#{ self para }

[trcshcans]

the raven came sooner than he had expected it. he was not ready to read what was written on the scroll. dark wings, dark words. the battle was just a few days ago and though the crown had been victorious, vaegon could not help but worry about is friends and cousins on the other side. he hated this, he hated this war, he hated that it has to be this way.

it took all of his strength and a full goblet of win to finally crack open the grey wax with a wolf imprinted in it.

vaegon- your kind words have touched me, but i will not change my mind. i will not bend the knee to your mother after what she has done to the realm. i will stand by your uncle as i have done for all my life. it breaks my heart to tell you this, but my son erren has fallen in battle. i know you two were great friends along with your cousin xaerys velaryon, which is why i am writing to you now. it is not too late to stop this bloodshed, all your mother and family have to do is bend the knee to your uncle and allow him to take his seat on the iron throne as he should have done forty years ago. -jasper stark, lord of winterfell, warden of the north

tears were in his eyes as he finished the letter. a strange feeling of sadness and anger filled him. not erren, not his friend. all this loss and bloodshed and for what? because lord corwyn was the male heir and visenya was the eldest daughter? so many people would die because he could not accept that things have changed. vaegon may not like his mother, but her claim was just as strong as his, just as vaelora's claim will be as strong as jaehaerys'.

he allowed himself to feel his emotions, to grieve his dear friend alone. but he knew what he had to do next even if he did not want to.

alson had been hurt in battle fighting along side his sister. she was recovering in the white tower and has yet to venture out into the castle. he knew her well enough to know that she would not come out until licked her wounds and regained her ego.

knocking lightly on the door to the lord commander's chambers, vaegon waited for an answer before stepping inside. "for give me, ser," he says in an unusually soft voice. he and aslon had practically grown up together and though they were not close, he still cared about her. she was basically a member of her family.

"what is it, has something happened?" she says in a hoarse voice. even with an arrow wound to her back and an unusable arm, she still cared her duty and making sure everyone was okay.

"alson," he starts as he walks over to her bedside. "i don't quite know how to say this. i wrote to your father... asking him of word from the other side. i know my mother would take my head if she knew, but i could not stand not knowing what happened to my cousins and friends after the battle."

alson looked at him with expecting eyes. could she tell what he was about to say? did she know it in her heart what happened? he thought of when maegor died and the feeling he felt. the heart break that comes with losing a sibling.

vaegon holds out the parchment to her. "i'm so sorry, alson, your brother, he did not make it," the words come out broken, his throat tightening as he says them. he could not cry again, it was not his moment to. it was alson's.

but she does not cry, vaegon's not sure he has ever seen her show a strong emotion. she was always like a brick wall. he knew that she wasn't heartless because he knew of her relationship with his sister even if it was private. though when she finally speaks, he can tell that she is trying hard to hold it together. "i- thank you, for telling me," she says in a quiet voice. she reaches out to take the letter but doesn't open it. instead, she clenches her fist around the parchment. for a moment, he sees the crack behind her wall. a glimpse of something inside her, but then she closes it again. "if you don't mind, i would like to be alone."

vaegon nods without another word and leaves her to feel her emotions in peace.

[anikabooker]

WASTELAND;

TWs ⸻ body horror, blood, mental anguish, hallucinations, pain.

She was burning up; sweating and shivering pressed against the cold wall. There was a silver tray with food at her feet. She’d rather die of hunger than eat whatever that psychotic bitch had prepared for her. The longer she looked at it the more it seemed like something she chewed up, spat out and put back on a plate. Her bare foot kicked the tray, sending it flying and crashing against the metal door. She'd survived on pieces of bread she kept by her mattress, whenever they brought her some.

She didn’t know night from day. Didn’t really care for it, either. It was the same hell — over and over again. Like being stuck in an endless nightmare. No matter how much she pinched herself, she couldn’t wake up.

How long was this going on for? Had it been a month already? Judging by that wound on her arm, it’s been more than a couple of weeks, because the flesh had begun to fester, some kind of white goo was oozing out and the skin felt hot to the touch. The pain was getting worse. She was suddenly grateful to live in the dark. Without light she wouldn’t be able to see the red worms and their little, white heads moving in and out of the necrotic tissue. She wouldn’t be able to watch how the infection would eventually (if it hasn't already) spread to her arm, swallowing it whole, destroying it nerve by nerve, eating away the memories of holding a paint brush, wielding a weapon, caressing her mothers face for the last time. She couldn't remember what any of that felt like.

The memory of his touch would decompress. Fall away like dead skin.

Sweat rolled down her forehead, heavy lids struggling to remain open as eyes tried to focus on what seemed to be a reappearing shadow — coming in and out of view like it was still choosing who to morph into — what agonizing combination of features would torment her most. She had dreamt of her father, and how scared he must be for her. How they only now had reunited, only to be pulled apart once more. She had dreamed of Valka, and how she'd let her down. Foolish, stupid, downright idiotic. Is that what you've been taught, Anika? All you've known is death. Least you could've taken from her was how to avoid it. There was a dream in which her sisters died over and over again, and each time it was by her hands. And another one where there was water — so much of it. She was swimming at the Carson beach where the water was clear and cold. Just as she remembered it, all those years ago. She dreamed while she slept. But she was awake now, wasn't she? A phantom was coming together slowly with shadowy limbs and lungs that breathed life. A face with washed up blue eyes, and a voice too familiar not to recall the lips it belonged to.

‘You don’t look so great.‘ Reid said, and even as a shadowy thing, his gaze was slowly dismantling her. Perhaps because the memory of his stare still lingered in the back of her mind. ‘Fuck you.‘ ‘You almost did.‘ ‘Fuck you.‘ she spat back louder. ‘Why am I here, Anika?‘ ‘To kill me, I hope.‘

He paused, then clicked his tongue in the most irksome manner. ‘Can’t. I’m not real.‘ Then she watched him evaporate into dark smoke. Mercy was too big a favor to ask from a ghost. Yet a silent plea lingered on her tongue. Put me out of my misery— He'd kill her quicker than those worms would. He'd kill her before any of her other misdeeds would catch up to her. Perhaps that was some fucked up form of divine justice; the woman who took all, had nothing to herself, and the moment she found something it was bound to kill her.

She blinked slowly, in and out of awareness. Blood soaking the bandages making her nose wrinkle at the stench. Her head lulling to the side. Then she saw him again — so close, she almost flexed the fingers she thought she still had to touch him. He brought out a cold hand to brush the moisture from her face — a ghostly kind of touch that she allowed to linger, mostly because her body was fucking unresponsive. Blood loss has made her hallucinate before, but never like this. ‘You can't die in here. It's pathetic, even for you.‘

Tongue wet her parched, chapped lips. ‘What the fuck do you care?‘ The laugh that followed was low and hollow, filling her up with dread. He opened his mouth, closed it, the edge of a smirk was fighting its way across his lips — like he was a shapeshifting thing. Tearing itself between who he was and who she wanted to turn him into. ‘You fucking mute or something now?‘ she groaned. ‘Came here to torture me, then go on—‘ ‘You're doing all that on your own.‘ ‘Shut up.‘ she winced. ‘Drink the water.‘ ‘Don't tell me what to fucking do.‘ Her voice was raw, tearing up her dry throat. She'd slam her head against the wall repeatedly until her skull had cracked, if it meant she didn't have to listen to him anymore. If it meant he'd seep out of her head the way blood would out of the wound. Yet, she barely had the strength to keep her eyes open.

Shadows danced across the walls. They melted into him. Molded into different kinds of shapes, people, beings — tall, small, large or slim. Stop. Sweat soaked through her clothes. Her face white as snow. She could feel herself fading, like the last feeble flickers of light at the end of a dark corridor.

‘Don't die, Anika.‘

[lararutherford]

I SAID I WOULD BE, SO I AM:

Seven nights she was, and one night she wasn't. Date: Various evenings post-shooting. Warnings: Emo shit.

ONE -

It'd always irritated her when she heard people say how much they hated hospitals.

So did everyone else?

Tonight's agonising wait was unlike the others, though, she supposed. St. Catherine's empty halls echoed only with the quiet voices of the night shift; not another visitor in sight so far as she could see. And Lara Rutherford shouldn't have been there, either. In more ways than one. But having friends within the hospital, acquaintances who would bend over backwards to appease her every want, meant that she didn't have to follow the rules this time. As if they could've stopped her.

They'd given her the go ahead after some stalling to suggest how much of a favour they were doing her, but she would've waited all night. It mattered little.

Given how long it'd taken her to make her way into the room, it probably irritated the staff immensely that she could barely stand to be there more than five minutes. How many times had she been at the bedside of somebody she cared about? Too many to count, and yet this felt more harrowing than all but one.

It was hard to say he looked peaceful because he didn't. He looked distant and lifeless and the sound of the machines working around him seemed louder than they should have been. Drowned out everything else, really. Was he hurting?

Lara fidgeted with her hands, rolling tangled fingers amongst themselves.

What had she thought to gain from coming here? Did she think it was going to make her feel better?

It didn't. And like a coward, as she stood in pathetic silence and aching misery, she resigned to looking anywhere but him.

The only words she spoke as she reached for the exit:

"I don't break my promises."

TWO -

"Rutherford perks? They don't check for contraband."

If only he knew how difficult it'd been to find a purse big enough to fit a bottle of alcohol that also matched her impeccable pantsuit...

Lara fished out two glasses she'd wrapped in Hermès handkerchiefs to stop them from breaking against each other, and placed them down quietly on his bedside table. All she could offer was a sideways glance, still finding taking in what he was instead of what he should have been too difficult to bear. But she compartmentalised, set it aside, and got to work filling them a few inches with the liquor she'd snuck into the room.

One for him, one for her.

Lightly she tapped hers against the other.

Then she polished it off in a desperate gulp.

"You look terrible, by the way," she eventually offered, hoping that humour would be the only avenue she could stomach taking to finally accept it. "Don't do this again."

THREE -

"I still can't believe I threatened him in his own office. I got back to the car and almost threw up. Literally gagged, right in the seat."

Though if she'd known that Konstantin's future plans would result in Laurent ending up in this condition, she might've considered doing more than threatening.

"You'd have probably enjoyed watching."

The Rutherford rolled the glass in her hand slightly, warming up the contents against her palm as she thought back to a moment that could've very easily spelt her end if she'd played it wrong. A split second later, though, her eyes quickly shot up and she raised a finger to point at him accusatorily:

"The threatening, not the gagging. Don't even go there," she interjected, as if cutting him off before he could make some dirty joke at her expense. Nothing I haven't already seen, he'd snicker, and she'd throw him a look like she despised him on a cellular level. But they both knew she didn't really. Not now.

As her hand hovered in the air stupidly, slowly lowering like she was a deflated fucking balloon, she was met with nothing but silence.

What she wouldn't have given to be the butt of one more joke...

FOUR -

It was hard to get comfortable in the awful hospital chairs, she'd learnt, but that didn't mean she couldn't find a way to enjoy a good book with her slightly less impressive glass of alcohol. She should have been checking the time—God forbid she stay past her welcome, and be greeted by a Commandant come morning—but she'd got lost somewhere near the middle and time had escaped her entirely. The Rutherford took one more sip of her drink, glancing toward her watch to check...

...thank God. It'd only been an hour.

Something drew her gaze from the gold face, though. Lara's eyesight had failed her entirely in one eye, and sometimes the light played tricks, but she was so damn sure... For a moment, she could've sworn she saw his hand move.

Symptom of semi-blindness or not, her stomach had flipped so intensely, she was glad she hadn't taken more than a few sips from the glass beside her.

It was hard to tell how long she'd watched after that. Waiting. Just in case. Do it again.

"If you're trying to get my attention, I'm not reading it to you. You have a startling lack of taste for a Parisian, and I shan't be taking belated book critiques from someone who considers Westminster Insider good literature."

