#//it's also heavily built upon just looking out for your fellow human. or monster

[mechahero]

@pzfr asked- [ Culture ] [ Specialization ] [[ what's da culture like in motor city!!! ambassador questions (accepting!)

[ Culture ]

"Well, uh, it's kinda hard to explain?" A lock of hair twirls absentmindedly around a metal finger. His eyes locked to the side and away from whoever asked him the question. "It's very... condensed? Everyone brings a little bit of somethin' when they choose to live here and I guess over time it kinda turned into its own thing?"

"We've got like a lot parties and stuff? Mostly for morale, a lot of the time its for people that were dead and stuff." Lambda taps at his head, racking his brain for any more information that seems to have suddenly slipped his mind. Right when he needs it too. Man. "Oh right! We kinda just exist? But, like, we try and be good people obviously. That's kinda at the forefront of this whole thing. Uh... we kinda scrapped the idea of using cash for food and stuff? And people don't have to work to survive! I mean, people can work if they wanna?" He chews at his lip. It's hard to get the words out the way he was thinking about. "It's um, kinda hard to explain. You'd just hafta see it for yourself."

[ Specialization ]

"Like, as a cyborg? Or?" Realization dawns on him. Or something akin to that, anyway. "Ohhh. Did you mean the city?" He taps at his fingers. Or taps them together, rather. "Honestly? I don't really know? I guess it's sort of part of my goal to have a peaceful world? I mean, ya gotta start somewhere I guess." It sounds odd coming out of his mouth. Maybe even bad. Well, it sounds bad to him.

"We don't really specialize in anything? Except for being, I guess? Existing? I don't know how to explain it. I just don't know."

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Best Part About Being Human

Characters: Castiel x Angel!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, fluff, skinny dipping, brief oral fem recieving

Request by anon: Can you write a fluffy Cas x Reader where she is his best friend and they are both in love with each other. He is the careful and overthinking angel she is the girl who just wants to live in the moment. One night they go skinny dipping.

Summary: You’ve lived with humans for centuries, and you can’t ever think about going back to Heaven. When Castiel shows up, you have to show him how good it feels to be human.

Squares Filled: childhood friends @castielspnbingo​ // fools rush where angels fear to tread @as-the-saying-goes-bingo​ // castiel for my frist card of heavenandhellbingo // kissed to be quiet @spnfluffbingo​ // new years resolution @spngenrebingo​ // “whatever you lack in talent, you make up for in confidence.” @spnquotebingo​ // non-canonical relationship for @trope-bingo

Author’s Note: This is unbeta’d and all mistakes are mine. If you have any requests, please send them in!

Heaven has always been a “one-track mind” and a “black and white” kind of way. There is a set of rules every angel is supposed to follow, and if you don’t, then you’re cast out. Most habitable planets have and follow the same kind of rules, and they become so boring to live by. It’s fine for the first couple millennium, but then it gets kind of boring and predictable.

God entrusted his angels to serve Heaven and to follow those strict rules. Heaven always comes first, and it didn’t matter if you had other priorities in your life. You went where the archangels sent you, you did what they asked of you, and you did it without complain.

There has to be something more out there, something that challenged its people and didn’t tell them what to do and where to go. There had to be someplace in the entire universe that held creative imagination to a high standard. For a while, you never found it. You searched high and low for it, but you always came up empty. It made you question whether or not such a  thing existed until you found Earth.

Such a small planet in some tiny solar system lying in a galaxy that is barely out of its diapers. Such a tiny and insignificant planet, and they defy all the rules. Upon first discovering them, your heart soared at the thought of being able to creatively express yourself--to be who you are instead of being who someone else tells you to be. Heaven is exactly that--you don’t get to be who you are. They program you into being perfect soldiers, but that’s not who you want to be.

You want to be able to talk with your peers without the fear of being judged by them, you want to be able to do something without your four older brothers reigning hell down on you for disobeying your father, and you want to be able to find love and joy and humor and sadness and grief--something you can’t ever find in Heaven. Everyone’s Heavens are perfect little sanctuaries that protect them from the horrors of their own lives. You won’t find what you’re looking for in there--and you’ve gotten in trouble for popping into people’s Heavens before.

Humans have a silly way of doing things, but what makes them so unique is that they are imperfect. Everyone in Heaven is perfect--no scars to tell people where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing. Humans are flawed to the T, but that’s what makes them so special to be around. They cherish life because it ends. They find value in happiness because of sadness and fear. They crave thrills and adventure because their bodies are built to withstand so much, yet, they don’t know that. Human souls are so valuable and pure, it’s amazing what each person does with them.

Humans have come a long way since they were first created, but they still have such a long way to go. They won’t ever be perfect, but that’s why you love them so much. It’s also the main reason why you left Heaven to hide on Earth to be with the humans. You pretended for centuries to be like one of them--talk, act, love--just so you can feel like you belong to something.

There are bad ones that filter through every once in a while, but you’d rather be here than on Heaven a million times over. There is just something so powerful and heartwarming about being surrounded by imperfect beings. It really makes you question what God has been doing, and what kind of plan he has for the angels. Even now you can see angels are heavily flawed because the system is flawed.

There is a flawed system down on Earth regarding the demons and monsters that Eve unleashed onto the world. They are the diseased little insects that have been infecting the world from the very start, but you try and do your part to make it a better place without outing yourself to the rest of your friends and family. The only one you want to know you’re down here is Castiel.

He’s the only person you absolutely love out of your entire friends and family from up there.

He’s a good soldier, and you fought beside him in many battles, but he’s also the only one who gets and understands you. He’s seen the flaws up in Heaven, but you’re the only one who had the balls to leave and do something about it. He stayed, and you wish to your father he would come down here and find you.

You’ve prayed to him before in hopes he would change his mind and come down here, but you hadn’t heard anything from him in a while. He’s your best friend who you love with all your heart, and he’s not down here experiencing this with you. You’ve been everywhere on this Earth three times, and it would all be better if he were by your side. You’ve hunted with hunters from all over the world in fighting their monsters, and the ones you actually like are the Winchesters.

They know you exist and how you’re trying to hide from Heaven, so they kept your secret all these years. Then Dean died, and that’s when Castiel finally made his appearance. He’s the one who saved Dean from hell and learned you were here from Sam. Sam knew how much you missed him, so he spilled the beans just a little bit.

While the Winchesters traveled around the United States, you stayed in one place: New York City. While most people would say it’s a dump and has dirty people and things, you think of it as a place where creativity flies high. You don’t think you ever met a group of more independent people than in New York City. You used your angelic powers to get yourself a penthouse suite in the Big Apple just so you could watch the humans live their life all around you.

And now Castiel is here, and you couldn’t be happier about it.

“Castiel!” you rejoice and hug him tightly.

“Y/N, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Michael wants you back.”

“Michael can sit on his ass and wait. I cloaked myself. I didn’t want to be found, that’s why I prayed to you al the time in hopes you’d join me down here.”

You’re sitting inside a cafe in one of the corners, just watching as humans ordered, talked, and laughed with themselves and other people.

“Why Earth?”

“That seems to be the question that everyone asks these days. Why Earth? Humans are so messy and imperfect and animals. We’re so much above them that they don’t even have any kind of value or worth.”

“Exactly,” he nods.

“But that’s exactly why they’re so special. How old are we, Castiel? Megaannum, that’s how old. We’re millions of years old, and we still have millions more to go. They see the value in life because it ends. For some, it lasts 70 years and others, 100. But it ends, and that’s why they cherish it. They’re reckless and rash and impulsive, but they’re the best judge of characters. I’ve learned that living down here for a few centuries. I’m not human, but it’s not such a bad thing to learn to be it.”

“You sound like God,” he sighs.

“Yes, I do. The only difference between me and Him is that I actually lived among them instead of creating them. He may have created their structure, but they evolved from it and made it better. This is a new year, and I want to try new things. I want you to stay with me here, Castiel. I want to be human with you.”

“We’re not human.”

“No, but we can act like them. How about I make you a deal. You come camping with me for a whole week, and if you decide to stay with me, then that’s great. However, if you decide to go back home, then I won’t blame you. All I ask is that if you do, don’t tell them where I am. They’ll make me come home, and I already found a new one. I’ll still aid and help if and when Heaven needs me, but it’s not right now.”

“What’s camping?” he asks in confusion.

“Oh, Castiel, you’re going to love it! It’s where humans go into the woods and bring camping gear and tents and sleeping bags and non-perishable food while being in touch with nature!” you gush.

“Like animals.”

“You can be so stoic sometimes. Let me take you camping. It’s, like, the most human thing I’ve seen. Well, apart from eating and sleeping and showering. It’ll be so much fun!”

“Can’t wait,” he sighs.

His words express excitement, yet his tone expresses the complete opposite. Just he wait because this is going to be the best camping trip ever.

“You’ve been hanging with the Winchesters, I can tell. It’s why I brought this fancy-ass tent. You don’t need sleeping bags for this because there are air mattresses inside of it. They’re pretty sturdy actually. Great for sleeping.”

“We don’t sleep.”

“Exactly,” you smirk.

You’ve always had a crush on your fellow angel, but you never did anything about it. There are a lot of angels in Heaven making relationships with one another. It’s the most human thing you’ve seen them do. You’ve always hoped you and Castiel would be together one day, but then you left and you hadn’t seen him since. Maybe you can start something with him down here, and he would want to stay.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks.

“Now we set up the fire. It’s going to get dark soon. It’s my fault for leaving so late. I try not to use my powers down here. I’ve figured out how to live without them.”

“I could never,” he mutters, but you choose not to comment on it.

Castiel stands there as still as can be while you try to get the fire going. You want to be human, but you haven’t figured out how to everything they can do. Like building a fire, for instance. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Castiel can see you struggling, and he just snickers at your attempts to get a flame going.

“Whatever you lack in talent, you make up for in confidence.”

“Shut the hell up,” you laugh and give in with your powers.

You start a fire instantly despite not needing the warmth. It’s mostly to sit around and watch the fire embers bounce off Castiel’s face. You’ve never seen him in this kind of light, and you can only imagine what color blue his eyes would be against the red of the flames.

“We can start doing things tomorrow, but you need different clothes. It’s hard to do anything with a trench coat and suit on. Let me help you,” you state and walk over to him.

Your hands slide up his coat so you can push it off his shoulders. He watches the emotion in your eyes as you do so, so you know he sees just how much you want him.

“I can manage on my own.”

“You’re still so stiff. Let me help you with that. There’s a reason why I picked this spot. You want to know why?” you ask and step back from him.

