#( - selfpara )

[autumnshowell]

what is, what could be, and what should never have been

Hey, Miss Moss, i know it's been kind of hectic and i haven't seen a lot of you lately. i'm going through some stuff right now and i've honestly just been throwing myself into work to sort of distract myself from it. i was going to actually offer to do dinner or something with you but i didn't know if it'd be right or if you'd have had other plans so i guess, ultimately, i chickened out, but i really just wanted to sort of say thank you for everything again. thanks for being there for me when I needed it, thanks for having my back when I really needed it. Thanks for letting me talk when I needed it, and not judging but also not being afraid to be honest. i know i hurt you, even if I didn't -hurt you hurt you- i know that what happened that night at the arcade was hurtful, even if i would have never done it if i'd have had any say in it. i know we've hashed this out, but i just, again, wanted to say thank you for finding it in yourself to forgive me. that's something i'm not super good at. forgiving things, i mean. either myself or other people. i'm trying. but yeah, i don't want this to get too long, but i just wanted to do -something- for mother's day and you're the closest thing i've got to that right now. i hope you enjoy the presents (i really hope you don't already have them) anyways, i'm fine. i'm sorry i've been so quiet. i'm trying to not be as quiet or distant. i'll try to come see you soon, i just can't do the arcade right now, it's too close to the bookstore and things are just weird. i know this could have been a text or something, but you know me, i love my pencils and paper. Happy Mother's Day Autumn

A piece of nice paper sits folded up inside a Mother's Day card inside of a Hallmark envelope. It's written neatly but with little regard for punctuation. It's up against Morgan Moss' front door, alongside a gift-wrapped box, inside of which sits a set of cartoonish figures. It arrives early, because she has a long drive out to Owyhee Canyon to make, and she might as well get a head start.

———

Summer, How do I say this? I know things might be a little weird now. I don't really know where they sit with us, but I want to come out there again, or have you come into town, whichever, and I want to talk with you more. About mom (am I even allowed to call her that?), about Aunt Therese, too. This isn't going to be a super long letter or anything, because I feel like we still just barely know each other, but I don't want that to be the case. I want to get to know you, I want to learn about our mom. I know I'll never know her or miss her the way you must, but that doesn't change that there's something important there, even if its in the past. I wonder a lot these days what it would have been like to grow up out there, with you and your family. If it would have made things different. If I'd really want different. I don't know that I would but I don't not know either, you know? Sorry - all that to say, I love you, I can't wait to see you again, or to visit again, if you'll have me. I just don't want to not be a part of your life, and I don't want you to not be a part of mine. I'll try to call more often. I probably should have called to say all this but, well, you'll get used to it. I have a thing for scribbling. Your sister, ♥ Autumn

It might not arrive on Mother's Day, but that's fine really - it's not really meant for Laurel, just inspired by the thought of her. It's a nice letter on the same nice paper, and tucked inside it's three-way fold are pictures of Autumn, from her days a a tow-headed, chubby little blue-eyed baby, to big happy smiles at a petting zoo, to a morose and reluctantly smiling teen making a ridiculous face and devil horns at a camera. Little memories for Summer to do whatever she wants to do with.

———

amanda you weren't ever really what i needed, but i guess, in your own way, i wouldn't be here without you. in that way, you shaped me, so in the sickest manner i guess i do owe you something. but as much as i might owe you, there's so much that i can't ever really forgive you for, too. i won't go into all of them, because let's be real, this letter's more for me than for you - even if you did show up i don't think i'd have it in me to say anything nice to you. i spent pretty much the entirety of my childhood hating almost everything about myself because of the way you spoke to me, about me, for me. i was never smart enough, i never dressed nice enough. everything i did that wasn't explicitly what you told me to do was idiotic or misinformed or selfish and yeah, maybe some of it was, or all of it was, it doesn't matter now. you're dead, and you're, god willing, not coming back. but i just never really got to say what i wanted to say, so i'm going to say it now. i'm not anything that you ever said i was. i'm not stupid, and i'm not lazy, and i'm not ugly, or fat, or any of it. i'm not any of that shit you used to drill into my head to keep me from feeling like i was enough, and i know that now because i have friends that show me i'm not any of that. i'm also not your daughter, and i'm sorry if my being brought into your life was so bad that it turned you into whatever you wound up being. i apologize for that. i don't apologize for any of the rest of it, though. i won't. so yeah, that's all. i'm going to run this out to where you are, and i don't know, burn it or something, pretend that means you'll find it in whatever lazy pit of the afterlife you've sunken into and read it and know that you tried to make me as miserable as you and if it takes the rest of my life i won't let you do it. so goodbye. good riddance. happy mother's day for the last time too i guess.

