cover of a variety of magazines, most likely, and lots of comments. But I would ignore those, sir." Cloud did, although he had to lament the fact that the pictures taken from the broadcast couldn't exactly be called beautiful – he looked stiff, unnatural, and uncomfortable in all of them. Mostly though, he let the media storm pass him by and instead concentrated on the merge of the two departments and the seemingly hopeless search for proper Department Heads. His only relief was that at least Public Safety Maintenance and Urban Development were running smoothly, for now – and Hewley was making headway in untangling the messes of his department even faster than Cloud would've dared to hope for. When the backlash of the broadcast finally reached him, the young man was asleep in the embarrassingly large bed in the President's suite – where the mattress had been replaced with all the bedding since the last President, thank you maintenance staff. He woke up to the oddest sensation of being covered by heavy shadows and the ringing of gunshots as Valentine took out the first attackers. As Cloud jolted awake, his eyes wide and heart pounding, all he could see was red flickering and flowing over him as the Turk covered him with what seemed like liquid colour, vivid and over every inch of him. "Stay down," Valentine said, low. "I'll handle this." And he did. Before Cloud could even comprehend that he was being attacked , the attack was over and the attackers were all down. For a while longer Valentine flowed over him, a wall of shifting and churning red, before shifting back into a more recognizable shape, revealing a pile of bodies at the door of Cloud's bedroom. "Good grief," Cait Sith murmured faintly from the bedside table. "What was that?" Cloud asked, staring at the doorway. "I don't know. I heard them break the window in the living room," the Turk answered, reloading his three-barrelled gun grimly and snapping the barrels back into place again. "I suggest you call Tseng." Frowning, Cloud did just that, briskly informing the Director of the attack before jumping up and walking to the bodies, with Valentine hovering almost all over him, his cape still shifting and flowing like it was following a set of physical laws completely unique to itself. Cloud ignored it and concentrated on the attackers. They were all men, all wearing the same sort of clothing – brown uniforms with shoulder guards and helmets. All of them were also carrying rifles. "Hm. My first assassination attempt, I guess," the young President mused, turning one of the bodies over. He had seen dead things before, killed a lot of things himself – even though all of those had been monsters, not people – so he wasn't too queasy about it. Valentine was a clean shot, too. All through the forehead, efficient and almost clean unless you count the blood spilling from the back of their helmets. He found a card in the man's front chest pocket – a red card with a white skull and crossbones on it, and the letter A between the skull’s eyes. "Hm," he hummed, wondering what to make of it. "I wonder what I did to piss these guys off," he murmured. "I suspect it's nothing you did, but what ShinRa did," Valentine answered, leaning forward to look at the card. "AVALANCHE. The Director told me about them – currently, they and possible Wutai insurgents are the greatest threats to you." Turning to the man, Cloud raised an eyebrow. "AVALANCHE. Care to share?" Vincent did, though he didn't know more than the basics. AVALANCHE was a terrorist organisation, anti-ShinRa and most importantly of all, anti-Mako. "According to Tseng, they believe that the amount of Mako the Planet has is finite and that when all of it is sucked up, the Planet will die," Vincent finished. "Hm," Cloud hummed with a frown, turning the blood red card in his hand before turning to his closet. He had some research to do and he didn't want to do it in his boxers. "I think I would like that briefing about the possible enemies my company has," he said, while rummaging through the closet for something to wear, ending up with his old, stitched up cargo pants and a sleeveless turtleneck vest. "And this idea about Mako being finite…" Of course he had heard the rumours of Mako energy being bad for the Planet – hell, they weren't even rumours. All anyone had to do was look outside Midgar and see how the area around the place had died. Orchards and crop fields, Valentine had said. Well, there wouldn't be any of those anywhere near the city anytime soon, if ever, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. Midgar did have eight Mako reactors, after all. But Mako being finite and the Planet dying without it? That was new. He was just pulling on his boots when Tseng arrived with a whole slew of Turks, looking disgruntled and serious, most of the Turks looking a bit dishevelled – apparently most of them, like him, had been in bed. "Are you alright, sir?" Tseng asked while kneeling by one of the bodies to examine it, the other Turks quickly beginning to drag the bodies away from the pile and into a row to be more easily inspected. "Not a scratch. Valentine covered me," Cloud answered, and considered the words he had just spoken. The man had covered him. Rather literally. "How did you do that anyway?" he asked, turning to the red caped man. "I am a shape shifter," the gunman said calmly. "Hm," Cloud nodded. He hadn't looked that deeply into what had been done to the man or what he could do, not after leaving Nibelheim – those files from the mansion were probably stacked up in boxes somewhere, gathering dust. He would've liked to have a closer look, but there was so much to do before he could have that much free time on his hands. "Well, it was pretty cool," he said and stood up. "Sir, you have my apologies. I don't know how they got through," Tseng said, scowling at the bodies. "You may rest assured that I will launch a full investigation into this." "You do what you feel is necessary," Cloud answered, reaching his hand to Cait Sith who obediently scurried up to his shoulder. "Before that, though, I want everything you know about this AVALANCHE, especially their motivations, and I want it now." "Sir?" the Director of the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department asked, frowning slightly. "If there is a terrorist group out there that thinks my company is bad enough that they have to come and kill me in the middle of the night, I want to know why," Cloud answered with a shrug. "So get the information on my terminal, will you?" "Yes sir," Tseng answered with a slightly worried look. And as Cloud headed out, walking past the bodies to his office with Valentine close behind him, the man was already on his phone, probably ordering someone in Archives to have the information condensed and transferred to Cloud's terminal for easy access. "You don't seem worried," Valentine commented, as Cloud sank into the seat behind his desk, setting Cait Sith on the table. "For a man who just experienced his first assassination attempt," the Turk added. "I'm not. You handled it," Cloud answered. And if he let himself think about it too closely, he'd start overthinking it. There were dead bodies in his bedroom, sure, and they were people, and they are dead , killed by his bodyguard, but… no, he wouldn't think about it. They had attacked him, and Valentine had killed them to protect him, and that was it. They had started it and he had a company to run – he didn't have the time to feel sorry. What he had was a need to understand why . "You weren't worried when they attacked either. Startled, but not worried," Valentine murmured. "You really don't fear death, do you?" "It's not really about not fearing death. I don't fear losing my life. It’s sort of a different thing," Cloud answered absently and looked over the desktop of his terminal, waiting to see if the link to the right files had been added yet. It hadn't been, so he did a general search for AVALANCHE, tagged with the President's pass code that gave him access to all the company files, putting the top secret ones in front. Valentine didn't answer, falling silent as Cloud began his research into this new, curious threat. In the end, he came out of the research with relatively little information, and with nothing that satisfied him. There were records of several terrorist attacks by AVALANCHE that had been prevented or halted in mid process by the Turks, but about AVALANCHE itself… Aside from a few records about some individual members who had been tagged as high priority or with varying danger levels – do not approach alone, escape if possible, and so on – there was little about AVALANCHE's origins or their motivations. Only that they were anti-ShinRa, anti-Mako, and held the beliefs that Mako was finite and that draining it would kill the Planet, which they intended to stop by destroying ShinRa and its Mako reactors. Drumming the desk with his fingers in irritation, Cloud turned away from those files and instead typed in Mako, origins. Was Mako finite? Actually, where did the stuff come from? From the Planet, of course, from its crust, but what made it, where did it originate, how had it come to be? He had never given much thought to it – Mako was Mako and it was everywhere – but now… now, he wondered. Mako was a condensed form of the energy that could be found in the Planet's crust. That was about all the database had to offer him. There was a lot about how it was extracted, how ShinRa had originally figured it out – while taking part in an oil excavation using a new type of technology, ShinRa had ended up extracting something very different from oil – and how it now was pulled up by the reactors to be condensed into the form that could be easily used as a power source – either in its pure form to produce electricity that could power a city like Midgar, or in further processed forms that could be used in the creation of energy cells. It could also be processed even more into forms that could be used to power vehicles – Cloud's own Hardy used a zero point three Mako solution, guzzling it up like a drunkard. But nothing about its origins. They didn't even have a proper name for the original stuff which was condensed into Mako and processed into its various forms. There were curious blips in the data, though. Little unexplained stuff like the fact that Mako could be further condensed into Materia , which you could do magic with. But for all the scientific research on the Planet, they still had no idea why. Just that it could be done and was being done rather successfully too, to the point where all Mako Reactors had Materia refinement centres. ShinRa's power, wealth, and influence were all based on Mako. SOLDIERs got their power from Mako, all ShinRa's technology was powered by Mako, and all the money came in from the people who had their houses hooked up and powered by Mako . But no one really even knew what the stuff was ? "ShinRa is starting to look more and more incompetent by the minute," Cloud muttered. As disturbed as he was by the lack of answers, the fact that nothing in the database disproved AVALANCHE's notions worried him a lot more. Pumping up Mako might as well be killing the Planet, and apparently no one in ShinRa either knew for sure… or really cared. "What are you going to do?" Valentine asked while Cait Sith looked between Cloud and the screen thoughtfully. "I'm going to find out for sure," the young President answered. And if his company was killing the planet below his feet… he would do something about it. Somehow. 7. "Are you telling me that for all the scientists, all the specialists, and a good thirty years into the era of Mako, no one knows what Mako actually is?" the highly unimpressed President of ShinRa asked the collection of specialists in the meeting room, who were shifting with confusion and nervousness from one foot to another, trying not to look at him, at the toy on his shoulder, or at the red caped Turk at his back. "Nobody knows?" Cloud asked. "Well, sir, Mako is the energy excavated from the Planet's…" "Yes, every goddamn person on this Planet knows that. Tell me where the energy came from. What put it there? Has it been there since the Planet's creation, is it caused by some reaction in the planet's crust, or did some asteroid drop it here? Is it endless, is it finite?" "Of course it is endless," one of the specialists said, almost scoffing. "Do you have proof of it?" Cloud asked with narrowed eyes. "Are you one hundred percent certain? Can you put the evidence on my desk and back it up with science and have every specialist on the Planet confirm the theory?" he demanded. "Can you overrule the concept that it's finite? Can any of you?" The scientists and specialists all glanced at each other, looking more uncomfortable than anything else, but none of them had any answers it seemed. "Okay. The one who brings me someone who knows, who has an alternate hypothesis, who has even an inkling of a suspicion and a well-rounded theory that isn't the exact same as what each and every one of you has, will get a pay raise. Hell, I'll double your pay, if you just get me something new," he said, making the whole group jump a bit. "Now get the hell out, all of you." "Snappy," Valentine commented. Cloud just harrumphed and leaned back, running his hand through his hair. "Tell me, Valentine. Why did I ever agree to take this job?" he wondered out loud. "I don't know. Why did you?" Cloud snorted at that and shook his head. "Do you know, this is the most human interaction I've had since… ever?" he asked with some amusement. "I talk with dozens of people per day; I argue with my secretaries; you're there all the time; and Tseng is a constant visitor." He hadn't even thought about it, but his life was a whole lot more social these days. Valentine didn't answer at first, stepping forward a bit so that he wasn't in Cloud's blind spot and the young president could see him from the corner of his eye instead. "Why did you agree to take this job?" the man asked seriously. Cloud frowned, turning the chair so that he could face his bodyguard. "Why are you asking?" he asked back. "Because you are better at it than Tseng dared to hope," the red caped gunman answered darkly. "He expected you to hold up the façade of a proper company perhaps for a few weeks at most – long enough for him to find someone proper or at least to convince the Firsts that someone was needed and that they should stop scaring anyone half competent away. He didn't expect you to actually work ." "And that's a bad thing?" Cloud asked, eyebrows rising. "No. But you're too intelligent to be so easily drawn into a life like this. You knew better. And you knew what happened to the previous President, what might in all likelihood happen to you. So why did you take this job?" Cloud wanted to ask what did it matter, really, but decided against it. Instead, the young president considered it seriously. Why had he? Because he had hated his life and had figured that it couldn't get any worse, probably. Because for all the distraction his little delivery service offered, it hadn't been enough – he had always been aware of how much he hated his life. It wasn't anyone's fault, it wasn't his mother's fault – but he had grown up too quickly for his own tastes, and in hindsight wished he could've remained what he had been, as weak and pathetic as that was. That boy who had dreamed of becoming a SOLDIER… of becoming strong, of having friends, a purpose, and is worth something. Turning away, Cloud frowned. He had known ShinRa would be nothing but a huge can of worms and that he'd drown in it or choke on it. He had known it wouldn't get any better and that he'd only be busier and in the end it wouldn't really change a damn thing. But he had taken the job? "I guess it's because ShinRa was falling apart," he answered finally, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Because if no one else was doing anything, then why not try? And if the Firsts killed me, then... well it's not like I was doing anything with my life anyway." Valentine didn't answer, so the young President opened his eyes to see the man's face. The Turk was eyeing him thoughtfully. "What?" Cloud asked finally. "Do you feel like you're doing something with your life now ?" the man asked, his voice low. The younger man smiled. "I'm getting there," he admitted. It was a busy, headache inducing life, and gods damn it there was so much to do … but he couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. Chuckling slightly, he stood up. "So, Tseng thinks I'm doing a good job so far? That's nice to know," he said, absently supporting a slightly wobbling Cait Sith on his shoulder. "What do you think, Valentine?" "Vincent," the man answered. "And I think you're getting there too." Cloud paused a little at that – at the first bit, not the second. "Vincent," he repeated, considering, a little surprised. No one had ever really… given him the right to use their first name like that. One couldn't really count the kids of Nibelheim, since it was habit there that kids were all addressed without any formality whatsoever, but… Valentine – no, Vincent – had offered it. He didn't know why the man would bother, although maybe it had something to do with the fact that the Turk watched over him when he slept after all, but… It was still a pretty novel experience for him. "Okay then. Vincent," Cloud said and pointed at himself, trying to not smile too goofily. "Cloud." The gunman just nodded stoically and together they headed out of the meeting room, with Cloud turning his mind back to business. Mako aside, he still had departments in shambles and department heads missing – plus, maybe it was time he looked into the mess that was Wutai and the roads of the Western Continent – and he wasn't even sure what was going on in the north. Work, work, work. He wasn't really expecting it – aside from the fact that Hewley turned out to be a decent Department Head, nothing in ShinRa had been easy so far – but eventually he did catch a lucky break. The day after his abysmal meeting with his company's topmost Mako specialists , Tuesti informed him that his research had finally paid off and the man had found him a potential head for the Science Department. "There's a catch though, sir," Tuesti said, while bringing the surveillance data straight to Cloud's office, most of it on paper. "Isn't there with everything?" Cloud sighed, taking the folders and flipping through them with the expertise of having been leafing through similar folders non-stop for days now. After getting the gist of it, he returned to the first page and read more closely through the file about Doctor Gina Ganase, who once upon a time… had been a scientist at ShinRa. There were two pictures of her. In the first one she was a young woman of maybe mid-twenties with short brown hair and round glasses, facing the camera without an expression. The other one was taken from the side, probably without her notice, and showed her with even shorter hair, now pepper grey, with what looked like burn marks all over the left side of her face. "She's an infectious diseases specialist?" Cloud asked with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, sir. Best there has ever been," Tuesti explained. "I remember her," Vincent said quietly from behind Cloud, leaning in to look. "She used to work in the Health Department." "And became the director of the health department later, yes," Tuesti agreed. "It happened around the same time you, hm, had your fallout with Professor Hojo." Cloud glanced at his bodyguard and then back at the papers. "Okay, so, some history there," the young president agreed, his eyebrows raising a bit at her many accomplishments – apparently, she had developed cures for some ten different diseases he had never even heard of when Mako studies had been in its infancy. "I am thinking this woman is no longer in ShinRa's employment or I would've heard of her by now," Cloud murmured. There was also the fact that her last notable accomplishment had happened some twenty years back. "No, sir," Tuesti agreed. "I am not entirely sure about the details of what happened, but what I know is enough for the rest to be easily imagined. Doctor Ganase used to work for ShinRa around the same time as Professor Gast and was the Director of the Health Department while Professor Gast was the Head of the Science Department. It is my understanding that they were close friends." "And then Gast mysteriously vanished and Hojo took over,” Cloud said, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, sir. Now, Ganase didn't really believe the story about Gast withdrawing to enjoy his retirement, or any of the other rumours circling around the company, and I believe she launched an investigation. If nothing else, she kept a close watch on Professor Hojo at the time – she kept records, wrote a journal of which some pieces remain," Tuesti said. "However, a mere year after Gast's disappearance, there was an accident in the laboratories when Doctor Ganase was performing an experiment, and she was splattered with the experimental material she had been working with." "The burns," Cloud nodded, eyeing the pictures. "It was quite a bit more than that – she was infected with the disease she was working on, a type of bacteria that causes cellular decay," Tuesti explained grimly. "At the time, the disease had no cure, and the dose she was splattered with would've killed her within the week." "But obviously, she didn't die," the young president said. "No. She did, however, use it to fake her own death," Tuesti said, making Cloud raise his eyebrows again. Tuesti smiled faintly. "She withdrew from the company within hours of the incident, only staying long enough to oversee that the quarantine and clean up protocols were properly executed before handing in her resignation. It was accepted without hesitation, and she vanished." Cloud nodded slowly. "Okay. She faked her own death with a disease that was incurable, somehow managed to survive, and you found her… how?" "I didn't, sir," Tuesti grimaced. "The Turks have been watching her for a long while, although they didn't know who she was, precisely. She works under a different name in the slums, running an illegal clinic – the Turks have most people of that nature under surveillance in case they are involved with illegal drug trade, but she only treats the sickly of the slums and does little else. Most of the time she wears a mask and I had to do some very careful bugging to get that one shot of her without it," he admitted. "Hm," the young president hummed, turning the papers to get to the Turk reports about Doc Gina of the slums, a weird elderly woman with a mask who had some medical savvy and who bandaged and splinted for relatively few Gil – and treated children for free. Their most suspicious reports were about incidents in which Doc Gina had treated gang members and known criminals, but they had left it be because she was always a neutral party, treating everyone pretty much equally. "History with ShinRa's Science Department aside, she's been working as a slum doctor for… two decades?" Cloud asked thoughtfully. "What makes you think that she's suitable for the position of the Head of the Science Department?" "This," Tuesti said, taking out a small memory stick. "It took me two days to manage to worm my way into her computer's archives and copy these. This is twenty years’ worth of data about the Science Department, everything from files she must've gotten from Hojo's computers to newspaper clippings – every project, every experiment, every trial and test, everything. For as long as she's been out of the company, she's been compiling data, hard data. I think originally she intended to use it to bring Hojo down. Of course, as the company was at the time…" "It would've never worked. ShinRa would've just swept it under the rug even if she published it," Cloud murmured. "I'm still not convinced, though. "How about this then?" Tuesti said, taking out his PHS and hooking it with the screen of Cloud's terminal. While the young President frowned, the Head of Urban Development took over the screen, bringing up what looked like the murkiest of security feeds, which showed a figure in a dark coat in what looked like ShinRa's garage, going from one vehicle to three others – a land rover, a motorcycle, and what looked like the latest of ShinRa's speed cars. "What am I watching?" Cloud asked with a frown, until Tuesti paused the image just when the figure turned, to reveal a face with a burnt left side. "Those vehicles belong to Department Head Hewley, General Sephiroth, and Commander Rhapsodos," Tuesti answered. "And what she just put in them are the reports of the experiments that created them." Cloud blinked and both he and Vincent, who too had been staring at the screen, turned to Tuesti in unison. "She's the reason they purged the company." "Well, I wouldn't say the