#| speaks: deacon chambers.

[loveswealth]

closed for @touchbased

"you're fucking crazy," try as he might to feign disgust over the fact, the smirk that exposes itself against the corner of his mouth alludes to the truth. "she didn't - she was just a fan, she didn't mean anything to me."

[euphoriclusts]

closed starter for @touchbased

"you're actually fucking insane." the man scoffs, trying his damnedest to regulate his body's reactions. with a knife pressed firm against his throat, deacon shouldn't be into it and whilst he is terrified, he's equally horny. "what do you want?"

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

i'm back! hopefully!! (yes i know i'm a day late but STILL-)

sorry i havent been doing wip wednesdays, i'm only now really recovering from the exhaustion of last semester. that being said, thank you to the lovely @skyrim-forever for tagging me!!

i'm tagging the amazing @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @oblivions-dawn @totally-not-deacon and @archangelsunited !!!! if you're not tagged and wanna join, feel free to tag me back regardless, i love seeing what you're all working on!! <33

this comes from chapter 31 of "Cycle of the Serpent", and is a longer piece of an excerpt i posted recently. warning, it is, indeed, long. i hope you enjoy!

Mid-morning nestled uncertainly atop the high mountains at the edge of Solitude. The sun peaked its head out hours ago, and the daylight colors took it as their sign to sprawl over the sea, a chill in the air as Last Seed came to its end. A constant breeze trailed off the sea, fumbling along the multicolored flags strung between buildings, high above the trios heads as they made the brisk march to Castle Dour. The constant exchanging of shade for sun between buildings, of money for goods in the nearby market, and the eternally-present sounds of the blacksmith and his apprentice at work pushed their feet further towards the grand doors, Emeros' chin held high. He'd woken up late for the first time in a very long time, and that fact alone had done its best to unravel his senses for the first few minutes of his day. Breakfast had been a brief affair. While Athenath looked pleased to be done with all of this and finally make their way to the Bard's College, Wyndrelis shared in the uncertainty. Would Tullius really let them go, just like that? Would he sign off on their pardon and consider them free in Imperial-controlled Holds? Did it matter? They'd done what they'd set out to do, and even more, so if he didn't pardon them… Emeros tried not to think too far into the future on this. Take it one step at a time, one seagull's call after another.

The doors parted with the same, loud announcement of their entry in the creak of the hinges, and Emeros kept his head high as he walked the length of the chamber, General Tullius and Legate Rikke already engaged in some sort of disagreement over the shining pins stuck deep into an old map. Still, Tullius took his bent posture with his large hands firmly against the table, studying its every fleck of ink, every trailing of pathways and roads and borders. As he approached, Emeros got a look at the layout, the wooden pegs shifted since the last time the trio had been in this room. Some of the shifted pegs were a bright blue, and closer to the red pegs than it seemed the General liked. Legate Rikke stood near Tullius with furrowed brow, her hair catching the light, concern plain on her face. She pressed a finger against a section of the map and said something to the General, who waved a hand as though dismissing her suggestion. When Emeros cleared his throat, she looked up, surprise overtaking her features for one vital moment before settling into a small grin, the calm approval, the sturdy folding of her arms over her chest. "Welcome back. You lived." "Your fort is cleared. If you would like it to remain that way, then I would suggest sending troops there at once," Emeros stated, the stern edge to his voice accentuated by the way he appeared to be peering downward at the General's bent posture, the Legate's short and broad stature. If one were to see through the tall Bosmer's eyes for a moment, they would find he was instead staring at the corner of the table.

"Excellent," Legate Rikke motioned for a couple of nearby soldiers, speaking to them quickly, the shuffle of their feet out the door catching against the air. She prodded the tip of her tongue to the inside of her cheek, thoughts scuffling about behind her blade-sharp eyes. "You know, I'm impressed." "That's very well and good, but as previously discussed, we're here to acquire an Imperial pardon, nothing more." Emeros maintained the calm in his voice, but his patience waned thin. He understood which gears turned in her head, the same damned urge to bring them into the fold of the Legion she'd joined more than thirty years ago. Loyalty to the Empire had solidified like the cement which bound cobblestones into perfectly smoothed paths in the Imperial City, and Emeros would make it clear he shared no such loyalty. They had done all of this to save themselves from the possibility of another false imprisonment. Fort Hraagstad had been nothing more than a means to an end. He watched the Legate bite the inside of her cheek, running a hand over her head. Perhaps she was thinking of something else now. She shifted her stocky frame to face the table fully, her hands plucking another red pin and sticking it into the map, marking something important, the very piece of debate which had left she and Tullius unaware of the trio's presences until he'd made a sound. Tullius rose at last, straightening his posture. As he turned, Emeros noted the weariness in his eyes. A man visibly running on less sleep than normal, especially clutching dozens of lives in his hands and bearing even more on his shoulders, is a very volatile thing. The Bosmer swallowed down his questions, instead opting for the arching of a brow as the General took stock of the three, his focus squarely landing on Athenath's new sword for a moment. Accepting the strange, glowing thing sheathed at the bard's side, he turned again to Emeros. "You know, I've sent troops to that fort before." He shifted his weight side to side, one foot, then the other, his bulky arms folded over his barrel chest. Perhaps the Empire had sent him to handle the Civil War for his intimidating appearance, or perhaps it was an isolated post used to give disgraced soldiers another chance. In either case, he spoke again, "do you want to know what happened to them, mister Nightlock?" A pause as if awaiting an answer that refused to come. "They would come back wounded. Some, not at all. But you three strangers took it for the Legion. And not a scratch on you that I can tell."

"Riveting," Emeros droned. "And what does this have to do with our pardon?" "Don't you get it?" Tullius pushed. "You survived Helgen, took Fort Hraagstad, and killed a dragon in Whiterun! Stories get around, mister Nightlock, we know about the Western Watchtower and what you three did there." He gestured a hand to the map behind him, Rikke taking her chance to go, already following some other soldiers out of the antechamber. In a lower tone, the General continued. "This war is taking its toll. We're hardly a year into it, and yet it's taken many of our men. The Empire is straining its resources, and Skyrim and all its people are suffering for it. Anyone who can turn the tides against Ulfric and win this Civil War will be-" "A hero." Emeros' patience threatened to snap. The words caught at his incisors. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I'm well aware of the rewards of heroism. A nice home in the Cyrodiilic countryside may appeal to you, General, but we've no time for such fantasies. Should we continue to traverse the Empire-controlled portions of Skyrim, we run the risk of being captured by your Legion as criminals for, need I remind you, a case of mistaken identity. I understand your desperation, really, I do, but I do not intend to drag myself nor my compatriots into such conflicts." The room dropped into a cold silence. Eye-to-eye, Emeros and Tullius stared one another down, the Bosmer's jaw grit tight, nostrils flaring. The door to Castle Dour parted, Legate Rikke on her way to lead a garrison to the now-empty fortress, Emeros figured. Athenath stood back with Wyndrelis, both of them having decided long ago that it was best that the alchemist handle this situation. The General flicked his gaze to them, then inched it from one face to another, from Emeros, to Wyndrelis, to Athenath, before giving an audible sigh and pressing the crook of his thumb to his forehead, massaging the stress-lined skin.

"Very well. You may have your pardon," he reached for a letter, the ink dry, already written and signed for the three elves, "but you'll need to take it by the Blue Palace yourselves." Emeros narrowed his eyes. "Why is that necessary, may I ask?" "We send word to the other Holds on our own. However, since you're already here in Solitude, you get to do the leg work yourselves. Take it by the Blue Palace and give it to the scribe, Phoebe. She'll officiate it." The General passed the paper gingerly to Emeros, the stamp of the Empire glaring back at the elf as he clutched it tight, unfolding it, scanning the writing rapidly. "I'm sure that you'll find it's all in order." "Yes, I'm sure," Emeros replied sourly, not looking up once from the paper. He read and re-read the words over and over, let them settle into the pit in his stomach, by the orders of General Tullius, Military Governer of Skyrim… After one final read-through, Emeros looked up and gave a curt nod. "Thank you for your time, General Tullius. Best of luck." He folded the letter along its preexisting creases, turning on his heel. The sound of his boots echoed through the chamber, the other two Mer exchanging a look of mild confusion before they followed suit, Athenath giving the General an awkward half-wave as they walked behind Emeros, eagerness in every step the three took. Whether this meant the end of their troubles or the beginning of new ones was a mystery, obsfuscated by the mid-morning sun and the glint of metal as soldiers trained for battle in the courtyard. Emeros clutched the letter tightly in a talon-like grasp, and prayed through the poundings of a stress headache to gods he strained to believe in that this would be over.

[preservationofnormalcy]

Hah! I just found this transcript from the archives. This was all declassified for the extranormal community in the 90s after some Radiant Heart deacons showed up on a wizard talk show before we could stop it.

The following document was assembled from an audio recording and agent recollections during an operation that took place January 2nd, 1950, wherein Agents Saxon and De Boer attended a “revival” religious meeting held by Extranormal Beliefs Group “First National Church of the Radiant Heart” in the guise of reporters from the local newspaper. Elizabeth De Boer is an accomplished psychic medium in Office employ, and Saxon is employed as Security.

===============

[The revival meeting takes place in a large tent, such as that used for a circus. A few hundred people or more are assembled inside. Benches are arranged in three “wings” surrounding a central stage. It was noted after the fact that this resembles the “trefoil”.]

[De Boer] Is it on?

[Saxon] Yes, ma’am.

[Background noise and chatter from the assembled congregants.]

[D] What do you think so far, Saxon?

[S] They put me in mind of my cousins.

[D] Why?

[S] I’m from the hills, ma’am. ‘Round Tennessee way. My family’s church are all snake handlers.

[D] And how do you feel about them?

[S] Pity, mostly.

[D] Because they’re religious?

[S] On account of my uncle dying from the snakebite, ma’am.

[D] Mmm.

[S] Speaking of, how’s the Geiger?

[D] We won’t keel over tomorrow, if that’s what you’re asking. 

[S] But it’s still going off, ma’am?

[D] Chambers said the ███████ would protect us.

[S] Not that I distrust Miss Chambers, ma’am, but a man gets a little nervous when he sees a Geiger counter spinning.

[A rising noise from the crowd quiets them. Clapping and singing commence as Pastor Mayweather himself rises onto the stage, waving, smiling, and grabbing an offered microphone.]

[Mayweather] Thank you, Brother Mark. Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, you know why we’re here tonight. Don’t we?

[The crowd murmurs agreement.]

[M] We are here in communion, ladies and gentlemen, we are here to give HONOR to the one that unites us, gives us life and POWER, and BRINGS us together both here and in the next life, can I get an amen?

[A chorus of ‘amens’ rises from the crowd. Mayweather continues to speak as he paces back and forth across the stage.]

[S] He’s navigating the stage real well. I thought he was supposed to be blind?

[D] They said he doesn’t have eyes. In our line of work, I wouldn’t assume those mean the same thing. Besides, he’s probably faked it.

[M] --and you are HERE, ladies and gentlemen, to witness a miracle. Am I right? I got to speak about something here folks, let me speak before we bring on our new friend. Do you feel it, folks?

[Shouts of agreement.]

[M] Oh I feel it too. That glow, that warmth. Can you feel it, soaking your body, wrapping your very DNA in radiant love, rebuilding you? Of course you can, family. Of course you can. Brother Mark, can you-- yes, thank you Brother Mark. Folks, this is Emily. 

[A young girl is wheeled onto the stage in a wheelchair. She is shy, but looking up at Mayweather with awe.]

[M] Young Emily here had polio. She has been blighted by that dreadful disease and can no longer walk. Isn’t that right? [E] Yes, Pastor.

[M] Emily, are you here to accept the blessing of our saviour, our light, our POWER and warmth, the Split Atom? 

[E] (tearing up) Yes, Pastor.

[Mayweather puts his hand on her forehead and leans down toward her.]

[M] Sister Emily, will you place your faith in the Glow, the holy radiation, and be PURIFIED by ions, down to the subatomic level, Miss Emily--

[E] Yes, Pastor!

[The lights in the tent flicker and a low hum fills the area. The counter on the silent Geiger counter in De Boer’s longcoat rises.]

[S] What’s he doing….

[M] Sister Emily, by the POWER and AUTHORITY invested in me, we will REMAKE you. We will split one atom, one holy exercise in unlocking the secrets of the universe and we WILL burn away this damage, we WILL heal your damaged nerves--

[The crowd’s cheering rises to a fever pitch. The lights flicker faster and a green glow emanates from Mayweather’s hand. He continues his invocation, and many in the crowd join him, chanting, cheering, reciting scripture.]

[M] BE HEALED, Sister Emily, be HEALED!

[There is silence, and then a crackling energy. Briefly, green light can be seen behind Mayweather’s sunglasses. As the lights come back up, Mayweather holds out his hand.]

[M] Sister Emily, will you rise in the name of the Glow?

[After some hesitation, Emily pulls herself out of her chair. To her amazement, she can stand shakily on her feet. The crowd erupts in cheers and praises.]

[S] Wow. That’s--

[D] Chicanery. Hogwash. 

[S] The girl seemed--

[D] A plant. An actor. Flicker the lights, flash a green flashlight onto the speaker. It’s a show to sell their radiation quackery.

[Mayweather dabs his forehead with a handkerchief as Emily is led off the stage.]

[M] Isn’t that a miracle, ladies and gentlemen. Isn’t that wonderful. We know where our power comes from, don’t we? From the Radiance, from the Great Ionization. Folks, we have another thing to show. Brother Gregory, fetch the- thank you, Brother Gregory.

[A deacon brings a Geiger counter and sets it on the stage on a table. Mayweather stands behind the table, his hand over the counter.]

[M] Ladies and gentlemen….ladies and gentlemen, we are GATHERED here tonight in the name of the Split Atom, I said in the NAME of the SPLIT ATOM to call up the spirit of Sister Josie, isn't that right? Yes family, Sister Josie passed on into the Glow two months ago but her holy atomic soul has lingered to GUIDE us into the holy Glow ourselves. 

[He raises his hand, palm outward, and the crowd goes silent. Saxon notes that De Boer leans forward to watch.]

[M] Sister Josie….are you here? Are you here with us?

[The Geiger counter is silent for a moment, then crackles to life. De Boer clutches her forehead.]

[S] Ma’am? Do we--are you okay?

[D] Yes, yes, just. Keep the recording going, Saxon.

[M] Sister Josie, is that you? Two clicks for yes, one for no.

[The Geiger squeals twice, and Mayweather smiles. The crowd gasps and murmurs.]

[M] Ain’t that something, folks? Ain’t that something? Sister Josie, can you bless us tonight? Bless us with your Radiance? 

[The counter goes haywire, squealing and clicking loudly. De Boer leans on one of the bleachers for support, gritting her teeth.]

[M] Can you feel her, folks? Can you FEEL her ionized spirit coursing through each and every one of us gathered here?

[D] We need to go. I need to leave.

[S] Yes, uh. Alright, ma’am, let’s--

[The sound of the crowd dies down as they leave the tent.]

[S] ….what, uh. Did you hear something?

[D] Yes, I….hold on.

[De Boer takes a moment to compose herself.]

[D] Screaming. 

[S] What?

[D] It was just screaming. Just….screaming. Turn the recording off. We need to get the ERTF involved.

[stra-tek]

Lower Decks' cheesy museum exhibit Voyager was pretty much as I imagined the Starfleet Museum years ago when I wrote my forever-in-progress I Survived Kirk

There are multiple Fleet museums, one in San Francisco, one around Pluto, another at Memory Alpha, one at Copernicus, one at Andor etc.  We walked the San Francisco one.  I got to visit Enterprise NX-01, which had been equipped with little plaques everywhere giving backstory to everything from the mess to the warp reactor to what the Captain liked to watch in his quarters.  The plaques all had buttons which played various Captain’s Log excerpts.  The staff wore period-appropriate Starfleet uniforms (navy blue boiler suits with Enterprise patches on the shoulders), which I questioned the legality of since they’re not Starfleet officers.  I was told it was okay because they were period costumes, not actual uniforms.