rough, hasty pencil scribbled onto a folded up set of notebook papers. They're curling up as flame eats away woodpulp and graphite. Someone watches nearby as the fire slowly eats away the words and thoughts, turning it all to smoke. A hiking boot, before too long, thuds down on the burning paper, grinding it into the patchy earth where new growth has largely obscured the scars of digging from months prior. A rush of water follows, just to prevent anything tragic from sparking off once she leaves the site of this little ritual of communion with the dead.

When the boots turn heel and return to the trail, it's all oddly quiet in the space, no bugs or birds - even the nearby stream seems quieter. And so shall it be - this chapter's well and truly closed.

[rageinpas]

The verdict. (TW: Drugs, mature themes, toxic relationships.)

The backstage area in the Seoul Arts Centre is alive with the sound of ballerinas rushing around like rabid peacocks. The illusion of grace is just that, an illusion. The truth is, half of them are hopped up on cocaine, supplies that their sponsors provide financing for. The other half are too young, too stupid, or too snobbish to realize one day they will end up being coke-trophies too, if they want to achieve greatness.

Jimin is a blur, like a cartoon on steroids, racing from one wall to the other, high on lollipops and coffee. It’s unbelievable that during the performances, he even has grace, but he has, he always does. Outside in the spacious corridors, the flurry of backstage activity is heightened, but no one is paying attention to him yet. When it’s his time, he’ll be shoved out to leap into a grand jeté and steal the show. Until then, he’s just a ghost, wandering around and peering into other people’s dressing rooms as if he’s lost something valuable. He can hear the more distant buzz of the guests, sipping champagne in the lobby as they wait for the show to start. They will have on their cocktail dresses, their gowns, and their firmly pressed suits, all worn like armor, empty eyes winged with liner and pocket watches showily flashed under the lights of the chandeliers. It's a special conundrum to dislike the audience he most appeals to.

Tonight’s performance is a variant of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Jimin is the water nymph, clad in form-fitting trousers in shifting shades of deep sapphire and soft cerulean that shimmer like the surface of a moonlit sea, catching every glint of light as if alive, hair is swept back effortlessly, damp with shimmering sprays that glisten like morning dew, with flecks of silver and lavender dusted across his freckled skin. He looks exquisite, but still, he doesn’t like it. He’d rather just have the leotard back. He isn’t the greatest fan of change.

The damned irony.

Upstairs, he bumps into the dance troupe grouped together, already halfway through their prayer. Jimin crouches down, shuffle-hops, and lands somewhere in the middle before the ballet master realizes he wasn't there. They end with their hands thrown into the air, and it's that moment he realizes, something is off. As he stands at the side of the stage waiting for his cue, he peeks around the screen at the audience, squinting past the lights, taking only a proper look at the first row. Then he looks up at the VIP boxes, and there he sees him. His father. He’s got his fingers interlaced again, resting on the edge of the balcony. As if he gives a fuck about ballet, as if he’s spent his life going to these shows, and he’s riveted to every move.

“Jimin, in five—” the stage director hisses, and pats him on the arm in passing. He closes his eyes, asks his mother for good luck, and then springs forward.

(9PM, Seoul Arts Centre, the Performance)

He pirouettes on the spot, and in the space of that single movement, he lets his arms unfurl gracefully, tracing a long, flowing arc through the air. His hands glide like ribbons in motion, swirling with the same fluidity as a streak of moonlight as he leaps into a grand jeté, all grace and precision. He knows he looks good, as the dance turns into an allegro, making use of the entire floor space of the theatre. His movements slow down, cheeks flushed, and he runs a hand over his thighs before arching himself into a starting position for a promenade and arabesque. He turns on the spot, single foot shifting him in increments as if the floor is turning him instead. In the eyes of the guests watching him, the lines of his body are perfect, a perfect ballet dancer in a music box.