Nothing.

If she'd been smiling at her own attack on him, it'd faded away shortly after, just like the brief glimmer of hope that she hadn't been seeing things.

Things were as they were before. Laurent was still.

Her eyes closed for a second.

She flipped back to page one.

This time, she read the words aloud.

FIVE -

"I didn't tell you about it yet, but my sister got married," she mused softly, the corner of her mouth lifting into a genuine smile. "She looked so happy."

The Rutherfords were a dysfunctional mess, and maybe had been for as long as she could remember. But that day was different. They'd set it all aside and come together to be there for her—it hurt to note, but she was to blame, some family's surprise that Lara was included in said support—and it'd felt like a massive weight lifted. This wonderful, good thing that they were so rarely able to celebrate together. And it'd been a hard day for her, much harder than any of them could've known, but she refused to let her life get in the way this time. It was Yvonne's day. Yvonne's future.

And she was glad she'd been allowed to be a part of it when she didn't deserve to be.

"I thought maybe something in me would feel bitter about it, but..."

Lara shook her head. No, it hadn't.

A chuckle left her lips at that because to be surprised by it should have seemed absurd. But for a relationship that'd been so tumultuous for so long, it meant something. It meant progress. For them, for herself... To find real happiness in knowing her sister felt exactly that was something she had to say out loud, and right now, she had so few important enough to share it with.

The chuckle died, then, even though the smile remained stubbornly behind. There was no humour left as her eyes welled with tears. As her chest tightened with the closest thing to physical agony she could imagine stemming from emotional turmoil. As her face slowly fell into hurt, and her lips pressed together into a thin line as though it might stop the words she was about to say for one more moment:

"And then three hours later, I sent Henry and his daughter back to Porto Velho for good, and I broke my own heart."

Again.

SIX -

It was hard to imagine somebody more averse to showing their feelings than herself, but Laurent St. Pierre hid behind anger like nobody else.

When they'd first seen each other after she'd been attacked at Fight Club, it seemed like anger on her behalf was all he could manage. Wasted, when she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, the thinly veiled regret, or the man who offered both.

Lara hadn't understood why he'd not given up trying back then, but she learnt eventually. And the moment she finally gave him an inch, he unravelled in an instant; the first time, but certainly not the last, in which he had been honest about his feelings. 'I just wanted to be with you.' But the Rutherfords wouldn't let a Frenchman within a two mile radius after one of his own had tried to hack her face to pieces. It wasn't his fault, but he carried the weight of it as if he was solely responsible for abandoning her.

It'd hurt her to see him that way. It'd hurt her more to know that even if he had moved heaven and earth to find his way to her side, she probably would have turned him away again.

Would he feel that same way if he knew she was here with him now..?

'I wish I could have been there for you.' 'You're here for me now, Laurent.' 'It's not the same...'

Lara didn't often make promises. She got the idea that he didn't either. And yet both of them had made one that morning.

She finished what remained of the second glass.

And as if justifying her presence at his bedside, she spoke into the quiet void:

"I said I'd be here. So I am."

SEVEN -

The exchange with Odile in the hall had taken more out of her than she cared to admit.

'I can't do this. You're happy, and that's what matters to me. It matters.' Lara's mind drifted back to Launceston tonight. A time when everybody had thought her dead, utterly unreachable, and somehow, Amir had still found his way to her.

There was a brief moment that day where she'd thought that was it. It was finally time for her to fix her mistakes. To undo the worst thing she'd ever done. To him. To herself. But when he'd kissed her, he made himself into the same person she was. Amir was doing to Revati what she had long loathed herself for doing to him. And no matter how many sleepless nights she had spent wondering about this moment, about having him with her again, she just couldn't. Wouldn't let a good man do that to himself.

Because she loved him. More than her desperation to be happy. More than the pain her loneliness caused.

Being here tonight, watching the slow movement of Laurent's chest as he clung to life for somebody else, she realised she was hurting people. His happiness, if Leyla ever found out about it.

And in that moment, maybe she finally knew for sure. Because it mattered.

Lara reached out and took the first of the glasses, finishing it in one.

Then the second.

Fighting the war of emotion in her chest, she eventually got to her feet, and it felt like the most laborious thing she'd ever done. She adjusted her blazer. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. Took one moment to look at him, really look, as she hovered near the edge of his bed. And then she did one thing she hadn't until tonight. It'd always seemed like a boundary not to be crossed, but given the spaces her mind wandered that evening, it seemed as though one more wouldn't hurt. Lara brushed her fingers gently against his wrist, and it felt so warm, so alive, it was hard to reconcile it with the man she'd spent so much time beside of late.

Eventually, she found his hand. Squeezed it gently. Longed for it to move in hers.

It didn't.

"This is the last time, okay?"

And so, it was.

EIGHT -

"Have you ever tried cognac?"

Ayaz stared back at her blankly. Of course he hadn't.

Tired eyes glanced down at the glass she cradled in her hands, contents untouched. Just to the right, the phone she had since muted. Half an hour before—maybe longer, it was hard to tell—the screen had sprung to life with the one message she had resigned to never receiving. One she didn't deserve to. He's awake.

Usually, he was good at masking his concern; Ayaz knew she hated nothing more than anything that could be perceived as pity. But as she threw back the two very full glasses, the last of what'd remained in the bottle, she could sense it.

He stayed silent. And she was glad.

"Well, you're not missing anything. It's awful."

[autumnshowell]

6:30 PM

Teeth. Flashing in a dark space, glinting in the absence of light, they drive into the flesh on her neck, on her back. Her wrists. It hurts — God, it hurts. It goes beyond the hurting. Like somebody’s stuck a vacuum into her veins, drawing the essence of her out. It turns her hollow, empty.

Leaves her wanting.

There are eyes, too. Dark, deep little wells in the already dark space. They stare. They bore holes into her. She finds their lingering on her draws what blood is left in her to the apples of her cheeks. She finds herself wondering if they want to see her stripped to nothing, drained to nothing, or if they covet her the way she covets the face they rest in.

Monsters are real, she thinks, they’re real and they’re beautiful and one of them has haunted her thoughts, nigh uninterrupted, for a month now. Monsters are real and they’re beautiful and she’s in l-

“Autumn?”

Salt shaker.

“… Autumn.”

Grab it.

“Autumn!”

“Wh-oh, sorry.” She says, grabbing the little painted pilgrim and sliding it over in front of her mother’s plate. “I… I zoned out.”

“I wasn’t asking for the salt, Autumn, I asked a question.”

“I’m sorry, what was it, I-“

“Jesus, Autumn. I might as well be talking to myself.” “I’m sorry, I just… I’m tired, please, what were you asking?”

“Are you free next weekend? My hair lady, she’s got this son and he’s your age - she says he likes those horror movies like you do.”

“Mom I’m… no. No I’m not - I’m not… really down for that kind of thing. Not right now.’

Oh, God, she thinks to herself.

“Oh, come on - why not? Here, let me show you, he’s very good looking.”

Autumn leans her forehead onto her hand as her mother fumbles for her cell, taking an excruciating amount of time to hunt the photo down and moving to put it in front of Autumn. “I’m sure he’s handsome, mom, I’m just not really-“

“Like a young George Clooney.”

“I… don’t - I don’t think that has the appeal you’re thinking it does,” she protests, finally relenting to give the screen a look to get it out of her face.

“Autumn, just give him a shot - you never know.”

She sighs. “I’m busy next weekend because I already have plans.”

The phone finds its way to the table, mother’s interest piqued. “Who? Somebody you met through this new job?”

“No, I’ve… no I’ve been on …”

“Is that Kevin boy? The one who works at the bowling alley?”

“What, no - and Kevin doesn’t work at the b-“ Autumn feels her stomach drop and roll and knot.

Her mother’s teasing grin almost seems genuine in its giddy happiness. “Well, come on, spill. This is the first I’m hearing of this new boy friend-“

7:00 PM

Her knuckles are white on the wheel, not that she can see them enough to care as the occasional white-orange bands of street-lamps pass over where she’s holding on like she’s about to try to rip the wheel of the car right out of the dash. Her brows are knitted, half fury, half frustration as she speeds down the highway. She wonders, for a moment, what would happen if she just kept going. Got out of Port Leiry. Left everything and everyone in the town behind.

It’s an old fallback fantasy - a catharsis she’s often let herself fall into. Would people miss her? Certainly, at first, they’d lament it, but it wouldn’t matter, not long term. But she finds that it now makes her profoundly sad.

Kevin, Miss Moss. Hell, even A.J. Astor, so new in her life, and so endlessly frustrating. She’d miss it all. Part of her feels betrayed that she let this stupid town lay its roots in her the way it has.

But it’s the thought of Aria Boughton that makes her face go hot and her eyes slick up wet with the idea of loss.

What would it matter, though? Aria is a vampire - an immortal, undying thing, if movies and books stand up to scrutiny - Aria could find her.

Or she could go to Aria, and the two could grow old. She thinks of that Swedish vampire movie. Her morose frown breaks out into a grin at the scandalous imaginings of being a little old lady, taking care of Aria, ever young and beautiful. Grim, yeah, but it beats old and lonely - not quite the moral of the story, but she’s angry and pissed and sad and scared so who cares.

6:35 PM

“What are you telling me?”

The tone in her voice sets Autumn on edge. She feels an energy coiling in her joints.

“I’m telling you that the person I’m seeing, Her name is Aria, and we’ve been kind of dating. For like. Months now.”

Her mother’s face goes on a journey. A long, excruciating one - confusion, and then annoyance, and then a strange, uncomfortable sort of smile, as if waiting for the punchline to a joke.

“Are you telling me you’re… what, a lesbian?”

“N-no… yes. No. Maybe. Probably.”

The expression goes vacant as her mother leans back from the dinner table, as if what’s on her plate has just been revealed to be toxic and poisonous. Autumn feels something swell in the pit of her stomach too, for a different reason.

“Why?”

“What does that mean, why? Because… because I lo-... because like her, mom.”

Her own mind rolodexes through a thousand reasons why. She doesn’t say any of them. Her mother looks like she wants to grab the table knife and stick it in her eye. The silence between them grows and grows and grows. Autumn, for her part, is searching her mother’s face, desperate to find any sign of approval, or even indifference. All she’s finding is the looming specter of the same thing that always lays its foundations there - contempt, disdain - disappointment and a hint of regret.

Her mother, for her part, stares anywhere but at her.

12:58 AM Port Leiry’s actually kind of pretty from up here. She sits on a picnic table, looking down on the city. It’s no New York, no Los Angeles. Hell, it’s not even Seattle. But it’s a pretty, shimmering little thing. She’s never come up here to Overlook Park this late. It’s not even supposed to be open, but nobody’s here to tell her no. Besides, Maybe one of the city’s famous animal attacks will make all of this moot - rip her up. Make her a Port Leiry mystery like Olivier.

She wipes her face on her sleeve - eyes, then nose, and sniffs at the night air, letting out a long, sad exhale.

Usually, when she feels this way. Like she’s disappointed somebody, she bottles it up. Keep it inside. Let it eat away at her. Her knuckles rap on the outside of her thigh with nervous energy. She’s so… so so tired of beating herself up because she can’t read minds, or because her step’s not light enough for all the eggshells she needs to walk on, or that she doesn’t exist right, or any other number of things that settle into her brain and tell her that she’s lesser for.

She wishes, for a split second, that she had half the spine required to explode instead of implode.

She thinks about the animal attacks - knowing what she knows now. What if that was a vampire thing? They have clubs - she learned that in the hardest way possible -  but maybe some of them hunt out at night.

The idea that Olivier might have been shredded by a vampire makes some unhinged part of her break out into a half cry, half laugh - like it would have been something he would have been all in on or something.