“Why?”

“Because there is a lake, and I really love swimming. Care to join me?”

“Isn’t is tradition to wear a swimsuit when doing things like this?” he asks as you lift your shirt over your head.

If it’s possible, he gets stiffer at the sight of you in just a bra and shorts. Not just his body, but his cock as well. Jimmy Novak’s cravings must be getting through somehow.

“It is, but there’s also your birthday suit,” you smirk and finish undressing before his very eyes. “Care to join me?”

“I’d like that,” he says in a much lower voice than normal.

You turn with your back to him as you walk into the lake by your campsite. Castiel doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he knows he wants to do it with you. The crush you have on him is exactly the kind of crush he has on you. He’s had it ever since you two were children. He never thought relations between angels were allowed until most recently. If he’s going to do anything with anyone, then he’d rather do it with you.

As soon as he’s naked, he walks into the lake to be by your side. While you don’t have sexual cravings as your angel grace prevents it, your vessel’s cravings do shine through. Castiel is a lean and sexy man, and she definitely likes what she sees.

“Do you like the way the water feels on your skin?” you ask as you swim closer to him.

“It’s nice, yes.”

“You’re still tense. Would you like me to help you relax? I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way,” you chuckle.

“What would you do that could help me? Don’t you get nervous or anxious in situations like these? Like you don’t know what you’re--”

You cut him off with a kiss to the lips. He’s shocked, to say the least, but he doesn’t not like it. His vessel is popping up through the cracks in more ways than one, and he’s not sure if she should roll with this or end it.

“Don’t think, feel,” you whisper and wrap your legs around his waist.

His cock springs to attention the more your hands and lips are on his body, but he knows exactly what to do. He’s been to Earth before, and he’s observed this kind of activity before. He’s never participated it in personally, but he knows what to do and where to put it.

“This is new,” he mutters lowly.

“Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Then let me do more of it,” you grin.

Your lips move from his down to his neck to find that one spot that would have made his vessel soar with pleasure. The water sloshes around you two, but you don’t pay any attention to it. Instead, you’re focused on the thing that’s poking at your center. You’ve come to learn a lot about your body and what it can do and handle. Right now, you can handle a lot more than this.

“I’m not sure what to do now,” he pants.

“You do, Castiel. Take me back to the tent and have your way with me. You’ll know what to do,” you encourage.

You attach your lips to his just as his hands grip your body tighter. He begins the trek back to the tent without ever letting you go. You two drip water everywhere, but you can’t seem to care right now. He lays you down on one of the sturdy air mattresses before detaching his lips from yours.

“I’ve seen many people do this,” he mutters as he kisses down your neck and chest.

“And now you’re doing it yourself,” you moan when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

The noises you make and the way your body arches fuels him to go down further. It’s like the more skin he exposes to himself, the more he knows what to do. He’s not listening to the angel side of him, but the human side of him. Every angel has one, and the longer an angel spends away from Heaven and other angels, the more it pops out.

“Your body is exquisite,” he praises as he descends down your body.

“I can say the same thing about your mouth,” you chuckle-moan.

By the time he reaches your pussy, he knows exactly what to do. He licks one broad stripe up your center, and his vessel goes crazy with the need to be inside you. Castiel’s tongue is warm and wet, but there is time for that later on. Right now, all you want is to feel him inside you. You’ve waited a long time for this moment, and you’re not going to waste another second of it.

He kisses up your body and locks his lips with yours as he grabs the base of his throbbing cock in his hand. He rubs the tip over your lips a few times just to spread your juices around. Humans say this part hurts, but he knows you’ll be able to take the pain. He slides himself in inch by inch until he bottoms out, holding your hands in his by your head.

“Shit, Castiel, you feel so good inside me,” you moan.

“Who knew you could be this tight,” he chuckles.

He gains a surge of confidence that allows him to pull out and slam right back in. Your back arches the moment of impact, and your mouth forms a perfect ‘o’. No noise comes out of it because your body is just in complete shock at what he’s done. He can see how much pleasure he’s giving you, so he does it again, making sure to hit that one spot guaranteed to make you scream.

“Fuck!” you cry.

He doesn’t waste any more time and pistons in and out of you. Out of all the humans you’ve been with, Castiel is the one to come out on top. Nothing is better than angel sex because it can withstand a whole lot more than human sex. Castiel’s hips snap to yours aggressively, and he grips your hips to hold you in place. If he’s going to do this, he may as well do it right knowing you can take a lot.

“Play with my clit, Castiel. I’ll come easier with that,” you guide one of his hands to the bundle of nerves at your center.

“Like this?” he asks and pinches the bundle.

“Yes!” you squeak and moan louder.

He pinches and rolls your clit a few times as he thrusts go harder and deeper in you. Both stimulations are enough to cause the coil inside of you to get tighter and tighter. It’s going to snap soon, and you express it through your words.

“Feel that tightness in me, Castiel? I’m going to come if you keep that up,” you moan.

“Then come,” he simply puts.

Your body comes on command, coating his cock with everything you got. He didn’t know it himself, but he was also close. Feeling your release all over him caused him to shoot his load into you. He never knew sex could be this fun, otherwise, he would have done it a long time ago.

“That’s the best sex I’ve had in a long time,” you laugh.

Castiel pulls out of you and watches as the mixture of yours and his releases drizzle down your thighs. He lays next to you and looks at you as if you are his world.

“You’ve had sex before?”

“Castiel, it’s the best part about being human.”

“I’d like to learn more,” he says seriously.

“You know, I am going to wipe all that tension out of your body until you’re just like me,” you grin and bounce back rather quickly.

“Y/N, no one can be like you.”

“I take that as a compliment because Castiel, there is so much more for you to learn,” you grin.

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[kaibutsushidousha]

What are your thoughts on Hakuno Kishinami? And you do prefer the make version or the female version? P.S. I love your blog💖

I prefer the female Hakuno (the canon Hakuno, thank you Last Encore). Anyways, I like Hakuno a lot, specially after CCC. My second favorite Type-Moon protagonist after Shirou.

Notes: This post will not contain Extella series content because I barely remember anything from Extella and never played Link. I also won’t contain any Last Encore content because Deadface is an entirely different character and I already talked about him.

Hakuno is, on many levels, not what I expected. After we’re treated to the death of the other protagonist in the prologue, we’re introduced to Hakuno as the character we choose the gender and name for. That combined with their extremely bland (although very cute/handsome) design gave me the impression of a blank slate self-insert protagonist, which is something I already commented a few times to be something I detest. When your character’s default name is an anagram for “your name is blank”(kimi no na hakushi), that’s not a good way to start. Well, Hakuno had their own dialogue/inner monologue, at least it couldn’t be as bad as Fujimaru.

Hakuno is introduced as an amnesiac Master with no noticeable  talents, no ties to any other character or any wish they knew of. They decide to fight just out of the possibility that they would discover their identity along the way. Nothing interesting was done with them until the first week ends on the reveal that the loser of the Grail War die for real. It was a really trivial and obvious twist but for Hakuno’s character this changes everything.

Week 2 is where Hakuno really starts to shine as a character. Hakuno is very afraid of death but they are also (initially) just as afraid of killing. Partially because they are too good natured to casually murder someone (at first), but moreso because their lack of memories cause them to fear the possibility that the goal they forgot is not really worth taking someone’s life for it. Luckily for them, their opponent here is Sir Dan Blackmore, an old man with an already fully realized and not much else to look forward to, and most importantly a fellow kind man with experience in having to take other people’s lives. In that harsh situation, Dan advises Hakuno to try to find purpose in every battle they fight and every sacrifice they make. This is advice is pretty much the cornerstone that built Hakuno’s character.

Week 3 is another “easier” case because Alice is a cyberghost, so she wouldn’t be alive even if she won the Grail War, but Week 4 is huge to Hakuno’s for two very game-changing reasons. First is that, regardless of your choice, Hakuno’s opponent would be the first time they would knowingly kill a young living person with a long and possibly bright future ahead of them. The other big thing is the discovery that Hakuno is just a NPC that joined the War by an error.

The latter is really major because it changed everything about how Hakuno saw their situation. They could go on up until now because they believed they would remember they had a purpose that would make all the blood in their hands meaningful, but now they know that they got nothing and they were nothing. No memories and no objective. Every life they took were, by their own admission, much more valuable than their own and they needed to take even more of those to survive. Ironically enough, this very blood in their hands was one what gave them the will to keep going. Hakuno is very afraid of death, but they are even more afraid of a meaningless death, and dying without ever accomplishing anything would be giving meaningless deaths to their victims. Well, that and their experiences with their Servant giving some substance to their short life.

By the second half of /EXTRA, Hakuno’s character is already fully established and doesn’t really changes much throughout the rest of the game. Their feelings about their identity are organized and their hesitation is gone. They are terrifyingly determined to survive, to the point they can now fight and kill without questioning the morality and the consequences of their actions. But of course, that doesn’t make them blind either. There’s always full acknowledgement despite the lack of hesitation. Due to Hakuno’s lack of connection to the world, they care for the small connections they built throughout the game a lot more than they care about the full-on world war that’s defining Rin and Leo’s grand motivations. Everything Hakuno does is entirely about Hakuno and what Hakuno likes.

Hakuno summoned their Servant without a catalyst, meaning they were summoning out of compatibility, and what they got from this was either a tyrant who could only think of what she loved, a Counter Guardian who was able learn to kill without hesitation out of need, or an outright monster who sees human life in a very different way than humans do. They are all anti-heroes and that’s not without reason. Hakuno is very good natured and sympathetic, but can’t really be called a perfectly good person and doesn’t consider themself one either. In fact, Hakuno straight up calls themself evil at one point in CCC. They are a dangerous hero I could see and enjoy as a villain in some future story.

Hakuno was an amazingly enjoyable protagonist to follow and very easily one of the highest points of both /EXTRA and CCC. Not only for their compelling determination and fascinatingly questionable morality but also for their general personality too. From their bland design and blank slate nature, I expected them to have the “generic everyman” personality, especially considering Shirou and Shiki Toono also had the “generic everyman" personality underneath their trauma, but Hakuno turned out to be much more of a silly weirdo compared to them, bringing us narration gems like “Rin went from comatose to bitch in three seconds flat” or “This were I would love to call this goddess a giant hag, but I would rather not die immediately”. Easily the goofiest Type-Moon protagonist until Fujimaru decided skydrop for no reason to impress a goddess with a wrestling move.