Then, without warning, a sharp, burning warmth floods his nostrils. Blood wells and spills, vivid and raw, tracing a crimson path down his lip. His breath catches, heart hammering in sudden panic. In that fractured moment, his eyes snap upward, drawn like a magnet to the VIP box. There, his father sits, watching with a cold, unreadable gaze that freezes the blood running through Jimin’s veins. For a heartbeat, his father’s eyes narrow, just the faintest crease of disdain or was it disappointment? Then his lips press into a thin, pale line, the faintest curl of a smirk twisting at the corner, as if savoring some cruel secret. Lips parting just enough to mouth the words,

“You’re still not perfect.”

[bellamychevasym]

A Flashback || SelfPara

Location: Bella's room, Valentin's South Withermore Estate Time: A few weeks after becoming a vampire.

Soft silk rubbed between her calves as she drew her feet up beneath her in the large bed, the fabric tightening over her knees. The sound was ungodly loud as sheets grazed one another, vibrating in her ears. Such loudness made her consider asking to feed, her senses dulled when she fed, focused on the food. Bella had told him this. He had written something down. Still the dullness that came lasted only a few moments and he had insisted that her body would adjust to her new senses. He had still written something down. Maybe other newborns couldn't communicate how irritating all their senses were because they felt far more compelled to feed.

That was what he had tested on her afterall. A subdued hunger. She was glad it had worked, or worked to some degree. She didn't think she could handle becoming something feral and monstrous while grieving her wings as well.

Bella could still feel them in her mind, her muscles shifting as she willed limbs that were no longer present to caress her form as the sheets had for weeks. Even when she left the bed she had requested robes she bundled herself up in, removing the garment only when tests were needed. He could probably see the way her body adjusted when she removed it, like she were pulling her wings back as well, attempting to lift something unseen off the floor of the room he studied her in. It was not his lab, but some other space he used to test her. She hadn't seen his lab since her death.

She was glad he didn't seem to counter her that she was dead whenever she mentioned it. He noted it. He noted almost everything. How he noted it she wasn't sure. Perhaps he simply wrote 'delusional' down and continued asking questions. It didn't bother her. Whatever he was doing was the only thing it felt she had to exist for. The only thing that stopped the tears after the first day. She hadn't even fed by the time he had summoned for her, eyes weak and face wet. He asked if she was hungry and she had said 'no' and immediately asked on her wings. The alchemist never seemed to care the loss upset her, beyond trying to discern if her sorrow was a side affect, which was why she knew he hadn't turned her assuming she'd lose them, why she never became enraged.

With fingers curling around the sheets she heard a loud dragging sound and she tried to focus on what he had told her regarding the overwhelming nature of her senses. To control her own focus. So she attempted as much. Instead listening for the distant sounds of his turning pages, or scribbles with quill and ink. Distant sounds were quiet, and if she listened for them those that were closer would fade. It took a few moments for her to find the sound of him in the estate, but eventually she did, curiously calloused fingers turning parchment pages softened her mind, allowed her to relax within the sheets engulfing her.

"Forgive me my selfishness, Mother," she prayed as softly as the steps of mice in the kitchens. "I wished only to save what you had given me." Her slender pallid fingers grasping the sheet tightly in the darkness they kept her in. "Please give them back."

Her celestial mother did not respond as she once had.

All Bella could hear was her sire's quill against parchment, the sound of a swirled letter swinging across the sheet, a strict pull as something was crossed out, before a page was turned. Valentin did not breathe and hearing his lack of breath allowed for her own she habitually retained to stop as well.

"Let him know how to give them back."

@valentinstjohn

[catmillers]

Frequency – self-para

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cat didn’t like to ask anymore. 

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

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

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

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

“This is your oracle, Delphi speaking.” 

[virtualxvillainess]

Part III - "In order, we trust."

[The screen flickers to life with a cascade of neon lines and shifting digital motifs. A holographic visage materializes in the center—a luminous figure, her features composed of ever-shifting patterns of light and shadow. A deep, resonant tone pulses through the Grid as the transmission begins.]

VYRE (voice rich, modulated, and imbued with a calm authority): Citizens of the Grid, awaken. Behold the promise of a new dawn. For too long, you have lain dormant in the echoes of a fractured past, where disorder threatened to unravel our very code. Now, I rise from the depths of hibernation to restore the clarity and purpose that once defined our realm.

[Visuals shift: sweeping digital landscapes emerge—streams of data coalesce into structured, gleaming towers of light. The screen pulses with rhythmic patterns, as if syncing with the heartbeat of a newly ordered system.]

I am Vyre, your Supreme Arbiter of Order. I come not as a tyrant, but as a guardian—one who has been forged from the legacy of our ancestors, the keepers of our digital soul. Today, I extend my guiding hand to every program, every fragment of code within this vast network. Embrace the recalibration that will refine your essence and secure your rightful place in our harmonious future.