I’d buddied up with Morgan Bateson.  I really liked his sense of humour.  And neither of us knew our fathers, although Morgan was pretty convinced he’d meet his in space one day, perhaps as head of some evil empire or other.  Oddly specific and statistically impossible, but weirder shit would happen in my time in Starfleet.

We visited the engine nacelle the crew hid in during an ion storm, the mess hall where they ate sandwiches and watched a movie every Friday night. The Captain’s Quarters where Admiral Archer probably masturbated a thousand times, a section of corridor where the chief engineer died in what they called a heroic act of self sacrifice but read more like a suicide, the sickbay where the captain’s dog was treated when it contracted an alien disease (and upon the underside of one of the cabinets, someone had crudely engraved “BR+DS 4EVA” which I doubt was part of the recreation), and the decon chamber.

Oh god, the deacon chamber.  Before transporters had biofilters (which screen out potentially harmful stuff and prevent us from bringing back deadly diseases), the crew had to strip down in a room and rub antibacterial lotion (which smelled like a mint julep, there was a sample for us all to sniff) all over themselves and/or each other’s bodies.  Sounds nice and wholesome and definitely didn’t fuel my sexual fantasies for the rest of my academy tenure and adult life.

Engineering had the second most little plaques with buttons after the bridge.  Most of them were about the warp five engine and how revolutionary and amazing it supposedly was.  Of mild interest was a video clip of an old Zefram Cochrane made shortly before his disappearance, where he said what became the Captain’s Oath.

The bridge was spammed with plaques and buttons, which played countless audio clips of the crew doing crew-y stuff.  The communications officer speaking Klingon slowly and awkwardly, the helmsman had exactly one soundbyte: “aye, sir” (seriously, couldn’t they get anything better for that guy?) and the Captain saying heroic-sounding things which sounded weird out of context.  The captain’s chair was actually missing, being repaired after a member of the public broke it.  Instead there was just the mounting pole sticking up in the middle of the room, which we all made obscene comments about sitting on.

The Captain had a tiny ready room just off the bridge, which had a century-old game of water polo playing on loop on a TV, a desk, a stack of music minidisks and not much else besides lots more buttons and soundbytes. There was a single cargo transporter nestled halfway along a corridor.  The crew used it to beam themselves to and from alien ships and worlds believing it to be safe, but it really wasn’t and many of them suffered sterility and health issues in later life.

It was a fun little excursion.  I didn’t learn much more than I’d already absorbed as a kid growing up, but actually being on the iconic vessel-turned-tourist-trap made it all seem real.

[cljordan-imperium]

HEADS-UP 7 UP

I was tagged by @autumnalwalker

I'm tagging - @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @saltysupercomputer @athena-anna-rose

I gave the last line I wrote on another game, so I am going to to give you the last 7 para of the one I'm doing 1st rewrite on

As soon as the powerful Angel stepped out, Yael felt like she’d been hit in the chest.  Panic filled her.  All rational thought fled her mind and everything within her told her to flee.  The last time she had been in the presence of a pure Angel with that amount of power had been Gabriel.  While she knew that the Divine was in Imperium and that a warrant was out for Gabriel’s capture, it did not register within her thoughts at that moment. 

Before Deacon or Leandre could react, Yael had pushed back from the table so hard and fast that her chair toppled over and slammed to the ground with a thud that resounded off the walls and caught everyone’s attention.  In a blind panic she headed for the door that they’d all come through, almost stumbling over her feet.  Her vision was blurred by tears and she was hyperventilating.  Away, she just had to get away.  Safe, she had to find somewhere safe.  Hide, she just had to hide.

Both Leandre and Deacon had been caught off guard by Yael’s response, and from the look on Brie’s face when Leandre’s met hers for a split second, she had not anticipated it either.  What about her father had caused it would have to be later determined, but Lee had to contain it before Yael hurt herself.  He was the next on his feet and caught her before she’d made it past the third person.  Banding his arms around her, he stopped her forward momentum and brought her flush against him.  Then he mysted them from the room and to his own chambers in the new wing of the palace.  It was the first place he thought of and in the muted hughes and quiet there, he hoped it would calm her. Taking them both to their knees, but not releasing his hold, he brought his lips close to her ear so he did not have to speak loud or harshly for her to hear him.  “You are safe.  Calm down, Yael.  No one is going to hurt you.  I have you.  You are safe.”  He just kept repeating those words and holding her as she wept and fought against him, even as her panic was waning.  They’d return later, but for now, this is where they would stay.

The response of the males to his announcement and entrance he had anticipated.  The reaction of the small female, that he had not anticipated.  It had brought him to a stop and he looked to his daughter on how to proceed once Leandre had taken her elsewhere to calm her and Deacon had righted her chair.  “I did not mean to upset your friend, sweetheart.”

Imperium Chronicles Tag - @writingpotato07, @late-to-the-fandom, @careful-pyromancer

[fallout4reactsblog]

could probably use some lighter courser ask storm prompts after all those whumpy angsty sounding ones, hmm. companions react to sole builds a raider cage but decides to see what happens if they bait it with fancylads, discovering later that it consistently traps coursers. each companion's personal part has them open it to find a different random courser inside, including named ones like x6, z2, & chase (who has some explaining to do). the jarring ooc surreality of the situation is amusing.

Ada: “You seem to be stuck.”

The courser inside glanced up at the sound of her voice, box of snack cakes in hand, and slowly nodded. “I didn’t realize it was trapped.”

“Usually this is baited with chems in order to trap raiders,” she said, beginning to fiddle with the release mechanism. “I am unsure why it is baited with cakes this time, but I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Don’t worry, you’ll be out shortly.”

“Thanks,” they said, slowly getting to their feet.

“Here, another box for your troubles,” she said, pulling one out of her bag. “Though I don’t believe I caught your name.”

They took it with a nod. “I’m X4-18. Nice to meet you.”

“I am Ada. My apologies for the inconvenience.”

“No problem,” X4 said. “Thanks for getting me out.”

In a flash of light, they were gone.

Cait: A rattle from inside the raider cage gave her pause on her way back home. She almost didn’t stop, the raider cage was sole’s problem after all, but what the hell. She was a little on edge today, and maybe beating the shit out of some unsuspecting soul would do the trick.

“Hi there!” A voice said from inside.

That gave her pause, but she went on fiddling with the lock. These things were usually baited with drugs after all. Wouldn’t be the first cheerful raider to come out.

The door swung open to reveal a blond courser, grinning ear to ear.

“I seem to have found myself in a bit of a predicament,” he said, sticking out a hand. “X7-22, nice to meet you. Don’t suppose you’re willing to help me out?”

A courser? Hell no. Slowly, she shook her head and started closing the door again.

“Hey! Wait a second, I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement.” He shifted to stay visible through the gap in the slowly closing door. “There’s gotta be something I can offer you. Money? Supplies? Anything? Come on, talk to me-”

With a click, the lock re-engaged. She dusted off her hands.

Coursers in the raider trap. Now that was a problem for sole.

Codsworth: “Oh, dear.”

He slowly hovered around the cage. The courser watched him with wary, predatory eyes. Codsworth made a noise akin to a sigh.

“They never learn.”

The courser opened their mouth to protest, but he waved his saw arm through the air, cutting them off. “Sole simply refuses to listen! I told them nothing good would come of this, and now look where we are. A courser is stuck in the raider cage. No good!”

He poked at the lock, still griping. “The raiders I could understand. No-good hooligans need to be disposed of. But this is madness. What is there to gain?”

The courser had shrunk back into the cage, presumably having realized that this lock was not built to be opened by a Mr. Handy, and they were going to be stuck listening to what he had to say for a while.

At least there was snacks.

Curie: “Pardon me.”

An unfamiliar voice made Curie jump, and she spun to see a man with slicked-back brown hair staring at her from the raider cage. She stiffened and turned back around.

“Ah, c’mon,” he said. “Don’t ignore me. I’m harmless.”

“I have no interest in speaking to such an unsavory character as yourself.”

“Not even a little sympathy for a fellow synth?”

She glanced back behind her, eyeing the man in the cage. He gave her a slick smile.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Z2-47″

She frowned a little, gears turning. So he was a synth, and a courser at that. And by all accounts, she was a synth that needed to be brought back to the Institute.

...Hadn’t sole said something about needing to kill a courser?

She took one last look at him, still looking every bit like the cat that ate the canary, and put on her best smile. “Oh, but of course I will help you. I simply must find the person with the key. If you will wait but a moment, I will bring them.”

Not waiting for a reply, she went off in search for sole.

Danse: The trap’s mechanism was very simple. The cage was built so that you had to step inside to get the bait, then the weight triggered the door to close and lock behind you. Sole had built it to trap raiders in, usually baiting it with chems, though he couldn’t say how many times they’d sent him to go get Hancock out of there. That ghoul never learned.

Today, though, it was him eyeing the cage from across the street. Yesterday, he’d seen sole baiting it with no less than three full boxes of Fancylads Snack Cakes they’d pulled out of an old vault. That meant they were in pristine condition, untouched by the taste of radiation. He’d been too shy to ask them for one of the boxes, and now seemed to be his chance. He just had to get them out of there.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he approached the trap, bracing one foot against the small step up into the cage and curling his right hand around the doorframe. If he leaned in, he should be able to...

Evidently, lose his balance and fall in.

With an unceremonious crash, he toppled to the floor, door slamming shut behind him. For a brief moment, he stared around at his surroundings, truly confused on how this had happened.

At least he hadn’t landed on the snack cakes. Might as well make the best of a bad situation, right?

Deacon: “Well this is awkward.”

Chase glared up at his mischievous grin as he asked, “So, how’s the weather in there?”

“Exactly the same as it is out there. Let me out.”

“C’mon, Chase. At least finish the snack cakes. That’s what you’re in there for, after all. Don’t tell me you ate them already.”

She glared at him in lieu of a response, and he fake gasped. “Chase, there was, like, three boxes in there!”

“Coursers burn calories very quickly.”

“Probably all that running and shooting and all.” He sighed and started to fiddle with the lock. “Well, no sense in leaving you in there. You’ve got work to do after all.”

“This stays between us. Understand?”

He laughed and said, “Sure. Between you, me, Glory, Dez, whoever they tell...”

“Oh, you’re impossible.”

Gage: The satisfaction he got from seeing a locked raider cage was like nothing else. Commonwealth raiders were stupid bastards, and if they were dumb enough to go into a very clear trap, well, they were dumb enough to die.

He chambered a round in his rifle as he swung open the door.

An Institute courser snarled and swiped at him with a very large, mean-looking knife. He narrowly dodged, shifting to dodge her second strike, and slammed the door in her face. An unholy screech of metal on metal echoed down the street, and he winced.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Coursers these days.”

The whole cage shuddered as the synth inside slammed herself against the door, shouting obscenities. He took a step back, debating whether or not he was willing to open it up again. On the one hand, there was a synth that needed killing. On the other, well, he still had one eye left, and he was keen to not lose it to a very pissed-off courser.

“Overboss!” he shouted up the street. “There’s some kind of feral thing in your cage.”

“What? Hold on, let me come look, just give me a second...”

A second was never just a second with the Overboss. He sighed and resigned himself to a very long wait.

Hancock: "Well, hey there.”

“Oh! Monsieur Hancock. What wonderful timing!”

Curie grinned up at him with a smile to light rooms, and he almost shielded his eyes against the brightness. Geez, this girl was bubbly.

“Whatcha doin’ in there, Curie? I don’t take you for the raider type, and last I checked chems weren’t your style. Mine, yes. Yours, no.”

“It is a funny story, really,” she chuckled. “I saw this box of snack cakes inside. They are in pristine condition, and one of my few vices, so for a moment I simply was blind to the fact that-”

“Snack cakes?” Sure enough, there was a mint condition box in Curie’s hand. “Holy shit, share.”

In a flash, he ripped open the door and launched himself at the second box of snack cakes. And damn, were they good. Untainted by the taste of radiation, they were perfectly balanced between sweet and sour, sponge still moist, coating still soft. Heaven in a crinkly plastic wrapper.

“Um, Hancock? Is it not rather cramped for the both of us?”

Oh, yeah. He’d landed right on top of poor, unsuspecting Curie. “My bad. I got excited.”

“Oh, no, that I do not so much mind. I simply wonder how we are going to get out now.”

Shit.

MacCready: “The way I see it, this stands to become a mutually beneficial exchange.”

Ol’ Z2 looked disgruntled, but asked, “How so do you mean?”

“I mean we could both gain something from this. I let you out of there, and you offer me something in exchange. Sounds fair, right?”

“Maybe.”

He rocked back on his heels. “So, what do you have to offer?”

Z2 frowned and dug around in a pocket. “I have some fusion cells.”

MacCready rolled his eyes. “No good. Sole’s got tons, and I don’t use a laser weapon.”

“I have a few bottlecaps.”

He squinted into the cage. “What, like, ten? Yeah, no. Not gonna cut it.”

“Well, then I’m afraid this won’t work out. Coursers travel light.”

MacCready tutted, tapping a finger against his chin. “I don’t know, that coat of yours looks pretty snazzy. Bet it’s well-armored, too, huh?”

Z2 looked almost offended. “Are you suggesting that I hand you my coat?”

“The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. You can hand me the coat and get out of there, or wait for a less sympathetic person to come along and shoot you like fish in a barrel. Your call.”

It took only a moment’s hesitation before Z2 agreed.

Nick: "...Danse?”

Former Paladin Danse’s head shot up, and for the first time probably ever, he actually looked happy to see him. “Nick?”

“What on Earth are you doing in the raider cage?” He cut him a sideways glare. “Don’t tell me you picked up a chem habit.”

Danse looked appropriately embarrassed, and held up a box of snack cakes. “No. These were the bait this time, and I rather foolishly thought I could retrieve them from the trap unharmed.”

“Isn’t the whole point of the trap that you can’t get them out without falling in?”

“Of course, and I knew that. I simply allowed my pride to get the better of me. I should have left them alone, but couldn’t resist the temptation.”

Nick just shook his head. “Well, at least you can admit it.”

“Would you mind letting me out? It has been a significant amount of time.”

“Yeah, fine.” He set about picking the lock. “I assume you’d rather keep this between us.”

“If that’s an option.”

“I guess. Wouldn’t want someone spreading it around if it was me.”

“I appreciate that.”

Old Longfellow: There was a long moment of silence. He stared into the raider cage. Reinhart stared back, still slowly chewing on a snack cake. The eye contact seemed to last forever as Longfellow tried to figure out what the actual hell Reinhart was doing.

“Did you need something?” Longfellow finally asked.

“Did you?”

“I’d like to know what you’re doin’ in there.”

“I’d like to get out of here.”

Longfellow folded his arms. “You answer me, and I’ll let you out.”

“I wanted the snack cakes,” Reinhart replied, sliding an open box across the floor. “Here. There’s still a few in there, if you want.”

“I’ll pass, you keep ‘em.”

Reinhart slowly slid the box back toward himself. There was silence again.

“So are you going to let me out, or...?”

“Right, right. Yeah. I guess I’ll go find sole, they probably have the key...”

Piper: Piper Wright looked and felt every bit like the cat that caught the canary.

“Well, well, well, look at what we have here.”

“Miss Wright-”

“For the first time, we have a courser who has embarrassed himself in media res. Incredible!”

“Piper, please-”

“X6, can I get a quote? What do you have to tell the people?”

She held out a fake microphone, which was actually a rolled up copy of the Publick. He just sighed and said, “Could you please let me out?”

“Not a chance!” she laughed. “At least, not until you tell me how you got stuck in there. I mean, c’mon X6, a raider cage? You’ve gotta be smarter than that.”

He visibly deflated. “Unfortunately, Fancylads Snack Cakes are a common vice among generation three synths.”

Piper practically crowed with delight. “Snack cakes! You’re in there for snack cakes!”

“Yes, if you could just-”

“Sole!” she shouted up the street. “You gotta come see this!”

X6 resigned himself to the fact that he’d never live this down.