That said, as amazing of a protagonist as Hakuno is, their character really doesn’t fit the story of Fate/EXTRA and I think the game’s biggest narrative problems trace back to Hakuno. Fate/EXTRA is a game very big on world building. There’s really a lot going on in the background with Rin, Leo and even Twice, but we never get a real close look to that world because we’re stuck in Hakuno’s perspective and Hakuno really doesn’t care about the big picture of the world they’re in. I don’t dislike that they live only for what they directly interacted with, but it really clashes with the backstory the game is trying to tell.

CCC doesn’t add much of anything new to Hakuno’s character but really makes the best of use of their established traits, reinforcing everything I liked about them while taking away what I disliked. The dungeon progression being about invanding other characters’ mental worlds does a great job in both exploring and showing the limits of Hakuno’s willingness to harm others for their goals. Their unstoppable drive to avoid a meaningless death gets full and amazing display in the interlude between chapter 4 and 5. Their silly nature is perfectly at home with the heavily comedic tone of the first half of the game. And most importantly, since CCC’s backstory is the OG /EXTRA game, we don’t have Hakuno ignoring the background in this one.

But the best trait CCC expands upon is their self-awareness, resulting into some points in the game, in their conversations with Sakura, where Hakuno presents a really well done character study on themself, tying up how they are just a nameless, pastless and futureless human who can’t fight for anything larger than themselves to how unstoppable they are. All Hakuno has is the present and their simple and real connections to the people they like, so all they can do is fighting for those people. And, fortunately for the world, their favorite type of person are the people who face any and all adversities to make others around them feel better.

I really like this establishing of Hakuno’s type, not only because it fits all 3 of the Extra Servants and Sakura (and Nightingale, but Nightingale’s role in CCC is a topic for another day), but because if really fits their story and good nature. Hakuno appreciates people capable of self-sacrifice because that’s something they don’t feel very able to do, especially in the OG Fate/EXTRA, and most of all, Hakuno appreciates kindness because that’s something their circumstances never allowed them to perform, except for the one time they saved Rin or Rani. This probably means a lot to Hakuno, since Hakuno is a very kind-hearted person who considers themself evil for doing the only thing they could to survive.

Ideally I would add an extra paragraph about Eliza’s character arc because that’s Hakuno at their best, but I couldn’t find any good place to fit and this part would be better off in an Eliza ask, so that’s pretty much all about Hakuno. For my tl;dr conclusion, I’ll go with a CCC quote that best demonstrates both Hakuno’s silly personality, self-awareness, and unstoppablenss all in one line: “Going back to search around the abandoned school or exploring the Labyrinth at this point would be insane. Luckily, I am not exactly sane.”

Thank you very much for the ask (and sorry for taking 5 months to respond, you asked my while I was still early in my CCC playthrough). I love this absolute mad(wo)man.

[notapaladin]

all the rainbow’s heavy tones

okay. so. this is LONG AS SHIT and contains, in no particular order: fight scenes, concussions, blood loss, death magic, and a Very Good Dog. but i decided obsblood needed a modern au, and so i have provided! can also be read on AO3, as usual.

Acatl, chief of the Mictlan Division, hunts a beast of shadow on what was supposed to be his day off. Fortunately, he has help in the form of one (1) confident young undergraduate and his trusty dog. The dog is fine. Acatl...less so.

At least he manages to get Teomitl's number out of it.

-

-

Acatl was halfway through his morning routine (offer blood to the gods, brush teeth, wash face, feed the cat, grudgingly remember to feed himself while Little Skull twined around his shins and purred) when his phone rang.

When he realized the ringtone was the one he used only for work calls, he closed his eyes briefly. He’d been having a good morning, too; he’d slept well for once, without any nightmares of failure in his new post or wistful dreams of his old one. The sheets had been the perfect temperature when he’d woken, and he’d allowed himself five extra minutes to just lay there and enjoy it. Little Skull had been sleeping on his chest as a ghost’s butterfly investigated the potted plant Mihmatini had brought him to, in her words, “make it look less like Mictlan in here.” (He hadn’t bothered to point out that, as the new head of the Mictlan Division, he knew very well it was impossible to mistake Mexico City for the land of the dead no matter how small his apartment was.)

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, he picked it up. It looked like he wasn’t going to get to use his day off to catch up on any of his much-needed rest after all. “Yes?”

“You picked up so early even on your day off! Wonderful.” Acatl felt a muscle start to twitch in his cheek, but held his tongue as Ichtaca continued. “We need you here. There’s been a body found.”

There were always bodies being found in Mexico City, but if it was a work matter, that meant the death had underworld magic about it. Acatl hoped fervently that it hadn’t been found near the sewers. Ahuizotls could and did swim up the larger pipes, and they would require help from the Tlaloc Division to track down. A particularly bad infestation would even mean he’d have to work with Acamapichtli again.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for informing me.”

As soon as he could meant he would have to ride his bike. It was the only way to get through the traffic near the Old City in any reasonable amount of time; he’d made the same trip a million times in his college days. Unfortunately, it made Ichtaca twitch in fury every time he saw him showing up to work on a battered gray bike; though Acatl’s second-in-command never said a word to him about it, he knew he thought it was unbecoming for the dignity of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day priest of the dead. He could handle that; a priest was meant to serve their people, and there was no need to put on unnecessary airs. Besides, he liked the city, liked the noise and the chaos of it. It was home. It was—alive.

Of course, in another way, it was also quite dead.

The crowd on the sidewalks ebbed and flowed around little pockets of cold emptiness; as he turned his head at one stop sign, a translucent woman in an old-fashioned tunic and skirt bowed to him, and he nodded back. It always paid to be polite to ghosts. Cars in front of him stopped in the middle of the street to let a faded, barely visible man push a wheelbarrow across a road that no longer existed; despite the delay in their commutes, nobody honked their horns. Acatl quietly approved. In other places, he knew, people were much less calm about bits of the underworld leaking through to their everyday lives, but in Mexico—and especially in this city—the underworld very nearly was their everyday lives. Ghosts walked the streets they had loved in life, and when they passed on, they took the forms of butterflies that brightened the hearts of their loved ones. And if they made trouble...well, that was what people like him were there for.

He pedaled on, thinking of work. It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to; though he’d never been good with people, he’d truly enjoyed his post in Coyoacan where much of the job had lay in talking to bereaved families, following threads of magic, and occasional heartstopping moments of sheer terror as whatever had crawled out of the underworld decided to take a bite out of him instead. It had all been very straightforward. Meanwhile, being the Chief of the entire Mictlan Division meant any case he had to examine himself was going to involve politics, and he knew he was entirely out of his depth there. Fuck you, Ceyaxochitl, he thought grumpily—but not too loudly. He wouldn’t have put it past her to be able to read his mind from across the city.

He doubted the last High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli had had to deal with a Ceyaxochitl of his own. And if he had, at least she hadn’t had a cell phone.

Then again, I’m sure he had much more immediate problems to deal with. The Europeans showing up with steel and horses, for one thing. The history books all said that the Mexica had held out for a time, but when they faced total annihilation—their deaths, the destruction of their temples, the destruction of their gods—the last High Priest had joined together with his fellows, the last Guardian of the Duality (his little sister, the codices said, and Acatl thought of Mihmatini with a pang every time), and the last Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (the Guardian’s husband, and the High Priest’s...friend said the grammar school textbooks, and lover said the college ones on the strength of some very emotional surviving poetry) in a desperate ritual to...well, nobody, even now, could agree on what they had been trying to do. Kill all the Spaniards? Save their own lives? Strengthen the wards between all three realms, so that even if they died the world would live on? Whatever their goals had been, the result was this: a world where very few people rested quietly in death, where monsters sometimes walked the streets, and where the gods’ gift of magic was spread thin to keep the world intact.

Of course, the distance of the gods worked in their favor now. The sun rose without being fed by human hearts, and star demons were a thing of the distant past. (Election years were bad enough. He didn’t even want to imagine how bad they’d be with the threat of Coyolxauhqui hanging over everyone’s heads.) Only minor, more-easily-killable creatures still threatened them. Historians generally agreed it had also spared a larger part of his people and culture than might otherwise have been the case (he’d had nightmares as a child of what could have happened, of the Great Temple trampled into the dust and a church built atop it), so on the whole Acatl was inclined to look very favorably upon the spiritual predecessor whose knives allegedly were the ones sealed in a glass case in his office. And if he happened to have been intimate with Emperor Ahuizotl (whose namesakes had very explicitly eaten Hernan Cortez, described with glee by contemporary commentators), then good for him.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through traffic and an unpleasantly exciting near-collision with a car that was apparently immune to a Mictlan officer’s aura, he came to the Division headquarters. From a distance it looked just like any other office building, until you got close enough to notice the owl-and-spider motifs in the stone and the skull prominently displayed over the door. They might no longer officially be priests of Mictlantecuhtli, but the symbols remained. (Including the official regalia of the High Priests, which Acatl had to wear for the big rituals and feast days, and which he hated more than he thought he could hate a bit of fabric and feathers. The loincloth helped, but ritual sites never had air conditioning; adding a giant skull mask and heavy cloak only made it worse.) He attempted to smooth down the mess the trip had made of his hair and was about to lock his bike up when the doors slid open and Ichtaca strolled out.

Unlike Acatl—windblown, sweaty, sporting a black mark of uncertain provenance on his uniform pants—Ichtaca was immaculate. His standard-issue uncut hair was pulled back neatly, his shoes gleamed, and the prominently displayed owl badge on his chest proclaimed his status to anyone who cared to look. Even his short-sleeved uniform shirt had been pressed and ironed, and the spider trim shimmered. “Don’t bother, sir. The...deceased is in the Old City. We’ll be heading there straightaway.” Unspoken, but clear in his tone was I would have told you that but you hung up on me, you idiot.

Acatl grimaced. Trying to take bodies out of the Old City without at least some token prayers tended to end badly. “To the Old City, then. You’ll be walking?”

“...I also brought a bike.”

When the last High Priests and the last Emperor had snapped the boundaries like so many dry twigs, they had succeeded in preserving a single part of their city. In the middle of Mexico City, a mile-wide circle of Tenochtitlan remained as it had been in the last days of the Empire, a place of perfectly preserved adobe buildings and now-dry canals with the Sacred Precinct at its center. Between the ghosts and the fact that electronics tended to fail there, it had been abandoned for centuries—the province of religious rituals, heavily supervised archaeological expeditions, and rare tourist walks. These days, there were checkpoints with armed guards to make sure nobody snuck in and got themselves eaten; rumors that vagrants seeking a place to sleep had woken up covered in a protective blanket of butterflies were officially declared false. (Acatl believed them. The people that had laid the spell had loved their city.)