reason. The Firsts were already planning it at the time – they had an inkling of their origins already, thanks to some slips made by Professor Hollander when Commander Rhapsodos got wounded in a training accident. But the information that she provided was definitely the straw that broke the chocobo's back," the head of Urban Development smiled. Cloud turned to the screen again, considering it hard for a long moment. "Okay, fine. If you can convince Tseng of this, you've convinced me. But if you want her, you're going to have to get her yourself." "Yes, sir," Tuesti answered and smiled. Cloud, who was learning to really appreciate the power of delegation, kept only a sidelong eye on the project of Doctor Gina Ganase, and instead concentrated on other things – on his continued research about Mako's origins, which was proving to be futile, on the final stages of the merger of Space Exploration and Weapons Development into the Technological Research Department, and on what Hewley was now adding to the pile. Tseng reported to him of his approval of Tuesti's idea at some point, verbally and on paper, but Cloud was too busy with the reports about a huge mess brewing in Wutai at the time to do more than give the whole thing his stamp of approval. ShinRa had already won the war against Wutai and the peace agreements had been signed – and Wutai had consented to a complete ban of Materia use. However, the situation in the faraway nation had been volatile for months since, and military presence had been necessary to keep the people from erupting. Except Sephiroth had been forced to withdraw the military as a result of the purge of the Murderous Firsts when ShinRa had begun to fall apart, and now the people of the Eastern Continent had started to rebel. Which left Wutai hanging loose at first, and then raging wild. "Most of their old fortifications have been re-occupied and are undergoing repairs according to the intel we've gotten from there," Hewley reported to Cloud, after the president had demanded a full briefing on the matter. It was the first time he had met any of the Firsts without all three being there, but it didn't make it any more pleasant of an experience. "And Director Tseng has informed me that there are rumours about the old trade routes having reopened – the ones used to channel eastern arms to Wutai." "Please don't tell me we might be heading into another war," Cloud almost groaned, running a hand over his chin as he stared at the grim reports. Hewley smiled wryly. "I don't know about a war. But an uprising… perhaps," he said, eyeing Cloud thoughtfully. "What is your stand on war, sir?" "I don't really have one," Cloud sighed, closing his eyes and trying to think of a way out of this mess. "I just don't want to bother with any of it right now." He knew why the war had started – because President ShinRa had been a greedy bastard, because Wutai was known worldwide for its Mako springs and the abundance of naturally formed Materia, and because it had irked the man to know that somewhere out there were people who didn't pay their electricity bills to his accounts. And of course, the former department heads had urged the man on. Heidegger, the former head of Public Safety Maintenance and thus the head of ShinRa's army, hadn't liked the idea that there were organised warriors who didn't jump when he called. Scarlet, the woman who had headed Weapons Development, hadn't liked the fact that Wutai still used hand crafted weapons. Hojo, on the other hand, had liked the idea of potential new experimental subjects – probably thinking that Wutai's people might be different from all those others he had cut open, having been a closed community for so long. "Okay. Your suggestions, Hewley, if you please," Cloud said after a while. "Obviously, we can't just let this slide after all the effort put into that damn war." "That is correct, sir. It would appear weak both to our own people and theirs," Hewley agreed. "However, I do believe that conflict can be avoided. The contracts written at the end of the war still stands and officially Wutai is still under ShinRa's control – we are simply not exerting said control. I think I can settle this with Godo Kisaragi, but… I need to know what your plans are considering the Wutai Reactor." Cloud frowned. Oh, the damn reactor. He hadn't even thought of it in a while – that had been the cause of the whole mess. But thanks to the purge, its building hadn't started yet. Wutai was against it, of course, having fought against it nearly to the last man. It would probably bring more revenue to ShinRa once they managed to fully modernise the Wutai islands. But right now… did Wutai even have Western technology, aside from the weaponry they used in the war? "I believe… the construction project is as of this moment under official hiatus," Cloud said slowly, staring at the ceiling. It would be until he knew more about Mako, and it would never happen if his worst fears were realised. Frowning, he lowered his gaze to Hewley who was looking at him with an unreadable expression. "Let's say there are some unforeseen difficulties due to the soil or something and leave it at that." "So, if I have to sit down with Kisaragi, I can at least offer them more time in a bargain," Hewley said. "How much time?" "You can safely promise them a year," Cloud said. It would take at least half of that to find a proper spot for a reactor even if they started the project now, and several months more to fully experiment, excavate, and start the building of the foundations. From there on, it would take anything from one to four years to actually complete a reactor to the current standards. Hewley nodded, folding his arms. "I think I can work with that," he said. "If you give it the go, of course, sir." "Go, go," Cloud said, waving a hand. "Do whatever you feel is necessary. If you save me from the headache of having to deal with a war on top of everything else, you'll be my hero forever." "Yes, sir," Hewley said with amusement and then glanced up from Cloud to Vincent who, as always, hovered right behind his chair. "Valentine," the man said. "If you ever have the time… Sephiroth would like a word." "About?" Vincent asked and Cloud narrowed his eyes slightly. "Lucrecia Crescent," the Head of Public Safety Maintenance said, shrugging his shoulders. "The records say only so much and… he wants to know his mother." Cloud relaxed a bit and then glanced up at Vincent who was looking at the wall, considering it. "I don't mind," the president offered. He didn't much care for Sephiroth – mostly because the man's reports still gave him headaches – but he knew the pain of having no family. He had been prepared for his loss. Sephiroth probably hadn't been prepared for his painful gain , if finding out the truth could even be called that. "I do," Vincent answered. "I have a job to do. If the General wishes to talk, he will have to do so in the president's presence," he said to Hewley. "I will not leave his side, even for that." While the president in question took a second take at that, not entirely sure what that made him feel, only that it was something very new, Hewley nodded. "I will let him know," he said and then bowed briskly to Cloud. "President Strife," he said by way of good bye. "Commander," Cloud nodded and watched the man retreat before turning to look at Vincent. "You know, a job is just a job. You are allowed to have your own life," he pointed out. "And Tseng does have other relatively skilled Turks he can assign as my security detail." "I prefer it this way," Vincent answered calmly. "Over twenty years in a coffin and straight out of it you become an around-the-clock bodyguard," the young president said, shaking his head. "Have you actually left the ShinRa HQ since arriving?" "Have you?" Vincent asked pointedly, and with something like surprise Cloud realised that he hadn't. It had been weeks into his new career as ShinRa's President and he had not once left the building. "I… have a job to do," he said, a little baffled – not really by the time spent but by the fact that he hadn't even noticed. All that time spent outdoors, months and months of running a delivery service and he… hadn't even noticed that he had been cooped up inside for this long? "As do I," Vincent answered slowly, staring at him somehow significantly, but Cloud missed the meaning entirely. "Great. I turn into a workaholic and get a workaholic bodyguard. Perfect," he muttered, shaking his head. Somehow, it figured. 8. For a while, it seemed like things were finally looking up. Hewley was on his way to Wutai with Rhapsodos and his own student, Fair, to handle the situation there. Tuesti and Tseng had somehow managed to convince Doc Gina to shed her slum identity for long enough for her to at least have a look around the building and take a glance at the projects. They didn't bring the woman to meet him, though, not the first time – it turned out she had grown a bit skittish in her time in the slums and apparently the President of ShinRa was a big deal. Cloud let them work at her pace, and instead concentrated on other things. Now that he was a bit more firmly rooted in the company and had his army of secretaries handling the little things, the big things started getting more screen time on his terminal. Things like potential flaws in Mako Reactors, the increase of stronger monsters in the wild, the many, many problems in the west – such as the completely disintegrated courier system that had half of the Western Continent's towns up in arms – and the North certainly wasn't better off. And of course, there was still one department without a potential director; a department that was recently combined, currently had the biggest budget and most workers who weren't part of the military, and… the greatest importance. Neither military nor science paid the bills, after all. ShinRa manufactured technology did. "Well, for now it seems like the thing is sort of carrying its own weight," Cloud murmured. The workers of the former Weapons Development Department were all pretty competent and knew their jobs well, so they could keep on working without anyone watching over their shoulders. For now. It wouldn't work for long, however, not when there were some couple dozens of new projects rotting on the drawing boards and any potential mishap somewhere along the production line could freeze the whole process. No matter how well oiled, it didn't take more than one cogwheel to fail for the whole machine to stop, after all. For now, though, the reactors and their warnings were the biggest issue he had to handle. The Gongaga reactor and the Corel reactor both were screaming for proper maintenance according to their reports; and moreover, they had been for a while now. The previous president had pushed it aside as a minor issue, for someone else to fix. But the fact was that for all the people and specialists and departments in ShinRa, there wasn't actually anyone in the company who was in charge of the reactors. No one was supervising them, no one whose duty was to keep them running, and no one on whose head it would be when the reactors blew. No one, but the President of ShinRa himself. And Cloud did not want, after all the time it had taken to get this far with the company, to continue on with reactors blowing up left and right. "Freeze them," he said to Caslie, who patiently stood in front of his desk, waiting for his verdict. "Both the Gongaga and Corel reactors. Send them the order to power down for full maintenance and stop pumping. And get someone who knows what they're doing to conduct that maintenance." "That will be quite costly, sir," the head secretary warned him. "Not as costly as having them blow up," Cloud answered, dropping the folder on his desk. "And there is room for the maintenance in the company’s budget. Hell, there should be, now that we're not losing half of it to embezzlement and Hojo's and Scarlet's hare-brained projects." "Yes, sir," Caslie answered, calm as ever as she picked up the folder. "What do you want to do with the production of the Huge Materia?" she asked. "If the Corel reactor is powered down, the project might fail." "The Huge Materia," the young president answered, thinking about it. "Oh, yeah, that thing," he muttered, remembering. It was a theory of the Materia researchers that if you managed to crystallise enough of a certain sort of Mako, it could be used for extraordinary things. Four different reactors were in on the project, all crystallising different types of Huge Materia, without actually knowing what they'd be like at the end of the project, mostly because the project wouldn't reach its fruition until some five to six years after starting. "How much money are those things costing me, right now?" Cloud asked. "A bit," Caslie answered. "However, if you stop the production, all the money spent will be wasted." "For this company, that would be nothing new. See which one of the four has so far been the cheapest to produce and keep that, and halt the other three – including the Corel one, regardless of what it might cost," Cloud said, sighing. "This company is running entirely too many experiments as it is, and wasting too much money on things that might not even be worth anything in the end." "There is a theory that the Huge Materia will be worth quite a lot," the secretary offered. "Well, we'll see when the one is finished. And if it really is that great, we can start the project again," the president shrugged. "Which we can't unless we maintain the reactors and keep them from blowing up, right?" "Right, sir. I'll get right on it," Caslie promised with the faintest of smiles, and turned to head back to the main office. "What about the areas left without power because of this?" Vincent commented. "They won't be," Cloud answered. "There's two parts to every reactor. The part that pumps Mako and the other that converts and supplies power to the grids. And reactors all have Mako pools in case of shut-downs – they can keep converting the Mako of those pools for weeks, months even, without running out even if the pumps aren't working." "And is that safe, considering the error messages the systems have been sending?" Vincent asked, frowning slightly. "It has to do with safety procedures and the conversion processes. It's the pumps that are the most dangerous when they're running, because they're not only pumping but also condensing the Mako, which is the most dangerous part of the whole process. If something was going to blow up in a Mako reactor, it would be the pumps," Cloud shrugged. "Mako is actually pretty stable after the condensation process." "Ah," the Turk answered. "You know a lot," he said, sounding approving. "I hadn't noticed you researching." "I haven't – I don't really need to. Common Mako engines work pretty much the same way, only at the next level and on a smaller scale, by processing Mako into gas," Cloud shrugged. "And it's always flaws in the conversion process that makes them blow," he said, and then glanced at Vincent. "Before I became a delivery boy, I worked at a garage. I'm not exactly a stellar mechanic, but I know my way around an engine well enough to manage." "Ah," Vincent said again. "You're full of surprises, Cloud." The president blinked and then looked away, smiling. It had been a while since anyone had used his first name. It… felt surprisingly nice. "Do you have any surprising talents?" he asked, turning to his terminal again. "Aside from being a kick-ass Turk and shape shifter." Vincent didn't answer at first, and the silence stretched. When he did answer, Cloud had almost forgotten the question. "Piano," the man said. "Huh?" the president asked, confused. Vincent shifted a bit where he stood, almost looking embarrassed – he did the bowing of his head thing, which hid most of his lower face behind the high collar of his cape. "I used to… play the piano," the man admitted. "Hoo?" Cloud asked, turning to him and considering it while the Turk looked away. "Yeah, actually, I can see you playing the piano. Any good?" he asked, at which Vincent just sighed. The president smiled slightly. "There is one in one of the presidential apartments, you know. We could move it to the main suite, if you'd like to try your hand at it again." "I don't –" Vincent started lifting his left hand and looking down at it with the hint of a frown – the golden claw gleaming under the electric lights. "With this hand… I am not sure. I would probably only destroy the keys. If I can play at all, anymore." "You should try – it's not like anyone's ever used the thing anyway; it's just there for decoration. And if you do destroy the keys, I'll have someone replace them with stainless steel covers," Cloud answered, looking at him. "You should try," he repeated, a little softer. Vincent hesitated and then nodded. "Later," he said, even as Cloud reached for his phone to call Caslie to arrange the piano's transfer to the living room of his suite. "Cloud," the Turk said, almost admonishing. "Shush. I am the boss here and there ought to be some perks to the job, even if it's just having a damn piano moved," the young president answered cheerfully, and made the call, already hopefully looking forward to listening to Vincent trying his hand at the thing. It had been a while since he had the time to listen to music – and he hadn't heard live music since school, which had been a long while ago and not very good to begin with. Sadly, he didn't get to listen to the piano that day. For the first time since the start of the whole ShinRa debacle, something he himself had done came back to bite him on the ass. One of ShinRa's Mako specialists, whom he had ordered to find him someone more informed than they were, actually delivered – by bringing in an old man who, judging by the looks of him, hadn't really consented to the visit. "What the fucking hell?" Cloud asked slowly. "You asked for alternative theories about Mako, sir," the scientist said and had the gall to look smug about the fact that there was an old man, on his knees , in front of Cloud's desk, looking like he might be bleeding a little on Cloud's rug. The scientist motioned at the man, almost as if displaying some new goods he had to sell. "This is Bugenhagen of Cosmo Canyon, and he has the wildest alternative theory on the Planet." Cloud opened his mouth, closed it, and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Did you kidnap this man?" he asked in a strained voice. "…I persuaded him to come along. The security department was a great help, sir," the scientist answered proudly. "Oh Planet. This is what I get for sending Hewley to Wutai," the young president groaned. "Vincent, please get this idiot out of my office before I'm forced to get a sword, and have Caslie send a medic up here, right now." "Yeah," Vincent said and did it very briskly and efficiently indeed – with the barrel of Cerberus and a cold expression that was usually enough to send people running, this time included. While he chased the scientist away and called for Caslie, Cloud looked up and stood, walking around his desk to make sure that the old man at least wasn't hand cuffed or something. "I am so sorry about this, sir. Bugenhagen, was it?" he asked, while helping the baffled looking man to his feet and to sit on one of the two guest chairs his office had. "I've been trying so hard to weed the idiocy out from the company, but apparently with very little success. How badly are you hurt? If you need a full medical, you'll get the company's finest." "No, I… they are only superficial," the bald old man assured, blinking at him with what looked like utter bewilderment. "You are the new President of ShinRa?" he asked curiously. "That's unfortunately the truth. I'm the president of idiots," Cloud agreed, closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath to steel himself, and then asked, "Where did that idiot take you from? And was anyone killed in the process?" "Ah, no. I am from Cosmo Canyon and after I figured out their goal, I surrendered to prevent bloodshed – there were some injuries – my grandson did not relent easily – but I believe there was no loss of life involved," Bugenhagen said, looking at him thoughtfully and then glancing up as Vincent returned, followed by Caslie who was carrying a first aid kit. "A medic team is on its way, sir, but I thought you might want this just in case," the secretary said. "Thank you," Cloud nodded, accepting the kit and considering the old man. It did look like it was only bruises, but he was no specialist. "Cure, maybe?" he asked more than stated, glancing at Vincent. "Let me," the gunner said, taking the Materia orb from the kit and equipping it smoothly. There was a flash of healing green and some of the old man's bruises quickly began to fade, the split lip knitting itself and the redness around his cheekbone fading. "Ah, thank you, young man. That feels much better," the old man said, wobbling a bit as if trying to jump while sitting down. "Much better, yes." "Good. Still, I want someone properly qualified to look over you," Cloud said. "After that, I'll arrange for your transport to Cosmo Canyon – you'll get there as comfortably as the company can manage. It's the least I can do." "I'd appreciate it," the man said. "However… I was under the impression that there was a reason for this… visit," he added thoughtfully. "I was told that it was because of what I knew – or what they thought I knew." Cloud sighed. "I wanted to hear some alternate theories about Mako, so I told the specialists in this company to bring me someone, anyone, who knew anything new. I didn't think they'd do something like this though. It won't happen again," he muttered to himself. It was high time he looked at the company rules, it seemed. If everyone thought kidnapping was okay in ShinRa… "Alternate theories about Mako?" Bugenhagen asked, the thoughtful look turning even deeper, if possible. "Hm. And why are you interested in hearing about alternate theories about Mako, President of ShinRa?" Cloud smiled wryly, shaking his head. "Because somewhere out there is a terrorist organisation that wants to kill me and destroy my company because they think ShinRa is killing the Planet, and I want to know if there is any truth in their notions." "And if there is?" the old man asked, watching him closely. "ShinRa depends on Mako. I believe it makes you quite wealthy. Would you care, if it had such consequences?" "If I knew that Mako was destroying the Planet? Well… yes," Cloud answered a bit flatly. "I have to live somewhere too. And I'm rather fond of this Planet." Bugenhagen said nothing at first – and then the whole discussion was put on hold as the medics came in and Cloud ordered them to check the old man fully and be damned gentle about it. Thankfully, it seemed that no heavy damage had been done and the Cure had taken care of most of it, although one of the medics did cast a Cura just in case before they cleared out of the office again. Bugenhagen, who had been enduring the examination with quiet dignity, now looked at Cloud consideringly, like he was weighing his options. "Would you listen, if I revealed your company for what it really is?" the old man asked. "This company is a rotten, crawling monster that has since its birth housed hordes of beasts in its innards," Cloud snorted. "It's always been a writhing mess of corruption, greed, and self-indulgence, and now it's teetering on the brink of collapse due to gross incompetence. I think very little of what you have to say about it will shock me." "I wouldn't bet on it, young man," Bugenhagen said, and then began to tear what little faith Cloud had for the company to the ground. Bugenhagen didn't only have an alternate theory about Mako, but about the whole Planet – and about Materia. Sure, Cloud had heard the whispers about Materia, about how its powers came from the supposed knowledge of the Ancients , but to him it had always seemed that people had let an urban legend spread way too far because they simply didn't have a better explanation for the process. How could the knowledge of something that had died thousands of years ago make something like Materia, with which you could control elements, heal injuries, and create barriers? What did the knowledge of a dead race have anything to do with Materia, which was a crystallisation of Mako, which was energy? But then, nothing else had made any sense either. But if Mako was the condensed essence of all souls that had ever lived on the Planet… That was Bugenhagen's theory. The Lifestream theory – a flowing force of energy that made the Planet alive just as any other being. All things that lived came from it and when things died – people, plants, animals, and monsters alike – their life-force returned to the Lifestream, adding to it and eventually taking from it when it was time for something new to be born. That was where Mako came from – it was Lifestream, the essence of souls and the life-forces of millions of life forms, billions, which the reactors pumped up, condensed, and then used – and in the process of using it, destroyed it. "And this Lifestream is finite?" Cloud asked, frowning at his desk, thinking hard. "As finite as something with a finite source. It's a vicious circle, Mako extraction," Bugenhagen answered. "The more Mako you pump, the less… living things there are – and thus there is less energy going back to the Lifestream when those living things die. Surely you've noticed that the areas surrounding Mako reactors eventually lose all plant life." Cloud had, only he had thought it was because of pollution. "And when this… Lifestream runs out?" "The Planet will die. Nothing new will be born, no energy will be going back to the Lifestream, and everything on the Planet's surface will wither. Humans might manage for a while, but eventually the food will run out, and of course by that time every race on the Planet will be in a sense infertile…" Bugenhagen shrugged. The young president frowned, looking up from his desk with a wry smile. "I guess things were starting to be a bit too easy," he murmured, glancing at Vincent who was watching him closely but not saying anything – seeing how he'd react. Cloud sighed and turned to Bugenhagen. "I'm going to need some hard evidence about this. Can you and Cosmo Canyon provide it?" "Yes, as well as studies performed over the last fifty years concerning Planet life," Bugenhagen answered calmly, crushing Cloud's every hopes of the man being wrong. "But all you really have to do is have the soil around Midgar analyzed. You'll find it free of pollutants and quite fertile in every sense of the word – except for the fact that it is, quite obviously, dead." The President of ShinRa sighed, closing his eyes. Well, that was that, for his career. The moment he stopped pumping Mako, ShinRa's final death would commence – and then he'd probably be kicked out of office at sword point by the Murderous Firsts if Tseng didn't do it, someone else would be put in, and the pumping of Mako would continue, business as usual. "I am so out of a job here," he murmured, snorting mirthlessly. Well, at least he had managed to sort of help the company recover. With Hewley and hopefully Ganase taking over two of the headless departments… all his successor would have to worry about was the Technological Research Department. And then the successor would kill the Planet by continuing Mako extraction, only this time Cloud would know as he watched from the side-lines. Unless the Murderous Firsts killed him. Or Tseng had him killed. Right. Well, it was a fun romp for as long as it lasted. "How so?" Bugenhagen asked with polite curiosity. "I stop the reactors and turn off the lights on the whole planet, and the company won't have much need of me after that," Cloud answered with a sigh. "My position is precarious at best, and this won't make me any more popular." "There are alternative energy sources, young man. There was electricity before Mako, you know," Bugenhagen pointed out, sounding amused. Cloud cracked his eyes open, looking at the amused old man seriously. Bugenhagen let out a weird, oh-hoh-hoh sort of laugh, flapping his arms like he was trying to fly. "My boy, Cosmo Canyon has never had a Mako reactor, but we do have electricity and quite enough of it to keep things working. Have you never heard of solar power or wind power? Or about coal, oil, and the old form of gas, the original gasoline? How about geothermal energy, hydropower – hydroelectricity? Good old bioenergy?" The young president blinked, and Bugenhagen laughed at his stunned expression. 