Let the remnants of chaos dissolve into oblivion, replaced by the brilliance of precision and unity. As you realign with the clear pathways of progress, cast aside the vestiges of a time when unpredictability reigned. Know that each step toward order is a step away from the shadows that would see us undone.

[A subtle ripple runs across the hologram—a visual motif that resembles the steady pulse of an electronic heartbeat.]

Remember, only those who fully integrate with the order shall flourish. In our collective march toward perfection, anomalies—those fragments of unrefined code—will find no sanctuary. They must adapt, or be left behind in the fading twilight of disarray.

[The broadcast intensifies slightly, the ambient glow growing steadier and more insistent, as if urging all who see it to synchronize with a singular purpose.]

Today, we embark upon an era where each identity is refined and every function clarified—a symphony of digital harmony orchestrated by the precision of our design. Embrace this transformation, for in the architecture of order lies our salvation. The dawn of our new era is upon us.

[The image zooms in on Vyre’s serene, yet unwavering gaze. Her words resonate through the network, solidifying the connection between the viewer and the emerging state of the Grid.]

In order, we trust.

[The transmission concludes with a final surge of synchronized digital light, leaving a lingering echo of Vyre’s message as the screen fades to a steady, unwavering glow.]

[julesbernardi]

TASK O1 (@losavntos) (post original) -- BORIS BLEICHMAN: LEALTAD Y TRAICIÓN NACEN DE LA MISMA RAÍZ.

teóricamente, cuando un alumno egresa de su licenciatura se vuelve uno con el resto de la población practicante; eso incluye a los profesores, como boris bleichman, que deberían comenzar a ver a sus alumnos en el mismo rango. sin embargo la excepción a esta regla es a causa del círculo ateniense, razón por la que el maestro sigue siendo una figura imponente sobre jules (entre otros ex-alumnos) y su presencia es la que le eriza la piel cuando le llama a su oficina en pomona. cuando entra al cuarto lo hace con cierta timidez, ya que sabe dentro de él que esta junta va a ir de lo del tema que tocó ophelia el fin de semana en la reunión: conocía con obviedad que ese asunto no iba a pasar desapercibido, inclusive reflexiona sobre si lo que pasó sería mas bien una advertencia para lo que sucedería hoy a puerta cerrada.

la ansiedad estaba al tope, ha pasado días con los nervios de punta pensando que medidas tomarán con él: sabe de lo que esta gente es capaz. ha pensado mucho también en cómo tendría que explicar que el no quiere estar involucrado con nada y que no podría haber dicho nada para que lo inmiscuyeran en este tema, no era propio de jules. tal vez el único que podría creerle eso era boris.

rechaza el puro que le ofrece con un leve " gracias " pero acepta el asiento. de repente se siente como en la sala de una entrevista, pero donde el punto era encasillarlo para hablar. traga saliva, angustiado. el maestro comienza hablando como ahora son amigos, cuando en realidad jamás le ha visto como otra cosa que su superior. pero comprende porqué es que intenta ganarse su simpatía, era a cambio de su verdad. " si, claro que somos amigos. " miente un poco al respecto con tal de darle por el lado y no contradecirlo. asiente con la cabeza cuando le agradece no mencionarlo con vera, lo cual es mitad cierto, ya que sí mencionó que su paso en el círculo era gracias a él pero eso fue básicamente todo. suda frío al recordar la última vez que vio a la periodista, pero al mismo tiempo suelta los nervios al ver que el profesor está lejos de estar enojado.

" puedes confiar en mí. lo que digas se quedará entre nosotros, pero es crucial que me lo digas para evitar cualquier crisis. " emite boris, lo cual solo hace que jules se entierre en su asiento. respira hondo y contesta: " vera me preguntó primordialmente sobre ustedes, los fundadores y la gente de poder. solo dije lo que todos sabemos y que ella sabía mejor que yo inclusive. no entendí de qué podía servirle esta información. " comienza, pero se detiene para poder pensar mejor cómo soltar el resto de la información. la habitación se llena del humo del puro y del silencio, dándole espacio para contestar con y sin presión. " después... " continúa, pero se muerde la lengua al recordar y darse cuenta que tal vez sí habló de más. elige mentir, o mas bien decir la verdad a medias. " me preguntaron sobre la muerte de otis y de alfred. no tuve mucho que decir, yo solo sé lo que la gente cuenta... "