But then that little bit of morbid thought rolls over into something else - something she dwells on for a moment. She gets her phone out, starts typing…

1:00 am >> [ hey, do you think you could make me like y]

She stops, stares at the letters. No. This isn’t something she should ask over a fucking text message. It’s night time. Aria’s a vampire. She’ll be awake, surely.

1:01 am >> [ can I come over? ]

She deletes that, too - suddenly worried that Aria will somehow expect the question. Preemptively tell her no. Fuck it. She’ll drive to her apartment.

She slides off the bench - grabbing her keys, and heads back to the empty car lot, full moon making it light enough that she doesn’t even need to use the light on her phone.

6:40 PM

“You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?”

Autumn stares, a look on her face that’s as confused as it is hurt. “What?”

“To embarrass me. To throw it in my face and embarrass me. To make a big show of yourself with this. You’ve decided, for whatever reason, that I’m the worst, and you’re doing this to punish me.”

“I’m not… I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re playing around with another woman! That’s not doing nothing!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ve just decided that I’m your enemy, ever since the day your father died you have done everything you can to just throw it in my face that I’m a bad parent. That I’m this ogress. You throw any help I give you back in my face-“

“No I don’t! What do you-“

“And now this - now this… behavior.”

“Mom, I… it’s - I…”

“Just go, Autumn. I can’t do this right now.”

“Mom, why can’t you just once see something I’m doing for myself and be-“

“What, be proud? Of what? My gay daughter, who didn’t finish school, whose professional career involves a Bowling Alley? What, that you’re never going to give me grandchildren? That you’re… whatever this thing is? What, that you’re finally being honest, Autumn, that you’re sticking it to me for letting this happen to you? Congratulations.” She stands up, moves to the counter, pours herself a glass - it’s the first of the evening, so Autumn, face sinking, knows this is all real. “Please - get out, I can’t with you right now.”

1:32 AM

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe she should just go home - get sleep. Rethink things. She can go see Aria tomorrow, or the next day. There’s something that changes in her as she pulls down along the sloping road that leads from the Overlook Park and onto the freeway that leads back.

She looks to the holder where her phone is mounted to her dashboard when she hears her phone chirp. A text message, this late? Her heart jumps, thinking it’s Aria. More likely, it’s A.J., calling in a ride, but as she goes to look at the notification, her expression sours. It’s from her mother. Her face screws up, halfway between fury and unsurprise. Her grip on the wheel loosens, then tightens as she turns around a bank in the road.

“Fuck you.” She murmurs in the dark. “Make up your fucking mind.”

She’s about to leave it alone, but then the creeping desire to bury the hatchet, to be the one who makes nice early, wraps its fingers around her mind and Autumn decides otherwise, reaching over swipe the phone open, but while she’s trying to jab the voice-to-text button, she keeps missing her mark, and so she turns her eyes away for just long enough to find it.

When she turns back, something darts across the road. She doesn’t hit it, but she does swerve, enough to hit the guardrail at just the right angle. The wheels leave the ground. The hood spins down, and she sees the ground through the windshield; first asphalt, then sky, then earth. Autumn feels the lurch, followed by the weightlessness, and a thousand and one thoughts go through her mind in that same split second. Something hits her face, dead center on her nose.

It’s not a steep drop, but it is a long one, and the car hits the ground and all those thoughts go dark.

[freydis-freydat]

You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face. 

Freydis: from the Norse god Froya’s name and dis (meaning goddess). Noblewoman.

The words of her father played through her head as her tired eyes watched the flames of the fire lick the night sky not far enough yet from the mouth of the cave she and her peers had barely escaped their lives with. Freydis felt foolish as she considered just what she had done. Freely, she had told a fairy her name–or rather her noble title and her name. Both of her names. 

Tove: peaceful, beautiful Thor; God is good.

What would her father say of this, the man who had painstakingly taught her fables and folklore, who had taught her how to spot a fae and more importantly why never to trust one? Perhaps if she had simply said Tove, it would have spared her. Or, maybe Freydis was the false moniker. It was impossible to tell at times, which name meant more. Both had been given to her by her father, both in their appropriate time and space. At birth, simple but aspirational Tove–a name she lived up to in the most unpredictable of ways, a combination of the beauty of violence and the sudden unpredictable wrath of the gods, unassuming until provoked. It felt like lifetimes since she had walked the world as that simple miller’s daughter, as Tove. And then Freydis, a name so great it was never spoken within the bounds of their humble hamlet overlooking the looming mill and vast expanse of golden wheat before they moved into the great house meant for the jarl.

When word came that the king himself had sent for her to be delivered to appear in front of high royal highness, her father had held her face between her hands, cheeks still rounded with youth and head heavy under the weight of her own self doubt. He had peered at her seeing past those strange eyes of hers, in one light brown like the earth they worked and in another green as spring could bloom, and told her: “You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face.”

Freydis’ father would remind her of this from time to time, when the pressures mountained and her confidence waned. It was hard to be the first of her kind, to know her every move and expression existed under the lens of such extreme scrutiny, but only if she managed to walk off the battleground long enough to be left to govern, to decide on anything in the first place. They were brutalizing years that somehow both cracked her open and hardened her all at once. To become was painful, but to be begot by violence that revolted her senses yet invigorated her soma was a sort of metanoia in her formative years. Tove became less of a name and more of a sound that felt like home; a kind of prayer between she and those who held the truth of her at their core rather than the aggrandized icon of a female jarl she became. 

This was not the only prayer observed within their home. Fearsome as she was when challenged, the longevity of a highly objectionable jarl was a less than positive prospect. Each fight took from Tove and gave to Freydis, and she felt the fissure daily. No one recognized her fear of losing one entirely so keenly as her father, who was every ounce as realistic that the most highly likely relief from the burdens of a jarl’s work, of his daughter’s work, was a barbarous death at the hands of another. Tove, so gentle until pushed, would not survive many. Freydis would need to survive them all.  

And so, with each private gathering of their family before the spectacle of yet another holmgang, he would hold her face in his hands and remind her of who she was now–and that to live as Freydis was an honorable thing, but so too was to die as Tove. Both were one, and either was enough. He would hold her face in his hands, easily leveraging the weight of her self-doubt and fears as only a father can, and sing a song from the playwrights version of his favorite fable.

Inexplicably, and with no introduction, Freydis parted her lips after some hours of silence, and sang those same familiar words to her companions. The song was a sendoff of sorts, a ballad of hopes and fears and things left unsaid–but it had always felt lucky to her when she heard it in her father’s voice. 

I have a wife, I haven't seen Since lilacs bloomed in St. Hippolyte She always wears them, in her hair She lets them fall down everywhere

I can see her in the glowing light Dressing without a sound I promised I'd be home alright But I gotta lay this body down

So take this letter to my wife And tell her that I loved my life And tell my boys, the One God, He found me When I say their names out loud, they're all around me

And tell them not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

I have a girl, I think I love her I should've told her, instead I told her mother I gave her chocolates, I bought a ring But I never told her anything

But I can see her in every detail now Turning in my mind I barely knew that girl at all But I will love her 'til the end of time

So take this letter to my girl Tell her that I saw the whole world Say that right before I fell I said her name out loud, 'Isabelle'

Tell her not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

I have a father, he isn't well Thinks he might be going to Hell He was a sinner, he liked to fight So I don't know, he might be right

I can see him every Sunday morning Diving into the fray He wasn't one of the best men But I loved him anyway

So take this letter to him, please And tell him I can't wait to see him I went in first, I rang the bell I called his name out loud and I gave them Hell

So tell him not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

Freydis was quiet when she finished her song, peering out at the great expanse of a world she never thought she would explore under any circumstances let alone those as hopeless as the ones she found herself in. The edges of her fingertips traced over the top of the red handprint on her heart–a sigil of bravery from a once-forgotten king. She felt unworthy to carry such a symbol, but her bottle lip quivered at the threat of tears of gratitude to know and understand she had been deemed worthy by that warrior of lore to so much as stand in his shadow. 

Exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she pondered the horrors of the past days. One more holmgang–that was all the fight with Munin had been, just one drop in the bucket of the onslaught, the never ending war of living another day in limbo between the next battle, the next challenge. Tove, she was certain, whether in the form of her fae-shadow slain at he hands of the princess or just a long-silent past reflection of who she once was lingering the back of her mind, had died in that cave. The prayer of the name lost all of its power, no longer uplifting or grounding, but acrid and bitter in her mouth and her mind the second she had spoken it to the fae. And Tove would survive no impending wars.

Freydis, however, could. She lifted her eyes to the tapestry of stars still glittered above her. In several hours’ time the sun would hang high in a wide, open sky she had sorely missed; and until she was bested in a contest of might, Freydis, too, would rise.

[laurent--stpierre]

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL:

Follow up to someone having the audacity to interrupt Spencer's dinner. Date: Evening of 21/8/24. Warnings: Kate up to her usual ish. 

“It’s not a date. Please stop calling it a date, or I’m legitimately going to throw myself in front of the next bus to drive past. Look, there’s one right there—”

“Why are French women the most dramatic people on the planet?”

The words had been more than enough to draw an irritated frown from him, but when the miniature human—balanced on towering Versace heels, yet somehow still shorter than his pocket-sized ass—darted toward the road like a certified escapee, he grabbed the top of her arm and yanked her back beside him. The protest drew some attention from the crowded street, but both promptly ignored.

“Dramatic is rich coming from you.”

Laurent St. Pierre met her retort with a mock laugh.

“Pensioners deserve to get laid, too.”

“Nope. Don’t need to hear it,” the woman said, reaching her hands up to cover her ears.

“How about both of you shut up, because none of us want to hear it?”

Sylvie Lefebvre turned to look at the miserable Frenchman tailing behind them, her lips forming into a pout as though she’d just been scolded by a parent. Not quite, but he’d certainly become family enough over the past few years to earn an affectionate ‘uncle’ title he’d made no attempt shed.

“Sometimes I forget he speaks English,” she muttered to Laurent under her breath.

“He’s definitely been hitting up Duolingo.”

“You sound like a fucking American. You don’t get to judge anybody, St. Pierre,” Yves shot back.

After a moment of sniggering between the two in front, the looming figure of Varden re-entered the conversation, now free of the phone call he’d been unenthusiastically participating in. Somehow, though, he looked even less pleased to be a part of whatever was happening here.

“Who is she, anyway? You don’t usually dress up this nice,” Laurent said, remaining at Sylvie’s side, but taking their pace back just enough to be in step with the two leaders.

“Ayda Demir.”

Even though Varden’s mouth had opened to speak, it was his daughter’s voice who’d answered.

“Thank you, Sylvie.”

“Wait, what? The Turk?” Laurent couldn’t contain the scoff.

“The Turk,” Yves confirmed, his grimace speaking volumes in spite of his monotonous tone.

“Don’t be rude,” Sylvie cut in, “I’ve done my research, she seems nice enough. I just—”

“Don’t want to imagine your dad getting his dick wet?”

“Will you fucking stop?”

The woman went to shove him again, but he instead threw an arm around her shoulder, dragging her close enough to deny her the momentum.

“If it’s any consolation, Sylvie, it’s definitely not going to be a date. Because in the interest of full disclosure, you should just know that when Leyla and I got dragged to Haringey for that peasant party? She seemed pretty into shoving her tongue down Aviv’s throat.”

And whilst he was pretty openly with Adriana Amaro these days���assuming the number the Organization did on him hadn’t fucked that up—the fact she held any positive sentiments toward the scum at all was enough to seal the deal. Probably not in the way she was hoping for, though…

“It was never a date,” Varden said sternly. “And I’d appreciate if we talked about something else.”

“Anything else,” Yves pleaded.

Everyone present was wise enough to not push when Varden said enough.

“Why are you out with us, anyway? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“That’s very funny. I could ask you the same. Don’t retirement homes have curfews anymore?”