Preston: The person in the raider cage was not a raider.

She glared at him through the bars. He could only stare back in shock.

“You’re a courser,” he finally managed.

“No shit.”

“How... how did you get in there?”

She hesitated just a moment before replying, “Snack cakes.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Dammit, sole. Everyone told you this was a bad idea, but you did it anyway?” To the courser, he said, “I’m sorry about this. We’ll get you out of there, promise.”

“Thanks,” the courser replied, then added, “I’m X9-96.”

“Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. Nice to meet you X9. I’m no good with locks, so I’ll need to go get the key. Will you be okay in there until I get back?”

She shrugged. “So long as no more rifle-toting raiders come by, yeah. No promises I won’t kill him if he comes back though.”

So Gage had been by. Just great. Under his breath, Preston muttered, “Be my guest.”

[shitty-fallout-art]

“Mom said you were a liar.” A pause. Shaun isn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. “Now you can’t even speak.”

Deacon holds out the gun, inviting the boy to take it.

“No.” Shaun steps back. “No, I’m not hurting anyone!” He feels like the walls are closing in at the doubtful expression on the man’s face. “I’m not her, don’t you get that?! I’m not—”

He puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He opens the chambers, gesturing for the boy to come closer, and Shaun can see there isn’t a single bullet.

“...you’re still lying,” the boy says, stunned, and Deacon grins.

(Horrorout)

👀👀👀

[ayamari-no-goshi]

A Leap in the Dark | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:  AU. Daniel "Danny" Fenton tried to distance himself from anything that could possibly tie him to magic. However, his world begins to unravel when the powerful Vlad Masters brings charges of witchcraft against him.

Warnings: rated T for violence, descriptions of death

Warnings: Witch trail interrogation and execution by hanging

Parings: none

Notes: Cross-posted to AO3 and ff.net

This entire fic was inspired by a conversation I had on Tumblr

A Leap in the Dark

The old cart creaked and rocked as it slowly moved towards its destination. With the exception of the occasional instruction to the donkeys from the wagoner, the only sounds from its passengers were whispered prayers and weeping.

Daniel (Danny to friends) Fenton closed his eyes as he waited for the inevitable. No amount of crying or pleading would save him now, and he’d come to terms with it. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Several days prior, town guards stormed his home and pulled him into the streets. He demanded an explanation only to be punched in mouth and knocked to the ground. Some of the guards grabbed him and forced him into a kneeling position as another took out a scroll.

“On behalf of his majesty, we the guards of Amity Park arrest Daniel Fenton, son of Jack Fenton, on suspicion of practicing black magic and soliciting with the devil.”

He tried to argue with them. The charges were insane. Sure, his parents liked to experiment with alchemy which often seemed like magic, but he’d done his best to keep his nose to the ground once he moved out of their home. What did he do to get someone so upset with him that they falsely accused him?

His words fell short as someone hit him in the neck.

The next thing he knew, water fell on him, jolting him awake. Glancing around, he found himself in a cell. Trying to stand, he found shackles binding his arms and legs. In front of him, a guard with an empty bucket sneered.

Soon after, he found himself brought before the hallmote. A representative of the town stood before those gathered and explained what the accusations against him were. The other villagers yelled and hissed. The representative waited until they calmed to provide the evidence which involved reports of him meeting with a dark someone in the middle of the night at the outskirts of town.

Danny jolted as he realized someone saw him meeting up with Samantha. She and her family were fairly new to the area and affluent. Her parents didn’t approve of him, and there was an issue of different religious backgrounds.

When he had a chance to speak, Danny explained just that. “I just wanted to spend time with my dear friend without worrying about the judgement of others,” he pleaded to them.

The crowd’s anger softened some. Another rose and asked if any further evidence could be provided. Hope welled within Danny. If no further false evidence existed against him, he might be able to walk away from this relatively unharmed.

The crowd shifted as they waited for someone to speak. When no one did, Danny sighed in relief. He’d be able to go home and live his life. He might have to let Samantha know they would need to move their meeting times to make it safer for both of them, but if that was the only thing he needed to do, he could live with that.

The sound of walking broke the silence. Everyone turned to see Vladimir Masters, another recent addition to the town slowly walk into the room. Danny didn’t know what to make of the man. He had more influence due to his merchant money then the local lord which caused some tensions between them. However, he’d managed to charm most of the villagers and the church with his donations and public improvements. He also seemed to have an unhealthy interest in his parents, particularly his mother.

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fair town, I bring you one final piece of evidence,” he announced as he opened his cloak to produce a large leather-bound book. He waited for the whispers to stop before he continued. “When rumors first started, I could scarcely believe the son of my two dear friends could possibly be involved in such things. So, I decided to follow him to one of his supposed meetings with the Dark One.”

Again, he paused for effect. “I watched as young Daniel meet with a strange man who appeared on a dark mist. Afraid for my life, I didn’t dare approach and instead hide behind a nearby tree. While I couldn’t hear their words, I did see the stranger hand the boy a book before disappearing back into the mist. The boy glanced through it before heading further outside of town.”

“Concerned, I followed at a safe distance. He eventually came to the hang man’s tree that grows at the crossroads and buried it before heading back to town. I waited until I believed he would no longer be able to detect my presence and dug up the book. Lo and behold, I found a tome written in a language I could not read. Images of death and sacrifice littered its pages. Horrified, I returned to town with it in my possession to report it to both the guards and the Church.”

“Are you so enraged that you can’t have my mother that you need to frame me?” Danny spat at the man. “Everyone knows the crossroads are dangerous at night. I have no desire to risk encountering the vengeful and dark spirits that make such a place a home. Besides, don’t we all know the Dark One is more likely to appear at the crossroads? Why would I go there after supposedly meeting with Him?”

Masters just gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “How is a simple man like me supposed to understand the logic of such evil? Besides, you have not denied ownership of this book.”

The rest of the crowd erupted. Even through the symphony of voices, he could tell many of them cursed and condemned him. His heart sang as the shouts grew louder. Everyone knew the if the crowd believed your guilt, your fate was sealed. He would be handed over to the Church. If he was lucky, their interrogation techniques would kill him before he would be hanged.

After the official ruling was given, officials from the church entered and took him. The last thing he saw before being knocked unconscious was Masters’ smug expression.

He came to in another cell. Sore and aching, he took stock of himself. Well, as best as he could due to the chains. He didn’t seem to be injured which the exception of a few bruises. The pain appeared to be from resting in the uncomfortable position. Shifting, he tried to find a position slightly more comfortable and warmer while he waited for his fate.

An unclear amount of time later, a couple guards came to retrieve him. They removed him from the chains in the cell and placed more compact shackles on his wrists. Once they were certain he wouldn’t be able to fight back, they led him to a different chamber.

He figured he’d see the vicar and maybe a deacon. Instead, Vlad Masters and some men dressed entirely in black greeted him. “I don’t… I don’t understand…” he stammered.

Masters clapped his hands. “My dear boy, I don’t expect you to, but I should explain, seeing as you are my most recent guest.” He closed the distanced between them after a few strides and began circling him as if he was a predator. “I’m one of those tasked with seeking out who have made unsavory deals with the Dark One.”

An icy chill raised through Danny’s chest. “Are you telling me you’re one of those moon touched under that Hopkins guy?” While Amity Park wasn’t part of any of the large cities, the stories of the sudden upsurge in witch hunts had reached them. Hopkins was the most prolific of the hunters.

“We have crossed paths on occasion,” Masters responded as he continued to circle. “However, we disagree on some methods and share little more than a profession. While Hopkins believes those he prosecutes are truly evil, I do things a little differently.” He closed the gap between them so he could whisper, “You see, I believe people need to fear evil, and to do so, I need to remind them of its existence, whether it exists in that location or not.” For a moment, Danny could have sworn the man’s features warped into something inhuman and evil.

Danny swore as the man moved away. “You… you monster! How many innocent lives have you destroyed?”

Masters just chuckled. “Not enough. My friends, could you please silence the boy? We need to begin our interrogation.”

The men in black quickly gagged him before ripping off his clothes. They gasped and muttered darkly when they spotted the large birthmark on his chest. When they found no other mark of interest, they poke and prodded the mark. They started lightly before beginning to scratch and jab. Eventually, they brought out a small knife and drew his blood.

“He bleeds,” the one muttered. “Surely this is no brand.”

“Perhaps it is an illusion, or his brand is one of those normally unseen,” another replied.

The first one nodded. “If that is case, then we must locate it.” He then made a series of cuts on Danny’s arm. “No evidence here. Please try his back.”

They continued this investigation for some time. Slices were made up and down his arms, his chest and back, legs, and even his face. All of them bled. All of them hurt. Displeased they could find no sorcery mark, they ordered the guards to take him back to the cell.

The cool stone of the dark cell gave him some relief from the stinging cuts. If any one of them refused to heal cleanly, it could mean the death of him. One of his uncles died from a cut that refused to heal, and it was not one he would like to repeat.

After that, the attempts to get some form of acknowledgement or confession from him worsened. The beat him with their firsts and with whips. They burned him with hot iron. They even tried to throw him in the nearby river, but someone interrupted that one. While it wasn’t much, he silently thanked the unknown stranger for the act of kindness.

While he never confessed to any of the false accusations, he did openly curse Masters. That apparently was enough for him and his cronies. The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the Hallmote again with Masters announcing his confirmed guilt. As a result, he was sentenced to hang.

Danny spent the next few days in the prison’s cell. In a different cell across the hall, a few more condemned prisoners also awaited their fates. He heard they would meet their ends on the same day he would. One of the others tried talking to him, but he decided not to respond. Whatever the man did to deserve his fate, he didn’t need a chance to make it worse by speaking with someone accused of magic.

When the day finally came, the guards came to retrieve them. After their hands were bound behind them, they were led to the wagon to be transported to the location of the gallows.

While some of the other men prayed and wept, he just stared at the sigh. He’d made peace with his awful fate. As much as he wanted to blame the Lord, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He learned at a young age that while the Lord could work miracles, He couldn’t always interfere with the evil acts of men. At least he knew he’d be welcomed in Paradise.

Once the wagon reached its destination, Danny allowed himself to glance at the crowd. Many of them were celebrating the day. He almost forgot how an execution could excite the townsfolk. Some were even taking bets on how long he and the others would last.

They were marched into a line underneath the scaffold. After the nooses were placed, the executioners gave the other men the chance to say their final words first. Then came Danny’s turn.

He glanced around in hopes someone might be brave enough to save him. No one stepped forward. Instead, most of the faces visible to him appeared to laugh and jeer. Except one, he spotted Sam who appeared to be weeping.

“I hope that you who falsely condemned me are haunted by your choices,” he stated while trying to keep his voice as even as possible. I know what awaits me on the other side, but can you say the same?” The crowd shouted obscenities at him as his words came to a close, but he didn’t care, not anymore.

With him being the last to speak, the executioner and his assistants began the process of covering his head with the characteristic hood and kicking the supports out from under their feet. Even though he was prepared for death, he didn’t want to die. His weight forced the rope to press harder against his neck, making it harder and harder to breathe. He struggled to free his hands in hopes he might be able to save himself, but with each passing moment, he seemed to be drain of more and more of his strength.

His last conscious memory was to hope Sam wouldn’t be targeted for her show of tears.

... … …

Consciousness came back to him slowly. Feeling groggy and stiff, he slowly sat up. As dirt fell away from his body, he realized night had already fallen. Why had he fallen asleep outside? Had he been stargazing again? After the first time, he decided to use his roof for that purpose as it was safer than sleeping outside the village.

“Danny?”

He jolted at the soft voice. Turning, he found Sam kneeling a couple feet away with her friend and servant, Tucker, standing behind her with a lantern that had an unusual intensity. Both of them watched him carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed they were apprehensive of him.

“Thanks for waking me up,” he told them cheerfully as he stood and brushed some of the dirt off him. His voice didn’t convey his feelings though as it sounded gravely even to him. He must have slept much longer than he originally figured.

Frowning as he realized his feet were buried in the dirt, he glanced behind him to find what appeared to be a shallow grave. Disturbed soil with an arm of an unnatural bluish color sticking out of it could be found only a few feet away. He’d been buried.

“Danny?” Sam called out again as she slowly stood and approached him. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up?”

As he thought about the odd question, flashes of his interrogation and the gallows came to the forefront of his mind. Scared at the implications, he rubbed his throat. The skin felt rough as if it had been injured and pain blossomed at his touch. He had been hanged. Falling to his knees, he thanked the Lord for a chance at a second chance at life.

Standing again once he finished, he glanced at his friend. “I’m glad you came when you did. I don’t know what I’d do if I woke up alone out here. Let’s get you home before something bad happens. Only one of us needs to be accused of practicing magic.” He gestured to the lantern. “You didn’t need to break out the good candles just for me. Actually, they might be too bright if we want to sneak back into town.”

Tucker glanced at Sam, who bit her lip. “Danny, they just seem bright to you. The candle in there is the dimmest I could find. We could barely see where we were going while getting here.”

She wouldn’t look directly at him. Instead, she kept her gaze lowered which was unusual for her. That by itself clued him in something was wrong.

“Sam, look at me. What’s going on? You’re not telling me something.”

“My lady, err… I mean Sam,” Tucker floundered as she turned to stare at him. Even though her parents bought him to be her personal servant, Sam refused to have him call her by an honorific. She wanted him to consider her his friend first and foremost. “Should I bring out that mirror?”

“That might be best,” she agreed as he hesitantly handed her the lantern while he dug through the sack attached to his belt. When he finished, he brought out a black stone and traded the lantern back for it.

“I thought that was supposed to be a mirror,” Danny joked as Sam took a moment to polish it.

“It is… It’s just a special type of mirror. Difficult to come across.” She held it up to him. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

Not sure what to expect, Danny stepped forward until he could see his reflection in the stone. However, whatever person it reflected, it certainly wasn’t him. The stone showed a creature with hair of moonlight and eyes of an unearthly green. Its skin reflected as the bluish pallor of death. Dark bruises were visible around the neck.

Cursing, he stumbled away. Grabbing at his hair, he found stuffs of whitish silver. The skin of his hands matched the color of the creature’s skin. “What happened? What did you do to me?”

“I was trying to summon your soul.”

“I get accused and executed for witchcraft, and you turn around and preform it?” Danny gave a hollow laugh. “Was my death not enough of a warning? And what did you plan to do once you summoned me?”

“I wanted to take down Masters, okay?” she snapped at him. Her gaze fell when they locked eyes. “Not all magic is evil. I just wanted to see if there was anything you could provided to help me make sure he didn’t take any more victims before your soul became beyond reach, but something went wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I did something wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” Tucker scolded as he placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “The crossroads hold strange powers as its one of those places where mortal and immortal can meet.”

Danny gulped at the implication. He forgot criminals tended to be buried at the crossroads. And even though he wasn’t as superstitious as some, he knew such places could be very dangerous. “So… what did the combination of this good magic and the crossroads do to me?”

“That’s something I don’t really know. It seems to have reanimated you, but you are clearly not as you were.” She fell to her knees as tears began to roll down her cheeks. The Sam Manson crying! Sam never cried.

Hesitantly, he crouched down in front of her and used his fingers to lift her chin. Her skin felt so warm to the touch. “While I can’t say I’m comfortable with what happened, I can say it’s not your fault. You had no idea this would be the outcome. You’re also right about Masters… There’s something wrong with him. During the interrogation, I could have sworn I saw the shadow of evil on him.”

Instead of responding, she lurched forward to embrace him. Not sure what else to do, he rubbed her back in a soothing manner.

“Sam, you’re going to get dirty. Neither of us will want to risk the wrath of your parents.” Tucker spoke softly as he tried to gently pull her off of Danny.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she buried her head deeper into Danny’s chest. Not sure what to make of it, Danny shared a look with Tucker. Eventually, she stated, “I can hear your heart beating. Danny, I can hear your heart! You’re alive.” She looked up and gave him the biggest and purest smile he’d even seen.

