The Staving of the Doom

by Scratched Surface

What if there was more to Professor Martin Stein than met the eye? What if it was something... magical? (Or, what if Martin Stein was Merlin?) One-shot. T for language. Ronnie is also a character.

The Staving of the Doom

By: Scratched Surface

Word Count: 5000-ish

Warnings: Character Death, one(?) swear word, an injury (briefly described), fiery deaths (briefly described), and self-deprecating thoughts. Tell me if I missed anything.

Spoilers: Season one of The Flash, and Series Finale of Merlin

Summary: What if there was more to Professor Martin Stein than met the eye? What if it was something... magical? (Or, what if Martin Stein was Merlin?)

A/N: Just a little something I thought up (and then spent a week expanding upon, polishing, and stressing over. And there's still way too much passive voice. It's fine tho). A one-shot for now, though I do have some ideas about what happens next. This is technically a crossover with the tv show Merlin, but I didn't want my story to be the only one in that category, so here we are. I also considered putting it in the Flash category, but since I originally got the idea watching Legends, it just felt right to put it here.

This is unbeta-ed. Enjoy.

000

Professor Martin Stein was over one thousand years old when he decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. What did he want to be? Martin Stein, of course.

Well, that's the name he chose, at least. 'Martin' was similar to his old name so that he didn't have to give it up completely. And 'Stein' was an homage to his chosen field of study, nuclear physics.

His old name was synonymous with magic in this modern age. Magic was ingrained as part of his identity. So it was almost by instinct that he baked his new profession into his new name as well.

He'd fought in countless wars. As much as he hated the bloodshed and suffering, humans and their destructive tendencies had become routine. He did his best to protect the innocent and aid the righteous. It was far from easy, but magic certainly helped the process along. Until it didn't.

He couldn't rely on his magic anymore, which felt like skipping a step going downstairs every time he remembered. Thousand-year-old habits are hard to break. But it is possible.

Because on August 6, 1945, the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, and magic broke.

It wasn't the first time science had been used for mass destruction; humans had been pushing the limits of nature since the very first spark. But the A-bomb proved the proverbial straw that ripped apart the mystical forces binding magic to the physical realm.

It wasn't that magic was gone from the world, exactly. It was still there, leaking out of places that had once been drenched with it, clinging to the dirt instead of roaming free. He could still call on it, but it felt different, less stable. It used to be exhilarating. Now it was exhausting. Every spell felt like sludge as it passed through his veins.

At first, the broken state of magic became a new part of the routine. Another slowly deteriorating aspect of the world. If left unattended, it would destroy life and civilization, sure, but he'd faced that caliber of threat a dozen times over. He would fix it eventually.

But with magic's instability came the distressing side effect of amnesia. So slowly he didn't notice until it was too late, one thousand years of memories dropped out of focus. They weren't completely gone. He could remember who and what he was. But specifics escaped him. His theory was that because his lifespan was magically extended, the memories tied to that life were ripped away in the Break. That raised some worrying questions about his longevity, but he pushed those away in light of the crisis that magic faced.

Without those memories, it took him nearly a decade to figure out exactly what happened, to pin down the source of the Break to the bomb. Once he discovered that, his plan of action became clear. If science had Broken magic, then science would fix it.

So, in a haze of sweat and pain and a cloud of lethargic magic, Merlin became Martin Stein.

000

Martin Stein dedicated his whole life to repairing magic, not that he told anyone. To the outside world, or, really, to anyone educated enough to matter, he was simply a nuclear pioneer, delving further into quantum mechanics than anyone had gone before and racking up awards as he went.

Then he met Clarissa, and his whole world changed. Love had never been in the picture, but… there she was. The happiness she brought him was enough to soothe the ancient ache in his heart. Every time she smiled, it seemed a bit of magic returned to the world. He could not keep any secrets from her. The night he proposed, he told her everything. He expected her to curse him, to strike him, to flee, but she did none of that. Once he finished his tale, she hugged her knees as they cuddled on her parents' loveseat and stared into the fireplace. (It was unlit. For some reason, he detested the crackle of the logs, the heat of the flames.) He could not read her expression. Then she leaned in and kissed him. He retained enough of his memories to know that he had never felt this type of joy before, this complete elation that peeled through his head like bells.

The next day, a pair of nice orderlies dressed in white appeared at his door and tried to drag him away.