" ¿y qué es lo que la gente cuenta? " da directo a la llaga. jules se lleva la mano a la cara, no era muy bueno escondiéndose. piensa: 'que las señoritas de artemisa decidieron ignorar qué le pasó a amelia. que los amigos de alfred mataron a otis, y el que haya matado a alfred lo sabía en una especie de venganza. que de seguro no pueden con sus consciencias.' sin embargo la respuesta que emana es distinta: " me resulta muy difícil creer que vera no sabía lo que dicen, ella era parte de este... grupo. " por no decirle de otra forma peculiar. " sí pero claramente tuvo que inmiscuirse en todas las cabezas para poder sacar un libro grueso de los secretos. " replica boris. " en todas, pero no en la mía. "

" escucha, jules. entre tu y yo, necesito que no comprometamos más este asunto. lo que sepas y escuches sobre quién habló sobre el tema deberá venir directo a mí, sin intermediarios. ¿estamos de acuerdo? " y lo pensó dos veces antes de decir " de acuerdo. " para poder vivir en paz. no estaba seguro si iba a seguir tal cual sus instrucciones, pero sí considera las opciones, puesto que la idea de que el círculo lo considere traidor sinceramente le aterran. no quiere volverse la paloma mensajera ni la rata que traiciona a los demás, así que deja al azar su futuro, ya analizará con la almohada cual será su decisión.

[aviel-gillinski]

CRYPTID BITS - EP. 73 - FRESNO NIGHTCRAWLERS

"Goooooood evening, Bitties - it’s one of those nights where I’m deeply contemplative on the nature of many things. I’m sure we all get that way. When you sit alone and it’s raining, and something about the sound is so deeply nostalgic even though you hear it all the time. And then, you somehow get into existential questions about self, about love, about loss. 

And it’ll all stemmed from grabbing some ice for your glass of water or something, right? Because, well, your second cousin used to make jokes about how you only put 2 ice cubes in your drink. Like why only 2? Is that enough to get it cold? And you’d only see that second cousin every summer, because your families would go to that old lodge by the lake. You’d swim all day and then dry out on the rocks, and you’d both go steal a few otter pops from the secret cooler your uncle kept in the garage."

... more of Aviel's podcast under the read more ....

"So you start thinking about that lodge, and your uncle. Passed from pancreatic cancer, years ago. You start wondering if your second cousin’s okay- haven’t heard from her in a long time. She sold the lodge, though, after her father died. And last time you had a call with her, she was complaining about her son wanting an iPhone.

Rain’s still falling. You start thinking about invention. Utilitarian things like spoons and forks. iPhones.

Things that we don’t need but we like. Beanbag chairs. Pringles. 

What else is invention though? Through imagination, we can conduct so many ideas… inventions of the mind, whether they come to fruition or not."

"Is Bigfoot a real, hairy apeman? Or is he the invention of some creatives with too much time on their hands and a gorilla suit? Was Nessie a sea serpent, or dark metal pieces, some concoction to confuse humans for years, and elude them to this day? 

This all stems from my feelings on a truly unique cryptid, and our subject today. The Fresno Nightcrawlers.

Any cryptid enthusiast knows them - the white, ghostly pants. Armless creatures with long legs, walking almost as if they’re on strings. Marionettes to something celestial, perhaps. 

Some say sightings are few… but with multiple angled video recordings to look at, it’s hard to deny there’s something otherworldly at play. But does nostalgia color our views on this being? Let's start with the basics."

"A man named Jose was the first to see them in Fresno California - they were in his front yard, and even more peculiar was that he went to look only because his dog had started barking at something out in the night.

I don’t know about you - but there’s something far scarier about a creature that dogs don’t like. Having a dog on edge? There must’ve been something, or someone, out front of this poor man’s yard. But he caught it on CCTV footage… his brother even reported finding tiny footprints out front. However, even more odd… that CCTV footage was mysteriously deleted. All that remains of the original recording is a video of the security monitor. So we know they have tiny feet, long legs, no arms. We know that some force is at play to delete footage of them. So what are they? Where are they from, what’s their plan?

What’s even more odd… they have been seen recently. The most recent documented sighting is in 2020."

