YAY FIC.
I can't believe I've been churning stuff out like this. A couple of previously-stalled WiPs have suddenly jumpstarted as well, yay!
Rebel Diamonds, J2 fusion, 3 / ?
Rebel Diamonds, J2 fusion, 3 / ?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jensen loved his small stone cottage, nestled in the woods behind Redactor House.
He was close enough that he could assist with emergencies, far enough away that he was isolated from the worst of the gossip. The downstairs contained not just a living room, but also a good-sized kitchen, with real, full-sized appliances and space for a table and chairs. A small room that had been fitted out as a basic med unit was tucked away on the other side of the laundry room, and a broad porch ran the length of the rear of the house.
There were three upstairs rooms, one of which Jensen used as sleeping quarters, one as a sort of library, and the third . . . he’d optimistically furnished it as a second bedroom. There was always the possibility, however remote, that a patient with an especially sensitive psyche might need some distance from the activity of the many minds living at Redactor House, and Jensen’s inability to farsense had the unexpected side effect of blocking other heads from telepathic conversation in his presence. It was as effective as any mechanical psycho-damper, and not as easily sabotaged.
It was nice to finally feel useful, Jensen often thought, even though it meant attending far too many formal occasions, political functions thinly disguised as socialization between the various Psycho-Houses. It wasn’t too bad when the gatherings were mostly redactors from other Houses, but the aggressive natures of the coercers and the psychokinetics gave Jensen a headache. Traveling to Guild houses outside Lady Ferris’ jurisdiction just made it worse, and especially the Houses of other metafunctions, but she had given him no choice. Since acting as a living telepathic damper was the one useful function Jensen was able to offer to his House and his Guild, he was unwilling to refuse the summonses disguised as invitations. That meant that tonight, Jensen was trapped like a lonely rat in the physical labyrinth and political morass that was Creator House Northeast.
He hated the word games, the mandatory pleasantries, the looks on the faces surrounding him whenever someone realized that he was Jensen Ackles, the redactive freak. The majority of the other metas generally steered clear of him, confining themselves to appalled whispers and horrified glances, but he usually he had to fend off at least a few advances from both women and men, out to prove the truth of the rumors that had swirled around Jensen for years. Then there were the sycophants, trying to make a connection to his powerful family through him, not knowing or not caring that he’d had no contact with any of them in the last eight years.
He glanced around the room, noticed Lady Ferris in deep discussion with the First Lord of the Farsensors Guild, and took the chance to slip away from the crowded ballroom and find an exit to a secluded garden area.
Away from the stifling heat of the crowded room and the oppressive nature of the personalities crammed within, Jensen felt like he could breathe for the first time since today’s flight had landed in Maine. The crisp evening air was refreshing against his flushed face, and he wished, not for the first time, that he was back in his cozy cottage with a tidy fire burning and the comfort of the dogs at his feet.
Jensen turned down a brick-lined path that he was fairly sure had been there when he first stepped out the door. Creators loved their illusions, and most of them took cruel joy in trapping unwary guests in their deceptive creations. Jensen was less susceptible than most ‘heads to such trickery because of his built-in meta-block, but it paid to be wary. He didn’t want to be one of the guests usually found wandering the grounds in the morning, damp and shivering from a night spent struggling to find the way back to the mansion.
He found the hedge-maze by accident. It was probably real; this particular house was an old Victorian-era estate, built by one of the nineteenth-century bankers that were so common in the Boston area. From what Jensen had seen, the house and the grounds had been kept up in the old style, and the maze wasn’t impenetrable, just dark and smelling of wet leaves.
The paths were surprisingly simple to navigate, but it wasn’t until Jensen nearly tripped over the boy huddled in the center of the framed boxwoods that he realized he’d been following his empathy the whole time. The low-key discomfort must not have been strong enough for Jensen to recognize as originating outside his own mind, but the boy barely raised his head long enough to acknowledge Jensen’s presence before burying his face in his folded arms again.
“If they’ve sent you to bring me back, you can forget it,” the boy said, voice muffled but still defiant. “I’ve had enough.”
Jensen rolled his eyes. “Do what you want,” he muttered, just as rudely. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get out of here.”
The kid glanced up at that, eyes shining wetly in the faint moonlight. “Jeff didn’t send you?” he demanded suspiciously.
Jensen was busily scanning the hedges and trying to decide if he could just blunder through them with brute force. “Who?” he asked, distracted.
“The Second Lord Psychokinetic,” the kid said. “He didn’t send you out to look for me?”
Jensen turned around at that and glared. “Look, kid, I don’t know who you think I am, or who you think you are, but none of the Lords, PK or otherwise, is going to ask me for a damned thing.”
He took a step towards the path that he thought had led him in here. It gleamed white and seductive in the moonlight, and Jensen hesitated with his foot above the pale gravel. He didn’t remember that brightness, and he thought he’d walked on grass, so now he eyed the course with trepidation.