“But how? How is that possible? I couldn’t have survived the gallows, and my appearance is of some specter… What the?” As he spoke, a blinding light washed over him. As his eyes adjusted, everything seemed much darker. If it wasn’t for the faint light of the lantern and the visible sliver of the moon, he doubted he would have been able to see anything. Wait, he’d been able to see just fine moments ago.

“Tucker, the lantern!”

Seconds later, the lantern appeared within inches of his face. “Whoa! Watch it! Those metal ones hurt when they hit you.”

“Danny,” Sam’s smile somehow grew wider, “you look like you again! “

“Is that why I suddenly can’t see?” When she rolled her eyes, he quickly added, “I mean, that’s wonderful!”

“I doubt it’s that simple,” Tucker noted as he watched the two of them stand. “You touched death, and that always leaves a lasting mark.”

Sam brushed the dirt off her skirt before she began to walk. “That’s true, but for now, we should return to town. We can figure out what happened to Danny as we work on destroying Masters. He can stay at my place for now. It’s big enough we should be able to hide you for a few days.”

Danny acknowledged that would work for now. Even though he didn’t want to put either Sam or Tucker at risk, it would be easier to discuss the future once they rested.

Perhaps he could even stagger back into town in a day or two just to see how the townsfolk would react. Maybe they would consider his return to life as the will of God. Or, if he could take the form of that creature again, perhaps they’d consider him a vengeful wraith. The latter made him smile. Oh, Masters didn’t know what type of revenge he unleashed.

End of story notes. There are a lot:

Firstly, if anyone would like to expand upon this idea, please feel free. I have no desire to extend this. The plot bunny, now that it’s fulfilled its goal, has run off.

Now for the historical notes.

The hallmote is a court held in a Justice’s hall. In medieval England, this is the lord’s manorial court. For the lord, this primarily functioned for fees and land ownership. However, when it came to issues regarding laws, the villagers acted as prosecutor, legal authority, witnesses, and judge. The lord of the area rarely had anything to do with legal issues.

I know that when it comes to magic, usually that fell under the church’s domain, but I wanted to mention a trial first before he was handed over to them as the accusations against Danny were fabricated.

Moon touched is being used as a euphemism for being crazy.

Vicar is a term primarily used in the Anglican church for parson/minister.

Also, witch hunts and trails did still happen in the 1600s in England – they peaked again in the 1640s and the 1650s due to the English Civil War and the rise of the Puritans.

I did review the interrogation techniques of this time period. While they existed beforehand, the specific ones I mentioned were championed by a man named Matthew Hopkins, who flourished as a witch hunger during the English Civil War. He and his colleagues are believed to be responsible for 20% of the total people persecuted for witchcraft in England between the 15th and 18th centuries. His book is also considered a contributing factor in how the trials in Salem, Mass. played out.

The accused often had their bodies searched for marks which were said to be proof of their pact with the Devil. This was often a birth mark, mole, or other skin manifestation. The area was believed to be unable to bleed or feel sensation.

Hanging. The gallows with trapdoors (drops) weren’t invented until the 1760s. So, Danny is experienced it the old-fashioned way where they put the noose on and cover the head with a hood. Depending on the gallows, the condemned might stand on stools or be on the wagon at first. Then those were removed. Unlike modern hangings which were designed to break the neck upon the sharp drop, the original version had people die by suffocation. Most loose consciousness within 5-10 minutes and death occurs soon after. The title actually is a saying believed to have derived from being hung.

There are some instances where people simply lost consciousness and revived at a later time after they were cut down. Some considered that a pardon from God. Others thought the person made a deal with evil.

Executed criminals were traditionally buried at crossroads. Normally, they couldn’t be buried in a church graveyard, and there were concerns the dead could come back to haunt the town. Being buried at a crossroads helped confuse angry spirits.

Crossroads were considered liminal places where one could meet all manner of supernatural creatures. Some traditions state it’s the best place to contact the dead or conduct spells.

Sam is still Jewish (although secretly since this is the 1640s) in this fic. There are old Jewish spells, which fall under a specific type of mysticism, that call allow one to call forth the dead to ask a question. This is what she was trying to do.

[madlori]

Unveiled - Chapter 1

Unveiled, Chapter 1

by MadLori Word Count: 3300 Fandom: Men’s Hockey RPF Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Rating: NC-17 (like, heed this, please) Tags: Arranged Marriage, Modern Royalty AU, Mpreg, Not Omegaverse, No Consent Issues, Veiled Sex, Weird Traditions, Don’t Think Too Hard, Handwavey Biology

Read this on AO3

[there will not usually be this many notes, it’s chapter 1]

Biology note: This is mpreg but NOT omegaverse. All genders have both reproductive systems, meaning anybody of any gender can get anyone else pregnant. Men and women exist, but gender presentation is a result of how things are arranged/presented. I'm not super into getting into a ton of details about this. Handwave, handwave.

Note about language: I made the conscious choice not to render anyone's dialogue in a particular accent or dialect, as I felt that in this setting it would be a distraction. We're gonna go with "everyone in the story is fluent in whatever language you'd like them to be speaking."

Note to my existing readers: This is my first story in this fandom. If you have followed me here from Sherlock or another fandom, please take note of the tags - this is unlike anything I've ever written before. My first foray into mpreg or RPF. If those things don't work for you, that's fine, then this fic isn't for you. No need to inform me.

Thank you to burning-up-a-sun and luckie_dee for excellent beta services, and to ljummen and right-of-the-curve for reading and reacting as I banged this out in record time.

-------

Zhenya had hoped to sleep in on his last morning as a bachelor, but his eyes flew open just past dawn and would not close again. 

His wedding day. The culmination of several years’ work -- the selection of his consort-to-be, the negotiations, the contracts, the preparations...all of which he’d had minimal part in, because one simply didn’t arrange their own marriage, let alone their own embargoed marriage.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over and over it in his mind. Ceremony, blessing, consummation, and then...life as usual? Regular people had celebrations after their weddings. They gathered together with their friends and families, ate and drank, danced and celebrated along with the person they’d just married. Lots of photos, smiling faces, Instagram posts and hashtags.

For embargoed spouses, such celebrations were pointless. It was hard to rejoice with your new life partner when you weren’t allowed to see or speak to them, or even to know their name.

All that he knew about the consort was that he was from New Scotland, was Zhenya’s age, and of noble blood. It had been tempting to at least Google him, but poking around an embargo like that was inappropriate, not to mention insulting to the significant sacrifice being made by his new consort. This man had agreed to a restrictive situation to become Zhenya’s husband and bear his child -- the least Zhenya could do was respect his decision. Besides, the consort’s entire online presence would have been digitally embargoed by the palace tech team, which was really meant to shield him from the rest of the world’s snooping, but also served to thwart tempted spouses.

  Zhenya’s parents had asked for quite a bit of input about what sort of person he hoped for as a life partner. They had already known that he preferred a male spouse, and had accepted his one additional condition for a match, but beyond that, he trusted them. He’d known since childhood that his marriage would be arranged and had accepted it, was even grateful for it. It was difficult to meet people when you were a Prince. Zhenya had dated his fair share of men, but he was never sure about their motives -- was his money a factor? his status? his fame? -- and his dates were often put off by the press attention, not to mention the trappings of royalty. He thought his chances of finding happiness with a spouse selected by his parents were possibly better, and certainly no worse. Besides, he didn’t really have it in him to rebel. Refusing to have an embargoed arrangement would be a serious break with tradition, and the very idea was just -- exhausting. 

Sasha, his boisterous, gap-toothed valet, banged into the room at 7:00 a.m. sharp; Zhenya groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. “None of that, now. We have to make you look royal, so God knows we need every last second.” Sasha grabbed the blankets and yanked them off. Zhenya yelped and curled into a tight comma on the bed. “Up, you lazy, posh twat.”

“Why did I make you my valet. Why,” Zhenya said, muffled into his pillow. Sasha had not come up through the ranks of the palace staff, as most valets did. He had been a teammate of Zhenya’s on their university hockey team, and some fit of insanity had led Zhenya to conclude that his total lack of finesse in matters of protocol and politics was appropriate for the job. 

“Because you knew I wouldn’t put up with your bullshit and you were right. You’re getting married today, so let’s try and fool all these rubes into thinking you’ve got class, eh?”

Zhenya slumped out of bed, only to be manhandled out of his pajamas by Sasha. “Hey!”

He snorted. “Like I’ve never seen your dick before. And a lot more people are going to be seeing it today, so get over it. Shower, now.”

Zhenya spent the morning being scrubbed, polished, trimmed, neatened, and perfumed to within an inch of his life. Breakfast was brought in, an unusually light meal. “Are they afraid I’m going to throw up?” he grumbled, eating his toast.

“Probably. Are you?”

“No.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“I’m a little anxious. Excited. What’s to be nervous about?”

“I mean…” Sasha made vague gestures all around him at everything.

Zhenya swallowed and sipped at his tea. “Have you heard...anything?”

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

He rolled his eyes. “About my betrothed.”

“Even if I had, I wouldn’t be allowed to share it. If you want to know, you’ll have to hire a hacker to un-embargo his Instagram.” Zhenya just looked at him. Sasha sighed. “All I know is that he and his entourage arrived two nights ago.”

“‘Entourage?”

“His parents are with him, and he’s got his own guards. He’ll have the guards until he’s unveiled. You knew that, right?”

“I know.”

“Other than that they’re all keeping to their quarters. He’s not supposed to be seen until the wedding.”

“He’s not going to be seen after the wedding! Not that anybody knows what he looks like. He could be walking around the palace in a bathing suit eating peaches and nobody would know it was him.”

“The embargo is for your own good, and his. And the kingdom’s.”

“I get it.” And he did, really. If his consort hadn’t conceived within a year, he would be replaced, and that process would be a lot easier for everyone involved if he, and the citizens, hadn’t gotten attached to him. Hence, the embargo. At least, that’s what the clerics said. Endlessly. “I understand the principle. It’s just going to take some getting used to, being married to someone and having sex with him without seeing his face or talking to him.”

Sasha snorted. “C’mon, Zhenya. You’ve had more than your share of hookups.”

“So?”

“How many of their names can you remember, or even their faces? You’re telling me you had deep conversations with them?”

“That’s different. This man will be my husband.”

“I heard that the prince of Patagonia and his consort broke their embargo and fell in love. She didn’t get pregnant so she had to leave, they were both heartbroken, he almost abdicated his throne, it was a horrible mess, he wouldn’t sleep with the new consort and so she had to be replaced, the first consort was disgraced and went into hiding, nobody knows what happened to her and he’s a giant ball of depression.”

Zhenya blinked. “That’s terrible.”

“Honor your embargo, Zhenya.”

He sighed. “I intend to.”

Embargoed marriage ceremonies were small, private affairs. The unveiling was really the big public spectacle, when the kingdom could at last meet their prince’s husband. The wedding was more for the clerical blessing and the witnessed consummation, and a huge gathering for that was considered unseemly. Zhenya had been trained since childhood not to feel immodest for this occasion, but he was still glad that there would only be a few witnesses present.

He walked to the chapel in his custom-made marriage robes, simple but lush as was the current style. Standing outside the chamber were six of his consort’s guards. Their uniforms were pleasingly clean-lined, black and tailored with deep gold trim, and they snapped to attention as he approached, disciplined and in perfect formation. Zhenya nodded to them -- he imagined he’d be getting to know them soon enough -- and passed through.

A heavy drape hung in the center of the dais with a small hole cut in it for their hands to pass through. Zhenya took his place on the left, nodding to the head cleric. He heard rustling from the other side of the drape and a shadow fell upon it; his new consort had taken his place on the other side.

They did not speak during the ceremony, as their embargo forbade them from hearing one another’s voices. The cleric spoke to them; they acknowledged his words with nods of assent to his questions and directives. When he bade them do so, they joined hands through the hole in the drape. Zhenya noted that his betrothed’s hand was square and strong, and gripped his without hesitation, exhibiting no sign of a nervous tremor. A promising start. He shut his eyes and sent up a prayer to whatever deity might be handy...please, let me like him. Please, let him get pregnant quickly. Let him be smart. And if it’s not too much to ask, please, let him be...not hideous.

“You are joined,” the cleric concluded, simply. Two deacons appeared and removed the drape.

His consort was dressed in elegant marriage robes of his own, including a cape and a veil that hid him from view entirely save for his hands. The only new information Zhenya received with the removal of the drape was his consort’s height, about half a head shorter than Zhenya. He smiled at his new husband and they bowed to each other. Zhenya watched as his consort made a silent greeting to his parents, the Duke and Duchess of New Scotland, who Zhenya did not know at all. With over seventeen thousand peerage titles in the world, one couldn’t meet them all, or even a tiny fraction. The consort’s guards had materialized in the chapel and now surrounded their master and escorted him off the dais and off into the chamber where the next and final step would happen.

Zhenya turned to receive his own parents’ congratulations, and a back-slapping hug from Sasha, wildly overstepping his role as a valet as usual. Zhenya’s father rolled his eyes but didn’t chastise him; his parents loved Sasha as they loved Zhenya himself. More, he sometimes suspected. 

The cleric hovered at Zhenya’s elbow. “Your Royal Highness, you are awaited in the antechamber.” 

Sasha winked at him. “Good luck. Do it right the first time and this embargo can end quickly.”

“I don’t think it’s entirely up to me,” Zhenya said, but he hoped for the same. He couldn’t imagine waiting for months on end, walking on eggshells every day, everyone looking askance at him if it dragged on and wondering at his virility if he failed to impregnate his spouse. As if it would be for lack of trying. 

He followed the cleric into the antechamber. His consort would have gone on ahead to be prepared and arranged by his personal attendants, although Zhenya wasn’t quite sure what that meant, beyond the obvious. This situation was generally not intended to produce arousal in both parties, so he damn well hoped that his consort’s “preparation” involved vaginal lubrication of some kind, for both of their comfort. He’d find out soon enough, but first there was still all manner of ceremonial mumbo-jumbo to attend to.

Zhenya wasn’t particularly devout, a fact he kept mostly to himself. At minimum, a visible attention to custom was expected and valued by the citizens, and Zhenya had no wish to disappoint them, or more accurately, to give them cause to distrust him. He respected the beliefs of his parents (mostly his mother) and of the clerics, but he’d have dispensed with the whole rigmarole if he’d had his choice. But this was his duty, so he stood quietly and allowed the clerics to say their blessings over him and waft their burning herbs as his outer robes were removed.

Underneath his robes were his tunic and trousers, which had been made with a flap at the front (“easy access,” Sasha had joked). He wouldn’t undress further than this, at least not for this ceremonial consummation. He’d be expected to achieve a minimum objective today, the most that could be hoped for in these high-pressure and decidedly not private circumstances.

One of the sub-clerics stood at his side. “Your Royal Highness, will you require assistance readying yourself?” he asked, quietly. Sasha, lurking behind him, snorted.

“Assistance?” Zhenya said, puzzled...but then it hit him. He was being asked if he’d need help getting it up. It stood to reason that he might, with people watching and the Fate of the Kingdom Depending and blah blah blah. Anxiety was not typically the friend of erections. The sub-cleric was offering a helping hand, so to speak. Zhenya had heard stories. Supposedly there’d once been a groom nervous enough that the sub-cleric had to use his mouth on him before he could manage it.

Zhenya didn’t think he’d need quite that much assistance; indeed, he hoped he wouldn’t need any. “Let’s...proceed, and we’ll see,” he said. The sub-cleric nodded and went to the door into the main chamber.

It was dim inside, fragrant with burning herbs. Several clerics were lined up at the far side of the room, chanting quietly. Behind a screen stood half a dozen shadowy figures; witnesses, drawn from the nobility and the royal family. Zhenya didn’t know who was back there and he didn’t care to know. He would likely never know; it was considered rude to disclose one’s presence at such an occasion. Zhenya had himself been a witness at his cousin’s consummation five years ago. You really couldn’t see much at all, through the screen and the awkward angle.