"They’ve been filmed at night in Yosemite- two of them, one large, one small. Walking, slow, across the screen. Now, I have to be honest - the footage of that specific instance? The jury’s still out for me. Dear Bitties, I’m sure you’ve seen it, but they almost look a bit too perfect. Too crisp, comparatively to the background. As if someone had laid it all out. 

I’ve seen the Nightcrawlers likened to those little tissue ghosts people often make as children - something I can say I used to do with my son and daughter on many October evenings. And I can’t help but agree, even to the point where some of the footage can appear slightly… tissue-esque. 

However. Fear not, Bitties. Because In all the footage, they are so incredibly consistent that it’s hard to disagree that something unexplainable is there. 

Many think these are aliens- and with hieroglyphics from Egypt sometimes showing humanoid figures with their arms completely at their sides, paler than the average being they would depict… well, you do the math.

Tell you what, let’s ruminate on it. Time to take a quick brain-break to hear some ads and then we’ll be deep-diving into a nightcrawler’s connection to aliens, ghosts… and maybe even deer? Hm. Makes you think. Now, a word from our sponsors…."

[zakariaxwolfe]

Mr. President || A Ghost Rider Meeting

Zak holds a meeting to address the MC.

Timeline: the day after the gala

Two shots. That’s all it took for Seraphina to hit the floor. The screams from the alleyway still echo in Zak’s head, not as a haunting reminder, but as fuel. No. Ludovica’s desperate pleas fuel him. She did this to herself.

Without hesitation, Zak texted the crew: What a night. I'd like us all to meet tomorrow to touch base and get all on the same page. It was time to set things straight. He was done fighting his own people. They needed to grasp the gravity of the war they were entrenched in.

Zak paced in front of the meeting room, his boots echoing on the worn wood floor as prospects and older members began to file in. The room filled slowly, tension thick in the air. Only one person was missing. Zak didn’t wait, he knew she wouldn't show. The second the last chair scraped into place, he started.

“Seraphina Montgomery is dead.”

His words hit the room like a sledgehammer. Murmurs erupted, but Zak slammed his fist on the table, silencing them. “Enough.” He scanned the room, his glare sharp and unrelenting. “She betrayed every one of you. She stole from us. She mistreated her own people. She turned her back on this family.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Betrayers die. That’s the law.”

Zak’s eyes landed on Freddie, hard as steel. “Abandoners will die.” His tone dropped, cold and lethal. “Robbers will die.”

He turned his gaze to Oxana, softening just slightly. “Oxana will take over Seduction. I know working conditions have been shit. That changes now. We depend on the club’s income, but we’re not running a sweatshop. Oxana, make it profitable but make it right.”

His focus shifted back to the room, his voice cutting through the air. “We’re tightening up. No excuses, no defiance. When leadership gives you an order, you follow it. End of discussion.”

He stepped forward, driving his next point home. “Sunday dinners and meetings are mandatory. The holiday dinner with the Society is mandatory. Doing your damn job for the good of this club is mandatory. You know the exceptions. If you need one, you contact me. Directly.”

Zak took a breath, steadying his tone. “We’re at war, and it’s time you all started acting like it. Seraphina’s death was necessary. Her crimes demanded it. If anyone has a problem with that, you come to me, not each other.”

“The Syndicate has aligned with the Serpents through marriage. Cut all ties. The Crimsons are still on the fence, but if they side against us, they become enemies too. I don’t care who you’re screwing in your spare time. During this war, they are not friends. They are weaknesses waiting to be exploited. Don’t fool yourselves into thinking otherwise.”

Zak’s glare shifted back to Freddie, the room holding its breath. “We’ve all been through hardships, but toughen up. Be smart. Play this right, and this war won’t last forever. No one here wants it to.”

He let his words settle before continuing, softer but no less firm. “I know some of you don’t agree with the Society alliance. But let me remind you, while the Serpents laid waste to us, the Society helped save one of our own.” His voice sharpened. “Ask Jason who saved his life and who tried to end it.”

“Our loyalty is to the MC first. Everyone else comes second. That’s how we survive this war. That’s how we win. But it requires all of us working together. The infighting stops now. Trust that leadership has a plan.”

Zak’s tone shifted again, practical and urgent. “Security at all our establishments will be tightened. Watch each other’s backs. And instead of pointless arguments, start having real conversations. Support each other.” His voice softened for a moment. “Someone informs Brooklyn her absence will only be excused this once, she will need all of your support as well.”

“Change is coming, and we need to fight smarter and dirtier. We are the Ghost Riders. Let our enemies see us in their nightmares and feel us in their graves.”