The two de facto London leaders slipped back into a hushed conversation of their own, leaving the duo ahead to squabble as they continued their way down the packed street. Knightsbridge was busy at the best of times, but tonight seemed impossibly so. People still damn sure cleared a path for the Versace princess and her entourage of suits, though. It was a few days shy of Sylvie’s twenty-third birthday, and as it turned out, she too was headed into South Kensington to meet some of her friends (ones her father didn’t seem to fond of, mind you) at Mistral’s. Laurent was stopping in for a meeting with Yves and a handful of the Hackney crew, Sylvie for her meal, and Varden for…whatever the fuck it was. Thus, along with a handful of security, a herd had formed.

None of them had any idea how poor a decision that would prove to be.

The traffic moved so slowly, it would’ve been impossible to tell they were being followed.

Maybe, had he not been looking right at the woman tucked beneath his arm, he wouldn’t have noticed the car doors abruptly opening on the vehicle beside them.

Three in unison; the same number of masked men soon spilling out into the road, halting traffic to a chorus of car horns and perturbed pedestrians.

“Gun!” Laurent shouted in just about the least useful way to alert the others of the impending disaster. Sure enough, the panicked words sent the crowds around them spiralling into frenzy just in time for said guns to start firing right in their direction.

There was no point trying to hit the deck when they were stood right there.

Sylvie seemed to take a moment to catch up. And then she was screaming, too.

The Frenchman felt a shove from behind as he attempted to manoeuvre her through the crowd, and toward the door of Mistral’s which was just close enough he could try to drag them inside. More gunfire, then... A quick glance back told him Yves and the few members of security present had ducked into a bus shelter, attempting to return the favour without hesitation. Varden on the other hand was the one shoving him forward.  

“Move. Get her inside!”

The man’s fear was evident and harrowing because Laurent had never really been sure Varden was capable of feeling it.

So he turned, putting himself between the direction of the gunmen and Sylvie, as best a shield as he could manage, before attempting to encourage Varden forward to take charge. The people didn’t know where to go. They didn’t know where to hide. Some had clearly already been hit, falling to the ground. Others fell for being shoved past by those whose only concern was getting the fuck out of there. Chaos was an understatement. Impossible to take in over the course of only a few seconds.

Sylvie tripped. Varden pulled her back up and pushed her onward.

Laurent went down right after and after a moment, they slipped out of view.

This wasn’t a few stray bullets. This was a fucking military grade assault where nobody was about to try and be a hero. And as the guns followed him, the white hot realisation he’d gotten hit was clear.

Why the fuck hadn’t he brought his own?

One of the attackers was furiously laying into the façade of the restaurant as though it was his only target. Another, showering anyone unfortunate enough to flee into his path, utterly indiscriminate, like he was in an old school fucking action movie. The third, though? Well he lowered his gun just long enough to shove through some screeching pedestrians and casually wander right over to the Commandant clutching at his bleeding thigh.

Though he attempted to get to his feet, it was a fruitless effort.

The man crouched down slightly. Just close enough that had he not been hiding like a coward behind his mask, Laurent would’ve known for sure, instead of just assuming…

As he stood back up calmly—short, stocky, dead fucking eyes—so too did his gun come back into sight.

There was no time to react. Just acknowledge.

One flash later, everything was gone.

[marshallmaevik]

Date: November 2024 Location: The Prosperity Description: Marshall says goodbye.

“--So, you’ll have consistent phone reception then, right? We aren’t going to go months without hearing from you?”

“Yep,” Marshall answered her sister Holly over the video call.  “The KBW has plenty of reception.  You can send me all the videos of your taryvly that you want.”

Happy for the chance to talk about her new pet, Holly chatted animatedly while Marshall idly listened and finished packing her clothes into a box.

Did she feel sad to leave the Prosperity behind? Of course she did. The people here were some of the kindest she’d ever met. She would especially miss HJ and Winona--though she knew their pet would be in good hands.  She never imagined being a pirate, but the past year or so happened to be the best adventure she could ask for, and the opportunity gave her the healing she needed to finally move on and have the energy to make something of herself.

Now on to a new adventure with Samira, Marshall felt happy. 

“Okay, just send us a message when you and Samira are at the KBW, okay? And let us know if you need anything sent to you, or if you need your family to come and beat someone up.”

“Will do,” Marshall laughed, waving at her little sister before she ended the call.  “See you soon.”

[catmillers]

Frequency – self-para

“Hey, it’s Delphi,” Cat drawled into the microphone, voice in half a slur.

She could feel every nerve ending in her body ache, mainly in her fingertips, some in her skull, head pounding with each beat from her heart. It echoed in her head, coiling into the beginnings of a headache. Why the fuck had she picked up these pills again when it felt like this on the comedown?

It had taken months, patient, patient months to repair the damage she’d wrought against the radio. Cat wallowed in loss, curled it around herself like a blanket even though her life was built upon one thing – a determined escape from loneliness. Loneliness could be abated if she fixed it all. Maybe, it would be like Nano had never left, if she piece by piece took care of the damage of the mics, taped back together the drawings Enna had shown her of the graffiti she’d wrought across the Capitol, pulled her copies of the zine out from the drawer she’d shoved them inside and smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper. It was better, she supposed, to remember them as they were.

Wallowing in her regret, her fear of a change of her stasis made her explode, she knew that, hell she’d cried clutching pieces of a shattered laptop in her lap for hours until Cress had scooped her up off the ground. Cat regretted erasing the last earnest memories she had of how good things had been when the team of freedom fighters – the rebels, the T0MMY team, had worked together to try to save Panem.

It was real fuckin’ stupid, she thought. Cat had thrown so much away for the sake of living in comfort under a regime she had tried to erase with a fucking alias and a line of code but it brought her back here, in the tower, the present, legs curled under her body, a new computer, nothing as nice as her old one had been – she’d traded more than she should’ve to get her hands on it – but it was a comfort, something familiar to hide behind.

“Hello,” she repeated, testing it again, this time the mic pinged in the recording program, picking up sound. 

It wasn’t live. Cat doubted she’d ever go live again, not when Vox Populi propaganda crammed the airwaves. Besides, that was one bit of tech she was certain she’d never get her hands on again if she tried. Transponders were likely something more than she could rustle up enough to trade, not if she wanted to eat, not if she didn’t want to trade herself for it. 

Talking through radio was better than talking to Eugene though, who had been notably silent the moment a pill passed through her lips. She worried what other ghosts would try to flood her head if she didn’t take anything. Eugene was dead. He wasn’t supposed to respond, but he did more often than not. With the radio, talking to herself was appropriate, wasn’t insane, she could talk and know that on the other end was silence. 

“We got ourselves into some shit, huh?” Cat gave the rhetorical. There was no audience, she doubted there ever would be again, not that she so desired a captive thing like that. Cat had spent so much time screaming and crying and pleading for someone to notice how she ached, but the more she did, the more she felt like she pushed everyone away in some form or another. She supposed the radio would do – or the fantasy of it – because she didn’t want to ask for someone to help her.  The one time the words of needing someone there had crossed her lips, she was told – reminded – of how easily strung along she was, how obsessive she was, how she was ‘Delicious to toy with. So insecure, so broken’. 

Cat didn’t like to ask anymore. 

Even if Cress had apologized the damage took because, even if Cress had said all of that to shove her away, the words were still accurate, weren’t they? They still had to come from a place of truth, right? 

“Maybe I got you guys into some shit, I dunno,” Cat hissed, tucking herself smaller and smaller, because maybe she could just disappear that way. “I’m sorry,” she voiced quietly, as if the other side could offer her some absolution, “I know I said all this would be better without Snow and the Capitol, but now look, 'nother launch day, huh?” 

Cat’s eyes watched the waveform rise as she spoke, die off into a straight line when she fell silent. She swallowed, this wasn’t as good as asking for help. It wasn’t working the way it was supposed to. Nothing was satisfying when her words weren’t met with a reply – maybe in another world she’d hear something snarky from Nano in her ear about how the Vox would shut them down if she kept her tongue that loose. 

Her fingertips crammed down on the spacebar. It halted the line. Her cursor moved to hover over the recording button. End recording. Her fingertips found the keyboard – ctrl, a, backspace. The recording was deleted, she needed to try again. She clicked to record and the waveform began to move again.

“This is your oracle, Delphi speaking.” 

[julie-hollis]

I'm Like a Cat. I Always Land on My Feet / self para when -> jan 22, 2025 includes @kincaidhollis tw fire, injury, hospitals, children, burns

As Julie’s SUV careened towards Star Valley Hospital she couldn’t shake the feeling that every time she turned her back on her loved ones the world tried to take them away. It started with Joanne one day when she went to school. It happened with Wynn when they got separated at the courthouse. It happened with her grandma when she was on the road. It just happened to Shawn a month ago. It happened to Caid countless times – each time she wasn’t there. This time was just another on the list.

‘Don’t rush, alright? The boys were in the truck when it happened.’

Julie swiped a trembling hand at her face, half expecting tears, but it came back dry. The last time she shook this hard she was in labor with Wylie. Doctors said it had something to do with shock. Given the rush of her husband’s words, ‘hospital,’ 'burns,’  ‘smoke inhalation,’ ‘fire,’ ‘salon,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck,’ ‘the boys were in the truck.’

She pressed the pedal to the floor. The hand on the speedometer shot closer to the 100. Julie tasted something acrid on her tongue. Her chest ached and burned as her heart rammed into her lungs. If not for the lights splashed onto the asphalt, she’d have lost sight of the road.

Star Valley’s buildings, some old, some new, were a crooked smile on the horizon. The gleaming hospital shined like a veneer. Julie barely flung the car into park before she lunged out. The revolving doors of the emergency room brought a flood of bright light. Julie’s eyes stung as she adjusted, disoriented momentarily. 

“Momma!” A small voice called as doors opened.

Julie whipped around. Her lungs inflated with the breath she had been holding as Wylie ran towards her like a shot. She collided with her youngest, he scrambled into her arms, and wrapped around her like a monkey within moments.

“Hi, my 'Yote,” Julie greeted. She buried her face in the crook of her youngest’s neck, lifting him up with a little grunt. The warmth of his little face on her shoulder anchored her. He was safe. Caid told her so, but she needed to know for herself.

“Where’s your brother?” She began to ask just as another pair of sneakers pounded down the hall.

“Mom!” Kip called. At the sight of his face, pinched with worry, she couldn’t help but see a reflection of herself. Her kids tended to favor Caid, but their expressions were all hers.

“Hi, baby,” Julie said. Kip’s face crumbled almost immediately at the sound of her voice. She managed to shift Wylie to her hip as Kip met her halfway. Her arm went around him like a shield.

“Momma, dad got hurt,” Wylie lifted his face and pouted. 

“He’s okay, though,” Kip’s muffled voice tried to reassure her, but he kept his face buried in her shoulder. She could feel warm tears seeping into her shirt. 

Julie gently smoothed a hand over Kip’s hair. Wylie’s wide eyes stayed on her face. She managed a tight smile at her youngest. This was one of those moments – she felt her hands steady – he needed her to be brave. They both did. 

“It’s going to be okay, dad’s the tin man, remember? Nothing hurts him for too long.” She said, smiling at Wylie until he smiled, too. Kip sniffled into her shirt – still hiding his face. 

“It’s okay.” She said quieter this time, her mouth near Kip’s ear as she ducked to kiss the top of his head. 

“Mrs. Hollis?” A steady voice asked. 

Julie looked up from her children at the sight of a nurse. They looked at her and the boys with a faint smile. She straightened up a little and gave a nod. 