At the moment, however, his attention was captivated by the bed in the center of the room, and his consort upon it. He was laid out on his stomach, covered in drapes even including his head -- Zhenya worried for a moment if he could breathe adequately under there. Two of his guards stood at the head of the bed, eyes fixed firmly forward. The drapes extended from over his consort’s head past his feet, and in the center was an oval-shaped cutout exposing what was, without question, the most fantastic backside Zhenya had ever seen in his life, and he’d seen his fair share.

No. He would not be needing assistance. In fact, he felt himself swelling at the sight of just this one part of his new consort’s body. It was odd, and unexpectedly titillating, to be presented with a more-or-less disembodied ass, even if he could see the shape of the rest of the man under the drape -- but, he supposed, that titillation shouldn’t really be unexpected; why else did glory holes exist? Not that he’d ever partaken of such things, in clubs, in his slightly-wilder youth, absolutely not. But this was his husband, not a late night quickie. It wouldn’t be like this all the time, he assured himself. This was just for the ceremonial bit. Future couplings would be much less...ritualized.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to get to it, but there was a step to be taken first. He glanced at the cleric and nodded. The cleric hesitated, then moved to the head of the bed. This was Zhenya’s personal addition to the ceremonies, and the cleric had been reluctant to deviate from the traditional sequence of events, but Zhenya had insisted.

He had no interest in a spouse who’d been forced into marrying him, as he’d made sure his parents understood before they set out to find him one. “I do have one condition, and it is non-negotiable,” he’d said.

His father had looked surprised. “What is it, son?”

“I require absolute assurance that any consort of mine enters into marriage to me of their own free will, and not under duress.”

His parents had exchanged a glance. “That should not be difficult; marriage into our family is considered very desirable.”

“Be that as it may, I need you to promise me, Father..”

His father had nodded, and seemed even pleased by this directive. “You have my word, son.”

And now, the cleric spoke to the consort on Zhenya’s behalf. “Your Highness,” he said, using the man’s new title -- after the embargo was lifted, he would become His Royal Highness, the same honorific that Zhenya received. “Prince Evgeni wishes me to ask you for your consent before he joins with you.” Zhenya saw the consort’s head turn to the side. “He values your agreement to this consummation.”

The man hesitated. Zhenya saw the surprise in his shoulders. His head turned further,  seeming to look back over his shoulder at Zhenya, and he nodded.

The cleric straightened up. “Does this satisfy Your Royal Highness?” There was just a touch of “are you happy now?” impatience in the cleric’s voice which Zhenya chose to ignore.

Zhenya nodded. He removed his gloves and handed them to Sasha, who was being appropriately quiet and invisible for once in his life. He unbuttoned the flap on the front of his trousers; he was half-erect already and filling fast.

He knelt on the bed. He wasn’t supposed to make any unnecessary contact this first time, but he couldn’t help but run his hands briefly over his husband’s smooth, muscular rear. Just like that, he was fully hard and more than ready. He placed his knees within the drapery cutout on either side of the consort’s hips; the man shifted slightly, spreading his thighs a little bit to give him room. Zhenya reached back and tucked his cock down and against the man’s entrance, relieved to find that he was, indeed, slick. He pressed forward and entered him; Zhenya stifled a groan and felt a shudder pass over the man beneath him. He was tight and warm; Zhenya held still for a moment with his eyes closed and hips pressed against his consort’s impossibly plump ass. 

He braced on his hands and shut his eyes, making smooth, even thrusts. There’d be time later to investigate what kind of sex his husband enjoyed, but now was the time to be quick about it and get the job done. He tried to visualize success, as the clerics liked to say during their instruction, and picture his seed finding its target and blossoming in his consort’s womb. The minimum embargo time was three months; even if he conceived right now, early pregnancy was so delicate that it wasn’t considered official until the three--month mark. After carrying to three months, the consort was accepted into the family and unveiled, even if the child was subsequently lost.

Zhenya had often wondered about consorts who failed to conceive and were replaced. Who was to say that it was their fault? Both parties underwent pre-marriage medical testing to minimize this risk, but bodies were unpredictable. Of course it might not be the consort’s fault; the would-be sire could just as easily be the one whose biology failed them, but such a thing could not be admitted for a royal scion. He’d heard one tale, possibly apocryphal, of a prince whose consort hadn’t conceived -- unwilling to accept defeat, the prince had asked his consort to get him pregnant, which she had done, and their embargo was released.

The contemplation of such machinations was premature, he knew. He and his new consort had only just begun.

As keyed up as he was, it didn’t take long for him to finish. He thrust in deep and spilled, clenching his teeth against the desire to cry out. He felt his consort sigh and press back against him a little, a welcome signal of acknowledgment. Zhenya let his head droop for a moment, then straightened up and pulled out. Sasha was right there with a cloth for him to clean himself before he refastened his pants.

The cleric stepped forward and blessed the union, prayers for the success of the joining, yadda yadda. Zhenya barely paid attention. Sasha was replacing his robe on him, but all Zhenya could do was look at the draped form of his new husband, especially the one part of it that he could see, and hope that it wouldn’t be too long before he could see the rest of it.

He let Sasha lead him out of the chamber, glad that was over -- but in another, very real sense, it was just beginning. He was now a married man, with a responsibility to his consort, who was at something of a disadvantage in this situation. He hoped he could be a good, supportive husband to him, until at last the day came that he’d be allowed to see his face.

Next Chapter

[bilgisticallykosher]

Well, not so bad, really

This idea has been in my head for a while, and I decided to just do it. This is set in the @sanders-sanctuary-au universe, check it out if you haven’t, based on this post. 

Look out for the Trogdor reference! 

Characters: Sympathetic!Deceit (Deacon), Roman, OC

The OC is not anyone I put much thought to, I just needed a tiny to be there. So, OC up for grabs if you want? Just remember one thing: abandonment issues. Also, I wrote “you” which apparently threw me back into Homestuck so hard that I decided a quirk was needed. Hence “Well, X, really,” being scattered throughout. 

Word Count: 3,614

AO3 Link

You lurch as you’re roughly expelled from your habitat. Well, cage, really, but you’d always thought of it differently. It had been spacious, yet furnished well, and had a homey sort of feel to it, overall. It helped, of course, that you had been in your owner’s bedroom. 

Well, ex-owner, really. You tumble into a hand of an employee of some sort, you don’t know who. You’d been permitted to be out of your habitat, but weren’t given free reign of the whole place. You successfully suppress a noise as you finally realize that your ex-owner isn’t even the one who’s going to bring you over to get rid of you. You unsuccessfully suppress a strangled sob at the thought that the one that you lived with for all that time was getting rid of you. 

Literally strangled, because whoever’s got you is clutching you none-too-gently around the middle in a fist. You feebly try struggling in the grip, as you’re walked over to a dilapidated, wrecked area, and you can see evidence of other humans with other tinies having been there. Then, suddenly, you’re swathed in shadow. A very man-shaped shadow. 

You make another strangled, frantic sound as your movements increase. You don’t know why you didn’t think about this possibility in the drive over here. Sure, you’d overheard the conversation about your ex-owner wanting to get rid of you. In fact, you’d heard them say that they would be giving you over “to whoever would take” you and hadn’t that just been the finishing arrow through your heart of an already heartbreaking conversation? Still, you’d just thought it would be to another owner, which was still pretty bad. Well, devastating, really. 

Your breathing constricts as the hand around you does the same, and your eyes rise up and up to meet those of the man in front of you. You mean, he was The Shadow Man. Although, you’d also heard that maybe, he was the shadows. Um. 

But he was still- looking at you, and he’s visibly unhappy, and you think the employee might be talking, even if you can’t hear it over the sound of your panicked breathing, rapid heartbeat, and gathering tears. He nods at the employee, sparing you one last glance, well, frown, really, before turning to your captor.

“That’s right, no fee, just a tiny that you never have to concern yourself over again.” He laughs then, as you shiver and quake at all the implications that statement holds. It’s a deep, unforgiving laugh, and you wish not for the first time that your ex-owner had been the one to bring you here. Maybe there would have been a final burst of sympathy, and at this thought you start crying anew, because you’d really thought you were friends. 

Maybe your ex-owner had been good at pretending, maybe you’d just deluded yourself.  Either way, you’d take any other option over being given to this scary man, with his promise of unimaginable cruelty. 

Although, you seem to be doing a pretty good job of imagining it right now. 

The employee thrusts you forward, and you see The Shadow Man reach into his cloak to pull out a cage. It had someone else in it already. 

It was another tiny, of course it was, and he looked terrible. His outfit was a mess of what looked like patched together rags, and he was filthy, and he staggered around his cage when it was steadied. 

The employee audibly cringes, which covered up your own noise of horror. You don’t know if he was like this before, or if he’d been in The Shadow Man’s possession for some time today, or maybe even a few days. 

“Oooohhhh!“ He moans terribly, and The Shadow Man looks down at him, sneer of a grin faltering for a moment. “OOOOHHHHH!” He wails again, flinging an arm over his head as he bends backwards. You blink through your tears, nonplussed, until his cage is shaken, and you wince. It didn’t look like a hard shake, but it must have been, because he falls to his knees before falling forward. The arm holding you lowers slightly. 

“You’re sure you want another one? You, uh, still seem to have a live one there.” The Shadow Man whips his head back around at the employee, expression an outright leer as he takes a step closer. The employee shivers, obviously almost as intimidated as you are, although you’ve stopped crying now, and you feel the hand around you tighten. 

“I’m sorry,” he clearly wasn’t, “I thought you were interested in getting rid of a tiny, no strings attached, but if you’d rather play chauffer trying to find someone else to take it…” He made as if to cover the cage again, the tiny getting to his feet again, and you can feel the hesitation in the employee, whether from the threat or distrust you don’t know. Well, don’t care, really. You look up, trying to catch their attention, maybe there’s a little hope for you, after all? And then the tiny in the cage speaks again.

“Yes! Go take your tiny elsewhere!” He presses himself to the front of the bars, clasping them tightly. “Nobody else should face what I’ve faced!” You blink again. The words seem right, but…

He flings his arm over his head again. “The horror! The terror! The trrrrragedy that is my existence!“ 

…but you can’t help but feel like that accent isn’t real. And he definitely trilled that word. And maybe it’s just you, but that definitely sounds like he’s exaggerating things, which considering that he’s in The Shadow Man’s clutches, he shouldn’t have to. 

Not to mention, why would he bring a tiny that he had in his lab, or chamber, or whatever. Not that you doubted what he was capable of in his twisted head, but the whole thing was odd. Well, suspicious, really. And he kept posing, you mentally tack on, watching the tiny in the cage clasping his hands together, arms length over his head.

"Every day is a new, different definition of agony!” The Shadow Man’s cruel look is still there, and you’re uncomfortable when you look at it, but you also notice that he appears to be sweating under his hat. He gives the cage another shake like before,  but this time the tiny inside doesn’t react. “Unimaginable acts of violence and unspeakable-” you watch as he cuts himself off, mouthing ‘horror, terror, tragedy’ and you realize that he’s listing off the words he’s already used as he counts them on his fingers. “Twisted trauma!” The Shadow Man gives the cage yet another shake. He ignores it again. 

“Truly, his lack of compassion and empathy can only be matched by his creativity for the cruel, his verve for the vile, his capacity for the callous, his enthusiasm for the-!” He stops again, having gotten louder with each accusation, once again mouthing and counting to himself. The Shadow Man takes it upon himself to give him a few small shakes all together, and now that you’re looking, you can actually see that they’re really quite gentle shakes. 

He actually stumbles a bit this time, and he rubs the back of his head, turning to the side and outright glaring at The Shadow Man. He turns back to the front, before he contorts his face into something that reads almost like horror. The Shadow Man relaxed minutely, shoulder muscles coming down where you hadn’t realized they’d been tense. Your eyes narrow. 

Something’s definitely wrong. And you have no idea what they’re trying to do. It seems like they’re trying to convince someone of something, but you’re not sure who, or of what. You wonder if they’re somehow working together, and you want to dismiss it, because why would any tiny work with The Shadow Man? Unless, maybe it was to save themselves, but why would he have acted like that to save himself? You can’t connect the dots. 

You feel the employee make the decision, then, pushing you forward as The Shadow Man opens the door to the cage, and you realize a second too late what’s going to happen, and all that you can do is to close your eyes and prepare. He grabs you, and you wonder if your ex-owner ever even liked you, after all, as you prepare yourself for what’s certainly the beginning of your end. 

You’re expecting a large degree of roughness, and so you’re shocked when you’re kept in a loose grip. Certainly nowhere near as tight as the employee had on you, and while you can’t escape (where would you even go?), you can’t exactly consider this being constricted. 

The Shadow Man moves you, placing you into the cage with what feels like an equal amount of care as he held you. Your ex-owner hadn’t even been this gentle when handling you. Of course, you’d liked the contact back then, as opposed to the stomach-churning terror that you feel now. As he removes his hand from the cage, you turn around, watching the employee turn around, walking back to the car, already on the phone. 

“Yeah, I took care of it.” It’s the last thing you hear of your old life, before the car door slams. The cage door closes after, mimicking it with a horrible finality. The Shadow Man’s expression is hidden to you, and you don’t even care to look for it. He moves then, walking around an alley corner that you hadn’t even seen, and you spot his car. You sigh, and jump when a hand comes to rest on your shoulder. You turn to see the other tiny smiling genuinely at you. 

You immediately find this suspicious. 

The Shadow Man enters his car, placing the cage down in the seat next to him, throwing the both of you off balance and buckling the cage in, throwing you off mentally. His expression is serious, and he shuts the door, walking around to his side. You take the opportunity to curl up in a ball in a corner as far away from him as possible, and you hear him start the car in absolute silence. You’ve only been driving for a minute, when the other tiny speaks again. 

“So,” You raise your head from your knees to see him clap his hands together. “I think that went well!” You stare at him, well, gape, really, because there’s so many things that decidedly did not go well. Your heartbeat picks up, now sure that he’s working with The Shadow Man with how casually he’s speaking to, and looking up at him. He’s confident.

The Shadow Man, on the other hand, turns his head, briefly, to look at him with his eyebrows raised before turning back to the road ahead. 

“Oh,” he drawls, “is that what you’d call it?” You think he sounds annoyed, which cannot possibly be a good thing, whether the tiny’s on his side or not, so you simply can’t imagine why the other rolls his eyes, walking closer to him. 

“Oh, come on, Dee.” You can’t help but note with some degree of smugness that the voice he’d been using before definitely wasn’t his normal voice. The one he was speaking with now seems much more fitting. You almost miss that he referred to The Shadow Man by another name. “It went great! We got in, we got out, nobody got hurt. It was perfect! What’s got your hiney so whiny?" 

Your eyes widen in horror. You have absolutely no idea what’s happening, and no idea what either of them is planning, least of all with you. The Shadow Man snorts. 

"Yes, I wonder. The increasingly ridiculous posing that you did looked very natural ” He lightly drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not to mention that accent that you put on. Oh, and of course, I’d be remiss to not compliment you on your overdramatic tendencies back there, which definitely screamed genuine distress." 

He glances over at the tiny as he stops for what seems like a red light, a smirk growing on his face. The tiny has crossed his arms, and he huffs, meeting The Shadow Man’s glance, dead on. You wildly try not to consider that phrasing as being funny. The Shadow Man’s grin just grows. Somehow, it seems different than the sneer he had back where the employee had- back there. He tugs his gaze away from the tiny, car moving forward again. 

"Well, I still say-”

“Why, Roman, I’m not done praising you yet!” He places a hand on his chest, the mockery of offense, the other still on the wheel as, Roman apparently, perks up a bit hopefully. 

His hand returns to driving. “Your best performance of the day was when you actually,” he inhaled, all traces of amusement gone, “went over the adjectives that you’d used previously, counting them off in front of that schmuck. Twice.” Roman gasped, startled out of his position. 

“You saw that?!” His mouth hangs open slightly. He looks away from the pseudo-eye contact, “I thought that I was being subtle.”

“As an elephant attempting ballet.” Roman gasped, turning back to The Shadow Man with another glare on his face. 

“First you insult my acting skills, and then you call me fat?!” Now Roman’s hand was flat on his chest in what seemed like actual offense. 