They worked through that hiccup together.

Once Clarissa truly accepted his magic, she was fascinated. Together, they dredged up his memories, even got a couple to stay in focus. And while they were at it, they made some fantastic new ones. Without her, he would still be crumpling up theories in his lab, getting high in a fruitless effort to ease the weariness settling in his bones as magic leached away his soul. With her, his thousand-year-old self felt like he was finally living.

Project F.I.R.E.S.T.O.R.M was both his making and his undoing. It was every hope he had of repairing magic, every curse he'd ever thrown to the heavens. It was his everything, his all or nothing.

And it failed.

His funding was rescinded, his teammates scattered, and his research hit a dead end. In short, he had nothing. Except for Clarissa. Oh, what did he do to deserve such a wonderful partner? She matched his despair stride for stride with persistence and talked sense into his stubborn head.

She put him on the train the day the particle accelerator was to be turned on. If there's anyone who can help us, she said, it's Harrison Wells. So he packed up the therma core and made his way to Star Labs.

Through some unfortunate (or fortunate?) traffic and security problems, he arrived too late to meet with Wells before the accelerator turned on, so he resorted to picking the lock on a back entrance. Surrounded by soaking wet concrete, he witnessed the sky tear open, felt magic tear further, and met his destiny in the form of Ronnie Raymond.

It was rather discombobulating to wake up in a stranger's body. And the months that followed were not an improvement. Stringing together coherent thoughts became exponentially more difficult when his new brain was ill-equipped to handle the influx of a thousand years worth of muddled memories. He went into survival mode, a rather unpleasant but necessary skill he'd picked up over his nomadic millennia, eschewing all magic for fear of detection and capable only of ensuring food, water, and shelter.

He had a vague recollection of attempting to return to Clarissa but catching a glimpse of his flaming reflection after she ran away. And that's when he remembered why he hated fire. Memories from his youngest days - the days that made him, meshed with other events punctuated over time. Humans and their depravity were routine to him, but that didn't mean he had ever become desensitized to the horror of a person writhing in agony as they roasted on the stake.

That was the first time He took over. (Ronald, that is, but he only found out His identity after the fact.) It happened a handful of times, when he became overwhelmed by terror and grief as memories rose up (as was happening more frequently), He took over for a short while. It was quite unnerving at first, but, gradually, Martin became accustomed to it, was even comforted by His presence. Martin had no way of speaking with Him in this unstable state, but he felt that He was a dependable, honest sort of fellow, a protector.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) the Firestorm matrix was too unstable. The accidents that followed brought his (their?) situation to the attention of the intelligent folks at Star Labs, and he and Ronald were swiftly separated.

To be clear-headed and reunited with Clarissa for the first time in months was a privilege he hardly felt he deserved. So when he started craving that odious modern food, pizza, and soon thereafter found himself at the mercy of a military man, General Eiling, he could barely bring himself to be surprised. It was basically routine.

He'd endured plenty of torture over the years. There was no way he would break under the pressure. Still, he was touched when Ronald and Mr. Allen rescued him. It had been nearly a thousand years since he'd had someone swoop in to save him like that.

Firestorm's power was astonishing, even when you subtracted the flight and offensive capabilities. The nuclear radiation that he and Ronald emitted when fused wasn't quite magic, but it certainly eased the burden of wielding it. What's more, the longer time they spent fused, the more memories returned to him, sliding into place like puzzle pieces. It necessitated he procure the habit of journaling so that he could ensure no knowledge was lost. Anything could be a hint to aid in repairing magic.

Of course, Ronald was a bright lad. He could not read Martin's thoughts verbatim, but he did not need to. They had gotten to know each other so well thanks to Firestorm that they nearly always had an understanding. The only time Martin actively discouraged relying on the connection was when some magical threat rose up. (Magic may have been Broken, but that did not mean the creatures belonging to it did not stop endangering themselves and others.)

Martin was sneaking back into their apartment after a particularly nasty fight with a malicious griffin when it all came out. He crawled in through the fire escape and made to head to the bathroom to heal himself, but Ronald was in the way.

"The heck are you doing out so late?"

Martin briefly considered erasing his memory and immediately felt guilty about it. Ronald was not some pitchfork wielding peasant.

"Don't mind me, just catching some fresh air."

"Bullshit, professor, I have an eight-inch gash down my side and one wicked headache."