The kid spoke again, sounding a little more friendly this time. “If you really want to get out, look for the darkest trails,” he suggested. “The creators like to build their illusions brighter, so you’re more tempted to snare yourself.”
“The will-o-wisp,” Jensen said, turning before he could stop himself. The kid was looking up at him, smiling now, and he shrugged before agreeing. “All the myths had to start somewhere.” He pushed himself to his feet, stiffly, like he’d been sitting on damp and chilly ground for far too long, and wiped his hands on his tuxedo pants. “I’m Jared.”
He didn’t offer his hand to shake; that was a major faux pas among metas, but kind of waggled his fingers in a sort of wave. Jensen blinked, already halfway to the raised and open hand, the palm turned out, that was the formal greeting between strangers with psy-powers, and partway through his formal identification. He got out, “I’m Jensen-“ and snapped his mouth shut. The kid didn’t seem to recognize him, and that was fine. He’d find out soon enough; there was no reason for Jensen to shove it in his face.
Jared grinned, a wide and happy expression that completely transformed his previously woebegone features. “Hi, Jensen,” he said politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Jensen found himself nodding in agreement. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You, too.”
Jared slanted him a sideways glance and a crooked smile. “I suck at the whole formal thing,” he confided. “And I totally hate these stupid affairs.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the lines of his suit, and started to walk to the darker side of the maze, his gait halting, almost limping, and visibly pained.
“Wait,” Jensen started to say, the redactor in him overcoming all sense of manners, “let me help you---“ and then the brilliant rosy-gold light of a strong psychokinetic washed over the maze, and an exasperated male voice scolded loudly, “*There* you are, you contrary little bastard! What the hell are you doing? You promised you’d stick close for once in your life!”
The next thing Jensen knew, Jared was gone, presumably using his own PK to bolt from the ‘head who had rebuked him. Since Jensen had obviously gone unnoticed in the scramble, he sighed and settled in to wait patiently until a nocturnal animal might wander up to him and lead him out of the maze.
It didn’t take long until a friendly raccoon stopped by and escorted him through the illusions, almost to the door of the ballroom, but by then the guests were gone, dispersed to assignations or machinations according to their natures, and Jensen found his way to his own room mostly by luck.
He had time to wonder briefly about the kid in the maze as he settled into bed, but was quickly overcome by his own exhaustion, and Jensen sank into sleep wishing fervently for the isolated comfort of his little stone cottage and his canine friends.
At least there were only two days left of this torture.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Rebel Diamonds, J2 fusion, 3 / ?
Rebel Diamonds, J2 fusion, 3 / ?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jensen loved his small stone cottage, nestled in the woods behind Redactor House.
He was close enough that he could assist with emergencies, far enough away that he was isolated from the worst of the gossip. The downstairs contained not just a living room, but also a good-sized kitchen, with real, full-sized appliances and space for a table and chairs. A small room that had been fitted out as a basic med unit was tucked away on the other side of the laundry room, and a broad porch ran the length of the rear of the house.
There were three upstairs rooms, one of which Jensen used as sleeping quarters, one as a sort of library, and the third . . . he’d optimistically furnished it as a second bedroom. There was always the possibility, however remote, that a patient with an especially sensitive psyche might need some distance from the activity of the many minds living at Redactor House, and Jensen’s inability to farsense had the unexpected side effect of blocking other heads from telepathic conversation in his presence. It was as effective as any mechanical psycho-damper, and not as easily sabotaged.
It was nice to finally feel useful, Jensen often thought, even though it meant attending far too many formal occasions, political functions thinly disguised as socialization between the various Psycho-Houses. It wasn’t too bad when the gatherings were mostly redactors from other Houses, but the aggressive natures of the coercers and the psychokinetics gave Jensen a headache. Traveling to Guild houses outside Lady Ferris’ jurisdiction just made it worse, and especially the Houses of other metafunctions, but she had given him no choice. Since acting as a living telepathic damper was the one useful function Jensen was able to offer to his House and his Guild, he was unwilling to refuse the summonses disguised as invitations. That meant that tonight, Jensen was trapped like a lonely rat in the physical labyrinth and political morass that was Creator House Northeast.
He hated the word games, the mandatory pleasantries, the looks on the faces surrounding him whenever someone realized that he was Jensen Ackles, the redactive freak. The majority of the other metas generally steered clear of him, confining themselves to appalled whispers and horrified glances, but he usually he had to fend off at least a few advances from both women and men, out to prove the truth of the rumors that had swirled around Jensen for years. Then there were the sycophants, trying to make a connection to his powerful family through him, not knowing or not caring that he’d had no contact with any of them in the last eight years.
He glanced around the room, noticed Lady Ferris in deep discussion with the First Lord of the Farsensors Guild, and took the chance to slip away from the crowded ballroom and find an exit to a secluded garden area.