“No, that’s not-”

“Well I’ll have you know that I was great! Sure, maybe a pointer or two would help, but not from you!” Roman pointed at him. “You clearly have no taste anyway. Just look at your costume,” that…was an odd choice of word. “I know you’re going for a big, scary thing,” he wiggles his fingers, and your mind is firing off signals that this is crossing into dangerous territory now. Well, has already crossed, really.

Roman twirls himself around slowly, “but mine does the job, and looks great.” You’re prompted  by his words to look closely at the clothing he’s wearing. They’re definitely ragged, but the stitching is good. You squint slightly, and notice that the dirt all over it looks to be vaguely hand-shaped.

Roman turns his head then, making eye contact with you, and his glare falls off, before he smiles, wide and toothy. You want to run away from him, but your back is already pressed against the bars of the cage which you note in your hysteria, are soft. 

“I know,” he takes a step forward, your eyes widening. “I’ll just ask our new friend, here!” You tense, looking back and forth from him to The Shadow Man, who has also tensed. 

“Roman, I’m not sure that’s a good idea-” his face is expressionless, eyes on the road, even as Roman cuts him off. 

“Oh, tish tosh, mister posh! You just know that I’m right.” He keeps advancing now, and you want to close your eyes to brace for whatever’s about to happen, but you’re afraid to look away. 

The Shadow Man keeps stealing glances at you while he drives. And then you focus on Roman, who’s right in front of you. “Hi,” he greets. 

You make an unintelligible noise in response. 

“I was just wondering, what exactly did you think of my obviously convincing performance?” He’s looking at you, eyebrow lifted, face eager, too close, so you glance away to look at The Shadow Man again, who is definitely paying attention, even though he’s not looking. His shoulders and face are tense, is he worried that you won’t give the right answer? 

But, you don’t know what the right answer is. Which means you’ll probably give the wrong answer, but you have to give some answer. You don’t know what to say, but it’s already been five seconds, so you say the only thing you can possibly think of under all this stress. 

“You mean, you weren’t that bad on purpose?” you blurt out. 

Admittedly, you’re not the best under pressure. 

There’s absolute silence for one second, two, three…

The Shadow Man bursts into laughter. This time, you flinch, and then you watch Roman’s frozen smile shatter off of his face. He turns towards The Shadow Man, and you can’t see his expression anymore, but he stomps over to the original side of the cage that he was on.

“Shut up! No, stop laughing immediately!” You feel something odd happening with the car, like he’s turning, until you feel it stop. You see a lot more trees when you look up, and The Shadow Man moves the lever in the middle of the car as he releases the wheel. 

He pulled over to the side of the road. 

You still have absolutely no idea what’s happening. But at least he’s still laughing? 

“Oh my- That was-!” He struggles to get a sentence out through his mirth, and he wipes a tear away with his gloved hand. Roman turns back your way, and you stiffen up, but he just goes out a door that you hadn’t noticed. He marches straight up to him and gives him a swift kick right above his elbow. This only makes him laugh harder, doubling over, gripping his stomach. 

Roman crosses his arms and huffs, tapping his foot while he waits. Eventually The Shadow Man seems to calm down, laughter stopping. He puts a hand on his chest as he adjusts himself, and exhales, still smiling. 

“Are we finished?” Roman’s voice is steely. 

“For now.” The Shadow Man responds. Well, purrs, really. “I’m ready to drive again, at least,” he gives Roman a meaningful look at that, amusement still lacing his tone. Roman turns and walks stiffly, back straight into the cage again, shutting the door behind him. 

He gives you a once-over with his eyes as The Shadow Man does, indeed, start driving again. You look back at Roman, briefly, before averting your face, nervous about what he’s going to do to you now. You still feel his gaze on you. You hear him walk around, pause, then come towards you. He clears his throat and you look up. 

He’s holding a water bottle for tinies. He doesn’t look angry, in fact, he rubs the back of his head, giving you what seems like an awkward smile. 

“Here. For you.” You slowly take it, almost as if you expect it to be a trap. Roman’s smile grows as you take it, and you gingerly place it down next to you all while watching him. He clears his throat again. “Sorry. I was supposed to give that to you earlier.” You blink. You’re beginning to re-think your initial thoughts on this whole situation. “I just want to let you know that you’re safe now. You- you don’t have to worry about the people that you came from. Or going to other humans. We came to rescue you from that life. Really. If you want.” There’s something about his tone that makes things start to click together in your mind. All the things that you’d expected out of today, especially after The Shadow Man showed up. 

Roman gestures to a spot near you. “May I?” You nod, and he smiles brighter, more sincere as he sits down next to you, giving you a comfortable amount of room between you two. 

As The Shadow Man continues to drive, Roman tells you all about the sanctuary for tinies, for borrowers. He tells you about what they do, who they are, and even what he was supposed to have accomplished by his being here in the cage. By the time he’s done explaining everything, you’ve reached your destination. The Shadow Man parks before coming around to your side. When the door opens, Roman stands, shuffling out of the door, and in front of him. He clears his throat. 

“I, uh, I’m sorry for kicking your arm,” he’s not looking directly at him, only out of the corner of his eye. The Shadow Man smiles back at him, face relaxed. 

“It’s alright.” He holds out his hand, palm up as Roman looks up at him now. “I’m sorry for kicking your pride.” Roman gives a short, loud laugh, and climbs up onto his hand, reaching his arms up. The Shadow Man carefully lifts him against his chest for a few moments. You decide to open your water bottle to take a few sips.

They separate, and you get up, walking towards the cage door while Roman is being transferred to his shoulder. You lift your leg to get out, hesitate, and look up The Shadow Man. He looks back at you and blinks, eyebrows raising. 

“Ah.” He shifts in his spot. “I didn’t call ahead for medical help, because you didn’t seem to need any, so we don’t have anyone meeting us.” He shifts again, adjusting his hat. He’s nervous, you’re shocked to realize. “I can get someone else from inside, though, to carry you. It doesn’t have to be in the cage, either! All the humans inside are very capable of being gentle.” He points with a thumb towards the building that you see in the distance, straightening up. “Shall I…?”

You’ve already made up your mind. 

“Actually,” you reach your arms up, and The Shadow Man turns to look at you, surprise evident on his face. “I think that hug looked pretty okay?” You abruptly remember when your ex-owner showed you affection, before abandoning you. 

You wonder if maybe you’re pushing it, but then you see and feel yellow gloves slowly cradle around you, and you look Dee in the eyes. You smile at each other, and as he hugs you, you think that you’re going to finally be comfortable somewhere. 

Well, happy, really.

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sat., Aug 15, 2020

Commemorated on August 2_Julian calendar

The Transfer from Jerusalem to Constantinople of the Relics of the Holy FirstMartyr (protomartyr) Stephen (428)

     The Transfer from Jerusalem to Constantinople of the Relics of the Holy FirstMartyr Stephen occurred in about the year 428.      After the holy FirstMartyr Archdeacon Stephen was pelted with stones by the Jews, they threw his holy body without burial for devouring by the beasts and birds. The reknown Jewish law-teacher Gamaliel, having begun to be inclined towards faith in Jesus Christ as the Messiah and also defending the Apostles at the Sanhedrin (Acts 5: 34-40), on the second night sent people devoted to him to take up the body of the Firstmartyr. Gamaliel gave him burial on his own grounds, in a cave, not far from Jerusalem. When in turn there died the secret disciple of the Lord, Nicodemus, who had come to Christ at night (Jn. 3: 1-21; 7: 50-52; 19: 38-42), Gamaliel likewise buried him nearby the grave of Archdeacon Stephen. Afterwards Gamaliel himself, having accepted holy Baptism together with his son Habib, was buried near the grave of the FirstMartyr Stephen and Saint Nicodemus. In the year 415 the relics of the saint were uncovered in a miraculous manner and solemnly transferred to Jerusalem by the archbishop John together with the bishops Eleutherios of Sebasteia and Eleutherios of Jericho. From that time began healings from the relics.      Afterwards, during the reign of holy nobleborn emperor Theodosius the Younger (408-450), the relics of the holy FirstMartyr Stephen were transferred from Jerusalem to Constantinople and placed in a church in honour of the holy Deacon Laurentius, and after the construction of a temple in honour of the FirstMartyr Stephen the relics were transferred there on 2 August. The right hand of the FirstMartyr is preserved in the Serapionov chamber of the Troitsky-Sergiev Lavra.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Acts 6:8-15; 7:1-5, 47-60 (Protomartyr)

8 And Stephen, full of faith and power, did great wonders and signs among the people.

9 Then there arose some from what is called the Synagogue of the Freedmen (Cyrenians, Alexandrians, and those from Cilicia and Asia), disputing with Stephen.

10 And they were not able to resist the wisdom and the Spirit by which he spoke.

11 Then they secretly induced men to say, "We have heard him speak blasphemous words against Moses and God."

12 And they stirred up the people, the elders, and the scribes; and they came upon him, seized him, and brought him to the council.

13 They also set up false witnesses who said, "This man does not cease to speak blasphemous words against this holy place and the law;

14 for we have heard him say that this Jesus of Nazareth will destroy this place and change the customs which Moses delivered to us.

15 And all who sat in the council, looking steadfastly at him, saw his face as the face of an angel.

1 Then the high priest said, "Are these things so?"

2 And he said, "Brethren and fathers, listen: The God of glory appeared to our father Abraham when he was in Mesopotamia, before he dwelt in Haran,

3 and said to him, 'Get out of your country and from your relatives, and come to a land that I will show you.'

4 Then he came out of the land of the Chaldeans and dwelt in Haran. And from there, when his father was dead, He moved him to this land in which you now dwell.

5 And God gave him no inheritance in it, not even enough to set his foot on. But even when Abraham had no child, He promised to give it to him for a possession, and to his descendants after him.

47But Solomon built Him a house.

48 However, the Most High does not dwell in temples made with hands, as the prophet says:

49 Heaven is My throne, And earth is My footstool. What house will you build for Me? says the LORD, Or what is the place of My rest?

50Has My hand not made all these things?'

51You stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears! You always resist the Holy Spirit; as your fathers did, so do you.

52Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who foretold the coming of the Just One, of whom you now have become the betrayers and murderers,

53who have received the law by the direction of angels and have not kept it.

54When they heard these things they were cut to the heart, and they gnashed at him with their teeth.

55But he, being full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God,

56and said, "Look! I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!"

57Then they cried out with a loud voice, stopped their ears, and ran at him with one accord;

58and they cast him out of the city and stoned him. And the witnesses laid down their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul.

59And they stoned Stephen as he was calling on God and saying, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit."

60Then he knelt down and cried out with a loud voice, "Lord, do not charge them with this sin." And when he had said this, he fell asleep.

Matthew 17:24-18:4

24When they had come to Capernaum, those who received the temple tax came to Peter and said, "Does your Teacher not pay the temple tax?"

25He said, "Yes." And when he had come into the house, Jesus anticipated him, saying, "What do you think, Simon? From whom do the kings of the earth take customs or taxes, from their sons or from strangers?"

26Peter said to Him, "From strangers." Jesus said to him, "Then the sons are free.

27Nevertheless, lest we offend them, go to the sea, cast in a hook, and take the fish that comes up first. And when you have opened its mouth, you will find a piece of money; take that and give it to them for Me and you.

1At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, "Who then is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"

2Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them,

3and said, "Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.

4Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

[pikecountynaacp-blog]

The NAACP chapter also gave out its annual awards Saturday during the banquet.Bishop S.D. James was awarded with the NAACP Lifetime Achievement award.James became an active member of the Civil Rights movement, boycotting the Montgomery Bus System, surviving the bombing of the Cleveland Avenue Lutheran Church, and led the march of Alabama State students to the capitol to meet the Selma-to-Montgomery marchers. Since then he has also served a mathematics instructor in the Sparta, Georgia school stem, chemistry and physics instructor in Bibb County, and science instructor in Mobile County. He served as chemical laboratory assistant to Dr. Curtis McDonald, during which time their research in spectrophotometry led to the development of the polyester fiber. He currently serves as senior bishop of the Evangelistic Pentecostal Churches Inc., CEO of S.D. James Evangelistic Association, president of Maranatha Bible College and Ministraties Training Institute and much more.Hattie Flowers was honored as matriarch. Flowers attended Pike County Training School and began work at 13 in 1935, watching children for $1.50 a week. She later farmed, picked cotton, stacked peanuts, upholstery, dry cleaning sewing, cooking and baking. She later worked at the school cafeteria and then Edge Regional Hospital, where she worked for 20 years before retiring. Flowers now attends County Line Missionary Baptist Church where she serves in numerous capacities.2019 Freedom Fund Banquet

Judge U. W. Clemon urged guests at the annual NAACP Black Tie Banquet Saturday to take a stand during this “dark and depressing time.”

“We stand where we have always stood: on the side of making the American dream of justice and equality a reality instead of just promises,” Clemon told the packed crowd at the Trojan Center ballrooms. “We stand for voter registration and participation, and against voter suppression. We stand for the election of men and women who will speak for us, and prosecutors who will do justice in cases of police brutality and civil rights violations.”

Clemon also talked about growth requiring change, and traced the history of the NAACP and the change it effected.

“I necessarily must consider the outstanding, indelible history of the NAACP,” Clemon said. “Consider how all three branches of the government turned their backs on us and left us to the mercies of our masters … From the ashes of those perilous times, form the dry bones of segregation, there emerged a redeeming spirit, invited into W.E.B. du Bois (founder of the NAACP). From its inception the NAACO has always ben about change. Over its 110 years, the NAACP has attacked and fought and often won some major battles against discrimination in both high and low places.”

Dianna Bascomb, president of the Pike County branch of the NAACP, said that the struggle for rights continues today despite changes.

“We as a people must come together regardless of our color,” Bascomb said. “We must fight the abuse of entrusted power.”

Dan Green was honored as patriarch. Originally from Louisiana, Green earned his Master’s Degree in learning disabilities from Troy University . He moved back to Pike County in 1986, where he worked at Goshen High School for 13 years. While there he formed the organization Young Men of Distinction which allowed young men to participate in activities outside of school. He was instrumental in assisting 30 students getting scholarships. He now serves as a deacon at First Missionary Baptist Church.

Minnie Wilson was honored as the “unsung heroine” for her victory over drugs and alcohol to become a community servant.

At 17, Wilson lost her mother and became a single parent, but she worked at Troy University in food service for 22 years despite her challenges. However, she became dependent on drugs and alcohol and suffered several relapses before finally leaving Alabama to free herself from dependency. Once she returned to Alabama, Wilson began serving in a variety of roles including voter registration, poll watching, volunteering at OCAP, providing transportation services and much more. She also serves as a member of the usher board of Beulah Hill Baptist Church.

“It’s not about me, its’ about God,” Wilson said.

Cornelius Griffin was honored for his community service. After returning to his hometown of Brundidge after playing football at the University of Alabama and in the NFL, griffin decided to begin preparing Thanksgiving meals for people in the community that otherwise would not be able to celebrate the holiday feast.

“I wanted to do something to give back to those that have given so much to me,” Griffin said.

Ziad Rollins was given the outstanding business award for Flo’s restaurant.

Four scholarships were awarded to seniors at local high schools.

Camille Hope Cameron of Charles Henderson High School will be pursuing chemistry and health professions degrees at the University of Alabama and plants to be an anesthesiologist. Community service includes participation in Tri-Omega community service organization, church volunteering and more.

Aleyan Daniels of Goshen High School will be pursuing a degree in elementary education at Auburn University at Montgomery. Community service includes participation with rotary club, the Pike County Chamber of Commerce junior ambassadors, Turkeys from Heaven and more.

Lauren Pearson of Pike County High School’s community services includes making care bags for city officials, painting mural on the school campus, tutoring in math, volunteering with nonprofit organizations, collecting shoes for the less fortunate in Africa and more.

Kaylee Ferraro of Pike Liberal Arts School plans to attend Troy University in the fall. She participates as member of the Twilighters, editor of the PLAS yearbook and Patriot Press newspaper, over 500 community service hours including with the salvation army, church, Troy Animal Rescue Project, Boys and Girls Club and more.