Acatl waited until they were within the borders, away from the noise of traffic, to say, “Tell me about the deceased. What do we know so far?”

Ichtaca set a hand to the hilt of one of his regulation knives (obsidian, six inches, fixed-blade, sanctified by three drops of human blood and sharp enough to slice a single hair). “Female, possibly Nahua, roughly in her late forties. The body was...mauled, and the area stinks of magic.” At Acatl’s look, he added, “More than the usual, anyway. It’s how we found her; we were exercising the xolos.”

He nodded. While humans could sense magic, dogs were better at it, and the best breeds for it were those that were native to the area. The three main divisions all had their K-9 units. “No identification on her?”

Ichtaca shook his head. “None. We think she must have been trying to sleep in one of the buildings...ah. Here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a tiny adobe house by a canal, watched over by a young officer, her dog, and a wheelbarrow full of ice. Acatl could smell the blood from the street, and something else…

When he stood in the doorway, the howling emptiness of Mictlan hit him like a truck. For a moment he could barely see the woman’s corpse curled up on the floor, and then his gaze focused again. Ichtaca was right. She had been mauled. Her limbs were still attached, but something had raked its claws over her to the bone, and giant jaws had opened her chest. It was impossible to tell the original color of her tank top.

“We leave this earth,” he whispered. “This world of jade and flowers—the quetzal feathers, the silver. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the ceder trees. Safe journeys, my friend. Safe journeys. All the way to the end.”

And then he pulled his rubber gloves on and knelt to examine her corpse, turning her over gently to inspect the wounds. He almost didn’t have to; the bottom of his stomach felt like it had dropped to hell and froze over there, which would have been a clear indicator of something from the underworld even if her heart and lungs hadn’t been torn from her chest cavity. A beast of shadows, he thought, and then, Damn it. They could only prowl in places where no light shone, making them the chief predators of anyone sleeping alone in the Old City and blessedly rare everywhere else, and only obsidian could kill them. He still had the scars where one had caught his arm before his comrades had saved him. At least they were solitary, unable to bear the presence of another even in the same city; he didn’t even want to think about dealing with a pack of the things. The problem was that he couldn’t tell where this one had gone. And if it managed to escape the Old City, the mayor would have his head.

The young officer—he hadn’t gotten her nametag—spoke up. “We couldn’t find a trail, sir. It’s like it was summoned here.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. There would be signs. It must have slipped in from somewhere. You couldn’t even track it with the dogs?” There had once been spells that would track things from the underworld—he’d seen the codices—but with the breaking of the boundaries they were weak and unreliable, prone to throwing up false positives.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Let’s take her to the morgue and see what comes up. If it’s necessary, I’ll get us the permits for a full search of the Old City.”

&

In the end, there wasn’t anything to find. The autopsy showed nothing suggesting the woman had been targeted by a sorcerer with a grudge, so Acatl returned to the Old City on his own; by the time he finally stopped for a rest—dusty, footsore, and exhausted—in the house that had once belonged to the last High Priest of the Dead, he’d checked every inch of it and wanted nothing more than to go home. A dead end. Wonderful.

He fiddled with his earrings, running his fingers over the thin scars at his earlobes. His gaze drifted over the worn frescoes of owls and spiders without really seeing them. Five hundred years ago, his spiritual predecessor had lived and grown old here; Acatl had seen reconstructions of the place before the museums had descended and knew that there had been a quetzal-feather fan there, that just over there had been a single well-worn reed sleeping mat. Judging by the childish paint smears at roughly knee height, he’d also played host to a number of the Emperor’s children and grandchildren. He’d probably shed blood from his own earlobes here every morning, just as Acatl did. He wondered how he’d feel to be summoned for advice; it was a seriously tempting prospect, but one he ultimately dismissed. One did not summon the Last Priest on a whim; he surely had enough to do with guiding the dead through Mictlan safely.

He checked his phone, mostly to have something to do with his hands. As expected, it was hovering at a dismal 30% battery life and no signal, but the picture on his lock screen—Neutemoc and his children, with Mihmatini holding Little Skull in her lap—was as clear as ever, and still made him smile.

Impatient footsteps—one set human, one set canine—made him look up just as a boy entered the doorway. Silhouetted by the setting sun, at first Acatl couldn’t make out his features; then he stepped inside, leading a truly impressive xoloitzcuintle, and Acatl felt his heart drop into his shoes. He knew the features of that face. He’d seen them in the news and in a dozen press releases, every time the mayor gave speeches with his family in tow. If he wasn’t a relative of some sort, Acatl would eat his own shoes.

The boy—a young man, really, around his sister’s age—had dressed for the weather, at least. Acatl took in the sight of sandals, cargo shorts, a camo-print tank top, a thermos clipped to his belt along with a stone knife. The high cheekbones and hawkish nose that were so familiar sat on a face that looked much more used to smiling than anything else; the military-style buzz cut was at odds with the gold studs in each ear and below his lip. “Excuse me. Are you Chief Acatl?” He was eyeing him like a tricky page in a codex.

Acatl studied him for a moment. He felt human, though the faint glitter of the light caught in the little hairs on his arms spoke of powerful magical protections on him. (He was also very handsome when he started to smile, but Acatl told himself firmly that now was not the time to be noticing that.) “I am. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you. Ceyaxochitl sent me; she said you’d need assistance.” Acatl’s heart wanted to sink, but it was somehow very hard to manage when the young man aimed that confident half-smile at him. “My name is Teomitl, and this—” he gestured to the dog “—is Yaotl." Acatl wondered if Ceyaxochitl knew the man's dog shared a name with her PA. "We were told there was underworld magic to track.”

“There is.” But Teomitl shouldn’t be doing it. This was a beast of shadows, a matter for the Mictlan Division, not a boy with a dog. On the other hand, Ceyaxochitl had sent him, and it was best not to anger her if he could avoid it. Sighing, he started to stand up and immediately dropped his phone in the dirt.

Teomitl bent and picked it up, only to stare at the lock screen. “How do you know Mihmatini?”

Acatl blinked at him. What a small world we live in. “She’s my younger sister. Why?” When Teomitl handed him his phone back, he made sure to slip it safely into his back pocket.

He grinned. “I’m in Advanced Solar Divinity and Warding Magic 201 with her. She’s amazing.”

Great. Mihm, you have another admirer. On one hand, Mihmatini deserved everything she could ever wish for. On the other hand, a possible relative of the mayor...he thought back to the aftermath of a few family dinners when she and Neutemoc had started discussing (arguing about) politics, and decided she could definitely do better. At least their shared university courses explained the glimmering magic around Teomitl; Mihm had once turned in a term paper in a similar class that had left flowers appearing in her steps for a week. They’d had to stop their nephew from putting them in his mouth. Teomitl was clearly skilled enough with Huitzilpochtli’s magic to protect himself. “Mm-hmm. How much were you told regarding this case?”

Teomitl fixed his gaze to a point over Acatl’s shoulder and rattled off, “An unknown woman was found dead eight hours ago—“

Has it really been eight hours? Gods.

“—with the clear marks of a Beast of Mictlan on her corpse, and no trail to follow. It’ll be easier to track now that the sun’s going down.” Now he made eye contact, and Acatl spared no thought to hiding the expression on his face.

Because the idea of tracking a beast of shadows at dusk—never mind at night—was certainly more effective, but it was also suicidally dangerous. It wasn’t something Acatl would dare attempt without backup. A thousand retorts flew through his mind—you’re insane, we’d both be torn apart, it’s slower but so much safer to just kill it while it sleeps—but, looking at Teomitl’s proud eyes, he found he couldn’t voice any of them. What came out instead was, “Are you telling me you can track it now?”

Teomitl patted Yaotl’s head. The dog whuffed quietly. “Yaotl can. He’s descended from the Emperor’s hounds and blessed by Mixcoatl. And I can fight it.”

Acatl rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and it wasn’t all due to the fizzing, hot-blood sensation of Mixcoatl’s magic he could sense on Yaotl when he focused. I owe Ceyaxochitl much. I can recognize that. But to put this young man at risk… It took no effort at all for him to remember his last junior partner. Payaxin had died in front of him. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Teomitl spoke again, voice low. “Please. Let me prove myself. Let me help. This is my city too, and my people’s heritage this thing is using for a hunting ground. I’ll be of use to you, I swear it.”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a single aggrieved sigh. “Very well. Follow me.”

Back to the scene of the crime. It was too hot for anyone sensible to exert themselves, but this didn’t appear to stop Teomitl. He power-walked like he thought the sun couldn’t touch him. Acatl trailed behind, finding his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should on broad shoulders and lean, strong back muscles; he was perversely grateful Teomitl wasn’t looking at him. Pathetic. I’m on the clock. I have to keep my mind on the job. (Also, if he went to school with Mihm, he was almost definitely too young for him even leaving aside the obvious admiration when he spoke of her; Acatl might have been lonely, but he had some standards.)

Teomitl turned the wrong way, and he cleared his throat. “We make a left here.”

The boy shook his head. “Yaotl really wants to go this way.”

He eyed the dog. Blessed or not, if you are chasing after a dead pigeon I will be very upset. “...Fine. But slow down, Teomitl. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.”

Teomitl unhooked his thermos; Acatl must have made a noise at that, because he looked over with worry in his eyes. “I’m fine, I have Gatorade. But you—you should drink something. Here, have some.”

He had dignity. He hated Gatorade. But the sloshing of the thermos had reminded him that he was desperately thirsty, and so he threw his head back and drank deep without even tasting it. Later, the aftertaste would no doubt remind him that this had been a stupid idea, but now all he felt was relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Teomitl watching him and belatedly flushed, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Teomitl turned his face away, but not before Acatl saw his dark skin tint a shade redder. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep moving.” Not that he had much of a choice; they’d stopped to let Acatl drink but Yaotl wanted to keep going, tugging insistently on the end of his leash when his master stopped moving.

They continued on, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Whatever Yaotl was smelling, it was leading them on a long walk. At least Teomitl hung back to walk next to him, saying nothing at the way Acatl had taken to leaning on his bike. They were both silent; Acatl didn’t dare speak, knowing full well that not every creature unleashed by the shattered boundaries was confined to nighttime hours. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation even if it had been safe. He cast a sideways glance at Teomitl and found him grave-faced and focused, gaze flicking towards every unexpected movement.