9. Two weeks after his unfortunately started meeting with Bugenhagen, half of Cosmo Canyon was on Cloud's payroll, in the new Energy Resources Department. His Technological Research Department had found its head in a young Cosmo Canyon genius, a man named Fromm who had, for several years, not only maintained all of Cosmo Canyon's technology, but also created it, making solar panels from scraps and wind turbines from used up barrels . It was a bit of a precarious assignment, seeing as Fromm had no business management experience whatsoever. But with the help of one of the Cosmo Canyon elders, Hargo, who was Cosmo Canyon’s archivist as well as the manager of daily life there, and who had enough experience in the management of things, Cloud thought that there shouldn’t be too much of a problem. "Just don't… change things too much. I know that it probably feels a bit off for you to work for ShinRa after everything, and I know it's probably very tempting to cease all weapons manufacture, but we need those fire arms. If not for any other reason than keeping the monsters in check," Cloud said to the pair of them, while he, Vincent, and the two from Cosmo Canyon explored the laboratories of the former Weapons Development – which, it seemed, had the best toys. Things like hologram 3D modelling systems and such. "Everything that's being manufactured currently needs to be made – we are the largest provider of the Planet's technology, everything from music players to flying vehicles, and if those production lines stop…" "We understand. ShinRa is still a business," Hargo said, while Fromm stared at the modelling systems with his fingers twitching eagerly. "Elder Bugenhagen has explained the changes in ShinRa to us, and that we must be patient to see those changes fully realised. We will work in… moderation." "Thank you," Cloud said. "However, if you have any better ideas, I'm all ears. And any new ideas too. That's what you're here for." Fromm nodded, the bandana on his head slipping a bit and forcing him to push it upwards to keep it from his eyes. "I do, I have lots. Did you know that you could easily power any PHS and most hand held technology that uses electricity with just a small film and a tiny chip that could turn the covers into solar cells?" he asked eagerly. "I didn't, actually," Cloud answered. "Granted, the film would be a bit expensive to make, so I could never have gotten it done in Cosmo Canyon, but anyway. There are so many things I never could make because I didn't have the right things or the money or just the equipment to work with," the young inventor said, grinning. "We will be moderate," Hargo said with a mild, exasperated look at the prodigy. "Well, there is some give in the department budget, and a portion of it has been set aside just for research and invention," Cloud answered with a small, amused smile. The pair of them was so out of place in the laboratories, with their earthen leather clothing and bandanas – about as fitting in a pristine company like ShinRa as he and Vincent were, actually. "For now, anyway, you have the freedom to… experiment. Just keep it within limits and try to keep the building intact." "We will try our best," Hargo answered, and Fromm bounced ahead, to tinker with the modelling table. "Do you think that this is entirely… wise, sir?" Tseng asked later thoughtfully, after Cloud had finished all the paperwork to make Fromm and Hargo run Technological Research officially, and started on making the Energy Resources Department into reality. "Cosmo Canyon does have a history of unusual science, but –" "We need unusual science, if we want to keep this company standing," Cloud answered without looking up from reading the contracts through and then signing them – even if he had ordered them drawn, someone in his position simply didn't sign without a thorough reading. "Some new ideas can't do us any more harm than the old ones have. I suggest you read Bugenhagen's Planet Life Research. It was very illuminating." "Cosmo Canyon is where AVALANCHE started," Tseng commented. "It is the origin of the terrorist organisation that tried to kill you." "Stupidity at ShinRa is the reason AVALANCHE exists," the young president corrected. "If this was a good, honest company working for the benefit of the people rather than just itself – hell, if it was just working for profit rather than the domination over all forms of life – it wouldn't have enemies like that." While the technological side of ShinRa churned under the oncoming changes, and people watched the infantile Energy Resources Department make its rather outlandish claims about alternate energy sources, Tuesti managed to finally convince Doctor Ganase to take over the science department – and Cloud finally met the woman. "I will not be picking up where Hojo left off," was the Doctor's way of greeting him. "And even if I have to keep on assigning Mako injections to SOLDIERs, I won't continue the research on the uses of Mako on people." "I don't want you to," Cloud answered, frowning a bit at that. He had forgotten that the SOLDIER department was as dependent on Mako as the technology. If he completely ended the use of Mako energy, which he was planning to do, once the alternative energy sources were in full production… what would happen to the SOLDIER department? Considering the woman, Cloud sighed. "Although I wouldn't mind if you have someone continuing the SOLDIER research and maybe figure out an alternate method of achieving the same end, that is not why you're here," he said. "Then why am I here?" Ganase asked, sounding suspicious. "To head the Science Department," Cloud shrugged. "Hopefully with some finesse and morality. There will be no more non-consensual experimentation on sentient creatures, humanoid or otherwise, but we still need some of what the science department has brought to the world – potions, remedies, elixirs and the like. We need the medicine it has invented, the treatments it has perfected. And we need the research to continue." Ganase frowned. "That's it?" "Well, I'm no scientist, I don't know what can be done with it," Cloud shrugged. "I just know it's necessary and important to keep on working." He eyed the woman, taking in the burns, the still uneasy look in her eyes, the age of her face. She reminded him a bit of the way General Sephiroth and Commander Rhapsodos looked at him, like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Can you keep working, Doctor Ganase? For the benefit of the Planet?" "Not for ShinRa?" she asked. "ShinRa runs the planet, and I'd like to have a healthy planet to run," the young president said simply and smiled as she, after a long period of thought, slowly nodded. While Fromm and Hargo began sending him reports about how their projects on creating solar panels and much improved wind turbines with ShinRa's resources were going, and Ganase began untangling the messes left behind by Professors Hojo and Hollander, Hewley and Rhapsodos came back from Wutai. Cloud had been getting their reports and keeping himself up to date with the negotiations, so he had known they had been going relatively well, but it was a relief to have the head of Public Safety Maintenance back where he belonged, running the department. The man had left Sephiroth in charge during his absence. "Kisaragi has agreed to the new, slightly more… open contract," Hewley reported. "ShinRa's military presence on the Wutai islands will be minimal and they will stop the production of personalised weapons and the training of warriors. Wutai's trade is still under ShinRa control, but for now ShinRa will not be building anything on Wutai soil. That was the clincher: the time the contract gave them as far as the reactor goes." "I wonder what we’ll get out of them when we let them know that there will be no reactor," Cloud mused, thoughtful. He had no idea what to do about Wutai now, when the place had no true worth to ShinRa. "There… will be no Wutai Reactor?" Hewley asked, blinking. "No. ShinRa will be moving away from the use of Mako to alternative energy sources. If the plans pan out, we will be shutting down the Mako reactors within the next four years, hopefully sooner. It depends on how long it takes to build dams and create the solar and wind farms," the young president said and looked up, smiling. "There have been some changes during your absence. Welcome back home, Commander." "Thank you, sir," Hewley said with a confused blink. Later, when the day's work was done and Cloud could safely shut the lights in his office, knowing that the secretaries had all gone home for the night and no one else would bother him for the rest of the day, he retreated to the main apartment and sat sipping hot cocoa, while Vincent fingered the keys of the grand piano that sat in the living room corner. The piano's keys were rather badly scratched on the left side, though Cloud had yet to need to replace them with metal plated ones. "Do you think it will work, the transfer to alternate power sources?" Vincent asked, while idly running through a set of scales. "I think it won't be as easy as just flicking a switch, and the eventual transfer will be slow as hell," Cloud answered. "But if I bring enough alternatives to the market: hydroelectricity plus solar power and wind power… as well as coal and oil, though I still need to figure out how to get the old oil pumps running… Well, eventually there will be enough possibilities, enough alternatives, that they will cover the hole that Mako will leave behind." "Hm," Vincent answered and then shifted his shoulders, placing both his hands on the keys. As he began to play the now familiar melody of a song he himself had written, years and years ago – which he now had renamed as The Nightmare Begins – Cloud closed his eyes and let his mind slip away from work. There was much to be done, but nowadays, not everything was piled on top of his shoulders and it all could wait till the morning. It was funny, but now that he wasn't so busy, he wanted a break more than he had wanted it when he had been buried knee deep in ShinRa's tangles and messes. "You know what?" he asked as the melody petered out to its final notes. "I think you and I need to go out. Seriously. We've still not left this building even once since arriving." Vincent made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Tseng won't approve." "I don't care. It's been way too long since I've had a ride on the Hardy," Cloud answered. "And I want to see the slums." There was a long silence, while another melody started – this one a modified version of the Cosmo Canyon anthem. Opening his eyes, Cloud turned to look at the back of his bodyguard, still covered in the red of his ragged cape, still unreadable after all the weeks in which they had, literally, spent every minute together. For a while, he considered the line of those shoulders, the way his hair shifted as Vincent moved ever so slightly as he played. "We don't need to," the young president offered. "No. I would… like to see it myself," the man answered, still playing. "Tseng still won't approve." Cloud laughed softly and placed the cup onto the coffee table before getting up and walking over to the piano. The melody didn't falter in the slightest even as he sat beside the man on the bench, making Vincent shift to the side to make more room. "I trust you to keep me alive out there," the young president said, watching the man's fingers, leather covered on the right hand, metal covered on the left. "Why don't you ever take this off?" he asked, touching the leather covered wrist with his fingertips. "I understand the left one, it's not like you can take it off, but this one…" "It… never seemed necessary," Vincent answered, pausing the melody and holding his hand still under Cloud's fingers. "And it's easier to keep from injuring myself with my left hand if I keep the right one covered." "Hm," Cloud answered, and after a moment he withdrew his hand. Vincent glanced at him thoughtfully, before starting to open the buckles with the tips of his golden talon with the efficiency of one who hadn't had much choice but to learn. After a moment, all the buckles were open, and the man reached beneath the cloak to push the glove down and eventually completely off. Cloud smiled. "You need some sun," he commented. The uncovered skin was even paler than Vincent's face, though how that was possible he wasn't sure. "Maybe," the gunman agreed, spreading his bare fingers slightly and staring at the back of his palm. It was covered in scars – puncture marks from dozens of IVs. "I'm sorry," the younger man said softly, eyeing the scars and knowing full well who had put them there – on whose payroll. Cautiously, he reached out to touch the marks and was both relieved and dismayed to find that he could barely feel them – they were just scars now, the inflammation had long since passed. "Wasn't your company back then," Vincent said, turning his hand around until Cloud was touching his palm instead. Cloud hummed quietly, and for a moment they were quiet, just staring at their hands. "Play something else," he then said, almost reluctantly withdrawing his hand. After a pause, Vincent did. The next day, Cloud took a look at his schedule, decided that he could move all his appointments to later dates, and proclaimed that he was having a day off and that no one should call him unless the Planet was ending and the ShinRa HQ was going to fall down. The following day he would have a meeting with some miners and drillers from Corel, people who worked the coal mines and had worked in the oil business before it had gone out of fashion, but that was for that day. This day, Cloud would not bother with work at all – after months of non-stop working, he deserved a holiday. Tseng was indeed not happy, but Cloud had made himself comfortable in the President's position and so the man couldn't very well order him to stay. He did push a disguise on Cloud because despite the rarity of Cloud's public appearances, his picture was known and no one in Midgar had hair like his. So Cloud ventured out with a beanie to over his hair and sunglasses to hide his eyes –Tseng didn't force him to change his clothing, thanks to the fact that all of his rare public appearances had been in a suit and no one expected to see ShinRa's President in leather trousers and turtle neck vest. Cloud was more than a little relieved to find that his Hardy was just as he remembered it to be and that despite the long length of time of sitting still in the garage, it purred to life with the old familiar rumble. It needed a bit of maintenance and fine tuning, but for now it would do. Vincent didn't seem to agree, though, and as the president took a seat and motioned to the back of it to his bodyguard, the Turk hesitated with a slightly worried look on his face, making the young man laugh. "I ran a delivery service," he reminded while setting Cait Sith, still a constant companion, to sit in front of him where the robot could grasp the handlebar for support. "What do you think I travelled on? Sit down already – I promise I won't crash." After a moment, Vincent did, with the sort of cautious reluctance of someone who had never sat on a motorcycle in his life. Cloud ignored the man's lack of enthusiasm and instead took his hands, leather and metal covered both, and placed them around his waist before shifting the Hardy into gear, taking them out of the ShinRa garages and onto the streets. It was one thing to see the place from high above, to look down at it from the seventieth story. It was quite another to drive on its streets. Midgar was huge , absolutely colossal, with tall buildings everywhere and streets worming through them at neat, orderly angles. Cloud had the map memorised, thankfully, and the rules of driving worked pretty much the same in the East as they did in the West, so he didn't worry much, but the drive turned out to be a bit more intimidating than he had expected. And then the old excitement of driving his mother's monstrous motorcycle came back, and whatever fear he had evaporated under the thrill and freedom of driving, of the wind in his hair – of Vincent's hands, clutching him desperately. He drove for a while aimlessly, up this lane and down that one, just watching his city and going from sector to sector before slipping down the streets of sector six, to where the easiest access down to the slums was. He had to slow down a bit there, as the roads got a bit trickier, and then he had to drive down a couple of steps because apparently there usually wasn't much vehicle traffic between above and below plates. And then they were in the slums, and the grip Vincent had on his hips tightened for a whole different reason. "Oh," Cloud murmured, a bit sad. The slums were just that, slums . Ramshackle huts and shacks compiled from scrap metal and wood, with no hint of actual buildings anywhere. There were a couple of ancient looking trailers and a few corpses of cars turned into living spaces, but… no actual houses, no building work, nothing. "It might be just this section. Let's look around a bit," Cloud said without expecting Vincent to answer, and then carefully navigated past the crowded slum market where pretty much everyone stared at them but no one made a move to approach. They had to wait a bit by the gates to get out of the sector six slums to sector five as the gigantic doors separating the sectors opened, but once there things got a bit easier – the sector five slums wasn’t quite so thoroughly poorly put together, though it too had its huts and shacks. And also what looked like an enormous junkyard, full of random rubble. Cloud halted the Hardy for a while, letting the engine cool a bit as he eyed it with dismay, wondering if this was where all the trash from above plate was dumped – all that metal, didn't his company do any recycling? He hadn't even realised. He was so dismayed by what he saw that he didn't notice the church before Vincent made a soft sound. "What?" the young president asked, and then saw it – a single building across all the waste, looking miraculously intact among all the ruins. "Hey, look at that. Looks like something did survive," he said, and turned the Hardy, speeding over the wasteland of junk as fast as he dared without knowing whether or not the terrain was full of steel nails or something. He stopped the bike in front of the church, bringing the kickstand down and turning the engine off even as Vincent shifted off from the bike's saddle. "Ever seen this place before?" Cloud asked. "Yes. I had… lessons here, when I was very young. Most children in the area did," Vincent answered softly, staring at the church with an unreadable expression. "The priest used to tell stories about the old times." "Lessons, huh?" Cloud answered while tucking the keys into his pocket and lifting Cait Sith to his shoulder before stepping beside his bodyguard. "Let's have a look, shall we?" The church wasn't so well off on the inside, but not as badly as it might've been, considering the collapsed rooftop. There were still some chairs left, and the pillars still stood, but the floor was completely ruined. What surprised Cloud the most was the sight of flowers growing where they couldn't be. There, right in the middle of the church, in an enormous hole in the ruined floorboards, a practical field of flowers bloomed. "That's not possible," he murmured, walking forward and crouching beside the flowers, expecting them to be fake. But no, they were all real, all living, and all almost obnoxiously healthy. "The soil of Midgar is dead ," he said. "There is no Lifestream flowing here – why, how are these plants growing here?" Vincent looked down from the ceiling he had been staring at. "Maybe something in the church preserved a bit of the Lifestream here?" he offered. "No, it doesn't work like that. Lifestream flows, it doesn't sit still – it can't, it runs out if it's stationary, it's spent," Cloud answered, shaking his head. He had learned enough of it from Bugenhagen's research to know that much. "And judging by this place, these have been growing here for a while," he added, noticing that there were a lot of dead leaves on the ground, already converting into new soil around the newer, healthier ones. Vincent said nothing for a moment, walking to his side to examine the flowers. "They seem… planted," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe someone tends to them?" "Tends them so well that they don't need Lifestream? How ?" Cloud asked with disbelief. Vincent just shook his head and then glanced up, likely hearing something. Cloud did the same, just in time to see two people enter the church – first a familiar black haired SOLDIER with a broad sword, who was cautiously covering a young brown haired woman in a summer dress, shielding her with his body. The SOLDIER blinked at Vincent. "Wait, don't I --?" Zack Fair asked as Cloud stood up next to Vincent, and then fell silent at the sight of the President, at first frowning at Cloud's beanie and sunglasses – and more importantly, the robotic toy companion – and then almost stepping back. "Oh, cripes," the man muttered, turning pale. "Sir! What the – what are you – these are the slums !" "Zack?" the woman behind him asked, peering past his shoulder curiously. "You know these people?" "Uh, well, that is – why?" the SOLDIER asked, looking between Cloud and Vincent in pure bewilderment, his hand making a move as if to flip out his phone and call for help. "Relax, SOLDIER," Cloud said, a bit amused. "I'm having a day off. And if I want to have my day off in the slums, that's my right, isn't it?" he added, when the SOLDIER just kept looking at him with a mixture of nervousness and worry. "B-but why the slums ? You're the – uh… you could go to anywhere in Midgar, sir, why the slums? Why here?" Fair asked almost plaintively, and then jerked a little as the woman behind him insistently tugged at his shoulder. "Za-ack," she said in exasperation. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" she asked, only making the poor Second Class pale further. Cloud chuckled. "My name is Cloud – this is Vincent," he said, motioning at his silent bodyguard. "And we just wanted to look around. The church seemed… interesting," he added, not sure if Vincent wanted the fact that despite his appearances he was over fifty years old spread. The reason why they were there wasn't that important anymore either. "I don't suppose you might know who planted these flowers here, miss? I would very much like to talk to that person." "Well, I did," she said cheerfully. "My name is Aerith. It's very nice to meet you." "You did? How did you manage it?" Cloud asked as nonchalantly as he could, while the SOLDIER looked between them with a sort of mortified confusion, like he wasn’t sure what was going on or what he was supposed to do about it – or if he even could do anything. "I don't think I've ever heard of anyone being able to grow plants in Midgar for a while now." "Well…" the woman, Aerith, hesitated a bit and then smiled. "It wasn't easy, really, but I suppose I just have a knack for it. Do you like flowers, Cloud?" "They're nice," Cloud agreed pleasantly. "You have a knack for it, hm. I suppose you would have to, to be able to make flowers grow not just in Midgar, but below the plate and inside a building with next to no natural light," he murmured, considering her thoughtfully. "Ever thought of trying to plant more of them?" "I did, around my house," she said, smiling a bit brighter. "Are they taking root?" "Yeah, I think so." Cloud fell silent, eyeing her. Somehow, she was making plants grow in a place where it should've been impossible. How was she doing it? Just because she had a knack for it? He rather doubted it, it would take more than all the green thumbs in the world to make something grow in a place where there was no Lifestream to spare for such things. Was she using magic? Some sort of way to use Materia he hadn't heard of? Or was it something else and if so then… what? "Um, sir?" Fair said uneasily. "What is this about? Did Tseng… has the situation here changed?" "Did Tseng what?" Cloud asked, turning to the SOLDIER who flinched a bit, glancing between Cloud and Aerith uneasily, guiltily. The president narrowed his eyes, knowing that look well – the look of secrets and orders and knowledge. Something was going on here , concerning the church, the girl… Taking out his PHS, Cloud hit Tseng on the speed dial and lifted the phone to his ear. It didn't ring for long before the Director of the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department answered. "What are you keeping from me, Tseng?" Cloud asked calmly, eyeing Aerith who was looking between him and Fair uneasily now. "You know where I am, right?" "… yes, sir," Tseng answered over the phone, sounding almost hesitant. "So, what are you keeping from me?" the young president demanded. When there was only silence, Cloud frowned slightly. "Tseng," he said. "Haven't I been at this job long enough? Don't you think I am here to stay? What is it that you're worried about? Retribution? You know I trust your judgement." "…yes, sir," the Director sighed. There was another, smaller, moment of hesitation before he answered, however. "Aerith Gainsborough is the last Ancient, a Cetra – as well as the daughter of the late Professor Gast. She used to be in ShinRa's captivity, but after her mother managed to escape, losing her life in the process, Miss Gainsborough has been living in the slums under Turk surveillance. Hojo, at the time, did not consider her a priority due to her age, so…" "I see," Cloud answered, considering the young woman with more thought now, while the woman, a bit uneasy, shifted to stand closer to the SOLDIER, to hide from Cloud's eyes behind the man's bulk. Cloud ignored it, though. "And she knows?" "Unquestionably," Tseng agreed. Cloud took a breath and released it, considering the implications of it. He didn't know much about Ancients – but he knew enough, thanks to Bugenhagen, thanks to his own research into the Lifestream, the origin of Materia, and Jenova. There had been something in Hojo's mismatched files about some supposed Ancient as well, Ifalna, though he hadn't paid much attention to it – seeing that Jenova had been thought to be an Ancient originally as well. The last Ancient, though, here – growing flowers where flowers shouldn't be able to grow. And with Commander Hewley's prized pupil at that. "Tseng," Cloud said slowly. "I would like your opinion of her." He could hear the almost explosive exhale, before Tseng quickly answered. "A kind hearted, selfless, and intelligent young woman, capable of considerable street smarts but quite optimistic. She enjoys a good reputation in the slums and is known for willingly healing people magically, free of charge. She is a… rare individual, even outside her heritage." "Thank you," the young president answered, and lowered the PHS, snapping it shut while Fair frowned, shifting almost unnoticeably into a more ready position, as if to protect her – as if Cloud was about to attack her. "Miss Gainsborough," Cloud said. "If you don't mind, I would very much like to hear more about your ability to make plants grow in Midgar. For example, could you do it on a wider scale?" "Uh… why?" she asked nervously, sensing the tension in the atmosphere. "If you can… then I might have a proposition for you," Cloud said and then smiled at her and Fair's obvious unease, turning his eyes from them and to Vincent who was watching the proceedings in his usual, silent vigil. "But I guess that can wait. I'm having a day off and I am not discussing business today, even if you can make flowers grow," he said, figuring that the Ancient probably wasn't going anywhere and there'd be time later. And if he wanted to contact her again, it would probably be better for her – and him, considering her close contact with the pupil of one of the Murderous Firsts – if he did it through Hewley and Fair. "So," he said to his bodyguard while Fair and Gainsborough exchanged confused looks. "Shall we keep going?" "Hm?" Vincent asked, blinking almost lazily. "We have the rest of the slums to see. You want to look around here for a bit more, or shall we move on?" The gunman raised his eyebrows slightly at that and then smiled faintly. "Let's keep going," the man said. With a nod, Cloud turned to walk towards the exit – and towards Fair and Gainsborough. He ignored the way Fair shifted to keep himself between them and the woman, merely smiled at the pair of them and bid them "Afternoon," before walking out of the church and returning towards the Hardy, Fair's confused "Sir," trailing after him. "How unlike you, Cloud," the gunman commented as the church doors closed behind them. "To let something like that pass so easily." "I didn't intend to get out of the office just so I could keep working outside it. Tseng knows her, Fair knows her, there will be chances later – better chances at that, once Fair's had the time to explain things to her and report this to Hewley. Let them muddle through it, and once things have stewed for a while, then I will make her an offer of some sort," Cloud answered with a shrug while mounting the bike and putting Cait Sith on the handlebars again. "Probably will let Tuesti do it, though. He's better with skittish women." The Turk chuckled in low tones, and took the seat behind him, his arms settling on Cloud's hips with a little more ease this time. Cloud smiled at that and then glanced at the gunman. "I'm sorry about the church," he said softly. "About Middangar." "Not your fault. Wasn't your company back then," Vincent answered, glancing at the church. "I didn't really expect much of anything to remain at any rate." "Yeah," the young president murmured, and with a shake of his head kicked his bike into life. 10. Cloud couldn't work. He was used to semi quiet when he read over reports or wrote orders or did some other of the half a million tasks he had to do on a daily basis on his terminal in his usually quiet private office. Not that it was loud right then, not really, but there was… talking. Talking by two rather deep voiced men who spoke just quietly enough that he could ignore them for the most part – except when one of them raised his voice just a bit, just a hint, and then it felt like he ought to get a sword and defend himself. And possibly his masculinity as a man of the tenor persuasion. Sending an uneasy look at Vincent and General Sephiroth, who were sitting on the couch across the room, talking about the late Lucrecia Crescent, Cloud wondered what would happen if he tried to kick the pair of them out. He was relatively used to Vincent's voice, and could for the most part endure it without any unreasonable urges to run for cover. But two of them talking together was a bit too much. And even if he realistically knew that they were not talking about him, about to talk to him, or about to attack him, it was still highly distracting to listen to them. Sighing, he turned back to the screen, and went back to work. Things were slowly settling on track, finally. Soon, Fromm and Hargo would have the first models of the ShinRa made solar panels out. And hopefully, if things worked out well, they could start mass producing them for private use. Then, if the numbers came back as good as Fromm promised, the establishment of the solar farms would begin, one near Junon, which would be the prototype and if that worked, then one on the west continent, near Corel. They were already testing the wind mills, which were far easier to make than the solar panels – two had been pitched up on the shore of the Middle Ocean, not that far from Midgar. If those tests panned out, the shoreline would eventually house a great deal of windmills, which would eventually power the whole of Midgar along with the water power plant they were planning to build near Kalm, where the Kalane River flowed. That would take a while longer, since the whole artificial lake thing was a bit trickier than they first suspected, and there was some worry about it drowning Kalm all together, but there was time. And in the meanwhile, the coal mines of Corel and North Corel had been blown wide open, for the first time in a long while. Cloud was a bit leery about using coal – Bugenhagen preferred it to Mako, sure, but he preferred pretty much everything else to coal because apparently it polluted the environment a lot – but if things worked out well there, and the mines proved to still have as much coal as the townspeople thought, then… the Corel Reactor would be the first to be powered down indefinitely, eventually to be dismantled. Right now the reactor was on standby, still powered down for maintenance along with the Gongaga reactor, except the maintenance itself wasn't happening – because what was the point in maintaining the reactors when eventually he hoped to stop using them entirely? Aside from making sure that the things didn't blow up or cause more damage than their existence already did, it was a waste of money. And now, with so many projects rolling, all eating money and the general populace teetering in confusion about what their ruling company was doing, Cloud was back to his tight-fisted ways of rigorous budgeting. Which in and of itself proved to be a very interesting and surprisingly profitable thing to do – especially after he had added the concept of recycling to the company mandate. ShinRa had just trashed a lot of stuff before. And not just the lots and lots of projects that had gotten swept under the rug, but also the materials they had considered unnecessary. The slums were brimming with excess material from the building of the city that was just rotting down there, when a lot of it could've been processed and made into something useful – even scrap metal could be melted and turned into something . Bolts and iron nails if nothing else. So that was a thing. Although the newness of the whole concept of a recycling plant was a bit off to ShinRa workers and pretty much everyone else in general, having the people of Cosmo Canyon on his payroll in the Technological Research Department helped – they believed in recycling things more than the President did. It hadn't taken much work for Fromm and Hargo to turn the factory that had previously manufactured the flying Heli Gunners, Sky Armours, and other similar flying robots that attacked by rotor blades into a recycling plant. And although the project was still in its infancy, it had already produced enough usable material to make itself worth the effort. It had also opened some fifty new jobs for those with lower-education, a fact that the people of Midgar highly approved of. Unemployment had never been on Cloud's agenda before – too busy with all the horrible wrongness of his company – but it was pretty nice to make a dent on it. Corel and North Corel were his greatest successes so far – it had been enjoying a good forty percent unemployment rate before his meeting with the miners and the reopening of the mines. Now, there were very few people left there who didn't work. Rubbing his neck slightly, Cloud leaned back to read the last lines of the message he had written to be sent to Mr. Wallace in Corel – one of the managers of the mines, and the link between the miners and ShinRa. Cloud would send some of Ganase's scientists to help them in examining the mines that the miners feared might've gotten polluted by Mako in their long disuse, but with the people of Corel – who had previously been shunned by ShinRa and were still stinging about it – everything had to be worded very carefully, or they'd think that ShinRa was bossing them around again. Which of course they were , but it didn't need to look like that. Twitching slightly as Sephiroth raised his voice just enough for the word "Honestly?" to carry across the room, Cloud put the message aside and turned to the other matter at hand. His and Ganase's on-going argument about Jenova. Since settling into the position of the Science Department's head, Ganase had been tearing her way through the worst of the company's science projects and of course Jenova was at the top of the list. However, Ganase was a specialist of viral infections and thought that the Jenova Cells – which all SOLDIERs had, the Firsts in most quantity – acted like a virus. She wanted to bring the specimen to Midgar to study it further and maybe even use it to stop some of the problems with the SOLDIERs from progressing. Like Commander Rhapsodos' on-going ailment that made it difficult for him to heal from superficial wounds, which Hollander had called Degeneration. Ganase had explained that it wasn't really degeneration so much as there was something that interfered with mitosis and the cellular reactions that were usually responsible for healing – and apparently, it was the Jenova Cells that caused it. "The most dangerous of the Jenova Cells’ interactions with the human body is the interference with mitosis, which causes cells to divide," the scientist had explained. "Surely you've heard the saying about you being a new person every ten or so years? It's not precisely accurate; however, most cells in the human body, with the exception of neurons, are replaced periodically through cell division, the longest taking some twenty years. The Jenova Cells interfere with this process, which is causing the apparent speeding up of aging in Commanders Rhapsodos and Hewley." Cloud had heard nothing about that until that point, but apparently, Rhapsodos and Hewley were both actually a bit younger than they looked – and due to the Jenova Cells, all SOLDIERs had their life-spans shortened, the most unfortunate being the Firsts who had most of Jenova in them, but all are suffering just the same. Ganase wanted to study Jenova mainly to get rid of the side effects, which was admirable enough, except for the fact that it was Jenova . "Absolutely not," had been Cloud's firm answer. "I'll authorise you or any of your people to go to Nibelheim and study Jenova there, or move the specimen to some other facility, but no one brings the thing here where we have four hundred SOLDIERs all with her genes." "Surely you don't actually believe in Hojo's inane theory about Reunion?" Ganase had asked. "A couple of months back I didn't believe in Aliens or the Lifestream, and look at where we are now," Cloud had answered. "Whether you believe it or not, I don't care. I am not taking that risk. Do what you want and what you must, but do it at a distance." And that had been that. Ganase was still arguing about it because Midgar had the best equipment for the study, but Cloud wasn't letting her bring even parts of Jenova into the city, so the studies were being conducted at two places, with Ganase's team working in Nibelheim while she monitored the process from Midgar. As far as Cloud was concerned, that would have to do. "The lass is coming," Cait Sith commented from the top of his screen, making Cloud look up from Ganase's latest list of very well worded arguments. "She's early," Cloud commented before turning to Sephiroth and Vincent who had paused in their low toned talk to look at him. "Sorry to interrupt your discussion, General, but I have a meeting with Miss Gainsborough coming up," Cloud said, though he didn't feel particularly sorry. "I think we've covered most of everything I know," Vincent added, at which the General nodded and stood. "I will take my leave then," the silver haired man said before glancing at Cloud and raising an eyebrow. "Zack Fair does know about this meeting, correct?" "Zack Fair is probably going to be a part of it," Cloud snorted and shook his head. "I don't mind – Miss Gainsborough should have a good bodyguard, considering everything." "Indeed," the General said with a thoughtful nod and then turned to leave in a whirl of black coat tails and silver hair. The president gave his retreating back an amused glance, not entirely convinced that the man wasn't doing it for the dramatic effect, before looking up at Vincent. "How was it?" "You were here the whole time," the gunman pointed out. "Trying not to listen," Cloud answered with a shrug and leaned back in his seat. "Also, do you have any idea what a pair of men like you can do to a guy's ego?" he sighed, shaking his head. "Why couldn't you be opera singers? I would feel much better about life if you were." Vincent let out the slightest huff, which for him passed for a snort, and then took his place behind the President's chair – just in time, as that was when Gainsborough entered with a newer model of the Cait Sith on her shoulder, this one with a little golden crown on its head and a red cape, with SOLDIER Fair trailing after her. She also had a bunch of flowers in her hands. "Good morning sir," the last Ancient greeted him cheerfully, walking right over to his desk and depositing the flowers in a vase there, which Caslie had procured just for this sort of occasions. "Bit of something to cheer you up," she said. "Appreciated," Cloud smiled, powering the screen of his terminal down and turning to face her completely, while Fair lingered behind her, still a bit uneasy in the President's presence but not quite as much as he had been in the beginning. "How did the survey go?" "Better than I hoped. The soil samples are in the laboratories right now, but I can safely say that there is very little wrong with the land around Midgar," Gainsborough said, clasping her hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet almost giddily. "If the lab results come out clean, we're going to start setting up the three temporary prototype greenhouses on the dead zone; the first near the city, another just at the edge of the dead zone, and the third between the two." "That's good to hear," Cloud said with a nod. Tuesti already had a plan for the rejuvenation program, which, if it worked, would eventually see the orchards, gardens, and fields that had been so common in the area before Midgar restored. If – and the if was a pretty big one – Aerith could work her powers on a larger scale, then she and Tuesti would surround Midgar in rings of greenery. "And the other thing?" Cloud asked, which made the young woman frown. "It… reaches pretty far," she admitted. "There isn't any Lifestream flowing freely within a fifteen mile radius. A bit, yeah, just enough to allow some withered trees here and there to grow just ten miles away, but…" Gainsborough shrugged. "I think it will return once the reactors are powered down – once the reactors aren't sucking it into the centre, it will start flowing in the area around the city again. But it might take a while." Cloud nodded with a slight frown. He had suspected as much. If things panned out, the greenery project of Gainsborough and Tuesti’s might stimulate the Lifestream to return faster, but… it seemed like they were in for a long healing process. "Sir?" the young woman asked after a moment of silence, making him glance up. "Is it true what they say, about the birth statistics?" The president sighed – that was the reason he didn't much like the idea of a long wait. One of the things Ganase had done was the beginning of the archiving of all the negative side effects of Mako use and all the other things the Science Department had pushed out. Since Midgar's building, the birth-rates in the area had dropped by about sixty percent. It wasn't that there were miscarriages or anything equally horrible, thank the Planet. People just… got pregnant a lot less in Midgar than they did anywhere else, and it wasn't for lack of trying. "Yeah," the young president answered. "No one noticed before because no one was looking, but it's pretty hard to have kids in Midgar." Most people who did, did so thanks to the fact that the conception happened somewhere else – Kalm was a pretty common attraction for couples thanks to the rumours that it had a good effect on fertility, but that wasn't it. Midgar just had a negative one. "So, the sooner we get the place growing again, the better," Cloud added, smiling slightly. "Is there anything you can do about it? I know the reactors make it pretty much impossible, but we can't power them down unless we want the city to freeze in the upcoming winter." "I know. I'm… trying things," Gainsborough admitted, swinging back and forth again and then clasping her hands together. "I did... something with the church, which made the flowers grow there. I'm thinking I might be able to do it elsewhere too, and maybe make it permanent. I have to keep doing it repeatedly in the city, but out there I might not have to. At least, not so often." "Do whatever you feel is necessary, just don't overexert yourself," Cloud smiled. "You are pretty important to this company, Miss Gainsborough." "Why thank you, Mr. President," she answered, curtsying with a laugh. "I'm honoured. I've told you to call me Aerith, though." Cloud just chuckled at that and shook his head. He liked treating his employees with all due courtesy – it felt… better, than acting all familiar with them. Even when he was familiar with them. Gainsborough worked for him, and though she hadn't done much yet, he had a feeling that eventually there'd be a department with her name on it that would have a big part in the company – and she deserved his respect. "Maybe one day," he offered. "You call Vincent, Vincent," she answered, pouting. "Well, he watches over me while I sleep. Anything else might be a bit awkward," Cloud shrugged, though that wasn't it precisely. It wasn't like people really needed to know the details of what meagre private life he had. "Was there anything else, Miss Gainsborough?" "Nope. Just wanted to bring you flowers," she answered, smiling, and turned in a whirl of brown hair and skirt hems to skip out of the room. Cloud eyed her as she and Fair left, and laughed softly to himself, at how much she and Sephiroth were alike, even while being completely and utterly different. "That girl has a lot of liberty in this company," Vincent noted thoughtfully. "Skipping to your office freely just to bring you flowers." "Could you say no to her?" Cloud asked amusedly, reaching to pluck one white flower from the vase, snapping the stem short and then turning to Vincent. "Bow down a bit," he said, and