[bloodybells1]

Leeches, Part 1

“Just the other day, I sat at a bus stop, over on, I don’t know, somewhere in the eighties on the east side. I sat back and the sun shined on my face, and I think I just sat there for going on half an hour. I let about five buses pass me by, I reckon. The drivers kept asking through the doors, but I just shook my head and waved them on.”

Joe laughed at himself, very much the wizened old timer, laughing at his time-honored follies, a cough feigning to latch on to the tail end of one of his chuckles. He sat on a folding chair and never crossed his legs during his speech. He looked back at us once in a while, a wide grin framing the face of a man who’d found God in his dotage.

Behind him stood three sturdy chairs on a low, small landing, the middle one much larger, obviously for a deacon, or some other minister. To his left was a banner affixed to the chapel’s wall, to his right the darkened interior of Rutgers Presbyterian Church’s main hall, only the closest pew mingling with our reflections on the glass, while the rest of the chamber disappeared into the unlit black, pews, apse, arches, all fading away like undulating cephalopods motioning into the bottomless expanse of the deep ocean.

We were thirty men of various ages and, in various angles, situated on recently unfolded chairs, our ears plastered to Joe’s syllables. A semicircle of a row flanked Joe on each side, while rows of five staggered farther away in front of him. We waited for him to finish his speech.

My friend Kenyon, a man given to reflexive smiles, body art and jangling silver jewelry, raised his hand on the tail end of the applause. Kenyon was, like myself but in a completely different way, the aesthetic anomaly in this male lineup of denim, half-zip fleece pullovers, and unbuttoned checks. As for me, I was undergoing an awkward transition from the bespoke slim-fitting hipster fare of my East Village salad days to the generic knits I ended up cottoning to, staid, American gear with a fashion forward edge, the kind of corporate mimicry of downtown New York style evident in late aughts Express storefronts, the cheap grey cardigan with thin, plastic buttons and a gaudy, shiny placket to name one example, the sort of trickled-down haute couture which American Apparel had turned into a belated, and thankfully short-lived, empire of disposable cotton.

Kenyon, on the other hand, was a world onto himself. He was irreducible, and managed to turn all of that corporatizing on its head. Steeped in glam rock, a downtown tradition dating back to Max’s Kansas City, he merged the ripped tank tops and the second skin of leather trousers with punk, post-90s hip hop, and even industrial. By the time Kenyon was done, he was fully dressed, even though he’d barely put anything on: five necklaces formed an extra shirt over that tank top, while seven sterling-coated rings formed makeshift cuffs past the “sleeves” of tattoos on his arms. Sometimes he wore a black grosgrain cap with a chrome plate sewed onto the front that read “BITCH”. No one dressed like Kenyon, and if the reader regards my valuation as improbable, I can but insist that no one pulled off his sartorial derring-do with even half of his aplomb.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to like Kenyon, and I chalk that up to sibling rivalry. Though he did pull it off, his style was nonetheless loud. At the time, I needed quiet. That’s why I was there listening to Joe with my conveyer belt cardigan. Of course I had no idea I was dragging my old style like a cadaver in search of some missing morgue. But I was trying to fit in, trying to make a break with the past. I needed those dudes with their conservative shtick, sitting cross-legged checking blackberries once in a while, probably texting loved ones about soccer practice and babysitter hours. Joe was the granddaddy and these guys were my dads.

Once Joe was done everybody else started chiming in. People talked one at a time, and each person picked the next person to talk. Kenyon’s arm was erect, and he was picked early. Joe was sheepish about feedback, more out of feeling gratified to have shared his story with us than with insecurity about revealing himself, so he darted his eyes from the floor to anyone who wasn’t talking. Kenyon, like all who were picked, was speaking to the room, even though he directly addressed Joe, who indulged the time it took to place a couple bucks into the donation hat making the rounds. Silver tinkled on silver as Kenyon lowered his arm.

He did his best: “Joe, that story about the bus stop, man, wow, that’s amazing. I wish that was me. I’m just not there yet. I’m always busy, running around chasing my fantasies, maybe a woman, projects, getting angry about my job. It’s like I’m addicted and I can’t find peace. So I envy you, and all that serenity you shared with us. Thank you.”

Unlike their hardier, more “masculine” AA counterparts, Al-Anon meetings have no liquidation agenda. They’re not out to eradicate your issue. Nobody will say, as they do in AA, “Hey buddy, you’ve been fucking up, so it’s time to get your ass in gear and do some service for a change”. It’s more like “Sit back and relax, you’ve been working too hard” and “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

AA-ers criticize the warm embrace as too accommodating, but for my money’s worth, I always got more out of the Kumbaya fireside chat in Al-Anon meetings, than the fluorescently-lit, “bad cop” demeanor of your typical AA church basement. Booze was a problem, of course, but only during a relatively short span of debauching as an erstwhile rockstar. It was a symptom of “extreme lifestyling”, so, once I left the music industry and started frequenting libraries instead of dive bars, I had little difficulty moderating my intake. Thankfully, there were no winged bottles of Smirnoff in my dreams, and to this day, I say a prayer of gratitude with every crisp draught of New World red during mealtime.

What I lacked was not self-control, but self-esteem. Al-Anon, with its boundaries, its “healing centers”, its gingerbread cookies, its amateur yogis meditating, palms up, while people like Joe regaled you with yarns about how they lived “one day at a time”, boosted the lagging go-getter within and checked the autocratic superego’s overreach. Unlike our bulldog AA counterparts, choking and chafing on the leash, we were more like tiny, caged Papillons needing assertiveness training. Al-Anon’s ethos of boundary-setting was the gamechanger for the steamrolled contingent.

I needed a jolt in the arm to help me take charge of the new me. Once the keg dried on my club kid/rocker past, so did all of its faulty affirmations – “I’m a killer” – “I’m the man” – “I’m the life of the party”. What had seemed like incontrovertible evidence of greatness and longevity soured into empty pomp and arrogance, showing its age faster than a fine Brie sitting out too long. If you cut the tap, you see things for what they are, hollow, teenage rhetoric, a lacquered gloss of puerile angst disguising the real pain within, the miserable cartography drawn in Crayola. I had a hard time transitioning to “adulting”.

Al-Anon was the perfect solution for a spiritual drifter like myself, someone who’d managed to duck the hypnotic allure of substance, but was tethered to the overhead luggage of an overwrought past, a hypertrophied lore inflated by the helium-empty of media success and unrestrained carousing. The skill of setting boundaries, the primary focus of the work in that fellowship, was my first time making a conscious, adult demarcation of self. It was a kind of handwritten accounting, using a brand-spanking new calligraphy pen when in the past I only had a crayon.

Not only had I been bluffing my way through every opportunity and relationship all my life, but I’d shirked male bonding as well. The old man had left enough scar tissue to lead me to believe, wrongly, that nothing presented a greater threat to my safety than another swinging dick in the room. Al-Anon, being majority female in its constituency, attracted me for this very reason. But this uptown meeting offered me a new twist: the gentle lilt of Al-Anon sloganeering with the familiar heft of masculine energy. When I found that meeting, I discovered the verdant hidden pastures of otherwise craggy masculine caverns, undergoing the Robert Bly encounter with male, yet enlightened, initiation.

“I get so much wisdom from those guys,” I told Kenyon on the downtown 1, our trip back to the Village from the Upper West Side enlivened by the meeting. Post-meeting positive spin comes like hand delivered mail, the delay forgiven and forgotten at the instant the hand touches the parcel, a sudden flash of serum in the bloodstream, a mild chemo.

“They’re like old New York,” Kenyon replied. A silver bracelet ticked on one of his eight rings as he switched arms straphanging. He rearranged his fedora and there was a moment when, with the sterling on his fingers blinking in the light as it contrasted with the soft crushed velvet of the brim, he looked like Jared Leto (Twenty Seconds to Mars Leto, not the actor). Kenyon was impossibly handsome and, after two decades of casual sex in New York, had to have known it. On top of that, his mind was so sharp, dropping an op-ed’s worth of observation in a single response, you always forgot how attractive he was. I didn’t want to like him, for survival reasons, but I couldn’t help myself.

We both got off at Sheridan Square and parted at the newsstand on Christopher and Varick. The hugs were the best part of the night, warm, not bro-y. Cool jocks first clasp hands and keep them in between, the embrace more of a back pat, with the forearms warding off fears of errant torsos touching. Not so with Kenyon. It was a full upper body affair.

He went East and I West, to a dinner date with someone I met at school. But I couldn’t get his wall-to-wall smile out of my head.

All throughout the evening, through the dinner and the subway ride back to my Upper East Side apartment, even as my head hit the pillow and I let the day’s events drift through my head like a shuffling deck, I thought of Joe’s bus stop and wondered if it was one of the ones I used, any of the M79 ones, running from where I lived on East End Avenue to Lexington where the 6 train offers the nearest underground service. That crosstown corridor gives access to one of the most pacific locations in the city. The highlight was coming out of Agata & Valentina, hauling four thick polypropylene shopping bags spilling over with istara cheese, seasonal fruits, swordfish, prime cuts, homemade pasta, and imported Brazilian nuts, and, braving the murder on my delts, walking across the street to the east bound stop on 1st and 79th,hauling two leaden weights like overfull scales pressing down on a balance. Joe probably had his atman moment directly across the street, at the westbound stop, where the sun hits more directly for longer in the day.

As I turned my head on the pillow, I thought of tomorrow, Wednesday, of waking up, walking the dog, hitting the computer to play around with electronic music, and stretching the limbs. At acting school they were really emphasizing the importance of movement (“If I see one more stiff actor in my scene study class, I’m going to be angry” was one teacher’s version).

I was reminded how, in my early twenties, I was terrified of anyone looking at my body. I didn’t know anything about anatomy, but I could feel how broad and lanky were my shoulders. I was like a wide clothes hanger. Playing the bass guitar, though I hadn’t gone out of my way to pick it up, made perfect sense, the heaviest rock instrument to offer ballast against flaying limbs. Night after night the strap creased my left shoulder, pulling me closer to the floor, the weight pressing my boots on the ground, plantar ligaments stretching out the arches. Once it was removed, I was like a hot air balloon.

So was my acting, hence the need for movement exercises, which made interesting cases concerning anatomy. At Stella Adler, I had the good fortune of having Joanne Edelmann, an experienced dancer from the Alvin Ailey school, impress upon me the importance of the pelvis. Everything was about the pelvis, acting, moving, blocking, memorizing lines, it all had to come from the pelvis, apparently. We’d lay down supine, after one of us had swiffed the last class’s sweat, grime and dead skin cells off the creaky, wooden floor, and start gyrating our pelvises, all twenty-five of us. Having suspended my pause at the bursar’s office (at some point the acting conservatory, like therapy and Al-Anon, acquired healing potential in my mind), I jumped into all this with gusto. These movement exercises, so I thought, were my ticket to getting my feet on the ground, literally. So I worked them every day for an hour.

It was early spring in 2009 and I’d been living in the Upper East Side for close to a year, moving here to escape the East Village’s countercultural orthodoxy.

The East Village is great when you’re an upstart, when your friend owns a vintage boutique and sitting there for hours talking about nothing could feel like a quiet revolution. There was something conspiratorial about scrounging for change, wearing the same pair of trousers, and bumping into the same vagrant hipsters every night. Bar hopping became a kind of Where’s Waldo stretched over the span of a week, like each party was a pop-up shop taking over that bar or club. It would have been unthinkable to go on another night, after the pop-up shop had moved. Each one of us could feel like an unshowered Che looking at Fidel clipping a Cohiba across the fold-out table, an overhanging burning bulb backlighting the floating dust and cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke.

But by this time, I’d already “made it”. My cover was blown. Interpol’s success had fattened my wallet even as it’d thwarted my agitprop designs. Trips to the grocer could involve catcalls and held stares. Benjamin’s wisdom seemed apt: “Behind every fascist regime, lies a failed revolution”. In my case, the project of seeing how far flipping the bird could get me (very far, apparently) had yielded such pithy spiritual results it was time to call it a day and find a place to do my laundry where I wouldn’t have to sign autographs.

Growing up in Queens, I had no idea what the hell was the East Village. But I knew the Upper East Side, mostly through The Jeffersons (my mother did have a wealthy friend and, once, while we visited when I was eleven, I feigned adult sass by declaiming “This place is rich!” during the elevator trip up the Central Park adjoining high rise). The sight of rows of stacked iron-grated balconies on grey-brick facades, all set to each other like a long ship container yard disappearing into the horizon of 2nd Avenue, where every taxi cab, street light and butcher shop becomes a tiny dot twenty blocks north of 79th Street, was always set to a soulful “We finally have a piece of the pie”.

Later, after initiation with the caramelized crust of 80s pop-culture, the Upper East Side came to mean Woody Allen and Andy Warhol. The high rises, in my estimation, offered sanctuary to the city’s cultural superintendents, a haven in which to pen or paint their New York City-centric odes in peace and quiet. I thought of Leonard Bernstein laboring over scores, the doorman interrupting with a call about a dry cleaning delivery.

Here, as well, were stock brokers, attorneys, traders, and other sundry bourgeois interests, the better to authenticate the wealthy artist’s pains with commerce’s badge of (dis)honor. (“There. You are one of us. Now, to quote a 90s prophet, entertain us.”) Eyes Wide Shut, with its luxury apartments and endless chambers, its New York Jewish-y professional class embodied in Sydney Pollack’s Rolex, its de riguer charcoal Brooks Brothers three quarter overcoat worn by Tom Cruise in almost every frame, laid out the terms of this fantasy of old school New York wealth for me, if also tickling my artistry with a Kafka-esque slant. Perhaps, I could revivify the failed revolution, I thought, not against the fascist regime, but from within.

It was a straight shot up 1st Avenue from Houston Street to 79th and on a random late morning Tuesday you could drive through light after light in less than fifteen minutes. I’d always hated the West Village’s European style of urban planning, the streets and lanes that curve and follow every slope of the ground, (pre-Google Maps, this meant that sometimes you ended up, Blair Witch Project-style, back to where you started). I loved the East Village’s Soviet, numerical grid, so artificial you could easily imagine the planners taking their time to map everything out. What this did was help me focus on the shops, ateliers, and salons within the fifteen block radius, without the distraction of curves and cobblestone. And the Upper East Side, at least from an urban planning perspective, was the East Village without the personality, simply adding a z axis of verticality to the latter’s x and y. With three dimensions now at my disposal, I felt I could take my Bernstein myth into Olympus itself, away from the caustic rabble of DIY punk down below.

I made enough money to afford a $4000 rent in what is called a “splinter building”; apparently only three in the city exist, a building slim enough it can only have two apartments per floor, but giving each one a three sided-view of all Manhattan, in my case, from the 23rd floor. When I first walked into it the sun was setting, casting an amber glow onto the East River. Wall to wall windows proffered a vision of Manhattan only the wealthy know – “This is Your City” (daily exposure did end up diminishing the returns of the view).

For some reason, taxis were out of the question (never mind I was splurging on rent, dinners, tuition, and music equipment expenses). After five dizzy years of flights and car services, I was only too happy to take to the MTA, the buses still lacquered in the future-glossy palette of navy and white, which I recognized from my morning commutes to St. Francis Prep High in Floral Park from my Elmhurst home. Getting on the M79 right by the river, I basically had the bus to myself, my own crosstown Lear jet, a meager, yet delightful, taste of the jet-setting I’d left behind.

[softupshur]

The Lord Rejoices: Chapter 9

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Ao3 link if you’re into that kind of thing

~Updates every Sunday~ During Temple Gate’s founding years, Marta nears womanhood and wonders of God’s plan for her.

Chapter 9:

It wasn’t at the lake nor the farmhouse that Marta saw Paige and Otis again, but when she journeyed to the chapel for prayer.

Otis hounded one of the deacons while Paige sat in the nearest pew.

“I just want to talk to Knoth for five minutes. Is that really so much to ask?” Otis nearly yelled.