They were mainly ghosts. The Old City was filled with them—mostly Mexica, but a good sprinkling of others ranging from Spanish conquistadors to unfortunate tourists and, Acatl knew, at least one archaeologist who’d fallen off the Temple steps and hit his head. Acatl nodded to each of them, even the conquistadors, until he became aware of the steadily increasing tension emanating from Teomitl. He turned back to him then, feeling an answering irritation rise in his own heart. “What?”

“You keep stopping to be polite. We’re wasting time.”

His eyes narrowed. “My vocation demands no less. You should try it, too; you never know when you might need something a ghost can provide, and they do not appreciate rudeness.” Nor do I. “Besides,” he added, “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Teomitl fell quiet again after that, but the next time they passed a ghost—a little girl—he bowed, and she clapped her hands and cheered in silent delight at him. Acatl felt something warm in his chest, and found himself gazing at his new ally thoughtfully. Prickly and privileged and impatient, yes—but considerate too, when it’s pointed out to him as an option he should take. Maybe this won’t be so bad. (And he’s nice to look at, whispered a little voice that he staunchly ignored.)

The sun was setting. The shadows grew longer. They quickened their steps, and Yaotl broke out into a trot—

—And then, quite suddenly, into a run. Teomitl had to unclip the leash; it was that or have his arm yanked out of the socket. As he broke into a sprint, Acatl hopped onto his bike and pedaled after. Teomitl kept pace, which shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The part of his brain that was always devoted to spellwork wondered just how many magical protections had been layered over the boy.

There wasn’t much time to think about that, however. Yaotl led them through the city without stopping. Left—right—left again—the sun had vanished, and they were navigating by the reflective patches of the dog’s collar—and then the stench of blood and the bottomless grief of Mictlan hit him, and he gasped too-loud in the gathering gloom. Teomitl stopped dead with an instinctive retch and then continued on. Impressive, Acatl thought. Normally they throw up or start crying when they first sense that. He’d done both.

By the time Yaotl stopped in front of a house, stiff-legged and growling at the empty doorway, Acatl was wishing he’d waited for permission to bring a full crew. It would have to be just him and Teomitl, then. He slid off his bike with a grimace and grabbed Teomitl’s arm before he could rush in. He could just make out a ragged shape lying against the wall. The beast of shadows could be back any minute.

If it wasn’t already waiting for them.

He drew a knife and crept in by Teomitl’s side, holding his phone in his other hand for light. The beast’s latest meal had been male, white, age indeterminate, with a scruffy attempt at a beard. The blood was still fresh and pulsing with magical power. He breathed out, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “You leave behind your fine poems. You leave behind your beautiful flowers and the earth that was only lent to you. You ascend into the Light. Safe journey, my friend."

Teomitl tensed up, turning towards the door. “I heard something—“

Yaotl barked. It probably saved both their lives.

A thing darker than shadows, sharper than knives, barreled through the entryway. It knocked Teomitl aside in its rush; Acatl, turning, dropped his phone but managed to keep hold of his knife. And then it was flattening him  under its weight and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t think. His world narrowed down to a crushing weight on his torso, a foul stench in his nose, snapping teeth and ripping claws entirely too close to his face. He heaved desperately—if he could just get some leverage to actually stab the thing—

“Acatl!” A dog’s snarl.

It roared, dripping saliva, and turned its head away. As it shifted its weight, he finally shoved it off of him and scrambled, ungainly, to his feet and away from its claws. The throb in his chest suggested he’d cracked a rib, but that was a pain he’d deal with later. If he survived. His night vision was slow to arrive, his eyes watering painfully, but finally he could pick out three darker shapes in the night. The beast had turned to attack Yaotl, who was doing his best to hamstring it while Teomitl, knife in hand, was trying to land a blow. Acatl knew they were in trouble; Teomitl was clearly skilled, but the awkward way he moved in search of an opening suggested he’d been injured in the initial rush, and Yaotl’s jaws were already burned from its blood.

Think. If I can get it outside—the sky’s never truly dark, it’ll be weaker— It wasn’t focused on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he moved to the doorway and drew his other knife. He would only get one shot at this.

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out. In the empty, static darkness of Mictlan, the beast’s outline was a knot of frantic hatred and hunger.

He threw the knife. As the beast howled in pain, he dropped to the ground. Its leap soared right over him, and then they were in the street together; he could finally see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Not that he had much time to take in more than a strong impression of burning eyes, claws like a bear, and too many teeth in a too-long jaw before it was lunging for him again. He threw himself to one side, quick enough to avoid a swipe to his chest but not enough to dodge the blow entirely. Agony seared up his shoulder as claws ripped into his arm instead, so cold that they burned. He felt his hand open of its own volition, felt the knife fall from useless fingers and skitter across the ground, felt himself scream in pain, and thought No.

When the beast launched itself at him again, his legs crumpled under it. Instinctively he raised his injured arm to protect his face; fangs raked his flesh, but before the beast could close its jaws Yaotl was leaping on it, snapping savagely at its head.

Teomitl’s footsteps. “Acatl!”

The world felt like it was made of tar, everything slower than it should be. The beast was still pinning him down while Yaotl’s teeth flashed in the night, Teomitl was moving towards him but it was too late, there was only the white-hot agony of his arm, the lances of pain through his ribs, through his head where he’d hit the ground. He couldn’t think. His knife had fallen inches from his bloody hand.

His hand.

The knife.

His fingers closed around it and he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mictlan’s emptiness coiled within the blade, pushing away the pain—not far, but enough for him to move. Enough for him to strike. He brought the knife up, at an angle that made every tendon in his arm howl, and buried it in the beast’s ribs. It convulsed; he had a moment to see his impending death before Teomitl’s own blade slammed into the back of its neck.

He thought he blacked out; by the time he opened his eyes, Teomitl was dragging the bulk of the beast off of him. He croaked something he thought were words and made an aborted attempt at sitting up. He had to see it sent on properly. That was his duty.

Teomitl dropped to his knees, pressing him back down. His free hand held his phone, and the flashlight app was bright enough that Acatl hissed, tried to turn his head away, and immediately regretted it. He thought he might be sick. “Don’t move, Acatl! You’re—you’re losing a lot of blood.”

Oh. That explained why he felt so weak, then. The beast’s claws must have struck deep. “I have to—” He swallowed painfully. “Have to send it on. Or else it...doesn’t know it’s dead. They’re...just as hungry when they’re ghosts.”

Teomitl’s expression suggested he thought Acatl had gone crazy. “I’ll do it, then! You just stay there and—hang on, I have a first-aid-kit—“

“No,” he whispered. “Take my knife. Draw a quincunx...on its skull.” The light was just good enough to see Teomitl’s hand shake as he followed his instructions, stabbing deeply enough to strike bone. His chest hurt, but he could force out this rite if he were dead. “In darkness they dwell. They feast, they consume their prey. In darkness they dwell. They eat, they consume their prey. All save one...and that one returns. Mine is the...the knife that stole this life. Mine is the hand—“ He coughed, once, and nearly passed out from the pain. He’d definitely broken a rib. “—that sends this one home.”

The bulk of the beast’s corpse sagged; as wisps of black smoke bled off it, Teomitl dropped the knife in disgust and yanked a first-aid kit from his pocket. “Now can I stop you from bleeding to death?!”

He turned his head to see Teomitl’s shin crooked and covered in blood and managed, somehow, to whisper, “You’re hurt.” You shouldn’t be hurt. You’re such a good fighter, much better than Payaxin, and I was supposed to look after you...Ceyaxochitl will be so angry…

“Don’t worry about me!” Teomitl snapped. The gauze pad he pressed to Acatl’s shoulder was soaked almost immediately, and he muttered a curse and tossed it aside for another one. “Come on—gods, no, Yaotl, do not put that in your mouth—Acatl, stay with me!”

He let himself be lifted so Teomitl could wrap bandages, noted with dispassionate interest how the hand he set at the back of his head was dark and wet. The antiseptic poured on him with shaking hands stung, but everything seemed very far away. “You did well.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it was coming through water. “Thank you.”

Teomitl’s voice was a snarl. “Thank me when we’re safe! After we get Yaotl to a vet and you to a hospital and I get a chance to kick your ass for throwing a fucking knife at me, really? A knife? Was that necessary?”

He should be annoyed, he thought. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time, I’ll be better prepared.” He pressed more gauze down on Acatl’s forearm and cast a glance at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glittered wetly. “You are not allowed to die until then, okay? I will drag you back from Heaven myself.”

“Mictlan,” he whispered. “I am—a priest, for the modern era. A priest of...Lord Death. I’ll go to Mictlan.” Not forever on earth, but for a little while...

“No.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged with an emotion Acatl couldn’t place. Grief, he thought. Or rage.

He felt a smile curve his lips. “It’s not so bad. The Last Priest will guide me as he guides us all.”

“Well, I won’t let him.” It was a growl that softened as he leaned closer, reaching down to—oh, he was moving Acatl’s hair away from his face. That was nice. “You hear me? We’re close enough to the walls to get a signal. I’m going to call the paramedics and you’ll be fine. But you have to stay awake, okay?”

He was going to. Really. But his eyes slid shut, and the next thing he knew was Teomitl grabbing his arm as Yaotl’s cold nose met the side of his head. “Hm?”

“Wake up!” There was an edge of real fear in his voice. “Talk to me. Ask me anything you want to know. Or tell me something—tell me I’m being rude again.”

If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt as much. Talk to me. He thought he could manage that. “You...saved my life.” Another breath. “You can be as rude as you want. But...you won’t impress Mihm like that.”

Teomitl snorted. “Nothing I do would impress Mihmatini.”

“Shame.” Hmm. Interesting. Words seemed to be coming out of his mouth that had bypassed his brain entirely. “But...you look kind of like the mayor, anyway. She wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like him.”

There was another snort, and when he wedged open one eye he saw him shaking his head. “Nobody likes Tizoc. Not even me, and we share a father. She’s not alone.”

“Your brother?” Thinking hurt about as much as breathing—which was to say, much worse when he tried to put any effort into it. So he didn’t. “Huh. You’re much better looking than he is. Very pretty.”

So that was what it sounded like when someone choked on their own spit. “I—Acatl!” It was followed up by a muttered, “Now I know you hit your head too hard.”

As Teomitl hit the number for the paramedics, his free hand settled over Acatl’s and stayed there.