“It looked worse than it actually is, but your husband’s insisting he come out here even though they’re in the middle of wrapping his arm.” The nurse’s tone was weary as she pressed a button and led them into the bowels of the emergency wing. Julie had a feeling between her kids running down the hallway and Caid, likely insisting he could wrap his own arm up, that they were at their wits end. 

“It sounds like he’s doing alright, then,” Julie joked. The nurse managed a half smile at the joke. 

Squeezing Kip once more, she threaded their hands together and hitched Wylie on her hip again. Five was a little old to be carried, but it was late and well past bedtime. Kip’s grasp on her hand grew tighter as they drew closer to the room. 

The hospital room was small and dimly lit. Caid sat on a chair that most people sat in when they drew blood. He was hooked to an IV bag. His mouth was set into a tight line that quickly went away when his eyes caught her face. 

“I leave you alone for one evening,” Julie started.

“What’d you do, Ray? Fly here?” Caid asked at the same time. She smiled lightly at the nickname -- short for 'Raven.'

“I wasn’t that far from here,” Julie lied. She managed to untie herself from the kids at that moment. Caid looked at her like he didn’t believe her.

“Dad said we can draw on his arm,” Wylie said, trotting over to get a look at Caid’s mummified arm. Caid reached out to ruffle Wylie's hair.

Kip scrubbed a hand over his eyes and took a seat on one of the plastic chairs. Julie looked from him to Caid. Caid held out his good hand, fingers splaying.

She wanted to ask what happened, how bad the fire was, but with the kids there it didn’t seem right. A part of her didn’t want to know. A part of her wanted to burrow into Caid like Wylie had done to her just moments before. Instead, she managed to stay upright and drew closer. She gently brushed a hand at his cheek. There was a bit of soot on his skin. 

“We’ve got to stop reuniting at hospitals,” Julie managed around the lump in her throat.

Caid closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into her palm. He heaved a sigh. “I told the nurse's at the desk I could wrap my arm myself if they just gave me some lidocaine.”

Julie hummed. “Doesn’t sound like that worked out for you, Cowboy.”

“One day it will,” Caid said quietly. 

Julie bent down a little and pressed her lips to his forehead. She could taste the smoke. Caid’s hands smoothed down her arms.

“It’s my fault.” His voice was barely a whisper. Julie shook her head and rested her chin on top of his hair. “It’s gone, baby.”

“You don’t know that, yet,” She murmured. Suddenly, those questions she had disappeared.

“You didn’t see it.” 

She leaned away at that, at the guilt tinged in his silence. His eyes bore into her face. Whatever was held in their depths she’d find out about later. Right now, the salon was the least of her worries. What mattered were all of them in that room. The rest could wait.

“Hey, you know I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”

Caid gnawed on his bottom lip. He managed a nod. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. 

Julie’s heart leapt to her throat. Her eyes immediately searched for a call button. She hadn’t seen how bad the burn was since it was under a thick layer of gauze. “Wha-”

“The fucking cat,” He rasped, good hand digging into his jeans.

“The what?” Julie asked, looking over her shoulder like she half expected a cat to appear next to Kip. Kip sat up at that; Wylie blinked, confused.

“What cat?” Wylie asked. 

“The cat you’ve been feeding; I grabbed him. He’s in the truck,” Caid explained, keys jangling as he finally managed to get them out of his pocket. He tossed them at her. 

Julie barely managed to catch them. She was still trying to process what he just said. A few cats came to mind. Finally, in her mind’s rolodex, the big maine coon’s lazy eyes came to mind. “Bao?”

“Yeah, that one,” Caid said. “Fucker tried running out when we got here.” 

Julie smiled despite herself. She tried to fight the hysterical giggle, but failed to keep a straight face. Instead, her composure began to dissolve. She wasn’t sure what bubbled out first. The laughter or the tears. The relief or the delayed fear.

[ikarosx]

Notes: Ikaros through the years. Little timestamps of visions, from his first to his most recent, and how he understands them. Mentions: @abelasx, @iskendcr, @faelortianyou, Titania, Yavanna, Oberon.

Timestamp: I was ten.

The sky was a mix of yellow and red. The light of the Laurelin was always bright, always mixing with what I could see.

“You were named after my grandmother,” Yavanna whispered in my ear, like it was some grand secret between the two of us. “Ikaria, she was called. Dark hair like yours, seemingly knowing everything and anything,” there was a lilt of amusement to her voice now, but still calming as the two of us sat within Mythal’s Glade.

I felt like there was a new piece to the puzzle of my history, to the idea that I could be named after a great queen of the past, someone I never would’ve met. “Was she a good queen?” I'm not sure why I wanted to know, it wasn't like I thought she possibly couldn't be, but my grandmother was always honest. I liked that.

Yavanna smiled down at me, “Yes, I like to think she was. She passed the crown to my father, her eldest.” The smile faded for a moment, and I wondered if I had said something wrong. I didn’t get to ask my other question, my father suddenly appearing and taking my short attention span away from my grandmother.

Oberon was tall, charming - the elvhen loved him. For what reason, I wouldn’t ask that question for decades. To me, he was larger than life. A brilliant warrior, one who held devotion to Titania, but there were flashes of imperfection, something I admired in secret. Things were done a certain way in Avalon, customs of the Elvhen, but I appreciated when things were messy. If only because it made me laugh.

It was that moment that Aravel appeared, and I was already moving to leave my grandmother’s lap. It was embarrassing, couldn't she see my friends were around? There was a group of children waiting, those who lived within Mythal’s Glade, “Can I go? Please? Aravel will start the game without me. He knows I hate it. He will-“ Yavanna’s hand stopped my complaints, but it didn’t stop my scowl.

“You may. But don’t be long,” it was her usual goodbye, though as she rose and she approached Oberon, the two falling in quiet conversation, she was the only one to glance back at me as I ran off with a wave.

“Ara!” I had to run to catch up, my best friend still slightly out of range. Everything looked wrong, however. One of the kids was towering, another looked unimpressed at Aravel. Only I was allowed to look at him like that. Aravel was weird, sure, but he was my only friend, taken into the palace two years ago when his father had died. It was a great sadness, to lose someone like that. I wasn't sure how to process it at first, but I'd tried my best to cheer up my friend.

Though time seemed to slow as I got closer. Like my legs were stuck in mud, and I couldn't move my arms. Panic would've overcome me if I could've felt my own emotions. I prayed for death to save me from the embarrassment of falling over, but the gods must've been busy because Aravel was talking to me. I couldn't hear him because everything felt red. Hot, red, red, red. "I was talking about you." Rage, an undercurrent of grey, of fear. A fist coming towards my face, and I was landing face first in the mud from the hit. Laughter. It was red, red, red. It was like an out of body experience, consuming me from the inside. I was watching, standing by, and then all of the sudden, it faded.

“What’s wrong with him?” Someone spoke, and I was pulled from my vision, Aravel holding on to my wrist like it would keep me from falling over. And it did, I was a scrawny thing anyway, that's what my father had said. Lanky, like one of those elk Aravel had mentioned once. Too big for my legs. Once I gathered myself, Aravel spoke.

“There are Owlbears we can talk to, Ikaros. It’s fine,” Aravel was the weird kid, and I loved him for it. I was about to answer him, but the words were dying on my tongue as the older kid that I'd just seen in my head stepped forward.

“Freak. Run home to mummy, she’ll fix it all.”

The tug from Aravel did nothing to stop me from turning back, some fierce streak of protectiveness running through me, “Don’t call him that.”

“I was talking about you.” The features on the other child’s face twisted, and in hindsight, it was all very dramatic for a few ten year olds. I knew it was coming, moving to watch as the older boy’s fist missed me and he slipped face first into the mud.

Laughter bubbled up from behind me, and I turned to see Aravel cover his mouth with his hand. His laugh was important to me, it had been so for two years now, though I stepped over the boy on the ground to follow my friend without a glance back. I was desperate to tell my mother, but for now, there were Owlbears to meet.

They'd hunted and brought us rabbits and gophers.

Aravel and I cooked the rabbits for them.

They were pleased.

We said we wouldn't touch the gophers.

They were less pleased.

It was only when it was time for me to sleep that I found my words again, my mother standing a few feet away. I didn't want to get in trouble, but what was the worse that could happen? The kid had tried to hit me, and I wasn't stupid. So I puffed out my chest, everything coming out at once as I continued my story. “I felt…red. Like it’s all I saw. And a little bit of pink. And grey, like I was mad and angry at the same time. And then he threw a punch and it hit me but then when he actually did it, it didn’t hit me. I moved. I was so good, you should’ve seen me. Aravel was there. He’d tell you the truth. He said I stared off like a cat-sith when they’re hunting. I don’t know what that means but it sounds pretty cool.”

Titania hushed me, and my chest deflated when she took my hands, only the two of us in her room. I idly wondered where my father was, but it was a distant thought as my mother met my gaze, “You’re upset with me," I couldn't tell what her expression was, and I was seconds from blaming the other kid. "Am I weird for seeing it?"

“I’m not, Ikaros. But what you’re seeing…it’s your gift.”

Timestamp: I was two hundred and fifty five.

It was blue. Of course it was. The ocean always was. It was vast and filled so deeply with melancholy that I thought I would choke on it.

That’s all I felt in my chest as a woman reached for my hand, the Moongate just a few steps away. She was Silver Elvhen, desperate to know what had happened to her child. I had told her it wasn’t like that, that I didn’t know what would come if I looked. Contact had almost come repulsive to me, and it had taken a while to understand what could possibly bring on a vision. It wasn't anything to do with objects, sometimes I could see something in the middle of the night, other times, I could attempt it with a little bit of contact. Maybe it was desperation, or something else, but she grabbed my hand to ask once again and it did exactly what I was hoping to avoid – it triggered me.

Blue, blue, blue.

Midnight blue.

The stars felt like ice along my skin, so deep was the ocean of her grief, like the expanse of dark midnight sky.

There was a body being lifted, a young man who looked no older than twenty, from the back of a horse. I saw the woman scream, her grief all encompassing as it passed through me. So blue. Always blue. Every vision was blue. Death and devastation, it was always Iskaldrik. Always taking from the Silverlands, all while the High Elvhen stayed hidden behind the Moongate offering support from behind a glass mirror. I wasn't a fool, but I also wasn't the King.

Our contact was broken, I felt a shudder run through me until I felt a strong hand on my chest. Grounding, always grounding – Tianyou. It steadied me, but I felt depressed and angry all at once. There was the beginning of a migraine, I could feel it, and I wasn't going to escape it this time. “He’s dead,” that was all I could get out, unable to really sugarcoat it like I would at another time. Her wail of grief followed me through the Moongate.

Echoing, blue, blue, blue.

Timestamp: I was almost four hundred.

It was yellow. It was orange. It was laughter, happiness, sunshine and grass and leaves.

It was love. It was what I felt, and I was sure that I hated it.

Not really, but it was close enough. I had to explain once that I wasn’t an empath, there were those that understood emotions way better than I did. They could manipulate them, understand them. For myself, the visions consumed me. I was never just a third party watching a scene play out, if anything, I wished I was. It was all encompassing. I could feel the anger in the air, red and red, or the sorrow of midnight blue. Or perhaps laughter, orange and yellow and sunshine. Other times, there was the blinding white light of peace.

This was different.

I was awake, for one, the Silver Elvhen laughing in front of me. For the longest time, I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t think it would work out if I saw something in the future, immediate or not. But I could explain it to Abelas later, if I could even find my brother later. He was always off adventuring, and Deniz was unlike any I'd met. But there was always a catch. I'd come to expect that.

I'd also come to accept that some people, no matter how good their heart was, or how much love they had to give, they would always be alone. That was how I'd felt for so long. Some twisted isolation that was my fault, my prerogative, and I'd changed it to know Deniz. My mother had told me, not too soon after Oberon had been banished, that sometimes, you were able to choose the life you wanted. "And if you're lucky, sometimes that life chooses you back," she'd finished, and I'd only understood that she'd meant me. The rest would sting, but there was life to be lived, and she would continue on.