Martin winced. In the past, Ronald slept too heavily to feel the injuries they sustained in Martin's outings. He hesitated only a moment before deciding his course of action.

"Seeing as neither of us is well equipped for a full explanation of my… shenanigans… at this late hour, perhaps it would be best if I simply showed you." He reached towards Ronald's bleeding side. "If I may?"

Ronald, confused, lifted his shirt.

The spell rolled off his tongue with ease, but the fatigue that fell over him sent him stumbling to the side. Ronald was too distracted by the shrinking laceration to notice. Martin shook himself back to alertness and braced himself for Ronald's reaction.

Ronald ran his hand over the line of light pink down his side, all that remained of the cut. His hand shadowed the view, so he twisted to catch the moonlight. At that moment, Martin recalled a shaggy black dog that had reacted in a manner almost identical to Ronald after Martin healed her. He chuckled softly as Ronald's confusion caused him to spin a full circle, caught between the moon and hall light as if chasing a tail. Martin withdrew his journal from his breast pocket and dashed down the memory. Ronald looked up.

"Professor, uh…"

"It's magic, Ronald, nothing to be afraid of."

"It's…"

"Magic."

He flipped the journal closed and tucked it away while holding Ronald in a staring contest, trying to discern if the young man would become violent. His own side was slowly closing as a consequence to their entanglement, but that did not mean he was ready to flee out the fire escape if need be, which was all part of the routine at this point. Drat, he was getting too old for this job.

A smile grew on Ronald's face, and through their bond, he sensed, not fear or repulsion, but… a sort of giddiness and a deep curiosity.

"Wicked."

Martin blinked in confusion.

"I truly detest modern slang words, Ronald. Does 'wicked' express a positive or negative connotation?"

"In this case, positive."

Ronald tore his attention away from his side, distracted by the wave of relief that Martin emitted.

"You have questions, I assume."

"Uh, yeah. Only about a thousand. What the heck, professor?"

Needless to say, neither of them slept that night. He told Ronald the full truth. And once he no longer had to hide the magic side of Firestorm, they made leaps and bounds in discovering the full extent of their powers.

The most curious discovery they made was in Ronald's affinity for spell casting.

Martin had, at first, been hesitant to teach Ronald magic. The chances that he even possessed the predisposition necessary were infinitesimal. But Ronald persisted, doing his own research when Martin wouldn't oblige, citing such reputable sources as a Dungeons and Dragons manual. Martin put up with it up until Ronald started blurting out nonsense words every time they launched a fireball.

"Martin, calm down. I was just messing around." Ronald ran a hand through his hair and glanced back industrial site they had just vacated. The police would be arriving any second now to arrest the drug traffickers Firestorm had flushed out. Martin paced the width of the alley.

"No, I will not calm down, Ronald. Your puerile behavior is endangering our mission."

"How did I do that? This was an easy one. You said so yourself."

Ronald's talent for remaining calm during an argument was infuriating.

"I was not referring to this individual exercise, Ronald. I am speaking in the broader sense of our duty as Firestorm. The responsibility we choose to shoulder every time we fuse. The gravity of which is, apparently, lost on you, since you insist on spouting inane gibberish in the middle of a fight."

"Just because I try to have a little fun in the field doesn't mean I don't take our job seriously. And it's not gibberish, it's Harry Potter."

Martin clenched his jaw in frustration.

"That bastardized Latin drivel is not real magic. Frankly, your flippant attitude towards magic is insulting."

"I'm not trying to insult anything. How am I supposed to be respectful towards a subject you won't teach me anything about, professor?"

"Oh, what? Am I supposed to expect you to comprehend the intricacies of a culture thousands of years older than even myself; to master the rituals and teachings that survive only in my failing memory; to actually aid me in my futile attempts to stave off the inevitable doom of this world, which has been solely my responsibility for a millennium, and which will surely be my demise - a fate that undoubtedly you now share thanks to our quantum entanglement and my arrogance? Or," he scoffed, "perhaps you are under the delusion that maybe you could just learn one 'wicked' spell for the novelty of it and call it good?"

Ronald shrugged.

"One spell seems like a good place to start, at least. We can get to all that other stuff later."

Martin stared at him in disbelief. He could hardly remember what it felt like to be young. He supposed without the benefit of centuries of memories, the youth were basically operating blindly. Their gumption guided them.