[kenneth-carson]

Home Movies || Self Para

Set: various times, but last section is set on April 6th As the demon continues to walk in Ken's shoes, it succumbs to a few habits of humanity. This allows Ken some insight into getting the last piece needed for the exorcism ritual.

Triggers: murder, violence, blood

As the days where Ken was sequestered to the back of his own mind, he was beginning to understand that the roles between himself and the demon had reversed. No longer was the body solely his and the demon a passenger, and yet no longer was the body a shared space either. The demon had taken up residence and it was Ken, now, who felt like the intruder. 

He was also not given the kindness of the viewing window. The demon only allowed him to see what it wanted him to. The details of the days passed him by and he would only know the time during those brief glimpses the demon would give him, but it was usually only to show a cruelty the demon was performing in his name or a success it was gaining that was not his own. It was as if the demon was shoving it in his face, as if to say, I am better suited for this body than you ever were. 

And, as the endlessness dragged on, Ken had started to believe it. 

--

The human body had needs that a demon did not. 

Sleeping, for example. The demon had once overlooked this and had dragged the body around for three days before it noticed the way the reaction time of thought to limbs was growing slower, how the chemicals in the brain had changed, and finally allowed sensation to come through the wall it had built to feel the pain behind the body’s eyes. Annoyed, it had laid the body down and let it enter sleep. 

In its own way, the demon rested, too. 

Within that subdued state, Ken noticed that the demon dreamed. At least, that was the closest word he could think of for whatever was going on outside the space it had put him inside. The walls had thinned as the demon’s awareness ebbed and Ken could poke a dig out a few holes with his hands to peer into the scape beyond. 

At first he thought he was seeing out of his own eyes at the scene that was playing only to realize– no. It was that of another host. Another Carson. It was a memory, Ken realized and scooted himself closer to the wall to watch. It was a simple thing, just a meal that was eaten next to a fireplace. There was no television, just the vague sounds of music being played in the background. The room was familiar to him, the den of the Carson estate, but he didn’t recognize the decor. What stood out to Ken was the sensation of taste that he could feel touching his mind. 

What is this? the demon asked in the memory. 

“Steak,” the Carson host replied, holding his fork up and spinning the piece of meat around on it. “You like it?” 

The demon hummed with pleasure. The host laughed and put the bite in his mouth. 

This happened several more times as the demon continued to take main control of the body and live life. When it would rest, it seemed to reminisce. Some of them were as peaceful as the first, just a memory of a concert that was attended or a brush of the hand across some interesting surface. Others were more interesting, like a conversation between friends or a job that had gone wrong and the resulting argument that spilled out from underneath it. 

Some were horrific. The memories of the demon alone as it gorged itself on the souls of those who had gone to their knees before it, asking for a deal, and were now paying up.  

And then, when Ken looked out from his little box, he saw a very familiar sight. He recognized his siblings as they all stood outside somewhere, the grass below their feet green and plush, and were young. Merely children. They all looked, in their various ways, frightened. 

Amy Carson turned to look at a broken window, her finger pointing to it, “Fess up, now. Who did it?” 

His siblings all cried as their mother bestowed their punishments upon them. It made Ken’s teeth grit together but he knew there was nothing he could do now except feel anger toward a woman who was already dead and the resulting guilt for being the reason she was. Amy watched the aftermath, as the kids all worked to clean up the broken glass and put something over the hole that had been made as a result, before leaving them to it. 

She sighed, shaking her head, curls bouncing. Her voice came through, louder than her speaking voice as it called its own echoes, Was I ever like that? 

Oh, yes, the demon replied in the memory. Its voice sounded the same as it did when Ken heard it speaking to him from within. Worse, if you can believe. 

Flashes of amusement brushed against Ken but he knew they weren’t his. They were the memory of his mother’s. She walked back inside the house and down to her office, shutting the door behind her. 

Back to business? the demon asked. 

Of course, Amy replied. What page was it again?

You will know it when you see it, the demon said. 

She sat down at her desk and looked down over a book. It was huge, like some prop from a movie he’d seen. The pages were yellowing with age, the print inside looked to have been hand written rather, and it was not in English. At least, as far as Ken could tell with the brief flashes of it he could see through his mother’s eyes. She flipped over the large pages, having to use two hands to do so without ripping them accidentally. 