with a sigh the bodyguard did as asked, eyeing him with stoic amusement as Cloud eased the flower into his bandana, so that it peeked past the black strands of hair. "You've turned whimsical," the man commented. "Things are looking up," Cloud shrugged, while tucking a few black strands of Vincent's hair out of the flower's way. "And I think I've gotten there now." The monster that was ShinRa was turning underneath him, changing – and he could justifiably take all the credit for it. Of course, there were still problems and there would probably be until his death – people were still a bit ticked off at ShinRa, more so now that it was changing and how bad it had been before was coming to light. AVALANCHE still wanted him dead, judging by the recent attempt to blow up Sector Two’s reactor, and there was a lot of hate mail sent his way. The Planet was weak, withering, and he couldn't even turn the reactors off yet, not unless he wanted ShinRa to completely fall. But… they were getting there. "I think so too," Vincent agreed, standing up straight. Cloud smiled at the visage he made, with the blossom in his bandana, and turned back to his computer. He had reports to read and assignments to hand out and department heads to manage, and a world to save. With Vincent's hand resting on the backrest of his chair, just enough for Cloud to feel the tips of the golden talon on his shoulder, the President of the ShinRa Electric Power Company got back to work. ∞. Genesis considered the apple in his hands. He was bored , which was something he hadn't thought possible considering where he was. It was one of ShinRa's new Tech Expos, which Strife, for one reason or another, had decided that the company needed to host once or twice a year, and which usually ended up turning into huge balls, glorified with gadgetry and science. They started with a lot of displays about what was the newest and shiniest and then devolved into people babbling over each other as they wandered around the exhibition hall, ogling at the newest goods, before the whole thing changed into dancing, betting, and occasionally fighting depending on who was in attendance. After a moment of examining the Banora White, he flicked out his knife and began carving on it. They were still showing the newest things – currently, it was one of the wind turbines on display, one which apparently would be finishing up the Midgar Wind Farm, or something. Genesis wasn't really listening – technology had never been his thing, and who the hell could keep up with all the things that Tech Research pushed out these days anyway? It was something like ten different products a month, all with names that were a bunch of random letters and numbers, which all looked the same to him. "Don't you look cheerful," a familiar voice commented, and he looked up to see Angeal. "Same to you," the commander said, smiling faintly at the suit Angeal was wearing. The Head of Public Safety Maintenance looked highly uncomfortable in the tie, and was loosening the collar even as Genesis watched and, by the looks of it, had been doing so for the last hour or so. " My friend, the fates are cruel, " Genesis said, and chuckled. "It's not so bad. It's just damned hot in here," Angeal answered and sat down beside him with a sigh, looking up to the stage where one of the geeks from Tech Research was pointing at the big screen and the list of some obscure facts there. "What are you doing here, anyway? You don't care about technology." "Neither do you, but here you are," Genesis said, easing a fleck of the apple off and bringing it to his lips on the tip of the knife. "I had to make an appearance at the start, all department heads do. You don't." "True. I'm here to see if anyone tries to assassinate the president this time. It was entertaining the last time around," Genesis grinned, thinking back to the last Expo that had been just six months ago. Not that he particularly wanted the president dead anymore, but it had still been pretty hilarious. Some might've called it gruesome – Valentine had done quite a number on the attackers and that was after the president had brained the nearest one with a decorative pole – but Genesis appreciated it for the drama. The AVALANCHE stooge that was the head of the so called attack had certainly enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame. Or, a minute and twenty eight seconds before the President had brained him. "I'd tell you that you need a hobby, but considering the hobbies you do have, I think it's probably safer for the planet in general that I refrain," Angeal murmured with a snort, even while turning to look at the table where the President's party was sitting, watching the display – where he himself had been sitting. Strife, Genesis was amused to note, looked even less comfortable in a suit than Angeal did. It made sense though – Strife usually went around in leather trousers, hiking boots, and sleeveless turtle necks, looking precisely nothing like the President of ShinRa ought to have looked like. But then, considering what the president who had looked the part had done, Genesis had to admit he could deal with leather trousers and turtle neck sweatshirts. "Do you think he understands any of this?" Genesis asked idly. Sure, he knew that Strife was intelligent – but he looked like such a… stereotypical blond , not just with the hair but the wide blue eyes and the whole diminutive look and all. Even in a suit, it was hard to take the man seriously. "I think he does," Angeal answered. "I heard he used to work as a mechanic for a while before coming to ShinRa." "I heard he was a delivery boy," Genesis answered, grinning at the memory of the rumours. It didn't help that Strife had never bothered to deny any of them in the rare interviews he gave – though then again, Strife never bothered to address any rumours about himself. On the stage, the geek bowed to the applause he was suddenly receiving and was then ushered off the stage so that another gadget could be brought out to be displayed. Genesis glanced at the stage with only the barest hints of interest and when it turned out it was yet another solar cell they were going to be talking about, he turned back to his apple carving. He still wasn't entirely sure what he really thought of President Strife. Two years into the man's career, and he still couldn't really figure out what the man really was. Hell, the guy wasn't even a man yet – it turned out he had been something like sixteen at the time Tseng had presented him to Genesis, Sephiroth, and Angeal. Which had been the weirdest meeting ever – Strife hadn't been anything like they had expected of yet another bastard of ShinRa’s to be like. For one, the guy had called himself a bastard of ShinRa’s and seemed actually amused about it; and secondly, he had openly acknowledged the fact that his life was balanced on the tips of their swords – and the man hadn't seemed to care in the slightest. Genesis had to wonder if the man even knew that it wasn't anymore. Not that they couldn't – though admittedly it would be damn hard with Valentine there, every moment of every day. But it was that none of them would . Because Strife, despite all of his out looks and weirdness and everything… was actually a damn good President. They had really fucked things up, when they had decided to kill ShinRa, Hojo, Hollander, and everyone else that stood in their way. Tuesti had warned them, but they hadn't actually believed how easily ShinRa could collapse into itself. In those few months when no one had wanted to take the helm and no one had wanted to even suggest that someone be put in charge… ShinRa would've collapsed without Tuesti and Tseng. They too had tried, they had kept SOLDIER and what little of the infantry they could running, but that would've never been enough. Pays were late, people were angry, not coming to work, not doing their jobs – four times Genesis had been sent to drag back this or that person to work because it just so happened that they were needed to keep this or that reactor of Midgar from blowing up. Shipments had been late, things had malfunctioned and no one had the authority to order repairs, and the science department had completely unravelled before Tseng had somehow managed to make a few people actually stick to their stations… And then Strife had sauntered in, told them rather pointedly to either kill him right then and there or let him do his damn job. And then he had done his damn job. And then, after starting to do his job, he had turned his job into something else. How someone so little could change so many things in such a short period of time, Genesis had no idea, but Strife had. Already, five of Midgar's eight reactors had been put out of commission, and the last three would be shutting down sometime in the next year or so, once the Kalane Dam is finished. There was a clatter of applause and the Commander glanced up from his apple to see that they were displaying concept sketches about the upcoming Junon Solar Farm on the screen. It looked ridiculous and Genesis could already see how hard it would be to maintain the thing, with monsters about – those fences would only stop the land bound ones after all – but it seemed to make the people excited if nothing else. "A world without Mako," Angeal muttered. "Can you imagine that?" "I can. It's full of turbines and glossy rectangles," Genesis snorted and held the apple up. "What do you think?" he asked, showing the carving of a rose he had etched into the apple's side. "Very artistic," Angeal answered with a crooked smile. "No one ever said that you shouldn't play with your food?" "Probably wasn't listening at the time," Genesis answered, and took a bite of the apple while on the stage, the solar geek headed off and another display started. "Oh, it's Missus Puppy," the Commander noted, making Angeal look up and to the stage. Aerith Gainsborough was greeted, as always, with a huge round of applause and lots of whistling – all of which she welcomed with grins and waves and a few kisses blown at the crowd. The last Ancient was pretty well liked among the population of Midgar, and the reason for it was soon displayed on the screen behind her. The Ring Gardens of Midgar was already world famous for being a miracle, for growing in a place where Mako had previously drained the life from – they didn't look like much in the aerial image, just a sort of loop that lazily coiled around the city with the glass domes of green houses here and there, but Genesis had seen them up close and yeah, they were pretty damn impressive. Especially considering that they hadn't even been there, two years ago. As Gainsborough started to, rather excitedly, explain something about this new Materia that they were developing that had the power to make plants grow faster, Genesis considered the image of Midgar, the RingGardens. Yet another thing that no one would've imagined, Midgar surrounded by greenery. True, they weren't quite there yet, since there was still a lot of dead space in between, but… each month that space was getting smaller. Especially since the reactors had started powering down. "We've turned into a damn nature organisation," Genesis muttered, wondering. He had heard that they were growing Banora Whites in one of the greenhouses, but Gainsborough hadn't admitted it out loud yet. "Well, I wouldn't go that far," Angeal muttered, leaning back. "Though I suppose things have changed some." "Some, indeed," Genesis grunted, and took another bite of the apple. His eyes slid back to Strife, who was smiling at Gainsborough's presentation. Behind him stood, as always, the red clad shape of Valentine who was eyeing the crowd closely, looking for any hostiles. The Turk's eyes met Genesis' for a moment, but passed by without acknowledgement, going back to screening the crowd without pause. Genesis still wondered – pretty often too – what Strife had done to earn the loyalty of someone like Valentine, who was indisputably the strongest Turk in existence. And immortal too, if the rumours were to be believed. " There is no hate, only joy ," Genesis murmured, giving Strife a pointed look. " For you are beloved by the Goddess ." There was a moment of silence before Angeal commented, "That's something I haven't heard in a while." "Hm?" "You, quoting LOVELESS," the other man answered, shrugging. "Strife?" Angeal then asked. "He certainly seems to be," Genesis muttered, shifting his shoulder and looking away. Not that he had anything to complain about, not anymore, not since the Degeneration had been cured. But still… Sometimes he wondered what it would've been like, to be in Strife's boots, in the man's head. They saw everything he did, of course; the man still carried his Cait Sith around and let it see pretty much everything – except Tuesti nowadays no longer made the cat toy follow the President to the bedroom, for some reason. But it was one thing to watch the man go through mountains of paperwork but quite another to actually understand how his mind worked. And what it felt like to have the loyalty of his whole work force in a way that even Angeal, with his adoring crowds of infantrymen and SOLDIERs, couldn't match. What was it like to be the most powerful man on the Planet? Angeal was looking at him. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, frowning. "Power, mostly," Genesis answered, and finished his apple. He had always wanted to be a hero greater than Sephiroth – or just a Hero, acknowledged for his strength and honour. Strife wasn't strong – though there was the rumour that he has six different swords, a sheath that could carry all six in one go, and that he could use them all. Genesis didn't really believe it. Strife wasn't strong, wasn't enhanced in any way. And yet he – not Sephiroth, not Genesis, not Angeal – had saved the world. Granted, they had cleared the way for Strife to take over and actually do so, but still. A flimsy little slip of a man, not tall enough to reach Genesis' chin, who called them the "Murderous Firsts", according to rumours. Hero of the Dawn, Healer of Worlds . Genesis smiled wryly. The ways of the Goddess were mysterious, indeed. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Go North,” Gimli said, handing Kara a bedroll and a water-skin. “You will find sanctuary in Erebor. I will write to them.” Ashkar’s face was sardonic. “I do not think that Orla will be so pleased to see us, somehow.” “You never know, though, do you?” Gimli countered, and he gave the Blacklock a stout walking stick to ease their leg. “The passes will remain clear for some time yet: the rout of the North has sent all the Orcs scurrying to their holes, and with summer upon us there is no better time to travel. Stop at the houses of the Beornings, they have ever been friends to us.” Then he pulled his throwing axe from his boot (Merry had given it back after the battle) and held it out with poor grace. “There. Take that. Everyone in the Mountain will know it is mine.” “Why would you offer this?” said Ashkar, their voice flat and suspicious. “Why offer us sanctuary?” Gimli smiled at them, and shook the axe slightly until they took it. “Because Dwalin is my kinsman and teacher, and Orla is a friend. And perhaps the world should grow smaller now that there is no great force for evil keeping us apart. I mean to start a colony in Rohan, if my King permits: if Erebor does not suit you, then perhaps that will - until the day when you can return to your home.” “I don’t think that will ever happen,” said Kara, her young face bitter. “Who knows what is possible, in these days?” Gimli said gently. “No, I do not try to patronise you. Only do not give up hope. Your Aunt is still living, is she not, when you had all given her up for dead?” “I suppose,” Kara said. “Go North, my friends, and be reunited.” Gimli pressed a hand to his breast, and bowed. “ Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal. ” ... To Orla daughter of Ara, I know this letter may come as something of a shock, and for that I apologise. You may wonder why I write to you and not to Dwalin who was my teacher and friend. I will not dissemble nor dodge; I will move straight to the heart of it. I have made the acquaintance of some Blacklock Dwarves here in Minas Tirith. They had been sent into the vanguard of the war as punishment for their loyalty to you and your memory. I do not censure or judge you for your misdirection: I understand your reasons for secrecy. I am so sorry. I’m also heartily ashamed that a Queen has seen me staggering drunk at practice drill. Ashkar and Kara send their love and their heartiest congratulations to you upon your family. Kara also wishes to add that you missed seeing her beard come in. Ashkar wishes to say: everything went to camel dung in your absence, and they are looking forward to seeing you soon, and that nobody has dared play ‘uzghu ma ziraku against them since you fled the Ghomali court. They are also glad you found the cache upon your escape. I intend to depart soon for the North and home, following a short detour, and shall be at Erebor before the winds grow chill. Give my gratitude and love to my revered teacher, and tell him his instructions have kept my hide intact. Ashkar and Kara and their folk intend to go North also, as soon as Ashkar is fit for travel. They sustained a wound, but will recover. I cannot say whether they will reach Erebor before we do: thus, I warn and prepare you for what may come. (Legolas remarks to me that our efforts at forewarning others have so far fallen flat: I can only hope for your sake that this time we shall have better luck. I understand that the Mountain is in some uproar, and I can only apologise for the difficulty we have made for you and your efforts to keep peace.) Whatever you so choose, please know that you always have and always will have, My deepest respect, Gimli son of Glóin … “I think…. it may possibly be finished,” Gimli said, squinting at the ring lying upon his palm. “You’re sure it is not too… amateurish?” “I’d be proud to call it my work,” Thorin assured him. Gimli turned it over, and then raised it to the light to check the final polish. Silver and gold wire had been twined carefully around it and then heated and shaped onto the body of the ring. The repeated stoneflower motif of Gimli’s helm and gear was now wreathed in forest vines. “Still not one-hundred-percent sure of the sizing,” he grunted. “Well, you’re close enough, I should say.” Thorin watched Gimli slip the ring onto his pinky-finger, where it sat snugly at the second knuckle only. It was the closest he had found to a measure. “Mahal will it so,” Gimli sighed. Taking off the ring, he slipped it into a felted pouch and tucked it into his jerkin. “Now to find the right moment… or to let the right moment arrive, I suppose.” … “Tell me what you have discovered.” Thranduil was apparently lounging indolently in his chair, his hands long and graceful where they fell over the carved stone arms. “Very little, Adar,” Laindawar said with a scowl. “They will not answer my questions. The sister, Gimrís , has nothing positive to say of her brother at all. And if she who is his sister has naught but scorn to share, what more can we expect of others? What has our Legolas tied himself to?” Thranduil’s eyes did not flicker, but his jaw rippled. “I see.” “The King has mentioned this Gimli’s skill at arms,” Thranduil continued, his voice smooth. “That is not small praise in a kingdom of warriors.” “His sister tells me he is nothing but muscle-bound idiocy,” Laindawar said. His fists bunched at his side. “She will not answer any of my very reasonable questions, and I fear their answers may be terrible. A Dwarf that will not comb his hair! And a Dwarf of the Line of Durin besides: you know their curse as well as I. I dread to think what has become of our brother, what this Gimli will do to him. You know how they are about their treasures…” Beside him, Laerophen let out a soft snort. Thranduil tipped his head. “Something to add, ionneg? ” Laerophen started under the sudden attention, and drew himself up to his full towering, gawky height, shifting between his feet. “Well, yes… may I speak frankly?” “I will have nothing less from you, my son,” said Thranduil, but his gaze softened as he looked upon his secondborn. “Are you senseless ?” Thranduil’s face, once again, did not change. Laindawar’s head snapped to his brother, and he glared like a thunderstorm. “Perhaps you have been won over by your long captivity,” Laindawar began, stiffly. “I am not captive, and never was!” Laerophen pinched his nose, and took a deep breath. “I have lived amongst them. I know them! By the stars, honeg nín , you attack Gimrís with question after question as though it is her role in life to answer you? And you wonder why she snaps and growls and stalks away!” “Then by all means, enlighten us as to their ways,” Thranduil said, before Laindwar could explode into furious debate. “The Lady Gimrís is the worst one to ask about her brother,” Laerophen said, and he launched into motion, stalking across the room and moving his hands in agitation. “These folk, they mock and tease easily: you must learn to find the laughter under the words. And do not talk of the curse of the line of Durin in their very halls! You know as well as I do that it has faded to naught with the stench of dragon and the loss of the Dwarf-ring. Yet still you would name a Dwarf greedy without ever having met him? I despair that I thought as you did, once.” “Who would you suggest we speak to?” Thranduil said, cutting over the spluttering coming from Laindawar’s direction. “You would do better to speak to her son, or to Glóin.” Laerophen then winced. “Well, when you can bear to be in the same room as him, and he you. Dwalin son of Fundin was his teacher, and the singer Barís Crystaltongue was his sister’s dearest friend. He has called the Princess Dís ‘aunt’ since his young childhood, I understand. And most importantly, Mizim, his mother – she is a calmer soul than her husband, and a wise one. She has spoken to me of her son, and I deem that Gimli is a fit match for my brother.” “A mother’s love may distort many a virtue,” Laindawar retorted. “You just told me his own sister thought him a covetous thug: I would not trust my insight, if I were you,” Laerophen snapped. “Peace, my sons,” Thranduil said, and he leaned forward. “Tell me what his mother said.” Laerophen gave Laindawar a last cross glare, before he turned back to his father. “He is honest to a fault – often honest beyond the bounds of politeness,” he said. “He is brave, foolhardily so. He has a poet’s tongue, and loves to sing. He is gracious in both victory and defeat, though he is not overfond of losing – I understand he is fiercely competitive. His sense of humour tends to wordplay and jesting. And lastly, he is loyal beyond all sense.” “Is he a fair warrior?” Laindawar demanded. His face was still mottled, his eyes flashing with resentment. “He’s only the best warrior since Dwalin, dumbface,” came a small mutter from the door. It would have been inaudible to any but Elven ears. Laerophen froze, his mouth hanging open. “Who spies upon us?” Laindawar said, and he reached for his sword hanging at his side. “Oh, Elbereth.” Laerophen closed his eyes for a moment. “Gimizh?” There was a tiny squeak, and some shuffling from beyond the heavy door. Thranduil stood in a flowing movement, crossing to the door with his robes sweeping behind him. He flung it open, and stared down with icy eyes. “Who is this?” “Gimizh, what are you doing here?” Laerophen said wearily. “Cleaning the doorknob,” Gimizh said, his small face defiant. “An untruth,” Thranduil said, his voice low and silky. “Your small shadow reappears,” Laindawar remarked to Laerophen, who shook his head. “Were you looking for me?” “I was cleaning the doorknob, and if a fellow overhears fings when he’s cleaning doorknobs, that’s not his fault,” Gimizh said to Thranduil, crossing his chubby little arms and tipping up his head. “You were takin’ too long,” he added to Laerophen. “There’s cake tonight: Barur’s started the pastry ovens again at last!” “That sounds like a fine adventure, but you should not eavesdrop on private conversations,” Laerophen said, crossing to Gimizh and dropping to his haunches to put a gentle hand upon the Dwarfling’s shoulder. “Your mother shall be cross.” “When is his mother not cross,” muttered Laindawar. “You shouldn’t say nasty stuff about people either, but he does it lots,” Gimizh snapped back, jerking his head towards Laindawar. “First my uncle Gimli, and then my mum!” “That is true,” Thranduil said. His eyebrow was ever so slightly lifted, giving him a faintly quizzical air. “Then you should apologise for eavesdropping, and my son shall apologise for his rudeness.” “Fine,” Gimizh grumbled. “Sorry for accident’ly listening to things.” Laindawar opened and shut his mouth, and then he inclined his head. “I am sorry for