"For goodness sake." He stuck out his palm. "If you insist on pursuing this fruitless fantasy, the incantation is 'leoght'."

A silver-white bulb of light burst from his hand. A thrill of awe thrummed through their bond as Ronald zoomed in on the glow, entranced. Martin smirked. The nightlight spell was such a simple trick, nothing compared to the feats of power and skill he'd managed before. Feats that he could no longer perform because he let magic break.

A rush of vertigo overcame him. He closed his fist and canceled the spell. Ronald thrust out his own hand. Excitement and nerves echoed through the bond.

"...Uh, what was the magic word again?"

"'Leoght.'"

"Lutt."

"No, 'leoght.'"

"Yeah, that's what I said. 'Leoght.'"

Nothing happened. Ronald frowned at his hand, disappointed.

"Like I said, the chances that you are even capable of wielding the slightest magic are very small."

"Nah, I just haven't gotten the hang of it yet. 'Leoght.'"

Nothing.

Ronald kept trying periodically throughout the day. He employed some very… unique techniques, from chanting until he was blue in the face to shouting suddenly and then staring at his hand, as if hoping he could catch something (perhaps magic? himself?) by surprise.

That evening, as they relaxed in their sitting room, (Martin with his armchair, tea, and a book, Ronald sprawled out on the couch with hot chocolate and smartphone) the attempts petered out. Ronald was distracted by his thoughts. Martin could feel him mulling over the day.

"What is on your mind, Ronald?"

Ronald set down his phone and stared up at the ceiling.

"Are you sure that you've never been an actor or anything?"

"If I chose to subject myself to that sort of humiliation, it would have been for no less than Shakespeare. Why do you ask?"

"Dunno. Just the way you talked today in the alley, about your fate and stuff. The 'futility of staving off the eventual doom of this world' or whatever. Very dramatic."

"I've dedicated a thousand years of existence to the staving of the doom. I think I'm allowed to be a little dramatic."

"That was not a little dramatic. Admit it, professor. Once you take away your stuffy manners and crotchety whining, you're really just a drama queen."

"I am not crotchety."

"Oh, yeah? What would you call it then?"

"I'm… mature."

"Ha, more like manure."

"That's…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not even going to digni-"

Ronald propped himself up on one elbow and looked over.

"Professor? Is it another memory?"

He blinked himself back to the present.

"Yes. I cannot place when it's from, but… it feels early."

"What is it?"

"It is not a singular event. It feels… more like several events, all similar in nature. And, compounded, I am left with an emotional impression. They are… happy memories, mostly. It was our conversation just now that called it to mind."

"Really?"

"Yes, believe it or not. I think… in my younger days, I was exceedingly proficient in friendly banter."

Ronald's lips twitched upward.

"Cool." He sat up and reached for his decorative mug. "Guess that means you musta had friends back then. Do you think… was it…?"

"King Arthur?" Martin shifted in his seat and stirred his tea. "Perhaps. It is the strangest thing. I know for a fact that I was close to him, just as I know my name or my native tongue, but I can't recall anything specific. Not anything he did, not what he looked like, not… the sound of his voice…" There were answers to those questions. He could feel them on the tip of his tongue, but, frustratingly, they stayed just out of reach. In the meantime, he jotted down the new memory.

They lapsed back into comfortable silence. He and Ronald had both finished their drinks when Ronald next spoke.

"You know you don't have to do it alone, right?"

"Do what alone, Ronald? The dishes?"

"No, it's your turn to do those. I was talking about 'it'. You know, like, saving the world, or magic, or whatever. You're not the only one with superpowers anymore."

"Magical affinity is not superpowers, Ronald."

"Same difference, though, right? Like, before, you were the only one who could stop the evil dragon-witch from cracking the tectonic plates-"

"It was an andoartina, and she was trying to create a new mountain range through Australia."

"Or that time when Leonardo Not-A-Ninja-Turtle-"

"Da Vinci."

"-accidentally summoned a demon with his naked man drawing."

"Vitruvian Man, and I'm fairly certain he did that on purpose."

"Right, well, you're not alone anymore, in staving off that sort of doom."

"Team Flash is hardly equipped to deal with magical threats."

"They would be if you got them up to speed. Or at least gave them a nudge in the right direction."

"I am not telling anyone about my magic, Ronald." A pang of fear passed through the bond at the thought. "It goes against my every instinct. And you are not allowed to tell anyone either."