&

The First Patecatl Hospital had grown, like many other public buildings in Mexico City, out of a temple to the gods. In the hospital’s case, the very small attempt at a pyramid was still in the central courtyard, and Acatl had a fine view of it from his window. It would have been peaceful to the point of boredom if he hadn’t been so tired. The doctors had treated his wounds (severe lacerations, two broken ribs, minor acid burns and dehydration, and a nasty concussion) but when he’d suggested that maybe he could have Neutemoc drive him home he had been very firmly moved to a private room for continued observation. His brother and sister had come and gone, Mihmatini with concern and Neutemoc with...well, now that he thought about it, also concern, even though it had been masked with far too much I-told-you-this-would-happen grumbling for an army sergeant. I must have looked terrible. Even Ichtaca had spent a whole fifteen minutes frowning at him while filling him in on work.

Total casualties of his work day: his uniform (unsalvageable), his phone (cracked by the beast, to Mihm’s undisguised glee; Acatl supposed now he really had no excuse but to get a new one), and one regulation obsidian knife. At least he’d been reassured that Yaotl would be fine, and Mihm had promised to check on Little Skull. And they’d brought him clothes.

He hadn’t mentioned Teomitl to her, he realized. In his defense, the painkillers he’d been given were strong. At least they made breathing easier. But as the pain started to ease back in, it brought clarity with it. He closed his eyes, remembering how Teomitl had bandaged his wounds and begged him to keep talking. I have to speak to him. I have to see his face.

He had no idea where Teomitl had been taken and certainly wasn’t going to be able to wander around looking for him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to call the nurse.

In no time at all, he was being bundled into a wheelchair and steered a few rooms down the hall, where a trio of very large men in suits hovered. They eyed him with thinly veiled hostility, and he recalled those videos of the mayor. He thought he remembered Teomitl saying something about Tizoc.

Unlike him, the nurse was entirely unruffled. “Chief Acatl of the Mictlan Division here to see the patient. You three can stop blocking the hallway now.”

They edged away to lean against the opposite wall, enabling him to finally see into the room and spy Teomitl. His first thought was relief—while Teomitl’s leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, the air full of the grassy scent of Patecatl’s magic to speed healing, his other injuries looked much shallower. He was listening to something on his phone; the way his face transformed from concentration to delight when he slipped his earbud out and turned to see Acatl in the doorway was entirely too heartwarming. “Acatl!”

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Teomitl’s joy was infectious. “How are you feeling?”

“I should be asking you that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cracked tibia, I’ll live. I’m going to have words with someone here, I swear—I wanted to come see you but nobody would let me.” That was pure, huffy impatience, and Acatl shouldn’t have found it charming.

Nor should I wanted to come see you have set his heart fluttering against his ribcage. “I was having stitches done; I was very heavily medicated.” Honestly, he still was; everything was fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, but his limbs were not precisely cooperative. “And my family was here.” Looking around the room, he saw no signs of any similar visitations for Teomitl. The fluttering in his chest clenched into a fist.

“...I figured they would be.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he looked him up and down “Nice shirt.”

Acatl groaned internally. Of course his siblings, when asked to bring him something to wear, would subject him to the old college T-shirt he usually only wore on laundry day. Loose and comfortable it might be, but nobody wanted to be reminded of their taste in bands from ten years ago. “Mihmatini picked it.”

“Mihmatini has good taste.” And since this was objectively true except in matters likely to mildly embarrass her older brothers, Acatl had to nod.

The nurse’s pager buzzed, and she sighed at it. “Sorry, I have to run—will you be alright in here for ten minutes?”

“He’ll be fine.” Teomitl aimed a dazzling smile at her. Acatl, clipped by its edge, could only gulp and feel his face grow hot. “I’ll take care of him.”

It felt easier to talk when she left. True, the door was still half open behind her, but he could pretend for a moment that there weren’t a trio of burly bodyguards eyeing him. He took the chance to simply gaze at Teomitl, noting the shadows under his eyes and the bandaged scrape along his arm.  “You’ve already done so much.”

“So have you.” The warm regard in Teomitl’s face was too much; Acatl had to drop his gaze. “...I wouldn’t have been able to kill that thing by myself, or—what did you say? Let it know it’s dead? You did that. I owe you one.” He shifted on the bed. When a hand came to rest on his good arm, Acatl jolted.

He knew he had to be red. Responses fired through his mind—you don’t owe me anything, I got you into this, I’m so sorry—but his eyes fell on Teomitl’s phone before he could voice any of them. He’d been watching the news, he realized. Tizoc was giving a speech. Side by side, there really was no denying their family resemblance. So that’s why Ceyaxochitl assigned him to me. She always said we needed more political support. “...Convince your brother to let me keep my job, and we’re even. When were you going to tell me about him?”

Teomitl flinched, eyes narrowing poisonously at his phone before he flipped it screen-side down. “I don’t want to ride on his coattails all my life. I want to prove myself on my own merits and do things the right way. And…” He cast a sidelong glance at Acatl, catching his lip between his teeth. “I think we make a good team, and I know from Mihm how you feel about him.”

Tizoc thought the tenuous balance between worlds should be maintained with guns, that there was no need for the one-time clergy of the Mexica to continue ministering to their peoples’ spiritual well-being. He was not popular among anyone who had anything to do with magic. Or, for that matter, common sense. That even his own brother didn’t like him spoke well of Teomitl’s judgement. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you. Just...warn me next time.” There would be a next time. He was sure of it. He was also suddenly very aware that Teomitl hadn’t removed his hand.

A smile attempted to cross Teomitl’s face, but fell flat at the starting point. “If I warned you about all my horrible relatives, you’d fall asleep again before I got halfway through. I’ve been getting calls all morning; they weren’t happy about any of this.”

Oh, thank the Duality. Work. I can always talk about work. He nodded. “We still don’t know how the beast slipped in, but Ichtaca told me they’re trying to track down the relatives of the people who were killed to reassure them that it was slain. I’ll have a lot of paperwork to fill out next week; you’ll likely have to sign some as well.” His head throbbed rebelliously at the mere thought.

“…Ah.” Teomitl didn’t look happy about that, but then he looked up and his expression turned distinctly hopeful. “You’re taking the week off?”

“Patecatl can only do so much.” Also, Ichtaca had told him in no uncertain terms to take a vacation.

Teomitl fell silent at that, gaze shifting thoughtfully away. His hand slid down Acatl’s forearm and over his wrist, and all of Acatl’s higher brain functions immediately shifted to processing the sensation. There were calluses on those fingers, and scars as well. And they were so warm.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Acatl when he spoke. “You know,” he began, “I never did get your number.”

“You…” It was slow to compute. Sounds floated on the air without resolving into words, until finally in a shocking rush they arranged themselves into something Acatl could process. Things like this did not happen to him. “You want my number?!”

“You called me pretty.” Now Teomitl was looking at him. Worse, that radiant smile was out in full force, scouring away any defense Acatl could muster. The hand on his wrist was gentle and unmistakable. “I’d like to think that wasn’t the concussion talking.”

Fuck. It was the first clear thought he’d had in what felt like an eternity. He had said that. And Teomitl had heard it and...seemed interested in hearing more. “Mgh.” He should use words. Teomitl deserved words. “...No. It wasn’t.” You’re beautiful.

Teomitl’s hand slid over his, lacing their fingers together. Acatl had seen heated gazes before, but having one directed at him was an experience that defied description. “So...”

He had to look away. It was that or combust. “So.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. Much better.” Teomitl squeezed his hand once, lightly, and pulled away. Acatl mourned the separation immediately. “Can I?”

He swallowed hard. Duality, yes. Yes, please. It was probably a bad idea. No, it was probably a terrible idea given all that Teomitl was, all the differences between them. He was absolutely going to regret this when the painkillers wore off and he was operating at full mental capacity again. But he’d seen moths fluttering around candle flames, and now he thought he knew how they felt before they burned. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in and...you can text me in a day or two when I’ve got a new one.” His head wouldn’t be happy with staring at a screen, but it was better than whatever hearing Teomitl’s voice in his ear would do to his heart.

Teomitl had to hold the phone up so he could type. It took three tries, not least because Teomitl took advantage of their proximity to murmur, “I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to doing lots of things with you when you’re feeling better.”

The nurse returned just in time to hear the strangled noise he made.

&

> ACATL.

> how are you feeling?? how’s the new phone?

>> Much better, thank you. I’m home now. I have no complaints about the phone.

> good! I’m glad to hear that

> i was worried about you

> wanna get dinner sometime? my treat

>> I’d rather cook. It’s more economical, and the doctors assure me light exercise will benefit my arm.

> are you inviting me over to your place?

(…)

>> I suppose.

> that sounds great!! i’d love to come over and meet your cat!! is friday ok?? at 8?

>> That’s fine.

> :thumbsup: it’s a date! see u then!

(…)

(…)

>> I look forward to it.

&

ahuizotl2: mihm help

dear_prudence: what did you do

ahuizotl2: I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I just. uh. your brother

dear_prudence: t e o

ahuizotl2: I asked him to dinner

dear_prudence: and?????????

dear_prudence: oh no did he turn you down?

ahuizotl2: NO

ahuizotl2: he invited me over to his place instead

dear_prudence: he

dear_prudence: he what

ahuizotl2: and I said it’s a date and he saID HE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT

dear_prudence: MY brother??? ACATL???????

dear_prudence: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

dear_prudence: MIRACLES DO HAPPEN too bad he has terrible taste

ahuizotl2: yes yes I’m sure this is hilarious for you but more importantly I don’t know what to wear. my date wardrobe is all armani!!! do you know ANYTHING abt what your brother likes?????

dear_prudence: son, you’re on your own

ahuizotl2: wow rude

&

[The Gods Squad Groupchat]

Cursed Snake Facts: so what’s this I hear about someone having a hot date????

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: wHAT

Cursed Snake Facts: I mean mihm’s big brother, of course :) what did you think I meant?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: fuck you neza

Cursed Snake Facts: is that an invitation?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: I would literally rather stick my dick in a cactus

Queen Of All She Surveys: yes, a miracle finally occurred

Queen Of All She Surveys: the gods have blessed us

Queen Of All She Surveys: acatl has a date

Queen Of All She Surveys: and NO, I am NOT telling you who with. That is his business. We’re all very happy for him and his private life, neza

Cursed Snake Facts: godsdammit

Queen Of All She Surveys: :)

&

ahuizotl2: I take it back

ahuizotl2: I love you. name it and its yours

dear_prudence: take me shopping bitch

ahuizotl2: done! :D

ahuizotl2: ...also how the fuck did HE find out??

dear_prudence: it’s nez

ahuizotl2: point taken

Further AU notes:

- little skull is mostly white with black ears and a patch on her back that lends her her name. acatl talks to her like a person. sometimes her eyes reflect light that isn't there. - everyone is bi because I say so. - acatl's parents really wanted him to go into law or medicine but no, he had to major in religious studies, minor in history, and go off to be a glorified coroner. - neutemoc and huei's divorce was a nightmare but they are both happier now. - modern acatl can summon the wind of knives. the wind of knives thinks OG acatl was better. - yaotl: shadow beasts? no problem. an 8-lb cat? VERY SCARY MUCH SHARP.