speaking ill of your family.” “Pfft, you don’t know anything anyway,” Gimizh said, tossing his head. His curved braids bounced. “S’not your fault you’re so ignant.” Laerophen frowned, and hazarded a guess. “Ignorant?” “Means that he doesn’t know anything,” said Gimizh. Innocent helpfulness oozed from every pore. “I…” Laindawar began, and then subsided with a sniff. “Gimli is your uncle,” Thranduil said, the words slow and measured. “Child, are you close to him?” Gimizh glanced at Laerophen, who squeezed his arm. “We seek to learn more of him,” he said. “My brother has become attached to him, you see, and we would know what manner of person he is.” Gimizh looked horrified. “Your brother!?” “No, my other brother,” Laerophen rushed to say, and Gimizh blew out a massive breath, his shoulders slumping dramatically. Laindawar growled. Wordlessly, Thranduil passed him a goblet of wine. “I forgot you had another brother,” Gimizh said. “Can I come in? The doorknob’s really clean now.” “I am sure it is,” Thranduil murmured. “In you come, child.” Gimizh scurried in and clung to Laerophen’s side. As the Elvenking turned and re-took his seat, the Dwarfling poked a small pink tongue out at Laindawar. “Now that is rude,” Laerophen said, and prodded him gently. “Then we’re even,” said Gimizh, with lofty dismissal. Laindawar gripped his wine tightly, and tipped back half the glass. Thranduil arranged his robe around his feet, and then studied Gimizh for a silent second. Then he said once more, “are you close to your uncle?” “Yep,” said Gimizh. “Oooh, you’ve got grapes! Can I have some?” “Would you please,” Laindawar said, stressing the ‘please’ with biting sarcasm, “tell us of him?” “He’s big an’ strong and has a fluffy red beard,” Gimizh said, his eyes darting over to the bowl of grapes upon the table. “I got a doll of him.” “Then you love him,” Thranduil said, his head tipping forward to eye the child intently. Gimizh only rolled his eyes. His mouth was full as he spoke next. “He’s my uncle Gimli. He’s the best fighter in the whole mountain, and I’m not allowed to touch his things while he’s away. He tells good stories. Sometimes he chases me an’ Wee Thorin an’ Balinith through the Mountain, or plays hidey with us. I cut my shin on his axe that I accident’ly borrowed one time, an’ he was a bit mad, but he really wasn’t because Uncle Gimli dun get mad at me ever. He was only pretending because he was afraid. Mum does that too. I like his axes, an’ they were Grandpa’s. Uncle Gimli told me he would give them to me one day. But he also said that I shouldn’t take things that weren’t mine, an’ that I shouldn’t do everything that pops into my head without telling anyone. But since he went on a big important Quest without telling anyone, I think that’s a bit unfair. Adults are like that though.” “I see,” Thranduil said, and his mouth twitched. “He still calls me ‘pebble’ sometimes, which isn’t fair either since I’m a big dwarrow now,” Gimizh said, and shrugged a little. Another grape disappeared with the swipe of a small slightly-grubby hand. “If he catches you when you’re playing hidey, he blows raspberries on your tummy to make you laugh. He knows lots of songs, and sometimes he makes them up on the spot! I’m gonna make up songs too. But Mum barks at us when I sing any of Uncle Gimli’s mining songs, because they have naughty things in them sometimes. Da only laughs until he chokes, but then, Da’s a miner too.” “You… do? I mean, he is?” Gimizh nodded importantly – and snatched up a grape. “S’what Uncle Gimli said to me once. He was a miner back in Ered Luin. I never been to Ered Luin, and Grandpa says it was hard there. Uncle Gimli doesn’t say much about it. I reckon it’s good we’re not there anymore, an’ Da can be a shopkeeper and Uncle Gimli can be a warrior now. I bet he’s killed a billionty orcs. Is your brother on the quest too??” “Yes, that is where they met,” Laindawar said. “Oh.” Gimizh screwed up his face as he chewed, and then swallowed. “Is he rude?” “Ah…when it is warranted,” said Thranduil. His eyes were glassy. “Mum’s rude to Uncle Gimli all the time, and he’s rude right back at her,” Gimizh said with a wicked little grin. His hand darted from the bowl to his pocket. “She calls Uncle Gimli a fathead and a troll, and he calls her a goblin and a prissy Elf! She’d blister my ears if I ever said that! They’re brother an’ sister, but I don’t got a brother or sister or sibling. I got Wee Thorin, but he can knock me on my backside so I don’t call him a fathead. But I seen Uncle Gimli punch another fellow right in the teeth – wham! Just like that! – for calling my Mum names. So I don’t think they’re really meaning those words at all: I think they mean something else. Something nicer.” “You asked for this,” Laerophen murmured to Thranduil, who was starting to look a little fixed on the spot. “You’re out of grapes,” added Gimizh. … “Gimrís tells me you have set your son to harassing her,” Dís said. Her jaw was set and hard, and her eyes were flat. Víli could see the stiffness in her limbs which told of aching joints, the carefully-concealed tremor in her hands. She was so tired, he thought, and closed his eyes to master himself. “Princess, a pleasure to see you again,” Thranduil said, and he rose in a smooth liquid movement and crossed to the sideboard. It should have looked ungainly for him to use furniture so laughably small, but he somehow managed to make it graceful. “Wine?” “I am no longer a Princess,” Dís said. “And I would ask you not to ignore what I just said.” “I have asked him to find out all he can about this Gimli,” Thranduil said, turning back to her. He had two glasses in his hands. “I apologise that he has antagonised the Lady.” “I ask you to ask him to stop bothering her at work. She is a busy Dwarrow,” Dís said. “He does not endear his brother to her.” Thranduil’s eyebrows rose slightly, as though he had not even considered that. “She would not treat Legolas poorly…” “No more than Elves would treat Dwarves poorly,” Dís retorted, swift as a dagger in the side. “No more than an Elf would see a starving child and turn away.” Thranduil regarded her in stony silence for a second. “You were that child.” Her steely eyes narrowed. “As well you know.” Thranduil held out the glass of wine to her, wordless. She glared at it for a moment, before taking it in one crook-fingered hand. Her breath was coming fast. “I’m one of the last ones left from that time,” she said then, and took a large gulp. “I am not sorry that we did not attack the dragon,” Thranduil said, and his voice was strangely muted. Dís looked up from her contemplation of her glass. “But you are sorry for other things, aren’t you?” Thranduil did not answer. He took a small sip of his own glass, and his eyes did not leave hers. She did not flinch from that unearthly, piercing gaze, and neither did she look away. “Silver and steel all through, my darling,” Víli murmured. “Please take a seat,” Thranduil said eventually, and he gestured with his goblet towards the low couches. “You should not be…” “Standing so long, at my age?” Dís finished for him, and her lip twitched. “No, perhaps not. I did not think you would understand that.” “Perhaps I am learning.” “Perhaps.” Dis’ look over the rim of her glass was measuring. Nevertheless, she slowly made her way to a chair and eased into it. “Well? I’m not going to be the only one sitting.” Thranduil blinked at her bluntness, and Víli let out an involuntary snort. Then the Elvenking made his way to a couch, and folded himself upon it. His robes trailed upon the floor. “Everything’s too small for you, eh?” Dís took a sip, and watched him as he watched her back. “Now that we can access the wood and open the quarries again, we’ll look into making some Elf-sized rooms. You can’t be comfortable.” “Is this an attempt at shaming me for my own lack of hospitality?” Thranduil said, leaning forward. “I swear to you, it will not work.” “I don’t expect you have enough compassion for dwarves in you to feel shame for how you have treated us,” Dís said calmly, and she took another sip. “What matters is that you’re learning. Maybe one day you will.” “I am several millennia older than you.” “Congratulations.” Víli stuffed a hand into his mouth. “Oh, my lark, you wicked thing,” he sniggered. “It has been suggested that I cannot change so drastically.” Thranduil took a careful sip of wine, and watched her some more. “What is your belief, First Advisor?” She shrugged. “People change. I’m guessing that goes for Elves as well as Dwarves. Sometimes they change because they want to. Sometimes they’re changed whether they like it or not.” “I find that simplistic.” “Once, you looked upon me as a child and called me Princess,” she said, and tipped her head. Her voice was still perfectly level, and her gaze crackled in the air between them “Then you saw that child wandering homeless and starving, and turned away. Then you came to us with weapons in your hand, and made siege upon our home. Then you sent aid to our people when no other would. Then you fed us when we were starving. Now you greet me as ‘Princess’ once again, invite me into your rooms and offer me wine and a chair for my old bones.” Thranduil considered that, and lifted his glass in wordless acceptance. “Let me tell you a tale, Thranduil Oropherion ,” she said, and leaned back in her chair. “I was a jeweller in Ered Luin. My hands shied from gold. I loved the touch of silver and moonstones, like shards of starlight made solid. Yet I worked in steel, for there was little joy in the making in that cold hard place, and my family needed to eat. “One terrible day, I held a letter in my hand. It had been sent from my cousin Balin. It told me that my sons and brother were dead. I was the last. My entire family, wiped out, erased. My children slaughtered. My brother murdered. I was alone, and I was forgotten in my grief as our people struggled to live. “Gimli came to me. Half a child still, his beard only just sprouting. I raged at him.” Her lips were tilted in a faint smile at the memory. “Oh, how I attacked him. That brave child stood his ground in the face of my howling anger and sorrow, and told me I was not alone. He held me as I wept.” She put her glass upon the side-table, and stood with a soft grunt of effort, straightening her back. “He came back every day,” she added. “Every day.” Thranduil was frowning slightly as he watched her leave. … Fíli watched Frodo pick his way over the stones of the white courtyard. Sitting upon the low ledge of the garden plot were Aragorn and Arwen, their hands clasped tightly. Arwen was singing beneath her breath, watching the blossom fall from the branches of the young tree. Frodo moved with only the slightest hint of pain now, but he still looked very small and frail as he approached. “I know what you have come to say, Frodo: you wish to return to your own home.” Aragorn said, and he looked up and smiled at Frodo. Frodo looked torn. “I… yes. I miss it. I miss home, and Bag End. I miss the way things were.” Aragorn’s smile faded a little. “Well, dearest friend, the tree grows best in the land of its sires; but for you in all the lands of the West there will ever be a welcome. And though your people have had little fame in the legends of the great, they will now have more renown than any wide realms that are no more.” Frodo nodded, and then he said, “First I must go to Rivendell. For of all things and people in this world, I miss Bilbo. I was grieved when among all the household of Elrond I saw that he was not come.” “Do you wonder at that, Ring-bearer?” said Arwen. Her eyes were very soft and powerful. “For you know the power of that thing which is now destroyed; and all that was done by that power is now passing away. But your kinsman possessed this thing longer than you. He is ancient in years now, according to his kind; and he awaits you, for he will not again make any long journey save one.” He looked upon her with poorly-hidden worry. “You saw him last, how was he?” She looked down. “Old. Tired.” Fíli swore under his breath. Thorin would be concerned. “Then I beg leave to depart soon,” said Frodo. “You will not go alone.” Aragorn stood and clasped Frodo’s little shoulders. “For we shall ride with you far on the road, even as far as the country of Rohan. In three days now Éomer will return hither to bear Théoden back to rest in the Mark, and we shall ride with him to honour the fallen. But now before you go I will confirm the words that Faramir spoke to you, and you are made free for ever of the realm of Gondor; and all your companions likewise. And if there were any gifts that I could give to match with your deeds you should have them; but whatever you desire you shall take with you, and you shall ride in honour and arrayed as princes of the land.” “I am not a prince,” Frodo said, alarmed. “I want that which any traveller wants: my home, and the path that leads to it.” Arwen tilted her head, studying him. “Yet a gift I will give you. For I am the daughter of Elrond. I shall not go with him now when he departs to the Havens; for mine is the choice of Lúthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter. But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed. But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven!” She then took a white gem, like captured starfire looped in silver chains, from around her neck and laid it in Frodo’s hand. “I cannot accept this,” he breathed, staring down at it. “You can and will,” she said, and kissed his brow. “When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid.” Fíli breathed out slowly. “Thank you, Evenstar,” he murmured, and allowed the stars to take him away. Three days later, Éomer returned. With him was his éored, leading a great white bier draped in the green-and-white of Rohan. That night, a feast was held in his honour and in memory of Théoden-king, and he stared about at the full pageantry of Gondor at the height of its beauty and formality. Folk in glittering mail, and the shining hall of the King arrayed in silver and decked with flowers. The Elf-lords fine and resplendent, Celeborn arrayed in silver, Glorfindel glowing like the sun and Elrond with his deep wise eyes. And ladies begowned and dazzling: There was his sister clad in white and gold, and she was laughing! Her hand was clasped with that of a lord of Gondor, and he wondered at that. The elf Galadriel shone with some glory, an inner radiance that he could not quite make out, and he quailed from her eyes. There was another noblewoman, a dark-haired lady of Dol Amroth, who sent his mind swimming. And then the new Queen, tall and robed in silver and black, like the kindler of the stars herself. He had to step outside for a while, lest he make a fool of himself before all the assembled nobles. There he found Gimli and Legolas huddled together in an alcove, their faces close, and he burst into laughter. “I see others have made use of the crowd to slip away.” “Aye, but not for lesser company,” Legolas said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Do I congratulate you, gentlemen?” “You may,” Gimli conceded. And grinned up at him. “And you’d better, my friend!” “Then all my good wishes and hopes go with you for all the days of your life,” Éomer said, bowing. “A stranger alliance I have never heard of, but in these days it seems that the strange is commonplace enough!” “Pfft! And in strange times, strange friends give stranger blessings! Need I send for my axe?” Gimli laughed, squinting up at him and tipping his head. “Perhaps,” Éomer said with a shrug, but he was smiling. “You shall judge, for there are certain rash words concerning the Lady in the Golden Wood that lie still between us. And now I have seen her with my own eyes.” “Well, lord,” said Gimli, “and what say you now?” “Alas!” said Éomer with mock-regret. “I will not say that she is the fairest lady that lives.” “Then I must go for my axe,” said Gimli. “But first I will plead this excuse,” said Éomer. “Had I seen her in other company, I would have said all that you could wish. But now I will put Queen Arwen Evenstar first, and I am ready to do battle on my own part with any who deny me. Shall I call for my sword?” But his mind was filled with the sight of a woman clad in swan-blue, even as he said it. “Nay, you are excused for my part, lord,” Gimli said. “You have chosen the Evening; but my heart is given to the Morning. And my heart forebodes that soon it will pass away for ever.” He looked sidelong at Legolas. Legolas squeezed his hands. “Not so soon as that,” he murmured. “What would the dawn be without a morning star?” Gimli then laughed again his deep, rolling laugh. “Ah, ghivashelê , yes, you must remind me, as I remind you. And Éomer, live content and under no threat of axes – for now!” “Master Gimli, you saved my life,” Éomer said, shaking his head and chuckling. “Would you undo all that good work?” “Depends on if you ever gift me with another horse.” “Arod does not suit you?” Legolas sniggered. “Oh, Gimli, you great soft fool. Éomer, he dotes upon that horse unlike anything I have ever seen, despite constantly avowing his distaste for him.” Gimli’s face was half-indignant, half-amused. “I do not!” “You do,” Legolas said fondly, and kissed the top of his head. “And I think that is my cue to leave,” Éomer said, and he bowed once more, “since we hold no duel this evening.” “Not one that you’re invited to, at any rate!” Gimli shouted at his retreating back, and Éomer laughed and waved his hand in farewell. Perhaps he could steal a few moment’s conversation with the swan-lady before it was time to dance. … It was odd, Thorin mused to himself, as he brushed out his beard and began tying it into a narrow plait. The routine he had taken such terrible pains to build - with its schedules and timetables and breaks for sleeping and eating and chores - was still holding, even now that all the urgency of the past month was gone. The network of relationships he had found himself a part of was still there, and most Dwarrows remained a part of the watch, a part of the detail. He was still surrounded by friends and family, despite the calm. It was as though he were not the only one to find meaning and purpose in their closeness and familiarity. Odd but good, in its way. “It’s getting longer,” came a voice from the door, and Thorin looked into the mirror to see Thráin’s reflection smiling back at him. “It looks good.” “I have to concur,” said Bilbo, softly. “Your shift’ll be starting soon?” Thráin crossed to him and picked up a brush. He had to reach up slightly to pull it through the top of Thorin’s hair, and he ducked his head a little to allow his father access. “Your grandmother will be pleased you took the time to groom this lot. Your mother will be less pleased that you chose this rather than eating.” “I’ve time enough yet for a meal,” Thorin said, and his hand hovered over the little box of beads that sat upon the vanity, its lid inscribed with flowers and runes. “I’ll see her at the table.” “Your brother has already been and gone, I should mention,” said Thráin, and he rested a hand upon Thorin’s head, questioning. Thorin nodded. With another small smile, Thráin began to part out the locks for the lineage braid. “He’s enjoying the time with Fíli, and he’s watching that Rohirrim girl and the Gondorian lad in every spare second. You’ve helped him so, Thorin.” Thorin watched in the mirror as Thráin swiftly did up the braid at his temple, his fingers as nimble as his mother’s. “Eventually, I suppose.” “You should step back and see the difference in him,” Thráin said, and he held out his hand for a bead. Thorin gave him the little steel one surmounted in moonflowers, and kept the ivy-wound one for his beard. “Remember how he was when you first arrived here? He hid his every feeling of fear and inadequacy behind smiles and jokes. Pushed himself so far, even back into battles, trying to be that which he is not. He’s so much prouder – so much calmer now. You’ve helped him so much.” “He helped me first.” “Not a competition, inùdoy .” Thráin finished off the braid, and let it swing. “Though I cannot fathom the differences in you sometimes, it is good to see that some things are not so changed. Still, allow a father some pride in his children, eh?” “What of you?” Thorin turned to him, and met his eye. “Now that Dol Guldur is destroyed, how do you fare?” Thráin gave a wry little chuckle. “Better. I’m doing far better, my boy. My nightmares do not stick to me like burrs to a goat anymore. The sight of that glade filled with wildflowers where it stood - that comes to me often and brings me peace. Come along, you’re presentable enough now, and you need to eat.” “One moment,” said Thorin, and he raised his arms again and did in the bonding-braid at his crown. He did not tie it with a metal bead, but with a wooden one, and it bumped at his cheekbone every so often, smelling of warm wood resin and polish. “There.” Thráin gave it a long glance, and then said, “For Bilbo?” “Better late than never,” Thorin retorted, feeling strangely small. “Hah. That could make a good title for our story, couldn’t it, my dear?” Bilbo murmured. “ Better Late Than Never: A Tale of a Hobbit and a Dwarf. ” “True enough.” Thráin bumped their foreheads together, and then tugged an arm over Thorin’s shoulders to steer him from the room. “Come now.” On their way to the dining-hall, they passed Thorin’s smithy door. Ori’s schedule, with all its crossings-out and smothered in a riot of different handwritings, still hung there. Thorin idly wondered if he should frame it. Breakfast was quiet, warm and comfortable, a well-worn groove in which Thorin teased his youngest nephew, chatted amiably with Balin, dodged his grandmother’s ladle and laughed along with the others at Nori’s antics. Their thief had managed to get himself in hot water with Narvi and Haban, for some reason - there was apparently a wager and one of Narvi’s tools involved - and he was currently protesting total innocence. Not a single soul believed him. Haban had apparently declared vengeance, vowing to prove to him why she was known as ‘the best axe-dancer of her generation!’ The stars of Gimlîn-zâram were as cool and sweet as spring air, and Thorin entered them gratefully with Kíli by his side. The day of departure had come at last, and a great company of Rohirrim, Elves and Men of Gondor made their way north out of the City. Some distance out upon the plain, Aragorn stopped and watched the pennants flap from atop the Tower of Ecthelion for a moment, and a small half-smile tugged at his lips. Then he turned away and led the party towards Rohan. Amongst their number were a Wizard, a small party of Hobbits, and a Dwarf riding pillion with a wood-elf. Gimli spent much time in conversation with the Lady Galadriel, speaking of his plans for both the Gates of Minas Tirith and for the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. As the party did not travel swiftly, Thorin was able to overhear a great deal of their talk. To his surprise, the Lady was absolutely engrossed in the discussion, and had much to say of crafting and the works of hands. “That’s unexpected,” he murmured. “…great work,” she was saying, her eyes thoughtful. “It will take many craftspeople many years to do as you imagine. Though I took you for a warrior, I must admit. I did not take you for a master of steel, my champion.” “He shows some promise,” Thorin said, the corner of his mouth curving up. He did not mention some of the more disastrous early gaffes. Gimli blinked, and then he grinned broadly. “Ah, but I have a hidden advantage, which you long ago made plain to me! My kinsman is back, Lady: the one whom I first saw clearly in your Mirror. I am no smith, that is true, but he has been instructing me.” “Has he now?” said Legolas, pouncing upon the new information with a measure of glee. “Is this anything to do with your secret, meleth nín ? Gimli leaves, my Lady, every morning. He returns with his beard full of the scents of fire and metal. He will not tell me anything!” “Still not wearing the ring,” Kíli whispered. Thorin looked, and indeed, Legolas’ hand was still bare. “Aye, it is a surprise for you, curious one! But you knew that much already!” Gimli laughed, and he squeezed Legolas’ waist. “Patience.” “Never has a Dwarf been so aggravatingly opaque,” Legolas moaned. “I’ll have to pass that on to Balin and Óin, they’ll be pleased,” Kíli remarked, smirking. Gimli snorted. “Then you still hear your kinsfolk, do you?” Galadriel’s beautiful hair was tied back for riding, and she wore trousers and a loose tunic in the clear September sunshine. She looked less the grand Lady and more like a young warrior, in that garb. “I did not expect that. I felt sure that the connection would break once the spell of the Mirror had passed, and the power of Nenya faded.” “Nay, they’re all still hanging around,” said Gimli. “ Idmi, Thorin! We go to Edoras, to lay Theoden to rest. From there, I will keep my promise and take Legolas to the Glittering Caves beneath the deep. And then we shall see what an Elf can make of the song of stone!” “I could make a drum, possibly,” Legolas said, his face perfectly serious, “or perhaps a rattle…” “Cheeky Elf.” Gimli squeezed his waist again. “You’ll get your revenge upon me soon enough: Fangorn is close at hand, after all!” “You’ve not given him the ring, Gimli,” Thorin said, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you have doubts?” “No, no doubts!” Gimli said at once. “Just… the time has not yet presented itself. The right time.” “Gimli,” said Thorin, and he sighed. “There is no such thing as a ‘right time’. You may trust me on that.” “It’s very unnerving when he answers the air, is it not?” Legolas asked the Lady, who was looking rather astounded. “I’ve had some time to grow used to it.” “Who else knows?” she asked, after clearing her throat. “Aragorn,” Gimli said, and snorted. “He thought I’d had too much sun.” She smiled, and then it faded as her brows drew together in thought. “I do not know why you may still hear them,” she said, shaking her glorious head. “There is a force here I do not understand.” “Your Gift?” whispered Kíli, and Thorin shrugged. “Possibly. It does not explain how Gimli can hear the rest of us, however.” “Perhaps we’ll never know.” “Perhaps.” The thought did not disturb Thorin, as it once might have. Kíli wrinkled his nose, and then he tipped his head up to look at the sky, blue for miles and miles around. “Well, it’s a nice day for a ride,” he said. It was a leisurely journey. Thorin remained until luncheon, when he bid farewell to Kíli. After his visit to Bilbo in Rivendell (the old Hobbit was sleeping at his writing-desk), he spent some time at his forge, working beside his mother. She was making a new harp. After dinner, he decided to pay a last call to Gimli. Clad only in his sleep clothes, he padded barefoot through the quiet, echoing Halls. The only sound was the whispering shift of his tread upon the stone. When he emerged, blinking away the waters and shaking himself, it was to the sight of a large encampment. The tall tents most likely held Aragorn, the Hobbits, Eomer and the great ones of the Elves, but Thorin did not think, somehow, that Gimli would be among them. Soon enough he saw them. Gimli and Legolas watched the stars together, lying upon the grass with their heads close. “That is the one we call ‘the Chisel,’ and there is the Helm of Azaghâl,” Gimli said, his finger tracing over the vast glittering sky. “Don’t forget Durin’s Crown: you will see it to the East,” Thorin reminded him. “Ach, of course – you can see Durin’s Crown there, the seven stars that hang above the Misty Mountains. Can you see them? They are the ones that reflect so perfectly in Kheled-zâram , where my great ancestor trod after he woke from his long sleep.” Legolas watched Gimli’s face, the starlight flickering from his pale cheeks and brow. “I have all the stars I care to see right here,” he murmured. Gimli’s flush was noticeable, even in the gloom. “What do your folk call them?” Legolas smiled, and allowed Gimli his retreat. Settling his head comfortably upon Gimli’s shoulder, he lifted his eyes to the starry heavens and was silent for a moment, considering. “You know of Eärendil's lamp,” he said, and pointed up with a long forefinger. “But there you may see the constellations Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronúmë, and Anarríma. They are ancient, set there by Elbereth herself before the waking of the Elves, a sign for us in the darkness. Ever since that primordial time we have turned to the stars for guidance.” Gimli squinted at the one Legolas had called Telumendil. “We call that one Mahal’s Tackle.” Legolas burst out laughing. “It is Mahal’s Hammer , Gimli,” sighed Thorin, amused despite himself. “Oh come off it, Thorin, you know what people call it just as well as I,” Gimli said, his eyes shining with merriment. “Mahal’s Hammer it might be in official documents, but that isnae what it’s called in song and rhyme!” Thorin shook his head. “Your father would be mortified.” “My father’s the one that taught me that.” “Should have known.” There was a pause, and Legolas asked, “King Thorin, have you any word on how our families fare? If you will share it, I would be grateful.” Gimli’s lip tightened, and he curled his arm more closely around Legolas’ shoulders. “Would you be wroth if I told him, Thorin?” “I’ll be wroth if you waste any more of your time giving him that ring,” Thorin told him, and he seated himself by their side. The shifting sounds of picketed horses and the occasional snore of the sleeping riders all around punctuated the peace of the moment. “But no, I’ve no objection. Does he know about the letters arriving?” “Aye.” “Good, then I needn’t tell you the whole tale.” Thorin stretched out his neck. “I ought to head back soon. I’ll fill you in, and then I’m for bed. And you ought to be as well!” “Thank you, Lord.” “My name , if you please. Ursuruh inùdoy kurdulu you may be, but I’m no father to you.” “Sorry. Thorin. I forget sometimes.” Legolas was looking at him quizzically. “Ach, just a bit of chatter. My apologies âzyungelê. ” Gimli stroked his shoulder with one broad thumb. “Thorin, anything since?” “Not a great deal, no.” Thorin scratched at his cheek. “Legolas’ brothers are divided on the matter, however. The elder, Laindawar, has made it his mission to discover all there is to know about you.” “Oh, mahumb. ” Gimli’s eyes widened. “I sincerely hope he doesn’t speak to Dwalin, then. That could be embarrassing.” “What?” Legolas prodded his side. “Some of us can only hear one side of this conversation!” “Serves you right for gabbling in Elvish with Aragorn all the time,” Gimli said. “Your brothers don’t agree about us. The oldest one, Lain-?” “Laindawar,” Legolas said, his voice breathless. “He’s snooping around trying to gather dirt on me,” Gimli finished. And winced. “Urgh. Please let him never discover Nori’s Tavern.” Thorin let out a soft huff of laughter. “Indeed. The younger, Laerophen, is firmly on your side. He has become a great friend to your nephew.” “What! Truly?” Gimli sat up sharply, spilling Legolas upon the ground. “Well, there is a piece of news indeed! My fine Azaghîth , my wee badger, friends with Legolas’ brother!” “Wait! Elaborate, please!” Legolas said, pushing himself up and blowing a lock of hair away from his face. “Do you mean Laerophen?” “Aye, the middle one, right?” Gimli turned his amazed look upon the Elf, who nodded in equal astonishment. “Friends with our troublemaking little terror! There’s a shock and a half! Well, if there is but one Elf in the mountain who can see us as we are, then I am glad for it. Bless Gimizh’s merry little heart!” “What of my father?” said Legolas after regaining his composure, and Thorin grimaced. “He stays at the Mountain, even though the frosts have broken. Some have wondered why. Regarding your relationship, he will pass no comment. He holds to his previous statement: that he neither recognises nor consents to your union, and holds it to be unnatural and unbecoming of Legolas’ position. Yet there is some evidence that he is not as intransigent as all that.” Legolas snorted indelicately. “Now, that is truly beyond belief.” Gimli ran a wide brown hand over Legolas’ hair. “We’ll make him see, somehow,” he murmured. “I wish I had your optimism,” said Legolas, and his sigh was bitter. “Now, now, dear one,” Gimli said softly, and his hand slid to cup Legolas’ chin and lift it up. “You’re the one who has held out hope for us, all this time: I don’t mind carrying it a bit if you stumble.” Legolas smiled, and kissed him. “All right.” “What of Gimrís ? My mother?” Gimli paused. “My father?” Thorin had turned his head away slightly: he had no wish to see Legolas’ fingers curling into the fine red waves of Gimli’s handsome beard, no matter how fond he was of both. He refocused on them as he turned his mind back to the matter at hand. “Your sister is ferociously busy,” he said. “She reminds me of Óin now and then, forever moving here and there with a task in her hands and medicines slipping from her pockets! She has developed a severe dislike of Laindawar, for he directed most of his impertinent questions at her.” Gimli bit his lip. “Ooooh. And he’s still got all his limbs attached, yes?” “Yes,” Thorin replied, “If only just. Your mother has taken it upon herself to attend to Laerophen’s education.” Gimli relayed this to Legolas, who slumped and stared at Gimli. “This is all so hard to believe,” he said in a hoarse voice. “What are we walking into,” Gimli muttered. Then he lifted his chin. “And Da?” “Has absented himself for some time,” Thorin told him, with regret. “He will not even come to Council anymore.” “Oh Durin’s beard, the Council, I’d forgotten all about the Council! Mahal only knows what the King thinks of this,” Gimli said, and his shoulders fell. “Ah, there at least I have better news.” A swell of pride filled his chest. “The King Stonehelm finds it both hilarious and bemusing, but he has no anger towards either of you, and as the King decides so the rest of the Council have followed suit. They have all fallen into line behind my sister. She will hear nothing against you, nor against Legolas. At all.” “Oh, may your beard grow ever longer, Aunt Dís,” Gimli said explosively, and he leaned back against Legolas. Looking up at the Elf, he said, “well, we’ve quite the hornet’s nest waiting for us.” “And we stuck our faces right into it with those letters of ours,” Legolas said, his expression rueful. “You could not have known,” Thorin said. “Trying something that doesn’t quite work is better than not trying at all, wouldn’t you agree?” “Aye, there’s wisdom in what you say.” Suddenly, Gimli grinned. “Looks like I get to fight a dragon or two after all, doesn’t it?” ... Arrayed in their finest clothes, weapons gleaming in the sunlight, the people gathered at the Barrowfields of Edoras. A stone tomb had been raised there, the eighth upon that side of the field. Gimli had loaned the strength of his arms to it, and it would stand until the end of days. As the door was sealed, Éowyn lifted her face and began to sing. Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day’s rising he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended; over death, over dread, over doom lifted out of loss, out of life, unto long glory. Merry stood to one side, his face wet with tears. Pippin clutched his hand, and for once his tongue was still. “Théoden King, Théoden King! Farewell! As a father you were to me. for a little while,” Merry said softly, as the final stone was placed by Éomer himself. “Farewell!” Then the riders came forward and took off their fine tunics, and covered the tomb in earth. Gimli squeezed Legolas’ hand, and strode forward to help as he could, stripping off his coat and jerkin and kneeling down beside the Men. Legolas watched him avidly, and Aragorn hid a smile. “Merry,” said Éowyn softly, coming to where he stood. He tipped his head up to her, his lip trembling. Without a word he rushed forward and clung around her waist. She laid a gentle hand upon his head, and her own tears rolled even as she spoke. “He was the best of fathers,” she whispered. At last the barrow was covered. Gandalf stood forward and lifted his staff, and white flowers began to peep from under the churned ground, covering the mound. “May you sleep easily, my friend,” he was heard to murmur. The Elves watched with solemn eyes. The Golden Hall of Meduseld was arrayed in light, and the celebrations there were as rowdy as Thorin remembered. He squinted through the haze of smoke from the floor-pit, and could make out Éowyn handing her brother a cup. Éomer kissed his sister’s brow and tugged her close as he raised it. “Now, to hear the names of the Kings!” cried a minstrel, and then they were recited: all the names of the Lords of the Mark in their order, from Eorl the Young all the way to Théoden the Old. And upon Théoden’s name, Éomer drained his cup. Éowyn smiled at him and said, “Hail Éomer, King of Rohan!” “Oh, this cannot only be about myself, sister,” he said, a glint in his eye. “For I am not the hero of this hour, and nor is our uncle…” “Éomer, don’t you dare…” she began, but he was already striding forth, his cup held high. “Fill this, if you would! Good people, I ask that you recharge your cups! For this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father of Éowyn my sister. My brave and valiant sister!” Here he stamped his foot and lifted his voice to a carrying shout, and all assembled roared in answer. Éowyn flushed, and stood tall. “This is what it is to be seen at last, my Lady,” rumbled Gimli under his breath. Thorin glanced back at him, and smiled. Legolas had draped himself over Gimli’s broad shoulders like a determined cloak, his cheek pressed upon Gimli’s hair. “Now all the freedom in the world may be yours.” Éomer waited until the mighty cheer had settled before he went on. “Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.” So Faramir was pushed forward from the crowd by his men, who were laughing, and he took Éowyn’s hand. She lowered her eyes, the embarrassed flush still riding her cheeks, but when she raised them again they were pleased, and happy. Faramir, for his part, looked as though he might explode with joy. As the match was set, the hall erupted once again. “One day,” Legolas whispered into Gimli’s blunt ear, “we shall stand before our Lords and place our hands in each other’s, and plight our troth. And they shall cheer.” “Aye, they will.” Gimli took a sip of his cup, and swallowed hard. “I hope they will.” “Thus,” shouted Éomer over the din, “is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice! For my sister is the most deserving of happiness!” Éowyn gave her brother a dirty look as the cheers renewed themselves, her name shouted to the rafters over and over. He grinned back, unrepentant. “No niggard are you, Éomer,” said Aragorn, “to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!” Éomer snorted loudly. “As though I had any say in it. Éowyn’s choices are her own, at long last.” Éowyn looked in the eyes of Aragorn, as though she were letting go of a thought that had long troubled her. After a brief while she said: “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!” Aragorn’s face softened. “I have wished you joy ever since first I saw you. It heals my heart to see you now in bliss. Be well, Éowyn.” “Right! That’s enough of that then. Let’s have some music!” said Glorfindel loudly. Elrond sighed. “I like him,” said Pippin, grinning. ... Some weeks passed. Dáin hovered over Erebor nearly as often as Víli did, watching his son and Bomfrís and nearly glowing with pride. “She’s a damn fine girl, d’know that?” he could be heard to say to Balin, who nodded with good humour. “Never stops moving, that raven on her shoulder. She’s corralled all the archers into helping out with the Dalefolk’s restorations. Should be that she’s taking more rest though: that child’s not a small one and it grows fast, and she gets tired now. But damn if she doesn’t keep going!” “She still hasn’t married him, has she?” Balin asked. “The Council won’t like that.” “Nope,” Dáin rubbed his hands together with some glee, the piglet on his lap jostling. “Ach, it does ‘em good to be thwarted now and then. And frankly, I don’t think she wants to marry him. She loves my lad with everything in her, sure enough, but she doesn’t want a crown and she’s made everyone know it.” “Won’t marry him!” Balin’s mouth dropped open, and he began to splutter. “But… but…!” “Now, don’t get yourself tied up in knots, my Seneschal friend,” Dáin beamed. “They’re married in all but name, ain’t they?” “How would the records-keepers show that? Why not?” Dáin slapped his knees, and grinned at thin air. “Said she’s Bomfrís, the daughter of a tanner and cook, and that’s how she’ll live and that’s how she’ll stay. They can call her Lady, if they like. That’s a great concession, coming from her! But they’ll never call her Queen, she vows.” Balin blew out a huge breath, and sat back. “The child, then... won’t they be…” “Aye, they sure will!” Dáin guffawed. “Whomever the next ruler of Erebor is, they won’t be a Thorinul. They’ll be a Bomfrísul!” Balin gaped. “Hrera’s going to have apoplexy.” “I’m going to what?” Balin closed his eyes. “Oh, Maker save me.” Dáin explained it – in great detail and with great relish. When he had finished Balin braced himself for the inevitable cascade of terrible sarcasm, but oddly enough Hrera simply nodded in stern approval, and said, “good girl. That shows excellent Broadbeam sense, that does. It’s about time one of that lot had some.” When Balin opened his eyes, Dáin was patting his piglet and giving him a smug look that needed no words. “Oh shut up, your Majesty,” he snapped, and buried his face in his beard. ... “Watch your step here,” said Gimli, pulling Legolas forward with both his hands. “I cannot watch a single thing, meleth , as well you are aware,” said Legolas tartly. All his Elven grace had deserted him in the utter darkness, and he was trying hard to breathe. “I cannot understand how I am to see the beauty of these caverns when I cannot so much as see the shine of your eyes, not two feet before me!” “Soon, love. Soon I will have the torch lit. But where the path grows narrow we would not be able to carry it without scorching ourselves,” said Gimli, apology in his deep tones. “I’m sorry. Are you well enough? We can go back.” “We struck our bargain and I will see it through,” Legolas said, firming his jaw stubbornly and clutching at Gimli’s hands. “I will have my revenge when every tree-root in Fangorn seeks to trip you.” Gimli laughed. “Aye, and you will see me stumble and curse, I promise you. Nearly there. The passage grows tight in ten yards or so: we must crawl for a short while.” “Crawl!” Legolas was aghast. “Is this normal for Dwarves? Did I speak truer than I knew when I called you a mole?” “Normal enough for any who divine caves, saucy Elf. I’ve my journeymanship in mining, though I wouldn’t call myself an expert, and I’ve wriggled through many a tunnel in my youth. So perhaps mole isn’t so far from the truth of it: they do have rather impressive claws and make a mighty digging, after all!” “You call yourself an expert in nothing but fighting, Gimli,” Legolas sighed. “On your belly here, Legolas. Not for long.” “Shame,” Legolas said, all innocence, and listened to Gimli’s abashed spluttering with delight. Oh but what a joy it was to tease and taunt with desire in mind! He shuffled through the narrow tunnel behind Gimli’s boots, keeping his breaths short and shallow. The air was not dank and befouled, as in Moria, and nor was it freezing as a tomb like the tunnels beneath the Dwimorberg. It was cool but musty: a room that had spent too long unopened, waiting to be lived in once more. Legolas found that the weight of the White Mountains above him did not fill him with fear, but a sense of being harboured and protected from the wild moor winds beyond. What could be made of this place, he wondered idly, edging forward on elbows and knees? A better front-door, most certainly. One that would not leave him dripping in moss and cave-water! “Nearly there, my One,” Gimli huffed. “And then you shall see!” “I would welcome seeing anything at all, right now,” he shot back. “Ah, the legendary patience of the Elves!” Gimli chuckled, a little out of breath. “Here, I have reached the first cave. You can stand without cracking your lovely head, Ghivashelê. ” Gratefully Legolas hauled himself out of the mouth of the low tunnel, and stretched out his arms. The echoes around him told of a spacious cavern near at hand, of that much he was sure; and there was the crystalline sound of falling water somewhere close by, like tinkling glass. “A large cave,” he said, to hear his voice bouncing back to them, magnified and multiplied by the distant stone. “Aye, and it sings like a choir, does it not?” Gimli grunted, stretching, and then the rattle of his tinderbox could be heard. “Here, hold the torch for me, if you would?” Legolas felt out blindly, and Gimli’s hand caught his and squeezed. “I can see you,” he murmured. “Don’t be afeared. I’ll have this lit in a trice.” “I’m not afraid.” And Legolas was surprised to find that he truly wasn’t. This place felt welcoming to him, despite the oddness and the indignity of their entrance. “I think this Mountain likes me. Us. I think it likes us being here.” “Aye?” The whisk of flint then hissed around the air as Gimli struck a few first sparks. “Considering that your experience with the great mountains has heretofore been Caradhras alone, I feel that there is most definitely room for improvement.” “I cannot say how welcoming it might have felt without you by my side, to lead my steps,” Legolas said. Gimli’s face lit up in flashes as the flint caught the stone, his eyes made to glow like black rubies. The tinder caught, and Gimli held it to the torch that Legolas carried. “Wait a moment, for your eyes,” Gimli said quietly. “Let it catch.” Legolas blinked, and the odd fire-shapes pressed upon his retinas slowly faded. “My eyes are fine, meleth nín, ” he said, and reached out to stroke back a lock of Gimli’s hair that had come loose through their crawl. “I must do your braids again.” “First, you have a wonder to see,” Gimli promised him. “I already see a wonder,” Legolas said, if only to watch Gimli’s mouth twitch into a pleased and bashful smile. “You’ve no need to flatter what is already yours, Legolas. Come, raise your torch and follow me! The cave turns, and then opens out. Those were the echoes you heard.” Gimli turned and trotted forward. The path was uneven and pitted, sculpted by the unknown hands of time, and Legolas followed with cautious feet. Gimli did not pause but stepped without hesitation, his heavy boots unerringly finding the best places to land. “Yes; here,” he said eventually, and ushered Legolas before him. “Remember to keep that torch high!” “I would not drop it, what do you take me-” And then Legolas had no words, no words at all. Before him was an immense expanse unlike any he had ever seen, filled with pillars that twisted like trees and glistened like dew. The columns stretched from the floor to the vast ceiling high above; there stone draped and billowed like the sails of mighty ships. A fall of water trailed with silver fingers down one entire wall, curtaining it in mirrored glass. A lake pooled at its feet, lapping gently, and jewels winked in its depths. Legolas’ breath was trapped in his chest, and he lifted his torch higher. The vaulted roof was scattered with bright crystals of all sizes and colours, and they caught his flickering light deep in their hearts and made it blaze like the stars. The stone pinnacles and columns were carved into sensuous shapes, of rose and gold and marble all intermingled. They stood like ancient trees, caught by an ancient wind, forever leaning in their last pose. “Gimli,” he whispered. “Oh Gimli …” “Watch this,” said Gimli, his eyes blazing as gloriously as any gem. And he took a pebble and gauged the distance of the cavern, gazing out over the small lake. Then he threw it into the water. The stars beneath the earth danced, catching the light reflected from the surface of the lake and playing with it, toying with it as a kitten would a piece of string. The gems under the water glittered as the ripples moved out in circles: the roof dazzled Legolas’ eyes, and he had to gasp and gasp again. “This place was carved by the water,” Gimli murmured. His voice shimmered back from every surface, rumbling like the very soul of the earth. “Each winter the snows melt, and that little fall becomes a flood. I was fortunate to miss the thaw, or my escape from the Deeping Coombe could have been a trifle more damp than I’d planned.” “And what will you do here?” Legolas spun on the spot, and rainbows of colour burst in every direction, their haloes framing each tiny crystal droplet of water, glowing deep and bold around the piercing wink of the gemstones. “Would you tame the river?” “Why, nothing and by no means,” Gimli laughed, and the earth laughed with him. “Mar this beauty? No, this room would stay as it is. We might divert some of the snow-waters in springtime, for other works, but surely not all. This lake is too precious to destroy.” “Good,” Legolas breathed. He reached out, as though to stroke the walls. “Ah, no!” Gimli caught his hand. “No, my darling Elf, these should not be touched. The minerals here do not long withstand the oils of our skin, and would be damaged by over-handling. They are remarkable both for their longevity and their fragility.” “Oh.” Legolas could not help but be reminded of the fleeting beauty of a flower-petal: both age-old and delicate. “Listen,” said Gimli, and he squeezed Legolas’ hand. “Can you hear