"Not even Caitlin? You told Clarissa." He sighed. "I don't like leaving her out of this."

Martin hesitated.

"Is it too much to ask that we postpone that discussion until our return to Central City?"

"I guess not."

Ronald's frustration meshed with Martin's fear, and suddenly sharing each other's company became quite unbearable. Ronald stood up and took his empty mug to the kitchen without another word.

That night, perhaps because his memories were more stirred up than usual, Martin woke from a nightmare. It took him a moment to remember that he was in his apartment, in Pittsburgh, in the twenty-first century. By the time he established that the contents of his dream had slipped away. But the terror remained. If he did not calm himself with some tea, he'd never get back to sleep.

Wary of disturbing Ronald (who, in their one-bedroom apartment, took the couch), Martin didn't turn the lights on in the kitchen. He fumbled around through the cupboards for the kettle and tea bags and such. In his half-asleep haze, however, he didn't notice what was resting on the counter until it was too late.

Crash.

"Oh, drat."

Ronald's favorite mug lay in pieces on the floor, having been sideswiped by his elbow. The shards glistened orange in the light streaming through the window. Martin sighed and began gathering the pieces up.

"Professor? Are you okay?"

Preoccupied with the mess on the floor, Martin didn't respond immediately. Ronald stumbled into the kitchen and blinked blindly into the dark. He hesitated only briefly before raising his hand.

"'Leoght.'"

The silver-white light illuminated the utter shock on both their faces.

"Ronald…" Martin rose to his feet and dumped the shards of the mug on the table. They stepped closer together, sharing the light. "You did it. You actually did it."

"I really didn't expect that to work," Ronald whispered, then louder, "I'm doing it! Professor, I'm doing magic! I can-" His face fell. "Is that my mug?"

Martin glanced down guiltily.

"Eh, yes. My apologies, Ronald, it was an accident. Now put that light out before you pass out."

"How…" Ronald hesitantly closed his fist and the light went out. Martin reached out to steady him. "Ugh, that did not feel good." Ronald shook his head and blinked away the lightheadedness. Once Ronald was steady, Martin flipped on the overhead light. He sat down at the table, but Ronald remained standing, excitement returning. "That was awesome. And you didn't believe I could do it."

"Truly astonishing," Martin agreed. He was still blinking spots out of his eyes. "You were born decades after the Break, yet- oh..."

"Another memory?"

"Indeed." Martin broke into a smile. "I believe… the first time I mastered that spell." He laughed, and then covered his mouth. "I'd forgotten what this felt like. This… this joy and wonder. I apologize, I believe my earlier skepticism was uncalled for."

"It's okay. It's all just part of your crotchety charm."

"I am not… no matter. How do you feel?" He wiped at his eyes. "Fatigued, I assume?"

"Uh, yeah. Like, really tired. I feel like someone just suctioned all the energy out of me."

"I am not surprised. Magic shouldn't normally exhaust you so, not a simple spell like that."

Their conversation trailed off, but Ronald's excitement didn't abate.

"Do you…" He cleared his throat. "Do you think I could try another spell?"

"I would recommend you stick with the nightlight spell, for now, just to get the hang of calling magic at will." A shrug of disappointment echoed through the bond. "But, I suppose there's no harm in teaching you something a little more useful…"

By daybreak, Ronald's mug was whole.

Ronald absorbed every lesson with ease, which flabbergasted Martin. Those born with the ability to manipulate magic in the old ways were few and far between, and they were hardly ever as powerful as Ronald. And, as far as he knew, none had been born after the Break. Extrapolating from that, they hypothesized that Martin's magic must have transferred to Ronald in the initial fusion the night of the particle accelerator.

And, of course, now that Ronald was capable of holding his own against magical creatures, he insisted in coming along whenever a magical dilemma rose up. He had yet to get over his excitement at seeing storybook creatures in real life, which resulted in some close shaves. Martin scolded him, of course, but after a while, it all became part of the new routine. Train as Firestorm and fight human criminals by day, teach Ronald magic and tell him: "No, you cannot cast your levitation charm on that broomstick. Don't be a child." by night, always creeping closer to a solution to the Break.

Firestorm's magic felt good to use, not unlike the unBroken magic from before. Martin hypothesized that Firestorm's special brand of magic would be instrumental in repairing magic. But they never got the chance to try.