[lifeonashelf]

CLARKSON, KELLY

Since we’ve already tackled a fairly diverse musical sampling in this tome, it may not shock you to learn that I sincerely think Kelly Clarkson is awesome-sauce. And I’m not just referring to her talent (which is obviously abundant) or her register of great songs (which is also obviously abundant), I’m referring to her essence—the authenticity she embodies, and how much more fundamentally likeable she is than any other pop star of her stature or epoch. I have not met Kelly Clarkson, yet her entire vocational ethos has been so blessedly free of pretention that I kind of feel like I know her, even though the only thing I know for a fact about Kelly Clarkson is that she is a singer named Kelly Clarkson.

I never viewed one episode of the American Idol season she won and I have never seen her interviewed as far as I can recall. The impressions I have of her character are intrinsic, based on nothing more than the calmative sound of her voice and the traits I instinctively suppose a person whose voice sounds like hers must surely possess (certain voices are just like that—I don’t think anyone on the planet assumes Morgan Freeman is a dick, for instance). By that criteria alone, I am led to believe Kelly Clarkson is a kind human being, the sort of gentle soul who gleans authentic happiness from making other people happy. I am led to believe she is a humble human being, the sort of grateful and unaffected luminary who lends her resources to numerous charitable causes without requiring any fanfare for it. I am led to believe she is a wonderful mother, although I am merely presuming she has kids since I don’t actually know anything about her personal life. And I am so innately certain of these things that if someone told me they have it on good authority that Kelly Clarkson bathes in the blood of kittens to preserve her youth, I wouldn’t believe that person for a second, even if they had pictures (conversely, if someone told me the same thing about Taylor Swift, they wouldn’t even need photos to convince me).

I have an anecdote which supports my hypotheses, even if the anecdote isn’t my own. My cousin Lauren worked at a restaurant in Hawaii for a few years, and on her last day at this café, a vacationing Kelly Clarkson happened to stop in to eat there. Since it was Lauren’s final shift, her co-workers were scribbling farewell messages on her uniform with magic markers throughout the day, inscribing it like the pages of a yearbook. My cousin’s engraved vestment drew the notice of the eatery’s eminent visitor, who amiably asked about its significance; when Lauren explained the circumstances to this world-renowned superstar in her establishment, Clarkson proceeded to gush about how delightful she thought the gesture was and asked if she could add her signature to the shirt. As a result, my cousin is now the proud owner of a decidedly unique piece of apparel which is autographed by a slew of her former hospitality industry peers… and Kelly Clarkson. When Lauren told me this story, I was acutely charmed and—yes, I admit—a little envious. But I was not a bit surprised, because that is exactly the sort of genial exchange I imagine everybody who meets Kelly Clarkson probably has with her (conversely, if Lauren told me that Taylor Swift came into her restaurant, wrote “fuck you” on her t-shirt, then defecated on the floor, she wouldn’t even need the signed garment to convince me).    

While artists like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj have allocated periods of their careers to embodying post-apocalyptic femme-bots or community-theater sorceresses or whatever-the-fuck, Kelly Clarkson has exclusively devoted her career to embodying a performer named Kelly Clarkson who doesn’t come across as markedly different than the self-effacing lass named Kelly Clarkson who curls up on her tour bus after her concerts to watch old episodes of Friends (granted, I have no idea if Clarkson is a fan of that particular show, but she sounds like she must be). The only way I would ever recognize Lady Gaga in the wild is if she walked up to me and said, “Hi, my name is Lady Gaga”—and after I nodded and remarked, “oh, that’s kinda neat for you,” I can’t imagine I’d have much else to say to her. Yet if I happened to be at a craft store and I spotted Clarkson browsing the yarn aisles (for some reason, I also presuppose she knits a mean sweater), I would instantly know who I was spotting because she would probably look exactly like Kelly Clarkson always does, and I’d feel duty-bound to approach her, shake her hand, and thank her for being all of the things I assume she is. And if she wanted to hang out for a little while and chat about patterns, I would totally hear her out, because listening to Kelly Clarkson extrapolate on the textile arts sounds like a perfectly pleasant way to spend an afternoon. I have a strong sense that if I were to meet up with Kelly Clarkson for coffee—actually, now that I think about it, she probably prefers tea—we would totally get along; I also have a strong sense that Kelly Clarkson is precisely the kind of celebrity who actually would meet up with a fan for tea (not me, obviously, because I clearly sound like a lunatic right now).  

“The Girl Next Door” is such a tired trope (especially in my case, since the girls who live next door to me are a Goth lesbian couple), but that is indeed the model Clarkson educes: an ingenuous small-town gal-done-good who spent her teenaged weekends canning homemade jam with her grandmother and reading YA romance novels on her porch with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade beside her (again, I’m not sure Kelly Clarkson did any of these things; regrettably, my insights into small-town living are limited to the saccharine tableaus represented in the Lifetime Original movies I’ve watched over the years—which, consequently, I presume Clarkson also enjoys). Her comportment evokes a high-spirited yet enduringly sweet kid sister you impulsively want to protect from the leering eyes of the world, and while she is certainly a beautiful woman, my attraction to her has never ventured anywhere near the realm of the erotic (my pop chanteuse crush is Demi Lovato, whose open struggles with bi-polar disorder, depression, and substance abuse—perhaps unfortunately—make her way more my type than Clarkson is). Honestly, I can’t envision making out with Kelly Clarkson; any fantasies my brain might entertain about her would be more likely to involve tracking down whatever scoundrel inspired the fervent pathos in her performance of “Behind These Hazel Eyes” and defending her honor by punching that fucker in the face.

I guess the word I’m really looking for here is “refreshing.” While Clarkson built her renown in a realm of play-acting, her career has been defined by an absence of artifice, which is ultimately a much more substantive thing to define oneself by than prowling around in spangled booty shorts. At her peak, Clarkson’s implicit message to the young women in her fanbase seemed to be, “you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not; just be who you are and great things will happen.” I’m certainly no prig, but if I had a music-consuming daughter who looked to pop idols for guidance, I’d much rather her absorb that philosophy than the one proffered by, say, Rihanna—whose well-publicized turbulent coupling with Chris Brown would instead tacitly edify my fictional offspring that “ride-or-die” means sticking by your man even after he beats the absolute fucking shit out of you.

Of course, Kelly Clarkson’s ascent was predominantly reliant on her faculty—I doubt millions of people bought her records solely because she’s a nice person—yet in that respect also, she handily outshined her contemporaries. While most of the circa-aughts female pop icons were essentially sonically interchangeable, Clarkson’s soaring vocals always had enough distinctive character to render them unmistakably hers—surely, no amount of Auto-Tune could have endowed the bottom-scraping likes of Fergie with enough juice to do “Because of You” justice. She was also savvy beyond her years, and it was her refusal to let her handlers dictate the course of her career that ultimately allowed her to flourish when so many of her fellow American Idol graduates floundered.

Clarkson’s sophomore album—2004’s Breakaway—turned out to be the best-selling entry in her discography, and will likely forever remain her most iconic opus. But she had to fire her manager and battle just about everyone else in her camp to make that disc happen on her terms. After riding the wave of Idol worship which lifted her safe and satisfactory debut Faithful to its logical ceiling, she was tenacious in her resolve to transcend that threshold and announce herself as an artist capable of achieving far greater heights than triumphing in a televised popularity contest. As preparations for Breakaway began, Clarkson insisted on being heavily involved in the songwriting process—disregarding the protests of her mostly-male producers, who myopically deemed that a twenty-something woman couldn’t possibly possess any insight into what the twenty-something women who comprised the largest audience for the record they were making wanted to hear. She was also adamant about integrating more diverse and dynamic elements into her sound instead of simply settling upon another cycle of tepid pop-contemporary numbers. The result was a monster of a record that offered up five chart-igniting classics and a supporting cast of remarkably strong deep cuts. As evidenced on Breakaway, Kelly Clarkson’s vision of her craft encompassed something much weightier than a series of Pez-dispenser singles and shark-costume dance numbers. She clearly wanted to make a cohesive album that never gave the listener occasion to reach for the Track-Skip button, and she succeeded brilliantly. Commencing with the anthemic title cut, the feisty “Since U Been Gone”, the masterful “Behind These Hazel Eyes”, and the show-stopping apogee “Because of You” in immediate succession, Breakaway is surely a front-loaded disc, but it’s nevertheless one that continues delivering gems long after it exhausts its radio bait: “Addicted” is as solid as anything else on the record, “Walk Away” brims with irresistible quirk, and despite being buried near the tail-end of the track listing, “You Found Me” is more indelible than most other artists’ biggest hits.

This, too, illustrates a refreshing component of Clarkson’s mien—she made an entire record worth listening to, a feat which regrettably few artists on the pop landscape ever seem to bother themselves with. None of the tunes on Breakaway resonate as throwaways; each has something to offer beyond a hummable chorus, and each is solely Clarkson’s domain, firmly entrenched in her esthetic wheelhouse and blessedly devoid of any posturized pandering or blundering Ja Rule cameos. Even at this early stage of her artistic development, she possessed a seasoned understanding of the clear difference between making a song marketable and making a song memorable, and a keen awareness that those two things are not mutually exclusive. Surely, Clarkson was just as aggressively promoted as any of her peers, but her product wasn’t aimed at the audience hungry for gyrating, hypersexual caprice—peddlers like Christina Aguilera already had that demographic covered. Kelly Clarkson wasn’t selling her navel, she was selling a much more durable commodity: fantastic songs performed by an exceptional singer. And the grandeur of her vocal acumen elevated her wares beyond the disposable and into the timeless—indeed, as of this writing, Breakaway remains a thoroughly satisfying listen; meanwhile, nobody would bother spinning an Ashlee Simpson album from start to finish today, not even Ashlee Simpson.

And unlike far too many of her colleagues, Clarkson didn’t require a force-field of studio trickery to bolster her transmission. The organic nuance and passion in her voice floated atop the reverb rather than drowning in it, and the intricate, exquisite descants she conjured revealed hours spent mining her soul for the best way to communicate the emotion each track called for instead of pondering what shoes to wear in the eventual video. Which is probably why “Since U Been Gone” still makes me pogo around my apartment every time I put it on, while every Katy Perry song sounds like it was specifically written for a lipgloss commercial.