But all things ended, even myself and Deniz. My first great love, the one where I could put my hand on his and I could feel my own emotions. Deniz was that moment before a storm. Where the sky was grey and cloudy, where the electricity in the air made you shiver. All encompassing, and I was ready to wait it out.

Yet it was a horrible thing, to see the future and know that no matter what I did, what Deniz did, that I couldn't fix it no matter how much I wanted to. He'd said it before, how there wouldn't be a forever. Nothing lasted like that, I'd remind him, but there was that midnight blue sorrow I would feel. It would mix with the yellow and green of sunshine and grass, of rain and the sound the leaves made when the wind passed through them. But it wasn't enough.

I was like the sun, and he was the moon: always chasing.

Timestamp: Present Day

We all had monsters in our dreams. Some of us had just lived with them longer.

My head was pounding. I felt like I'd belonged at the bottom of one of those filthy gutters that I'd seen in Eterna, somewhere around the tower. The Tower itself was always pristine, as was Arvandoril, so it wasn't like it didn't feel more at home than usual.

I'd come a few days prior, Tianyou not far behind me, waiting for the healers of Ceres to once again give me something. It was magic, it was the mind, they'd remind me of that often.

One of the witches had looked at me the day before, saying it would be a shame if an oracle was to be lost. It'd taken me a moment to understand how far through the mud she was dragging me.

"I'm not depressed."

They'd looked me up and down, "You aren't? Why on earth not?"

That'd been the end of that conversatoin. I'd stormed off in a gloriously dramatic fashion, Tian laughing at me as I'd made it outside the door.

"I hate it here," I'd growled out, sounding more like my cat-sith every day. I'd even been accused of purring once, but when Saleba purred, it indicated devious plotting involving nefarious deeds. I didn't trust that cat, but I loved him. So there was that.

"You wanted to visit," Tianyou pointed out the obvious, and I had to refrain from being grouchy once more.

That was yesterday, and today, I'd only managed to drag myself out of bed after taking the herbs recommended to me. Magic couldn't fix everything. There were days where I felt lighter, this was not one of those days. It'd be nice if I could be paint on a wall, blending into the background, but I was always present. I had so many questions. To be a High Elvhen was to never be alone, but to see the future? It felt isolating. And time, it never stopped, but it often felt elastic.

I could feel another vision, edging at the back of my conscious. This one was dark again, relating to no one near me. My only contact was the desk I'd balanced myself against. Fear. Black, all consuming, darkness. A roar echoed in my head, but I was there. I could see it. Creatures of the blight, another blighted hand reaching forward. Was it mine? Flashes of yellow – deceit. I gasped as I was brought out of it by a banging on the door. A wave of desperation overtook me. I had to see more. I had to go back. But it never worked. Was it the future? Was it the current? It'd be someone I'd met before, had to be, but as I stumbled to the door, looking less like a prince with every stumbling step I took, I had little time to pull it open before I was looking into the eyes of one of the Queen's Court.

"Iskaldrik has fallen."

[ironlvngs]

— TASK 006

before, it was much more simple to be present for these interrogations; to answer their questions, play games to shift the blame on someone else (sorry, ex boyfriend), to paint the prettiest picture of himself... but that was before this was turned into a murder investigation, rather than locating a missing person. negativity has been sitting in link's chest since the day they announced it, and it hasn't gotten any better — day by day, it feels like it's been simmering in there, and now there's just this black sludge living inside him and turning everything upside down for him.

"— excuse me, mr. crawford? a drink?" the officer repeats themself, and link has to remind himself to act accordingly.

"uh, sorry... i'm good for now, thanks." they respond as they clear their throat, bringing themself back to the reality right in front of them.

"well, then, i suppose we can get started." the officer takes a look at their partner, giving them the lead on this. "mr. crawford, did you have any reason to suspect greer morrison was dead before this news came to light?" link's eyes land on the red blinking of the tape recorder in between them for a moment, and calculates exactly how he wanted to play this one. "well, i can't say that after months of her being gone, the morbid thought hadn't come to mind for a second. but it was just easier to choose to believe she ran off on her own."

"right. well, lincoln, i'd like to ask you a few questions about ida clarke." a lump forms in his throat. link was probably the worst person to question about ida, given their very public distaste for one another — fights and arguments and name calling that only increased when they began to live in the same place. "what was the nature of your relationship?" link had to think quick. he had to wonder if they had any information on the fact that they had slept with each other not long before she died, because if they believed that he was trying to hide that fact, link would instantly become a target. it shouldn't be an issue, if she hadn't told anyone else, either. but then again, he wasn't ever the most trusting of ida clarke. finally, he responds. "not much of a relationship, really. we, uh... we were roommates for a little while, and we weren't very close." it wasn't truthful but it wasn't a lie, either. "but still, it was not the best.. hearing that someone you used to see every day and practically lived alongside with had died like that. it was the same with penelope, even though we weren't close, either. it makes you worry, you know?" maybe playing the terrified and traumatized young student afraid for his life card would gain the cops' sympathy here, and he'd avoid getting grilled.

"right, of course. now i understand that you were hospitalized after the fire, is that correct?" link nods his head, and lifts his sleeve up a little to show them his burn scars from the fire. "fortunate enough to have made it to a hospital at all." he adds. and thank god for it, meaning that he had an automatic alibi for ida's death. link knows he's innocent, but in this world, it's clear to see that anyone can get thrown under the bus — speaking from experience, from being the one to throw others under the bus so easily. "where were you before that? before you managed to leave the building?" not alibi enough, so it seems. "gosh, honestly? my memory is all over the place with that. it's hard to remember any other part of the night." immediately, the cop responds with another question, "and what exactly were you and other students doing at the commons instead of the commencement gala?" this is where link thought that he might choke. was it a better idea to admit that he had gotten a text from g like everyone else? or was it better to lie about it? then again, if someone decides to admit it, then it seems like he an every other student who hides it is lying about something. "well, to be honest with you, officer, the gala was becoming a bit... boring for a few of us college students?" he responds with a small scoff, a playful look on his face. "a few people were talking about getting out of there, maybe meeting up at the commons.... and, well, i followed them out. you can see how at the time, i thought it would be harmless to do so."

"alright... and have you gotten any anonymous messages over the past year? any with leading information, perhaps? or threatening messages?" link wanted to remove himself from this entire chain of suspicion — just another regular student at ogden college. "thankfully, i haven't." but that meant link had to be even more careful about who he talks to about any texts he receives. "and is there any information about greer morrison that you've become aware of in the past year that you haven't shared with the police yet?" "not at all — not since i spoke with you guys about her ex boyfriend. if i do hear anything, i'd definitely make sure to immediately report it." why not add a sprinkle of the noble citizen on top of this?

"well, mr. crawford, just one last question before we let you go... have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?" and this was it, link's favorite question. how easy would it be to fuck over someone he sees as a threat in whatever answer he can make up or lead the cops down a certain path? it had worked so fucking well last time (maybe too well) and he could definitely do it again. monty? milo? sassa's stupid fucking boyfriend? that was a weapon he could yield at any moment, though, and this was not the time to use it. "personally, with my graduation approaching, i chose to keep to myself and focus on my academics. so no, i haven't witnessed anything."

"okay, and i think that concludes all the questions we have for you today. thank you for your cooperation, and please do report anything suspicious to us — whether it's text messages or otherwise." link starts promising that he will, thanks them for their wonderful, oh so amazing service to their community, and exits the interrogation room.

that went well enough. at the end of the day, there was nothing link could do better than wear a mask and twist the narrative in any way he wanted.

[akanisxingrid]

Paved in Blood

Trigger warning death(s)

Note: I did choose this option. Shane did give me an out.

What was under the city wasn’t anything they could have imagined, the darkness that lurked beneath made you feel like you been transported to another plane. It was hard to think that above them was the city that accepted the changeling into their ranks. That they needed to protect it now, the place they came to call home needed them to step up and show why they were a queensgaurd. Not only did Akanis know Elira but so did Ingrid. Elira had a sweet spot for the Elvhen as he was always so polite, sweet even, always had time to listen to her no matter the occasion. Where she would often chastised Ingrid after finding out the queensgaurd had snuck away some extra pastries, though it probably didn’t help that Ingrid had no time for what she called prattling.

It had brought a small smile to his lips as Akanis watched Celaya operate in the investigation. Offering her a squireship was something he knew was right. Despite what everyone else had to say, he believed that she could become someone spectacular, that she could provide hope for a future. Maybe some might believe him mad but Akanis knew one thing for certain that anyone can become more than what they were. Celaya could become more than what was done to her. She was more than a Witcher.

It wasn't a surprise that a place that had statues of the mother of dragons required some kind of test to pass. Those who went on the quest said it was a test that it wasn’t real and that they should play by the cults rules. But that was easier said then done. Akanis wouldn’t compromise his morals for some test, he would not go back into the darkness of sinking his head into the ground. Test or not it was a test of character that he was proud to fail, he wasn’t going to be pressured to scarify his morals not again. But Ingrid had learnt that morals only got in the way of power, of recognition, of titles and she would play to the cults test in order to get out unscathed, whatever it took Ingrid wouldn’t fall in this place.

It was when they were travelling deeper into the dead city that Akanis saw a glint of his own death. He couldn’t speak his last word of warning before his head was taken from his shoulders before he could even blink. Unceremonially dropping to the ground, rolling a couple feet away from his body, his eyes now truly held a dead look within them. The shift, Ingrid phasing into existence was the most painful exchange she had ever experienced. He couldn’t be resurrected at the tower without her, that what she thought this sundering of their souls was, this pull but little did she know. His face was scared into her memory, she saw it before when they were completing their trails, she had found comfort in him being beside her in that moment. But there was no comfort in seeing him this time. Just devastation. It hadn’t been just him, Agron a gueensguard who had more experience than them both and a renowned gladiator Dior, who wasn’t just famous for his charisma but his skill with a blade. At least they had all perished in good company.

There was no time to process her emotion right there, she had forgotten why they were truly here, why they all had come to this forsaken place to begin with but she knew she couldn’t let Scylla face a similar fate and without hesitation gave the owlbear a way to conceal herself. Her mind was fogged over with loss, there was a cloud of despair that hung over her thoughts. All she could think about was the blade that the woman held, how it sliced like butter. How it sliced through him like air plagued her as she hunted the woman down in the battlefield, she had expected it to be Ormir that she worked in tandem with but stranger thing had happened and in battle he was actually impressive unlike his politics. It was a strenuous battle, one where many rose and fall. She’d seen Celaya fall victim, even when she had managed to get to her feet again, she was a victim of their attacks.

The crystal in the was cracking, splintering, it could no longer take the pressure it must have been containing. There was only so much energy anything could take, be that living or not, everything had its breaking point and the crystal had reached its. With all that energy contained inside it would kill anyone within its reach. Time froze, she could turn and run, hope for the best that the wave to come wouldn’t reach them, that it wouldn’t damage the foundations of the city that badly it would collapse. Even though he wasn’t with her she could hear not just his words but feel his beliefs within her. There was a slim chance they could stop some of the damage, that she could do something. Looking back, Celaya was on the floor, Akanis’ new squire laid there as a skeleton tried to take her to safety. None of them were going to make it to safety if something wasn’t done, when given the opportunity to run, an opportunity that Ormir had given her instead of feeling she charged towards the crystal. Standing stallward as the magical energy grew she looked back once more making sure all that came here were out the room safely, thankfully the dragon that had no right to be so kind had scooped up Celaya. It had to be now or it would brake of its own volition, this was her honour, duty, responsibility as a queensguard to give her life in defense of the queendom. This was her moment to prove to everyone… no to prove to herself that she was worthy to stand beside Akanis and Agron as a queendguard. Her denotation of loyalty to not only the queen but the people came crashing against the crystal all she had was hope. There was the briefest of quiet, one that led her to believe she had accomplished something, but a breath later she realised she was going to die in this place, as her body turned to dust.