Because Mr. Allen called them in to fight Eobard Thawne.

He should have known that what he had with Ronald was too good to last.

They gaped at the black hole looming over the city. He could feel Ronald's horror and was inclined to agree. But then an even more horrible sensation ripped through them both.

Martin fell to his knees.

"Professor, what's happening?"

"Magic is about to break, permanently, if we don't do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Give me a second to think."

"We don't have a second! The world is ending right now."

Martin clutched his head, searching his foggy memories, reviewing his research, anything that could help. Then he found the solution, and damned Ronald.

"Firestorm's magic is too powerful But if, after we separate, we blast the Between Realm with regular, restorative magic, it should, hopefully, prevent magic from breaking further."

"That's the Between Realm?"

"A gateway to it. Can't you feel it?"

"Yeah." He shook out his arms and hopped in place. "So, I guess that means that we need to go up there…"

"One of us will need to be present in the event horizon to cast the magic, yes." He forced himself to his feet.

"But, professor…" Ronald glanced over at Team Flash, who were panicking as they tried to figure out what to do. His bride, Dr. Snow sent a worried glance their way.

"Not to worry, my dear boy. I shall be the one to go through the event horizon. The amount of magic needed for this will be… enormous." Not beyond Martin's capabilities, but he certainly would not be returning to earth safely.

"I can do enormous magic, you said so yourself."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter. This is my duty. It has been for a thousand years."

"Professor-"

"Ronald! We do not have time to argue. The world is ending."

Ronald took his hand with a growl and Firestorm stomped over to Team Flash. They relayed the science side of things and bid a farewell. Then they were flying.

Mr. Allen streaked by them, slowing the growth of the black hole and giving them more time.

"Once we have separated, I will only have a small window to reach into the Between, cast my magic, and get out. You cannot wait for me. The radiation for the black hole will tear you apart otherwise."

"Then what's it going to do to you?"

"Just do as I say. Caitlin needs you to come home."

Ronald didn't reply and focused on the task at hand. They found themselves at the event horizon.

"Ready, professor?"

"As I'll ever be, my dear boy."

They separated Firestorm for the final time and Martin prepared to die. But Ronald snatched Martin's upper arms up with bruising force. They hung aloft in the chaos.

"What are you doing?" Martin's panicked shout was almost lost in the roar. Wind whipped both their faces. The flames from Firestorm's separation threaded into the circling clouds, washing them in heat and light.

"I can't let you die, professor."

"Of course you can. Just unhand me!"

"The world needs you. We got a long way to go before we fix magic. I can't do that on my own, but I can do this."

Ronald made to drop Martin, but Martin clutched him in return.

"This isn't your responsibility. It's mine. Please."

"That's the thing, professor. Dying isn't your responsibility, living is. Who else is going to stave off that doom?"

With a thrust of magic, Ronald hurled Martin down.

Ronald's shrinking body exploded with a silver-white light as he expended his life force into the Between Realm. Their connection through Firestorm snapped, and the black hole slammed shut. As Mr. Allen snatched him out of the air, he remembered. He'd only felt this type of pain once before. The pain of failing his destiny.

000

He told them that it was pure chance that Ronald didn't return, a tragedy that nobody could have prevented. The lie was necessary, because how could he tell the truth? They already knew that Ronald had ascended of his own free will, but how could he tell Dr. Snow, newly widowed, that Ronald had been presented with the choice, Martin's magical portion or a life with her, and he'd chosen Martin without hesitation?

No, he kept his mouth shut. He couldn't even bring himself to tell Clarissa. He was going to lose her too. After all, it was part of the routine.

The small consolation was that Ronald's sacrifice had been enough to stabilize magic again. It was in no better shape than before, but no worse.

But he was worse, unbalanced without his better half.

And alone, so profoundly alone.

A/N: Tada

I tried this thing with the dialogue where I minimized the number of tags I used (like 'she said/scoffed/shouted/etc') and let the lines speak for themselves. I think doing so made it easier to find the individual voices of the characters. Let me know your thoughts.

Overall, I'm not sure what to think about this one. I'm proud because it's one of the few works I've ever finished, but other than that, I don't know.

Give me feedback, is what I'm saying. Tell me what you think. Don't hold back. (Except, maybe hold back a little, for I am weak).

Anyway, thanks for reading, don't forget to feed your fish, and know that you are loved