Away from the stifling heat of the crowded room and the oppressive nature of the personalities crammed within, Jensen felt like he could breathe for the first time since today’s flight had landed in Maine. The crisp evening air was refreshing against his flushed face, and he wished, not for the first time, that he was back in his cozy cottage with a tidy fire burning and the comfort of the dogs at his feet.
Jensen turned down a brick-lined path that he was fairly sure had been there when he first stepped out the door. Creators loved their illusions, and most of them took cruel joy in trapping unwary guests in their deceptive creations. Jensen was less susceptible than most ‘heads to such trickery because of his built-in meta-block, but it paid to be wary. He didn’t want to be one of the guests usually found wandering the grounds in the morning, damp and shivering from a night spent struggling to find the way back to the mansion.
He found the hedge-maze by accident. It was probably real; this particular house was an old Victorian-era estate, built by one of the nineteenth-century bankers that were so common in the Boston area. From what Jensen had seen, the house and the grounds had been kept up in the old style, and the maze wasn’t impenetrable, just dark and smelling of wet leaves.
The paths were surprisingly simple to navigate, but it wasn’t until Jensen nearly tripped over the boy huddled in the center of the framed boxwoods that he realized he’d been following his empathy the whole time. The low-key discomfort must not have been strong enough for Jensen to recognize as originating outside his own mind, but the boy barely raised his head long enough to acknowledge Jensen’s presence before burying his face in his folded arms again.
“If they’ve sent you to bring me back, you can forget it,” the boy said, voice muffled but still defiant. “I’ve had enough.”
Jensen rolled his eyes. “Do what you want,” he muttered, just as rudely. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get out of here.”
The kid glanced up at that, eyes shining wetly in the faint moonlight. “Jeff didn’t send you?” he demanded suspiciously.
Jensen was busily scanning the hedges and trying to decide if he could just blunder through them with brute force. “Who?” he asked, distracted.
“The Second Lord Psychokinetic,” the kid said. “He didn’t send you out to look for me?”
Jensen turned around at that and glared. “Look, kid, I don’t know who you think I am, or who you think you are, but none of the Lords, PK or otherwise, is going to ask me for a damned thing.”
He took a step towards the path that he thought had led him in here. It gleamed white and seductive in the moonlight, and Jensen hesitated with his foot above the pale gravel. He didn’t remember that brightness, and he thought he’d walked on grass, so now he eyed the course with trepidation.
The kid spoke again, sounding a little more friendly this time. “If you really want to get out, look for the darkest trails,” he suggested. “The creators like to build their illusions brighter, so you’re more tempted to snare yourself.”
“The will-o-wisp,” Jensen said, turning before he could stop himself. The kid was looking up at him, smiling now, and he shrugged before agreeing. “All the myths had to start somewhere.” He pushed himself to his feet, stiffly, like he’d been sitting on damp and chilly ground for far too long, and wiped his hands on his tuxedo pants. “I’m Jared.”
He didn’t offer his hand to shake; that was a major faux pas among metas, but kind of waggled his fingers in a sort of wave. Jensen blinked, already halfway to the raised and open hand, the palm turned out, that was the formal greeting between strangers with psy-powers, and partway through his formal identification. He got out, “I’m Jensen-“ and snapped his mouth shut. The kid didn’t seem to recognize him, and that was fine. He’d find out soon enough; there was no reason for Jensen to shove it in his face.
Jared grinned, a wide and happy expression that completely transformed his previously woebegone features. “Hi, Jensen,” he said politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Jensen found himself nodding in agreement. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You, too.”
Jared slanted him a sideways glance and a crooked smile. “I suck at the whole formal thing,” he confided. “And I totally hate these stupid affairs.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the lines of his suit, and started to walk to the darker side of the maze, his gait halting, almost limping, and visibly pained.
“Wait,” Jensen started to say, the redactor in him overcoming all sense of manners, “let me help you---“ and then the brilliant rosy-gold light of a strong psychokinetic washed over the maze, and an exasperated male voice scolded loudly, “*There* you are, you contrary little bastard! What the hell are you doing? You promised you’d stick close for once in your life!”
The next thing Jensen knew, Jared was gone, presumably using his own PK to bolt from the ‘head who had rebuked him. Since Jensen had obviously gone unnoticed in the scramble, he sighed and settled in to wait patiently until a nocturnal animal might wander up to him and lead him out of the maze.
It didn’t take long until a friendly raccoon stopped by and escorted him through the illusions, almost to the door of the ballroom, but by then the guests were gone, dispersed to assignations or machinations according to their natures, and Jensen found his way to his own room mostly by luck.
He had time to wonder briefly about the kid in the maze as he settled into bed, but was quickly overcome by his own exhaustion, and Jensen sank into sleep wishing fervently for the isolated comfort of his little stone cottage and his canine friends.
At least there were only two days left of this torture.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*