It was hard to imagine darkness, to picture the world with no light but that is how this limbo appeared. There was still this pulling sensation that she knew was Akanis and in this darkness she needed his light. Her pace felt like a hundred years had passed but finally there was a faint glow in the distance “Akanis!” she screamed out to him as she ran into his open arms. His form was featureless but she knew it was him by the warmth he radiated out, the way he held her in his arms that shone brightly like the sun. “Ingrid” the words whispered softly as they embraced each other. “We can go back now, back to our bodies." That was what this was right? He’d been here waiting for her. “You must go back, yes.” his voice was soft like he had made peace with something. “No, us Akanis…” it took a second to realise what was going on here. “No, you promised together. You don’t just get to decide that you're not going back, what about the promise we made? Together!” her voice was raw, rattling. “You need me and the shadow I cast gone to be the woman you’re meant to be Ingird. It’s my time to go back to the wheel and if it weaves it so you’ll be able to call on me again.” He took her face that had been buried in his shoulder in his hands, wiping away tears that had begun to fall. “I know the woman who hides away in there, I know she wants to fight for this world. So fight in my stead Ingrid, fight harder, fight for the both of us. You took a stand down there knowing that you could die permanently, why did you do that?” He posed her a question. “ Because it was the right thing to do.” It was the simplest answer but one she knew to be true. “Exactly! You know what you need to do, here knows.” his flaming has hovered over her heart “We don’t have much time left. You need to help Celaya, she has dark days to come and you need to be there for them. If you can’t find the person I believe in, that I know is there you can at least help her become a knight. Love fiercely, stand courageously, don’t let fear hesitate your action.” It wasn’t a request that he made. Slowly he let go of Ingrid and got to one knee “It had been a pleasure serving with you Sir Ingrid Isherwood.” His light dimmed as the wheel took him back, Ingird to began to fade but not before she could kneel herself “ I won’t forget you.” Of course he had to be a benevolent fucker in their finale moments but she would houner his finale wishes even if she was unsure how to be what he thought she could be, she couldn’t see what he could but he always seen the good that lurked with in her.

Being brought back to the reality she had known was disorientating. May that had all been a bad dream but the fact that she was in a coffin dismissed that thought. Half hearted she pushed the coffin open revealing she was in the tower, in Akanis’ tomb. Feeling like she’d been hollowed out she stood infront of a mirror hoping to see him there “Akanis?” She dared to whisper to the reflection. She hoped, prayed that he would appear there but the only thing that looked back was herself with a new adornment upon her face. She had once wished that she could live this life without him there, that she was never intertwined with him. But now she had that, had what she had dreamed of she didn’t want this anymore, it repulsed her to think she could have ever wanted to be without him, now all she had was the memory of being whole. Her hands griped around the mirrors edge like a vice, so tightly her hands began to shake. Tumbling to her knees her forehead pressed against its surface “I’ll find that woman you saw whatever it takes I’ll be that woman.” She promised to the ether.

[morrisxn02]

IC TASK IV - INTERROGATIONS III

CHARACTERS Edward Morrison FBI AGENT#1 FBI AGENT#2 SCENE Traditional professor's office space. Wooden panels on all sides, a window directly opposite the audience, overlooking the Ogden campus and purple-pink, twilight skies. A large wooden table in the middle with three chairs, two on the left, and one on the right. On top of the desk is a laptop, a tape recorder, a lamp, and some stationary i.e. a notebook, some pens and pencils, et cetera.). Enter Edward, looking tired, with dark circles around the eyes. He greets the two FBI Agents with handshakes and hangs his trench coat on the chair.

FBI AGENT #1–

Good afternoon, Mr. Morrison.

EDWARD–

(taking the seat across from the agents, dropping his messenger bag on the floor) Good afternoon.

FBI AGENT #2–

Please note that this interview is being recorded.

EDWARD nods as though it is obvious.

FBI AGENT #2–

For the record, please state your full name, age, and relationship with the victim.

EDWARD–

With Greer.

FBI AGENT #1 looks at FBI AGENT #2 shooting him a knowing look as though she had advised him about something before the interrogation.

EDWARD–

Edward Rufus Morrison, twenty-one, brother.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are aware that there have been developments to your sister’s case…

EDWARD–

(interrupting FBI AGENT #1) Which still haven’t been properly disclosed to either me or my sister.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, at present, we are not allowed to disclose any information pertaining to the investigation of your sister’s potential murder.

EDWARD–

Yes, I've heard that a thousand times. And yet I still don’t know why the course of the investigation has been changed.

FBI AGENT #1–

Unfortunately, that is confidential information at the moment.

EDWARD–

So, you’ve just decided she was murdered? And didn’t tell anyone why?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, your parents have been duly contacted by the FBI. Legally, they are the only people outside of the organization who are required to be informed of any news on the case. I’m going to ask you to calm down and stick to the questions.

EDWARD–

(raising his voice) Well, Greer was on seen. On campus. She’s alive.

FBI AGENTS stare at each other, confused. There is a short moment of tense silence, as Edward glares at them.  

FBI AGENT #1–

(uncertain) You saw her? When?

EDWARD–

(lowering his tone, voice still somewhat resigned) I didn’t see her. Jesse did. Jesse Hart and Milo Navarro.

FBI AGENT #1–

They told you this? When?

EDWARD–

Jesse told me a few days ago. It happened on the night of the power outage. October 1st, last year.

FBI AGENT #2–

That was over a year ago. Why did you not report it?

EDWARD–

(snaps) He just told me. Didn’t you hear what I said?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, please lower your voice.

EDWARD–

(complying slightly) Greer was seen and you don’t even know about it.

FBI AGENT #1–

We will look into it.

EDWARD–

I’m sure you will.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, this is new information to us, I’m sure you understand. It’s been over a year since she was last seen.  It is very unlikely this will change the course of the investigation… For now, this is the best we can do.

EDWARD rolls his eyes and shakes his head, heaving an annoyed sigh.

FBI AGENT #2–

Now, could you please detail your relationship with your sister.

EDWARD–

We were close.

FBI AGENT #1–

(annoyed) Can you elaborate further, please?

EDWARD–

We were close. We were together often. We were in the same social circles. Is that good enough?

FBI AGENT #1 nods, not bothering to disguise an eye roll.

FBI AGENT #2–

Mr. Morrison, did you have any reason to suspect Greer Morrison was dead before this news came to light?

EDWARD–

She. Isn’t. Dead.

FBI AGENT #2–

So, no…?

EDWARD–

No. Obviously not.

FBI AGENT #2–

And, besides the alleged sighting, are you aware of any information about Greer Morrison that has come to light in the past year that you haven’t shared?

EDWARD–

(pauses) (looks out the window) No. I don’t think so.

FBI AGENT  #2–

Have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?

EDWARD–

Aside from the two deaths, the mysterious fire, the campus-wide power-outage, and the arrest? Not that I can recall, no.

FBI AGENT #2 holds back a chuckle.

FBI AGENT #2–

You mentioned the fire at the Commons… Were you inside or near the building when the fire started?

EDWARD–

Yes. I was inside the building with everyone else.

FBI AGENT #2–

Do you know why some students were there when they should’ve been at the Commencement Gala?

EDWARD–

Maybe just to get away from our parents… I don’t know.

FBI AGENT #1–

Your colleague, Samantha Jiménez was arrested that night. I understand that you two shared a few classes. Can you detail your relationship with Miss Jiménez?

EDWARD–

We are– (he cleans his throat) were friends. We did a few of projects together every now and then.

FBI AGENT #1–

Ms. Jiménez’s attorneys work in a law firm managed by Mrs. Talia Rivera, your godmother’s wife. They are defending her pro-bono. Do you happen to know what led them to pick up Ms. Jiiménez’s case?

EDWARD–

(shaking his head) Media coverage, maybe. Everything surrounding Greer’s disappearance has been dealt with as much sensationalism as possible.

FBI AGENT #1–

(crossing his hands on the table) Right... So you have nothing to do with how they arrived at her case?

EDWARD–

I might have mentioned it to Talia in passing…

AGENTS exchange a glance.

FBI AGENT #2–

Another classmate of yours, Ms. Ida Clarke, sadly passed away the night of the fire. Were you two close?

EDWARD–

No. We talked, sometimes. In social gatherings, mostly. But I wouldn’t say we were friends.

FBI AGENT #2–

And where were you when her body was found?

EDWARD–

On the second floor of the Commons. Talking to Ollie Inoue. When someone yelled from the ground floor, we parted ways to see what it was.

FBI AGENT #2–

Very well. (nods and takes notes)

FBI AGENT #1–

Since you mentioned the deaths of Ms. Clarke and Ms. Klein, would you care to elaborate on your relationship with Penelope Klein, if there was any?

EDWARD–

There wasn't, I didn’t like her very much.

FBI AGENT #1–

Why?

EDWARD–

I don’t know. She was just... sort of a sycophant?

FBI AGENT #2–

And what about your sister… Was she close to her?

EDWARD–

(sighing) Not really. I think Penelope Klein always though she could be like Greer. She always had a sort of competitive aura when it came to Greer. (shifting in his seat) I mean, I don’t need to tell you that Greer has always been popular. Everyone loves her. Penny seemed to think that she could be like her… Like, after Greer disappeared I feel like she tried to become the next Greer. (pauses) I’m rambling. Forgive me.

FBI AGENT #2–

No, the more insight the better.

FBI AGENT #1–

Do you remember what you were doing when Penelope Klein was found at the chalet?

EDWARD–

I was asleep. There was a black-out and she started bossing everyone around to try and get the light back on. I didn’t want to help her because, again, I didn’t really like her and I hate being bossed around, so I just went back to the bedroom.

FBI AGENT #1 nods.

FBI AGENT #1–

Finally, Mr. Morrison, before we let you go… Over the past year, have you gotten any anonymous messages?

EDWARD–

(after a long, tense pause) Of course I have. My sister is missing… I get prank calls all the time.

FBI AGENT #2–

We mean threatening ones? Or with… leading information?

EDWARD–

(picking at his nails under the table) It’s hard to tell what is truth and what isn’t at this point, but nothing I would consider particularly relevant.

FBI AGENTS exchange a worried glance.

EDWARD–

(shaking his head hurriedly, stumbling over  words) I’ve deleted everything. I think someone’s just trying to tease me.

FBI AGENT #1–

(skeptically) Well, if you notice anything strange, don’t hesitate to report it.

EDWARD nods.

FBI AGENT #2–

(closing notebook, stopping the recording) This is everything. You’re free to go. Thank you for collaborating.

FBI AGENT #1–

And we’ll promise that we will look into this sighting you’ve mentioned.

EDWARD–

(gathering his things, getting up) Okay. Thank you.

Exit EDWARD.

End of scene.

[lararutherford]

EVERY ENDING HAS A BEGINNING:

Guess the kids are finally getting out of the basement, and now you all owe Lara for the rest of your lives I don't make the rules. xo Features: Kosta. Date: May 22nd, 2024. Warnings: It's shit. I haven't written in a while okay. Forgive me.

“My father is on his way to London. He intends to meet with Vorshevsky.” The silence at that particular revelation had been deafening. “I’ve informed him that I plan to do so first.” Parsons’ displeasure at that idea, far louder… “And Andrew agreed?” “Of course he didn’t.”

---

Minutes must have passed them by in cold, empty quiet.

When Lara Rutherford had stepped into the office of the head of the Vorshevsky family, she had done so knowing that immediate confrontation could have spelt a dire outcome for her. That those few she had told about her intentions tonight were not wrong for voicing concern about how she might handle herself. Konstantin didn’t much seem a man who entered these kinds of discussions under forced small talk, though. They were busy people, and both lacked patience.