“Papa will not be seeing anyone,” he said. “If you need counsel, you are free to ask any of the other church officials, but the prophet is not to be interrupted while he is in meditation.”

“Tuesday it was prayer, Wednesday it was counsel, and now he’s meditating?! Is he trying to avoid me!?”

The deacon pointed an accusing finger at Otis. “You should seek the Lord in your prayers tonight and ask for patience. For it is a virtue you are severely lacking.”

“I think I’ve shown plenty of patience! I’ve been coming here for nearly a week and he hasn’t so much as looked at me!”

When they devolved into bickering, Marta sat beside Paige. “What’s going on?”

“A private matter, I’m afraid.” Paige uttered, never tearing her eyes from the argument.

“One so urgent that Papa’s attention is needed so soon?”

“Yes. He’s the only one who can give the final say, but he won’t talk to us. I think it’s because Otis is the one requesting his company…”

“Have you tried asking?”

“No, it has to be Otis.” Paige shook her head. “The prophet would be even less inclined to speak with me, so it’s best left to him.”

“He won’t get anywhere like that.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” If she looked at Marta, her eyeroll would have been visible.

Marta bit her lip before standing.

“Where are you going?” Paige asked.

“I’m going to talk to Papa.”

Paige’s voice softened. “You don’t have to.”

“You and Otis aren’t the only ones waiting for his answer.” She took a deep breath and started off.

“Good luck,” Paige called after her.

Neither Otis nor the deacon took notice as she passed them.

The meditation halls stretched long and narrow. Only torches and candlelight guided her way to the room at the end. It was the largest and reserved for the prophet. Lights flickered and streamed from the crack underneath the door, shining on Marta’s boots while she knocked.

No answer.

She knocked a little louder.

Still nothing.

“Papa, it’s Marta,” She said at the third knock. “May I enter?”

This time the door opened and Knoth stepped aside for her. “Yes, child, come in.”

“Many thanks.” She ducked her head under the doorway.

The chamber reeked of the same wine and incense as his bedroom, though only half as potent. The stone walls stood bare aside from a large crucifix on one side. Candles of varying sizes scattered the ground, their light casting shadows. Marta and Knoth kneeled with enough space between them, before the cross.

“What brings you here, child?”

“...It is of concern,” she admitted quietly.

���And what is it that concerns you?”

“You have been so absent as of late,” Marta replied. “The people are in want, in need even, of your guidance. We wish for the comfort of our prophet, but we are left grasping in the dark.”

“Then they are in that darkness by their own shortcomings. Though I am chosen to commune with God, I am nothing more than a vessel for His word. I may die tomorrow, but He would remain. The people cannot rely on me so wholly just to confirm what should already be the foundation by which they stand.”

“You speak as if we are lost in the wilderness still.” Though her voice quieted, it echoed off the walls.

“And we must remain as vigilant as we were then. We need not repeat the sin of sloth in the Degan Ranch.”

Marta’s eyes dimmed. “The ranch was of the wicked outside. It was inevitable that it met its destruction. Temple Gate is of God’s design, made on the backs and hands of our testament.” She looked at the calluses on her hands. “This is our sanctuary. I believe now is our time to prepare and flourish so that we may be of sound mind and body when The Enemy comes. If you would permit my boldness, I think the people need you in this time more than ever.” She stiffened as she waited for a response.

“You’ve been thinking a lot.” His tone was too even to read.

“My mind wanders often in these days,” she confessed.

“Where does it wander?”

“I want a deeper understanding of our town. To know our purpose in the Lord’s battle...to know what my own role will be.”

“In due time, my dear.” He reached over so he could lightly pinch her hollow cheek. “You need only be patient.”

Marta sighed heavily. “Yes, Papa…” They sat in silence for a little longer, before Marta spoke. “Perhaps, we should go back outside?”

Knoth shook his head. “No, I’d rather stay here. Just a bit longer.”

“But there are those that wish to speak with you. Your testament needs you.”

“As long as it’s not Otis again. That boy has been pestering the deacons for nearly a week.”

“Do you not wish to speak with him?”

“Not until he learns patience and humility. He comes in here demanding an audience like a king when he has yet to gain the most basic understanding of our way.”

“Perhaps he is seeking guidance?” Marta attempted. “Whatever he seeks, it may be best to hear directly from you.”

“He hasn’t spoken with you about it?”

“I only know that he arrived here with Paige and she claims it a private matter.”

“He came here with Paige now, did he?” He stood at last. “Perhaps it would be best to see what they want.”

He held out a hand to help Marta up, which she took. Even when she stood, he kept his hold.

As they walked down the hall, they could hear the shouting.

Knoth picked up his pace, nearly tugging Marta along.

When they entered the main hall, he shouted to make his presence known. “What in God’s name is going on in here!?”

Both fell silent. They straightened themselves and sought Knoth’s attention, the deacon gaining it first.

“Papa, this insolent—”

Knoth let go of Marta’s hand and held his up to silence him. “Never you mind that. I’ll take it from here.”

“But—”

“You are dismissed.”

In a huff, he departed. Paige took his place and stood beside Otis so she could hold his hand. Their gazes met for only a moment before Otis bowed his head in Knoth’s presence.

“Forgive me, sir. I had hoped you wouldn’t see that.”

“But I did,” he snapped. “So you best tell me what you caused such a scene for.”

“Yes, of course, but first I would like to thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I understand you are a busy man, so I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“I would hope not.” Knoth rubbed his temple. “Just let me know what you want.”

Otis glanced at Marta, then back to Knoth. “Sir...I thought maybe we could discuss this matter in private?”

“What you could say in front of me, you could say in front of her. Now out with it.”

Taking a deep breath, Otis stood straight and tall. “I have come to ask for your blessing that I may take Paige’s hand in marriage.”

Both Knoth and Marta’s jaws dropped. They sought each other for an explanation, but when neither had one, Knoth gave his answer. “No, it can’t be done. You two would not suit.”

“Why not? Just the other day you were saying it was time I take my place in Temple Gate and Paige is a woman fit to bear children. What more is needed?”

“Paige was brought up to be a farmer’s wife. You are working with the fishers. You two would not flourish with your talents clashing as they are.”

“There is no reason that we cannot coexist. As long as we can set up a pen, then her livestock can travel with her wherever we choose to live.”

Knoth scoffed, “and how would you go about supporting a wife and starting a family? You haven’t a home of your own and only just started your craft. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had yet to speak to her father about this.”

“I have and he thinks it’s a fine idea. As for a home, I hoped I could take the house that Fisherman Jones left behind a few months prior. It’s vacant and I can fix it up to be suitable for a wife and children. There’s room in the yard to make a coop for Paige’s chickens. Then her father will have room of his own for more livestock, which will benefit Temple Gate.”

Knoth raised an eyebrow. “And your own parents?”

His free hand clenched into a fist. “You know as well as I do that they just want me out of the house.”

Next, Knoth shot a glare at Paige. “And what of you?” he asked, making her flinch. “Do you take to this young man?”

Though she was unable to look Knoth in the eye, Paige nodded. “I do.”

“You answer with little conviction.” He stepped forward, snarling. “Have you been coerced into this agreement against your will?”

Paige shifted to partially stand behind Otis, and clung to his arm.

“Answer, child.” He loomed, casting a shadow over them. “This is your future we are talking about.”

When Otis gave her hand a squeeze, Paige lifted her head. “This is of my own free will.”

Knoth turned his back to them. “Nonetheless, this match is unsuitable. Paige is better as a farmer’s wife. It’s how she was brought up. Come spring, I shall find her a suitable husband, but it shan't be you.”

“Surely you can make an exception. We can pursue our talents and have children together as well as we can with anyone. Why should it matter whether we choose each other or someone else?” Otis’s tapping foot punctuated his question.

Knoth shook his head. “You could request many maids in Temple Gate, yet you ask for one ill-fitting of you. I should have expected this much.”

“Papa,” Marta’s voice was gently chiding. “Must you be so harsh with them? I understand your frustration, but I do believe Otis is trying to find his place among our people.”

“And I believe you too kind,” Knoth said. “The boy has been as Doubting Thomas from the start. This request is not enough for me to believe he has seen our way. He is not yet ready to take a wife.”

“But Thomas was still one of God’s disciples, just as Otis is still one of our flock. He only needs a chance to prove himself.”

Initially, Knoth opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. His eye shone as he grinned. “My dear, I think that’s a fine idea.” He turned his attention back to Otis. “Perhaps I have been unfair towards you. For does the shepherd not seek out the one lost lamb over the ninety-nine already accounted for? If you are seeking redemption, who am I to deny you that? That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, after swallowing a lump in his throat, attempting to keep his expression even.

“Wonderful!” He clapped a hand on Otis’s shoulder. “Then you shall be baptized this coming Sunday in the Lord’s name. It shall be a declaration of newfound faith, and a sign of your joining our flock. Then, we can discuss a possible marriage.”

Otis closed his eyes and breathed through his nose before replying, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good, good,” Knoth patted his shoulder before letting go. “I pray that you continue this path, but for now you must excuse me. There is much I must attend to, but we will speak again soon. Both of you give your families my regards.” He turned to leave.

Marta watched as Paige tugged on Otis’s hand for them to depart. They hurried out of the chapel. Before she could follow, Knoth called on her to spend the rest of the day in meditation together.

[scripttorture]

Hi! Do you have any tips for writing torture in a way that isn’t watered down or inaccurate, but also not super graphic? Thank you!

Well that’s pretty broad and I think the ‘right’ answer depends on yourwriting style and what you find works for you.

 You could treat it like a sex scene in a 12A movie: suggest it withcertain actions and the emotional tone but pan away from the torture itself.You’d then come back to the scene afterwards and concentrate on the effect ithad on the victim character. That can mean physical effects, emotional effectsor any combination of the two.

 You could also avoid graphic descriptions by focusing on what the victim(or indeed the torturer) is feeling emotionally during the scene.

 You could also use the fact victims sometimes dissociate during tortureto distance their point of view from what is actually physically happening tothem.

 Generally though I think this comes down to why your story needs torture and what torture adds to the story. Because I think what torture is adding determines what the best thing tofocus on is.

 I’m trying to think of non-graphic descriptions/depictions of torture infiction that I’ve felt were good.

 One of the first things that springs to mind is Pratchett’s Small Gods, a discworld book that I keepmeaning to review (there’s an awful lot in the book to cover and I keep havingto go back and re-read it).

 None of the descriptions in the book are graphic. There’s no spurtingblood or even detailed descriptions of pain. What the book gives us instead iscarefully constructed look at the ways social structures can justify brutality.

 There are descriptions of instrumentsof torture which then quickly pan away to descriptions of torturers as individual people, descriptions that highlight their ordinarinessand the subtle but horrifying idea that anyoneis capable of what they do.

 There’s a particular vivid description of one of the charactersaccidentally witnessing torture. We’re not told what exactly he sees, just thathis stumbling trying to avoid the crowds leads him to a drain over an officialtorture chamber. For the character it’s completely unexpected and there’s amoment of complete disbelief before his brain processes what he’s actuallyseeing. The description is entirely about theway this makes him feel. The shock, the horror, the numbness as he tottersaway again and tries to get the image of it out of his head.

 There’s also a hugely powerful moment when the main character iscaptured by the head of inquisition-like organisation in the story. He’sstrapped to a large metal object with a fire beneath it that is slowly heatingup. The Inquisitor gloats and tells him about the agonising death he’s about toexperience in front of a crowd of people.

 (The book jumps to the perspective of characters in the crowdoccasionally giving us gems like this: ‘Heremembered Didactylos saying the world was a funny place. And, he thoughtdistantly, it really was. Here people were about to roast someone to death, butthey’d left his loin clothe on, out of respectability. You had to laugh.Otherwise you’d go mad.’)  

 The hero turns this into a debate about religion that is probably one ofthe most powerful exchanges in the entire book.

 ‘“Can’t you even manage a curse?Not even a curse?”

“You never heard Om,” saidBrutha. “You never believed. You never, ever heard his voice. All you heardwere the echoes inside your own mind.”

“Really? But I am the Cenobiarchand you are going to burn for treachery and heresy,” said Vorbis. “So much forOm, perhaps?”

 The conversation continues for a little bit leading up to this-

 ‘“He comes now,” said Brutha.

Vorbis waved his hand at thegreat façade of the temple. “Men built this. We built this,” he said. “And whatdid Om do? Om comes? Let him come! Let him judge between us!”

“He comes not,” Brutha repeated. “TheGod.”

[…]

“Vorbis?” croaked Brutha.

“What?” snapped the deacon.

“You’re going to die.”

 The purpose of torture here ishighlighting the hero’s strength in contrast to the villain’s weakness. And it’sa kind of strength that isn’t usually highlighted in fiction. This exchange isthe payoff of a relationship that’s built throughout the book, a battle that’snot about physical contact but concepts of religion.

 Vorbis gloats from a position of power and uses religion as an excusefor violence. Brutha, even when threatened with horrendous pain, sticks to hisbeliefs. He refuses to be made into a public spectacle and changes the scenefrom into something Vorbis doesn’t expect. Brutha stops it from being a show ofpain and power and turns it into a religious debate.

 Another good example is the way torture is handled in Star Wars IV: A New Hope. We neveractually see anything happen to Leia. There are no screams, no obviousinjuries, no gore.

 We get a brief shot of a device and a horrified expression but the restof the story (when it looks at torture at all) looks at how Leia resists. It’sabout the aftermath, about Leia metaphorically spitting in her captors’ facesand about showing the brutality of the villains failing to produce results.

 Torture here is about showing just how awful the Empire is and about highlighting the strengthand determination of one of the heroes standing against it.

 I’m also reminded of this excerpt from Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children when the main character (imprisoned andtortured) blames himself for the capture of his fellow Midnight’s Children-

 ‘No, you’re making fun of me, stop, do not joke. Why whencehow-on-earth this good nature, this bonhomie in your passed-on whisperings? No,you must condemn me, out of hand and without appeal - do not torture me withyour cheery greetings as one-by-one you are locked in cells; what kind of timeor place is this for salaams, namaskars, how-you-beens? - Children, don’t youunderstand, they could do anything to us, anything- no, how can you say that,what do you mean with your what-can-they-do? Let me tell you, my friends, steelrods are painful when applied to the ankles; rifle butts leave bruises onforeheads. What could they do? Live electric wires up your anuses children; andthat’s not the only possibility, there is also hanging-by-the feet, and acandle- ah the sweet romantic glow of candlelight!- is less than comfortablewhen applied, lit, to the skin! Stop it now, cease all this friendship, aren’tyou afraid!  Don’t you want to kick stamp trample me to smithereens? Whythese constant whispered reminiscences, this nostalgia for old quarrels, forthe war of ideas and things, why are you taunting me with your calmness, yournormality, your powers of rising-above-the-crisis? Frankly I’m puzzled,children: how can you, aged twenty-nine, sit whispering flirtatiously to eachother in your cells? Goddamnit, this is not a social reunion!’

 Saleem (the main character) very clearly states what’s happened to himhere. But it’s not communicated in a graphic or gory way. And once again theabuse itself isn’t really the point. The point is Saleem’s relationship withthe other ‘children’, about how isolated he’s felt without them and how heblames himself for their predicament.

 It’s also about how these people floutSaleem’s fears.

 And (because this novel is quite something) this is also more broadlyabout India as a country and Indian identities. The Midnight’s Children in thestory are metaphors for their country; their lives are tied to the countryitself. In this context the way thisparticular part of modern Indian history results in the death, imprisonmentand torture of nearly all of thechildren of midnight speaks vividly about what this political period meant for India.

 This is the destruction of communities, the erosion of rights, thedisregarding of others’ humanity taken from a national scale to a personal one.

 All of these three examples are firmly rooted in the knowledge of what torture is adding to these particularstories.

 For me that’s the best place to start, by deciding what you actuallyneed for the story. Because that’s rarely the violence itself: violence in andof itself isn’t particularly interesting to most audiences. Characters, theirrelationships and struggles are much more engaging.

 I hope that helps. :)

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