Clarkson’s output has waned in the last decade or so—though “Stronger” is a notable high-point—but even if her most significant work is destined to remain behind her, the legacy she built for herself transcends her standing as the first and most successful American Idol victor (at press time, that is; I’m willing to entertain the possibility that Lee DeWyze or one of the seven other winners whose names nobody remembers might still create the most amazing record ever made). After weathering an era replete with shameful moments like the skinhead meltdown of Britney Spears, The Pussycat Dolls pledging the drooling males in their litterbox echelons of filthy sluttery their lowly mortal girlfriends could never aspire to, and Lindsay Lohan being Lindsay Lohan, Kelly Clarkson emerged with her class, her dignity, and her career intact. The reality-TV platform that introduced her to the world is now a footnote, but her catalog continues to stand the test of time. And even though I actually shook Randy Jackson’s hand when he ate at the restaurant where I work (take that, Lauren), Clarkson will always be the American Idol alumnus I feel most closely connected to.

Speaking of… Kelly, if you’re reading this: my last shift at Eureka is on Monday, January 28. If you happen to be in the vicinity of Claremont that night and feel like swinging by, I’d be honored to have you sign my shirt. Just don’t invite Taylor Swift, please; I heard she does some really gnarly shit to kittens.

 January 17, 2019

[a-m-proudfoot]

Blog Tour ~ The Thieves of Nottica

Blog Tour ~ The Thieves of Nottica

Author:  Ash Gray

Genre:  Science Fiction/Steampunk

Tour Dates: 3rd – 7th of April          

Hosted by: Ultimate Fantasy Book Tours

Blurb:

In a world where humans are evil, invading aliens, Rigg is the youngest member of the Keymasters, a band of professional thieves who use their skills to defy an overbearing government known as the Hand. It is a world full of pollution, intrusive surveillance cameras, and injustice, where any who “give the finger to the Hand” are punished with death. The Keymasters are hired to steal a highly sought after treasure, but when one of their number is lost during the job, they find themselves the tools in a power play for said treasure -- a mysterious lockbox that no one can open. To ultimately survive in the end, the Keymasters must battle their way through mechanical monsters, airships, and politics, literally going through shit (they travel through a sewage pipe) to make it out alive.

 Goodreads:  

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34376899-the-thieves-of-nottica

 ↓Buy Links↓

https://www.amazon.com/Thieves-Nottica-airships-welding-mechanical-ebook/dp/B01MZC1CDG

 Authors Bio:

Ash Gray is a dragon with minuscule spectacles perched on her nose, living in a wonderfully dank, musty cave far away in an alternate universe. She types her stories with gigantic claws on a ridiculously small typewriter before sending them through a membrane and into your dimension for your enjoyment.

 I am the scariest thing you'll find in the dark, forsaken places, with breath of fire and claws that shred. "Dragon!" they scream as I rip them red.

Visit them at:

 Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14603050.Ash_Gray

Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/A.-D.-Gray/e/B003DXYVII

Blog:  www.ashbleugray.wordpress.com

   Excerpt ~ 

As they left the throne room, the whip continued snapping, and Athica continued to sob and scream, her voice stammering and broken. Neferre’s face darkened when the guards who were escorting them sniggered. They whispered and laughed that they wanted to be there, watching the princess get lashed, if not to see her naked.

They traveled through the long white halls of the great palace, through the white pillars of long galleries open upon gardens and fountains. Acolytes scurried out of the high queen’s way, bowing reverently as she passed. Dour portraits of Idri’l’s famous dynasty lined the walls, dating back to High King Idrontas, the famous boy-king, and Neferre noticed Olorun staring at the paintings in wonder. To see actual paintings of the historical figures he had read about was probably an incredible moment for him – even while in the midst of an arrest.

They finally entered a sitting room with an immense painting looming over the cold hearth. Looking at the painting, Neferre recognized what was supposed to be Nineveh Atvaris, standing in standard heroic pose as she faced the great white dragon, Endless Winter. The hulking dragon loomed over tiny Nineveh, maw open, fangs dripping, as clouds frothed behind it. The red eyed-beast was fearsome, and yet somehow, it made tiny Nineveh seem all the mightier. Nineveh’s white hair was whipping back in matted locks as she lifted Moon Fang to the dragon. The sword’s blade glinted in the center of the portrait as a ray of sunlight broke through the storm clouds to touch it.  

At the high queen’s behest, the guards guided Neferre and the others to the center of the room. They were then left to stand, shackled and uncertain, as the men retreated to the hall, closing the door behind them.

Kimaria faced the great painting, her back to her captives, her head tilted back. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” she said, looking at the painting. She turned to face them, her long fingers pressed in a steeple. The white ribbons of her sleeves draped from her wrists like wings. “Of course, the idea of Nineveh conquering Long Darkness with a quaint little sword is a common misconception. Some other phallic thing a man inserted into our tales. Nineveh used a bow of light to end the darkness,” her nostrils flared angrily, “and with her victory, led her fellow humans to destroy every last dragon.”

Olorun’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Helianthus frowned. Neferre did not react.

“Oh?” said Kimaria, studying their faces. “Have you not heard that version of the tale? I don’t expect you would have.” She strolled through the room and paused beside a table, where her long fingers plucked a small dragon statue. “Most elvkarin believe the humans didn’t even exist in Nineveh’s time. But the humans were there. And Nineveh was one of them.”

“How?” Olorun asked calmly.

Neferre glanced at him. He was standing very still and his black eyes were hushed.

“Oddly enough,” Kimaria responded, “my intelligence gathered this information from the human realms.” She lifted the tiny dragon statue to her eyes and appraised it with interest. “King Enitan has been researching the history of Nineveh for years now and has been delving into any ruin that has the least bit to say about her. What he lacks is the proper magical technology to really delve. There are doors that only magic can unlock. I have placed one of my spies among his people, and over the last seven years, Dr. Faldon has reported back . . . very curious findings.” The high queen set the statue on the table and looked at them over her shoulder. “King Enitan has discovered proof that Nineveh was not only human but was also his ancestor.”

“Uh, huh. That’s fascinating and all,” Neferre said indifferently, “but what’s this have to do with us?”

“And Cricket?” demanded Helianthus darkly.

The high queen shook her head and turned to the painting again. “Swamplanders,” she complained. “Absolutely no patience whatsoever. And no appreciation for the fine art of building toward a dramatic climax . . . no pun intended.”

“She is Nineveh,” Olorun said miserably.

Neferre frowned at him. “What?”

Olorun glanced at her and said heavily, “Cricket. She’s Nineveh.”

Neferre’s lips parted in surprise.

Kimaria smiled like a shark, her fangs cutting through. “Catch on quickly, don’t you? I like you,” she said sweetly to Olorun. “What’s your name?”

Olorun swallowed unhappily. “What do you want with her?”

Neferre glared at the high queen through tendrils of fiery hair. “You hurt that little girl and I swear –!”

Kimaria smirked and placed her hands behind her back. “Come now. It doesn’t have to come to that. Violence is so beneath us.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Helianthus at once.

“Well . . . it is beneath me,” the high queen said and touched a hand to her chest. “Unlike you, I am civilized. I wear shoes and I have a last name.” They watched as she eased into a chair. She crossed one leg over the other, folded her arms, and regarded them calmly. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to how I snatched the famed Nineveh Atvaris from our dark past? You can’t be that boring.”

Olorun shook his head dismissively. “Time magic is impossible and dabbling in such absurdity is foolish and futile.”  

Kimaria lifted her sharp brows, impressed. “Ooo. Such big words for a swamplander. Truly, your intellect is going to waste out in the boondocks.”

“It’s impossible,” Olorun insisted. “Time is a mental construct, invented to organize our daily lives. You can not flip back time like the pages of a book! Time’s Arrow can only move in one direction.”

The high queen smiled, genuinely pleased. “Time’s Arrow! You know Azrail Labanza’s 21 theory of time!” She pressed her long fingers in a steeple and regarded Olorun over them with interest. “A savage who can read. Well, now I’m just beyond impressed. I may just wet my drawers with delight!”

“Time’s Arrow states that time can only move forward,” Olorun went on irritably. “In order to take the girl from the past, you would have found a way to turn the arrow – which is impossible.”

“Is it?” said the high queen softly. “Time isn’t something we simply made up, don’t be foolish. It is governed by the movement of the planets and the stars. As the religious would put it: time is governed by the Orisha. Why couldn’t the Orisha simply be made to turn about, undoing all they have done? Like going backwards through a dance!” she said with a slow wave of her hands.

Olorun sneered. “Assuming the Orisha are actually conscious beings. There’s no evidence of that, only fanatical lunatics and their holy books.”

Kimaria laughed softly. “Azrail Labanza made up Time’s Arrow to protect precious knowledge from the fools who would abuse it. Have no doubt: she knew time travel was possible. Her fifth theory states that to undo a golem, one must reverse the process by removing the parchment from its head and tearing it. She never wanted the golems created in the likelihood that she was wrong, but once she was long dead, High King Idrontas built the things, believing he simply had to undo the process to destroy them. And he was right.”

Olorun stared as he realized. “. . . you reversed the formulae.”

The high queen smiled. “Salen reversed the formulae. You see, I employ thinkers. Revolutionaries. People who are willing to push the limits of possibility. If you joined me, we could stop the humans from destroying the elvkarin as they destroyed the dragons. We could accomplish such things.”

Olorun looked at the high queen darkly. “What are you going to do to her?”

“Salen thinks I should let her die,” Kimaria answered casually, and Neferre stiffened angrily. “But it has occurred to me that giving her to my son would be most satisfactory. Think of it.” She smiled. “The champion of the humans on knee to a dragon prince. Literally.” Her nasty smile widened.

Neferre’s breasts heaved. “Nineveh was the champion of the people! She stood for everyone!”

“Aha!” laughed the high queen with almost girlish delight. She slammed the flat of her little hand on the nearby table and the dragon statue leapt. “The idealist speaks again! You actually think the humans can live happily ever after with the elvkarin?” She narrowed her bright eyes, looking at Neferre in pity and amazement. “Don’t you even yet understand? Don’t you know who you are? The dragons were not mindless beasts – they were people, fierce and proud! Good dragons, bad dragons, dragons who were fucking indifferent -- Nineveh exterminated them like so much filth.”