So, as soon as she’d taken her seat opposite him, as well as the glass of vodka he’d extended her way like an almost suspiciously gracious host, she’d offered a gift of her own in return.

The photographs of his dead men.

The very same ones who’d hatched a plot to harm her sister.

Lara had always been good at reading people—nobody knew a liar better than a liar—but with him it was almost impossible. Something in his jaw seemed to tighten. He placed his own glass down in silence, but offered nothing else she might use to decipher what was running through his mind. The Russian had retained his experience as a politician, no doubt; silver-tongued and with an obvious penchant for deception. But she had proof, and more than enough bitterness to assume his guilt even if he had the most believable excuses in the world. The Rutherford hadn’t come here in search of confirmation of the part they’d played.

She’d come here for reparations.

“They were acting of their own accord. This was never ordered by me.”

Lara observed him in silence.

He sounded utterly convincing.

But Lara knew better than to take a man at his word.

Voice lowered to a whisper, she replied: “I don’t believe you.”

“What would I gain from attacking my allies? What would I gain from murdering her instead of you?”

Now, it was her turn to place her untouched glass down, hands folding neatly in her lap before she continued with her accusations. Impatient, perhaps, but she could take her time with this.

“We were never supposed to know it was you. They were masquerading as members of the French Organization. And I must say: the detail in that particular ruse was very impressive.”

The Rutherford was mocking him, and he bristled at her tone.

“I know you know Delphine and I are in talks to move toward a more civil relationship between our families. I also know you know that they wouldn’t assassinate me unless a better offer was to come their way. If we suddenly thought the French responsible for the murder of my sister, though? Well, that’d halt things immediately. And how convenient it’d be for your own interests…”

“If I had planned this,” he interjected in annoyance, “your sister would be dead, and you’d be warring with the French instead of having this conversation with me. I don’t make mistakes.”

“Mistakes are all you’ve made since you stepped foot in this city, Konstantin.”

The fact she was sat opposite him now, instead of tallied up as a death statistic from The Kingdom’s New Year’s Eve shootout, was proof of it. They both knew that he didn’t consider her getting hit by one of his men’s stray bullets a mistake. The fact she was still breathing was.

“Why are you here, Lara?”

The impatience in is tone caused a barely contained reaction. It was like something crawling up the back of her neck. Her spine straightened involuntarily as if her body was ready to depart the room ahead of time. The only thing that steeled her nerve was knowing she held all the cards here, and the only thing that stopped him from reaching across the desk and taking great joy in strangling the life out of her was his acknowledgement of the same.

A dangerous game with a dangerous opponent…

“You’re going to release the Italians.”

Half of her had expected him to scoff in disgust, but instead, she was greeted by eyes boring into her with such bitter hatred, she wondered if she had, indeed, signed her away her own life in favour of theirs. Perhaps she should have at least phrased it as a question instead of the demand it was.

Too late to walk back on it, now...

“You can have one.”

“That’s not what I said,” she countered, voice resolute.

“We didn’t know the soldier was affiliated with you. Consider her safe return a peace offering on my part for the insolence of my men, and ask no more.”

Insolence?

“You’ve misunderstand the purpose of my visit. This isn’t a negotiation.”

The Russian got to his feet slowly, a hand dropping to refasten the buttons of his jacket as if silently informing her he was readying to depart without further discussion of the matters at hand.

“You’re going to release the Italians, and you’re going to agree to exchange the St. Clair for Aviv, with my facilitation.”

Not once did her voice waver.

And that was when it finally clicked for him.

Konstantin slid his hands into his pockets, and she briefly wondered if he was reaching for a knife.

To her surprise, his handsome features twisted into amusement as opposed to the anger that had marred him up until this point in the conversation.

A humourless chuckle, then:

“You aren’t doing this for them,” he asserted, seemingly impressed by her fucking audacity. “You’re doing this for yourself.”

“I don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit me.”

The Rutherford reached out a delicate hand to his mahogany desk, index finger tracing a line across its polished top slowly.

“My father would never say this to you, but believe every word that I do. Don’t make the mistake of pushing us. Our influence has shielded you from much since your arrival here, but we’ve barely scratched the surface of how far it reaches. Understanding how much power my family truly has over this city because we decide to turn it against you isn’t wise.”

Oh, he had no fucking idea…

“Haringey would become more inhospitable than you could ever imagine. First, the families here come together to drive you out of London. Then, Porto Velho…” Lara was no longer looking at him, terrified of what she might see if she dared be so bold. Her movements were more purposeful now, as if she were moving soldiers into position on an invisible map of war. “With no need to focus on either, the Italians and French would be free to direct all of their attention toward Launceston.”

When she did look up, his expression still held. Either he didn’t believe she had the nerve to follow through with this scenario she was playing out before him, or he was a master at disguising the unfortunate realisation that he was over a fucking barrel.

That she was right.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he reiterated her earlier concern with vitriol so heavy in its contrast to the amusement he retained it was terrifying.

“I’d argue attempting to assassinate my sister means I could say the same about you.”

There was no denying that.

“What’s to stop you from doing all of this after I cede?”

“Nothing.”

This time it was Lara who got to her feet. Even in heels, the height difference was jarring enough to intimidate her into feeling smaller than she ever had in her life. But she’d held it together for this long, and she wasn’t about to lose her nerve at the final hurdle. Not after this. Carefully adjusting the arm of her Balmain blazer, she attempted to remain as aloof as she had done for the entirety of the conversation; a steely façade she had to learn to perfect over the years coming in clutch when she needed it the most.

The only words she offered in parting?

“You’d do well to remember that.”

[autumnshowell]

arguments

'You've been out so often lately.'

'You've been so hard to get ahold of.' 'I worry when you don't answer my texts.' 'I thought you said you didn't have to work.' 'I guess I just didn't realize you had better things to do.' She throws handfuls of what is essentially into the trash. Part of Autumn wants to scream as she turns her mother's words around in her head, every spin of it gouging an angry red barb into the figurative mental flesh of her hand as she considers just how angry she is right now. "I have a life outside of you, mom." She says, exasperated in tone but forcing herself to keep calm. Autumn ties the trash bag off and moves to set it next to the door that leads out of the kitchen to the driveway, lifting it to show her before she does so. "And by the way, you're allowed to actually throw stuff away without me here." Helpless and useless she thinks to herself. She'll feel awful for thinking it later, but right now she's so angry because she spent the whole of her last day off cleaning the filth out of this kitchen and it looks like she never even touched it. It's always something. Always some mess that needs cleaning or something that sits broken because she can't pick up a phone and call for a repair herself. It'd be one thing, Autumn gripes, if her mother were incapable. If she were unable to do the things that Autumn does. But she isn't. She just knows she can get away with it, because her daughter promised her late husband that she would take care of her. Because if she plays dumb and she plays useless, it keeps Autumn close, ensures that she'll never go far from home. Autumn knows it, because her mother's said so a dozen times in her drunken rants, even if she doesn't remember it, and she hates that she's right. Because who else does she have? Kevin is, at best, a work friend. Everyone she counted as a close friend in town growing up is too busy with life or has left town altogether. She hasn't had anybody better to be around. Hasn't had anything better to do. But now she does. And it's becoming apparent. And she knows her mother hates this. And she relishes in it. "You're gonna have to cook for yourself or order out this Saturday - I'm not gonna be around." That pries her mother's eyes from her wine glass. "Why?" "I've got a thing." Sharp. "What thing?" Pointed "Just a thing." Deflecting. "What kind of thing? I remember when my daughter didn't keep secrets." "Oh my fucking god, really?" She says, slapping a rag down on the counter top. "I'm going to a studio to look at tattoo stuff, okay?" "A tattoo? Why the hell do you want a tattoo?" "I don't even know if I want one - and what does it matter to you anyways. it's not for you it's for me." "That's so tacky Autumn Marie, when have you ever wanted a tattoo?" "Jesus, and you wonder why I didn't want to tell you." "Well if you can't even tell me about it, what are you going to tell people when they see it? You'll look trashy." It's the certitude and confidence with which her own mother calls her trashy. It makes her breath catch. She feels her nails digging so deeply into the palms of one hand that she's sure when she rubs her face in frustration, it's going to leave a trail of red behind. It doesn't but her hand hurts. "It's 2024, mom, maybe I want to look trashy." She hates how much she sounds like a fucking teenager. It's humiliating and demoralizing, despite the audience of nobody. "Well, mission accomplished if you go through with that." Leigh says, moving to pour more Moscato into her glass. "No wonder I don't have grandkids."

Silly enough, that's what gets her, what shuts her off, what rips her out of her own mind and sends her off to the broom closet eve though her mother's not done talking. She thinks of just how many times she's told her mother she's not interested in men, let alone starting a family with one. It's the closes she ever gets to telling her mother that she's never going to have grand children. That she's never going to have a son-in-law. But she never has the stone to say it outright.

The rest of the evening is quiet - quiet as the dead. Or at least it might as well be; her mother's voice is somewhere behind her, over her shoulder - quite and muffled every once in a while, like she's yelling through the deep ocean. She doesn't listen as she cleans up.

She's reminded of just why she does all this in the morning, while her mother is at work where she has to at least pretend to be sober and functional and can't inform her daughter of how wrong she is about everything she does. She wonders why she comes here at all anymore - but she knows why - no matter how awful it is, or how draining it is, it's less lonely this way. It's nice to be needed, even if she isn't necessarily wanted.

[valentina--ricci]

The Ricci Family Playbook | A Self-Para

Valentina had assumed she would have felt more emotional in this moment. Like the sight of her father being carted off in handcuffs would suddenly unleash this well of empathy for the man who had helped bring her into the world. She thought that the softness she had once felt for him would rise to the surface. Maybe she’d get flashbacks of her childhood, when he’d actually sit and read with her or take her for ice cream after a good grade. 

But all Valentina felt was relief as she sat in a car with her mother further down the block. 

It had happened fast for something that had taken her years to plan. She had thought several times about finding a way to kill him but that would just be using the same playbook he had. The man cared about nothing more than his reputation so killing his reputation seemed to be the only way for her at the moment. She knew she had to be smart. She had to build a case, she had to find things that were so severe, so sturdy, that not even his lawyers could talk their way out of this one. 

His targeting of Mikayla Beaumont had sent her over the edge, an urgency rising up in her chest as she watched him act like the Godfather once again. As she watched the town almost get swept away in sand and realized that maybe she cared about the people here. Maybe. But she had to draw the line somewhere. He was out of control and even worse, he was a likely winner for Mayor. She knew that if she didn’t stop him now, or at least deter him for some time, then they would never be able to turn back. 

So she set the wheels in motion. Left breadcrumbs for the ATF agents and local cops. Enough for them to take Mikki’s article to heart. And then came her final move. 

Valentina could feel the stress leaving her body as she got out of bed and pulled on her robe, glancing back at Roman on the bed before she let him know that she had invited him over for more than letting him attend to her beautiful body. She pulled a thick folder from her dresser and dropped it down on the bed next to him. She knew he’d ask questions and she was ready for them and clear that he needed to be as quick about this as possible. And with another kiss to his cheek, she sent him on his way before going to see her mother and brother to let them know what she had done. 

And Roman had of course delivered as she knew he would. Or else she wouldn’t have trusted him with it in the first place. 

So Valentina put the car in drive as they dipped her father’s head into the police car. She was slow until the car turned down a larger street and pressed her foot to the gas so they could pull up beside the police car. She kept her speed steady as she and her mother turned to look at Gio in the back seat. And as they set their eyes on him, they both smiled. Beatrice even blew him a kiss before they sped past them and turned down the next road,  in search of an appropriate celebration.