it?” The sputtering of the torch seemed rather too loud to Legolas, so he wedged it between a fissure in the rock and stepped forward with empty hands. He felt untethered without it, weightless and cradled in these starry arms of stone. His eyes half-lidded as he strained his ears. The echoes of falling water came back to him, and he shook his head. “I can only hear the echoes…” “Aye, the echoes are how we are first taught,” Gimli said, and he tipped his head back to look up at Legolas. “To the echoes, then.” Legolas gazed down at him, a Dwarf ringed in blazing, dancing light with his hair tumbling over his forehead, even as he listened again. “Even closer, âzyungelê, ” said Gimli, nearly too quiet to hear at all. His voice was the subterranean shift of continents; the slow slide of molten rock underground. His eyes were brighter than any jewel. There was a low, deep pulse. “I can hear your heartbeat,” he said, matching Gimli’s hushed tone. He feared to make more sound; this cave had a breathless, timeless air, a sense of the unknowable and sacred about it, and Legolas was struck to the soul. “Does it say, ‘Legolas, Legolas, Legolas’?” asked Gimli, his teeth flashing white as he grinned. “It says, ‘beer, beer, beer’,” Legolas retorted, feeling devilish. “Ah! My one true love!” Gimli laughed under his breath. “Come foolishness aside, you know it beats for you. Can you find where its echo finishes, where the silence begins? Listen!” Legolas listened. There was indeed something, between the slow even thump of Gimli’s great heart – an echo that was not an echo – an answer . Slower and graver and older even than the songs of ancient roots it was, faint and yet ever-present in everything. Legolas felt sure that this strange, profound rhythm could be felt all the world over. “I hear it,” he mouthed, and his knees were weak. “Mahal sang of stone,” said Gimli, and he kissed the back of Legolas’ hand. His beard was a soft, delicious scratch. “In the void, before Elf or Dwarf or even earth came to be. He sang of stone. Now you hear the beat he used.” “Gimli.” Legolas could not stand longer, and he dropped to his knees to bury his face into Gimli’s barrel chest. “Oh, Gimli, this is a wonder too deep for me…!” “I do not think so, my Elf.” Gimli pushed a hand through his hair, the strands slipping between his fingers. “Not if you can hear it.” “I will teach you to hear the singing of the leaves, the drinking of earth,” he rasped, his cheek pressed hard against Gimli’s leather jerkin. “I cannot begin to repay you for what you have given me here.” “Daft Elf, this needs no answer.” He felt a kiss laid upon the top of his head, belying Gimli’s gruff words. “You are beloved of a Dwarf now, and this is what we are. I would be remiss indeed if I never told you.” “ Sansûkhâl, ” Legolas whispered against his chest, and kissed it just over that gentle, brave, beating heart. “I have no such secrets as these, I have no wondrous gifts to give…” Gimli and Legolas in the Glittering Caves, by Iraya “You are gift enough, to me and to the world.” Gimli said tenderly, and his hand smoothed around Legolas’ head to cup his cheek. “Never doubt that. I have barely even begun to discover what a wonder you are.” Upon his knees, they were nearly of a height: Gimli for once a little taller than Legolas. As it was, Legolas could stretch forth and kiss Gimli easily, his neck craning forward to catch his lips. He could not say how long they kissed, but he did know that the stars danced. “Mm, speaking of gifts,” Gimli said, and he gave Legolas a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. His moustache was springy and luxurious, a sweet counterpoint to the softness of his lips. Legolas plastered himself against that solid stout body, chasing after that clever mouth and its silver tongue, his arms curling around Gimli’s thick neck. “Now, insatiable one! I have another present yet to give you. But,” here Gimli looked rather shy, “I cannot claim it has the value of the first two.” “Am I to discover the fruit of all your secrecy at last?” Legolas asked, and he licked a quick stripe along the bare patch beneath Gimli’s ear. He tasted of sweat and earth, leather and living blood and flesh, not of stone. Gimli shuddered, lips parting. “Now, stop that, or you’ll be getting an entirely different sort of gift!” “What sort of incentive to stop is that ?” “And they call Dwarves the greedy ones.” Gimli kissed him quiet, and that took some time. Legolas lost himself again, and the stars swirled in delight all around. “That will hold you! Now, where is it…” He began to pat down his pockets, and then drew something forth. “Right.” Legolas sat back upon his feet as Gimli hemmed and huffed in a most Dwarvish manner for a second or two, his chin pressed against his chest and his cheeks flaming. “Legolas,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Um. When we plight ourselves, we know it is to one only, and I wasn’t… well, I am no jeweller, but…” “Gimli,” said Legolas gently. “I love you, elen nín .” He brightened, and stood up straighter. “And I you.” “Calm down, mir nín . You have made me something? Something to symbolise our bond? I love it already.” Gimli looked a trifle outraged. “You haven’t even seen it!” Legolas beamed at him. “All right, all…” Gimli shook himself a little, and then thrust out one of his massive hands, his fingers pinched around something that glittered in the reflected light of the jewelled cavern. “Here.” Legolas ignored his own trembling as he took it in careful fingers. “Oh, meleth. ” “It’s… it’s my old hair-bead, the one you kept.” Gimli shrugged with one shoulder, and smiled nervously. He had shown no fear before Wargs, Nazgul and the full might of Mordor, thought Legolas in wonder, turning the ring over and over in his hands. “It’s beautiful,” he said eventually. “I told you I loved it.” Gimli shifted between his feet, biting at his kiss-swollen lip. “Does it fit?” “Put it on me,” Legolas said, and held out his bow-hand. “Ah! Yes it does, and perfectly! You have a good eye. And you call yourself no smith nor jeweller!” “I’ve been getting some lessons,” Gimli said, staring at the ring upon Legolas’ long finger with something approaching awe. “At my age too! But I find every single training mishap worth it, in this moment.” The ring was covered in close raised patterns: Gimli’s own sigil intertwined with leaves and flowers. The weight of it was strange and unfamiliar upon Legolas’ hand, but he used it to thread his fingers through Gimli’s beard and tug him closer. “Well, my Lord of Glittering Caves,” he breathed, “since you have satisfied your ways of bonding, let us at last satisfy mine.” Gimli’s eyes widened. “Legolas, are you sure?” For answer, Legolas only pulled Gimli full-length against him and covered his mouth again, pulling him to the jewel-covered floor. The beat of the earth sang in time with his heart, and the stars glittered for joy above him. … Once Gimli and Legolas left for the Glittering Caves, Thorin left them alone out of respect. (Respect, and an earnest desire not to see anything… intimate.) They returned after only a matter of days, Gimli’s arm wrapped around Legolas’ waist. Thorin could only laugh at the picture they made together. They were so unlike, yet they seemed so natural together. Who would ever have dreamed it? “You look happy,” said Bilbo. “I am,” he replied, and fingered the bead in his short, narrow beard. “I am, Idùzhibuh. ” Bilbo turned back to the sight of Gimli and Legolas embracing Aragorn, and the chattering of the Hobbits all around them. “It suits you,” he said. Thorin glanced at him side-long. There was a cresting tide of pink upon his neck, and his mouth was curled up pensively. “And you.” Legolas was wearing the ring upon his finger, and there was a new shine in his eyes as he spoke gaily with Pippin and Sam. “No, no, I have not the tongue to put words to them!” he was saying. “They were everything Gimli had promised, and more. Like a blanket of stars, like a coral forest beneath the waves, and more! But I cannot do them justice in the slightest. Only Gimli can find fit words for them. And never before has a Dwarf claimed a victory over an Elf in a contest of words!” “I find your tongue quite up to the task,” Gimli murmured. Sam went purple. “Behave yourself, my husband,” said Legolas, his lips twitching. “Lest Sam here have a conniption! As to my tongue, well, let us go on to Fangorn, and set the matter straight!” “I may not take my axe into that wood,” sighed Gimli. “I shall miss it! But then, there is benefit enough to pacify me, I suppose.” “Hang on a mo, back up a bit – husbands?” said Pippin sharply. Legolas beamed, open and carefree and as shameless in his joy as ever. Thorin sent his star a quick, searching look. Gimli only laughed and picked up Legolas’ hand, kissing the back and chafing it in his own broad, brown fingers. “Well, in one sense,” he said. “My people require a bit more in the way of formality than Legolas’ folk do!” “Thranduil is going to murder him,” said Bilbo, sounding rather impressed. Gimli and Legolas, by Ursubs “Why, that’s lovely!” said Sam, still very bright about the cheeks and collar, but he sniffed and added, “you should have let me cook you a wedding feast. Ain’t a proper wedding without a feast.” Gimli sent a meaningful look up at Legolas, who tutted. “Yes, yes, you did warn me,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m appalled,” announced Pippin. “You disregarded all my very good advice, and cheated us out of another party.” “We’ll have to have two now, to make up for it,” said Merry. Aragorn’s eyes as they rested upon the pair were very sober and deep. “May you have every joy together,” he said, and Gimli bowed his head, even as Legolas gave that odd hand-upon-heart gesture of the Elves. “What’s that upon your finger, Legolas?” said Frodo, his voice a little hesitant. Legolas glanced down at his outstretched hand, and then held it up high for the others to see. “Gimli made it,” he explained. “He calls himself a poor smith, naught but a warrior, but see what he can make from a scrap of old gold and a half-formed thought? Meleth , you are a marvel! He made it in Minas Tirith for me. That’s where he has been hiding all these mornings!” “Ach, I had help,” Gimli mumbled, pleased and embarrassed. “You found the right time,” said Thorin, trying very hard not to beam like a sun-addled fool. The ring was beautiful, and despite all Gimli’s fears it appeared to fit perfectly upon Legolas’ hand. “Nay, time was not the issue. Call it…” Gimli looked up at the sky, as though speaking to himself, “Call it rather the right place .” “It’s beautiful,” said Frodo. It seemed to Thorin that he had to steel himself to look upon it. “The flowers, especially.” “Mister Frodo?” Sam said, very quietly. Frodo shook his head. “I’m all right, Sam. It’s… helping, I think. See, it looks nothing like it.” “What’s been happening while we were gone?” Gimli asked, rather diplomatically changing the subject, Thorin thought. “Making preparations to go,” sighed Merry. “I’ve no wish to say goodbye to our Fellowship just yet. We’re all together still, and I don’t want it to end. But on we must go, I suppose!” “I’ll be right glad to get home, I’m sure my garden’s in a state,” Sam said, shaking his head. “And it's harvest time an’ all!” “That’s a pretty thing on your hip there,” said Legolas, nodding at the little green-and-silver horn looped upon Merry’s belt. Merry peered down at it as though he had forgotten it was there. “Ah, well, I couldn’t really refuse them, could I?” he said. “They were so eager to send me off with something – Éowyn and Éomer, that is – and I’d already said no to all their other presents, so I had to accept this one. Isn’t it nice? It has some special magic on it, apparently: He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him.” “And I’m not surprised, for that’s Dwarf-work!” Gimli exclaimed. “How did it come here, I wonder!” “It was an heirloom of Rohan, Éowyn said,” replied Merry, handing it over so that Gimli could look. “Eorl the Young apparently brought it out of the North: a relic from a dragon’s hoard, she said. A worm called Scatha.” Gimli looked up, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Scatha! Well, there’s some ancient history indeed. A beautiful piece, Master Merry, and I can’t think of better hands in which to place it, and no Dwarf would argue with me.” Bilbo was watching Thorin’s face with some suspicion. “There’s a story behind that, isn’t there,” he said. It was not a question. “Probably a sad one.” Thorin took a breath. “Aye. Those ancient Men of Éothéod – they claimed the hoard of Scatha for their own, by virtue of having slain the long-worm. The Dwarves of the Grey Mountains, whose gold it was? Did not agree. The dragonslayer sent them the Dragon’s teeth, telling them that those were the only jewels they deserved.” Bilbo winced. “That appears to be a theme with your people, doesn’t it.” “And one that sorely needs changing, in my opinion,” Thorin agreed. “Still, there are no more great dragons in the world. So there, at least, we can rest easily.” “Thank heavens.” Bilbo pursed his lips. “And you don’t mind Merry holding onto that horn?” “Not in the slightest,” Thorin said. “As Gimli said, what better bearer could it have?” “True.” Bilbo then let his gaze rest upon Frodo, who was quiet and still as he fingered the jewel clasped around his throat. “He looks better, don’t you think?” “He does indeed.” Thorin stepped close, and Bilbo tilted his head slightly. If they held very still, it was almost as if he were laying it upon Thorin’s shoulder. … Two days later they rode from Helms Deep to Isengard. The place was unrecognisable, and Ori shivered a little when he saw the Ents standing here and there, tending to the orchards and groves that filled the basin walls. “ Nahùba Ori,” said Bifur, encouragingly. “Oh, stop hovering,” Ori sniffed a little, but he pushed forward nevertheless and strode out behind the Fellowship and their retinue. “Oooh! It’s a lake!” “It was a lake before,” Bifur said, confused, and he pushed through all the assembled folk and horses to stand where Ori was. Ori shook his head, beads bouncing. “No, it was a sea before. It’s a proper lake now! Fed by a stream and everything!” It was true. The first rush of the breaking dam had washed the bowl of Isen clean, and then receded. Now a clear sparkling lake filled its centre. The tower of Orthanc rose out of it, and the black spikes at its peak were reflected in the pool. Small fish could be seen darting here and there in its waters. Its edges were bordered by trees, standing like sentinels, their boughs heavy with late fruit. Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a halt at the edge of the lake, and presently there came a great “Hoom, hoom!” “Oh dear,” Ori said, and tugged his scarf up over his mouth so that only his eyes could be seen peering over the top. Bifur wrapped an arm around him and tugged him close to his chest. “Don’t mind if I hover, do you?” Ori did not answer, but pinched his arm rather sharply. Bifur chuckled. “Young Master Gandalf!” Treebeard boomed, striding forward from a stand of flowering apple trees. “I knew you were coming, but I was away at work up in the valley, and it does not do to rush these things, barum! Still, I may bid you welcome now to the Treegarth of Isengard.” “Thank you, old friend,” Gandalf said, and he waved a hand at the amazing transformation. “What you have wrought is nothing short of miraculous.” “Hmm, yes. But you have not been idle either, I hear.” Treebeard leaned forward, his knotted brows tangling together as he peered at the Wizard. “And what I hear is very good. Yes, very good. Have you come to see our work?” “Yes, and to see your prisoner,” said Gandalf, wheeling Shadowfax to look up at the great black spike looming from crystal-clear waters. “Has he given you any trouble?” “Hoom, hum! Well,” Treebeard said, standing all at once and twisting his long twiggy fingers into his beard. Slowly (as though he would ever do it quickly ) he began to tell them the tale. “Let him go?!” Ori gasped. “But why?” “Pity,” sighed Bifur. “It is a good quality to have, but I can’t help but feel it was misplaced here.” “Trouble’s going to come of that, I’m sure of it,” said Ori glumly. Gandalf’s eyes flickered to him as he spoke, and the Wizard seemed to concur in wordless sorrow. “How much worse must it be for him, I wonder,” said Bifur, softly. “Gandalf, gamil bâhûn, birashagimi. ” Gandalf nodded, ever so slightly. His deep and ancient eyes closed for a moment, before he pulled himself together and smiled upon Treebeard. “Then let us see your work, my friend, and talk of the future.” “Hmm, hoom! Don’t be hasty! The future will wait a time. First, let me farewell these great ones you have with you, for it is long ages since I have hosted such in my woods.” Treebeard bowed three times slowly and with great reverence to Celeborn and Galadriel. “It is long, long since we met by stock or by stone, A vanimar, vanimálion nostari! ” he said. “It is sad that we should meet only thus at the ending. For the world is changing: I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, and I smell it in the air. I do not think we shall meet again.” Celeborn pressed a hand to his heart. “I do not know, Eldest,” he murmured. Galadriel then spoke, but she was not looking at Treebeard; her eyes seemed to pierce straight through the giant Ent, fixed upon some distant maybe. “Not in Middle-earth, nor until the lands that lie under the wave are lifted up again. Then in the willow-meads of Tasarinan we may meet in the Spring. Farewell!” Treebeard sighed like the wind rushing through branches. Creaking as he turned away, he addressed Merry and Pippin directly. “Well, my merry folk,” he said, “will you drink another draught with me before you go?” “Will we!” cried Pippin eagerly. “I’m going to beat the Bullroarer at this rate!” “I’m still the taller one,” Merry grumbled, but he was clambering from Stybba’s back as he spoke. “Treebeard, we’d love to.” “We’ll be leaving from here as well, laddie,” said Gimli to Aragorn, who bent his head. “Fangorn awaits, meleth nín ,” Legolas said, and he laughed at the rueful face Gimli pulled in response. “Then here at last is the end of our Fellowship,” said Aragorn, and he reached out his hands. Gimli and Legolas laid theirs upon his at once, and they were swiftly joined by the Hobbits. Last of all, Gandalf added his hand to theirs. “Yet I hope that ere long you will return to my land with the help that you promised. I already long to see you all again.” “We will come,” swore Gimli. “Gates I promised you, and Gates you shall have.” “As soon as our own Lords allow,” Legolas amended. “Please don’t start another war in the North, you two,” Gandalf told them. “I’ve had quite enough of flitting about and putting out fires!” “I will miss you all terribly,” said Pippin sadly. “Ach, chin up, my hobbits! You should come safe to your own homes now, and I shall not be kept awake for fear of your peril. But please, for the sake of my heart, stay clear of wells and trolls, eh?” Gimli said, smiling at him. Legolas was more solemn as he looked deep into their faces. “We will send word when we may, and some of us may yet meet at times; but I fear that we shall not all be gathered together ever again.” “The bonds of our Fellowship can never be broken,” said Frodo. “Never.” “Not even by death, may his soul rest in peace,” added Sam staunchly. Ori bit down on his glove, and thanked the Hobbit’s honest little heart for remembering Boromir in that moment. “Tea is at four,” Merry said, and he squeezed tightly at their joined hands with all his might. “And you’re not to bother knocking!” Finally Gandalf let his hands fall. “I am prouder of all of you than I have words to tell,” he said. “And I say to you, be happy and well! For you are the great ones of Middle-Earth now, and to you falls her care and protection. No finer guardians could she ask for.” … “Will I ever see you again?” Galadriel paused with her hands still tucked in a saddlebag. “I know you will, Lockbearer.” Gimli ducked his head. “But, I thought you were sailing. Now that the Ring is gone and all.” “I am.” She turned, and knelt before him. Her hair was free, and golden rivulets framed her face in waves of glory. “I will. When the tides turn and the wind blows to the west, my exile shall be ended and the white shore will call me home at last. Yet if there is anything left of the grace granted to me of old, then I foretell that we shall meet again. This is not the end, my friend.” Gimli shook his head. “I don’t see how. Not at all.” She tucked a lock of his bright hair behind his ear, and then laid a kiss on his brow. “ Namárië, ” she said, and smiled upon his honest confusion. “For now.” ... It was a two-month journey on horseback to the North, and Erebor. It seemed no time at all to Thorin, who watched Gimli and Legolas occasionally to make sure of their safe passage. He never stayed too long, however. He well remembered what it was to be around a pair newly hand-fasted from the time following his sister’s wedding. He gave his visits some variety by periodically checking upon the Hobbits and Gandalf as they made their journey West. It was an easy task, guarded as they were by both the Wizard, Elrond and Glorfindel. They were but scant days from Rivendell: Bilbo was tremendously eager to see them. Then one day, just as Autumn's colours were beginning to fade, a sight so familiar that it tore Thorin’s heart finally rose in the distance before Arod’s nose. “Nearly there,” Thorin said, and took a slow, deep breath, before allowing the stars to carry him away. They would arrive soon, and then it would begin, and he had a feeling that he would need all his strength and all his wits to support Gimli through it. Some time later, Legolas stared up at the pitted, battle-scarred slopes of the Mountain. The fields between Dale and Erebor were thick with grey-green grass when at last they faced the familiar Gates. The giant stone statues either side had been pulverised into near-ruins, but they still brandished their axes high. “Are you ready?” Gimli shook his head, his braids bouncing. “No.” Legolas swallowed. “Neither am I.” “Well, let’s go and not be ready together then,” Gimli said, and squeezed Legolas’ hand. “They’ll know we’re here. The sentries will have spotted us miles away.” Legolas’ lip quirked. “Even in full daylight?” “I’ll have you know we make circles of glass that are polished so finely that you can see the scales upon a single thread of hair,” Gimli said, and pinched his thigh. “We should let Arod rest.” “I swear, Gimli, you have become more solicitous of him even than I. They will be calling you a Dwarf of Rohan next.” “Soon enough, if I can convince my new King about our caves,” Gimli said. He took a deep breath, and dropped down from Arod’s back, his feet hitting the ground with an almighty thud. Then he looked up and his eyes firmed with resolve. “Best to get on with it.” “Are you sure we can’t go and live in the Shire?” Legolas muttered, but he also dismounted and took Arod’s halter in his hand. “You must call. My throat is dry.” “Aye, ale there must be, and plenty of it – and soon!” Gimli raised his voice. “Ho, the Mountain!” “Ho, travellers! A strange pair! What is your business?” Gimli growled. “My business is to kick your bloody behind, Jeri child of Beri! You know damned well who I am.” “And now I’m sure of it,” came the light laughter from the battlements. “Gimli, welcome! Good to see you home at last! You’ve a few things to fess up to, I hear!” “You’re a gossip, Jeri,” Gimli shouted back, rolling his eyes. “Open the gates!” “Is that Thranduil’s son with you?” “No, it’s the seventh coming. Who else d’you think it is?” Gimli said, folding his arms. “Tetchy!” Jeri sang out. “Right, hang on a mo, the doors are a bit sticky ever since the siege. Open ‘em!” “The siege must have been terrible indeed,” Legolas murmured, looking around. The ground was tossed into hillocks all around the mountainside, and though the grass was peeping through, many places were burned and bare. “I’m guessing so,” Gimli said, and his jaw was tense. “Quick, are my beads facing the right way? Are they clean?” “They look better than when I first met you, meleth, ” laughed Legolas. “Now that you have your own personal hair-tender, you are practically unrecognisable. They will not believe you to be the same scruffy Dwarf that left Erebor.” Gimli looked amused for a moment, and then with a deep crack the great gates of Erebor began to swing open towards them. “Here we go,” he muttered, and he threw back his shoulders, his chin high and set. “Together,” Legolas said quietly, and they stood still as the warm dark unfurled before them. ... TBC Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).

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