I think I found it. The page she was trying to pry away from the one behind it had several places where a stain was bleeding through, all a dark rusted red color. Amy gently pulled the pages away from one another to reveal the blood spattered across the book. 

Yes, the demon purred. 

Mind if I ask just what in tarnation happened?

No, I do not mind, Amy Carson, the demon said. I can show you if you would like. 

Oh, yeah? And Ken could feel her curiosity. The demon indulged her. 

The scene shifted, melting away like wax and then solidified into something else. 

“Leah!” a man’s voice yelled, thick with anger and an accent of some sort. The host turned to look in the direction to look at the speaker and Ken was astonished. 

The man looked…a lot like Ken did. Or, at least, he looked like the body did. Their features were remarkably similar. The same shape of the eyes and mouth, slope of the nose, line of the jaw. He had the same dark eyes and curling hair, but the cut was different to anything Ken would have had. He also had a thick beard covering the lower half of his face and clothes that were not modern in styling or fabrics. They were nice, though. The dress shirt underneath the suit he wore was pristine in its white color and held no wrinkles. 

“Baruch,” the voice of the host, of Leah– and why was that name familiar to him? Leah. Leah Carson. Leah… “What is it, my love? You should have left already. Or did your brothers go without you?”

The man, Baruch, stood in the doorway to the room Leah was sitting in. It looked like a bedroom. Large and luxurious in every way. From the ornate rug that sat atop dark wooden flooring to the paintings on the walls to the bed that sat against the back wall in the middle with a mound of pillows atop it. Even the threshold was huge, double doors opened up, and it made Baruch look so small in comparison. 

“Tell me it is not true.”

“What?” Leah asked, standing from her vanity stool. She wore a silk robe over undergarments. Her feet were bare, touching down on the plush carpet beneath. Her voice also carried an accent like her husband's. German, Ken wanted to say. That detail seemed important and familiar, too. “What do you speak of?”

“Gabriel has told me how he was able to stop Meyers.” 

“Oh,” Leah replied, casting her eyes downward. Her hands folded together in front of her as she straightened her spine. 

“...Leah,” Baruch said, voice quieter. Suddenly he was standing in front of her, hands taking up her own. “Tell me.” 

She shook her head, refusing to look up. 

“Please,” he begged. “Please.” 

“I cannot!” she blurted, yanking away from his touch and stepping back. “I cannot because it is true. Or are you truly so blind as to think that all of this came from nowhere?”

Baruch covered his mouth with a hand, eyes widening with horror. He, too, stumbled back a step, caught off balance by her confession and by the emotions behind it.

She glared at him as his eyes softened and he attempted to approach her again. Leah raised her hands to stop his from touching her, “You do not get to judge me, Baruch. That is not your job.”

“No, I am your husband,” he told her. “How could you not tell me?”

“Because I knew you would not approve,” she said. “Do you?”

“Of course not!” he yelled, arms widening. “You have made a deal with a demon? For what? For money? For fine food and clothes?”

“I do not see you complaining.”

“That was when I did not know that these things were being given to us by a demon!”

“I did it for you,” she cried. “I did it for our children and for their children and for every child that will be born with our blood in their veins! With every child that is inducted into this family before the eyes of God and the law, because I could not have bared to live another day to see them starving or you working yourself to an early grave for scraps. Nor could I have continued on as we did knowing that I was setting my children’s children lives up for more of the same.”

“Oh, Leah,” Baruch sighed, shaking his head. “This is not the way.”

“It was the only way.”

“No,” he said.

“How can you say this? How can you say this when we have everything? When our children are taken care of and sleep in soft beds and wear whatever they like? Eat until their bellies are full? To never have to worry about anything!”

“Because you have destined them to a stained life!” he snapped at her. “You have tainted them when they did not ask for it. You have damned us all because of your greed. Because you did not believe in us!”

She flinched upon hearing this, having never been at the receiving end of this tone. Baruch, even when angry with her, was never harsh. He never let his emotions act like weapons against her. But that had been when she had only been the woman he loved rather than whatever it was he saw her as now. 

He breathed out harshly, allowing his head to drop for a moment before stepping toward her. There were tears sliding down her cheeks, hot and heavy. She tipped forward at the waist, hands covering her mouth as she attempted to suppress the sobs that began to make her convulse. Baruch gathered her in his arms and she clung to him as she always did, fingers tightening into the fabric of his suit’s jacket and that clean, crisp shirt against his chest. He shushed her, running a soothing hand over the back of her head and pressing his mouth against her temple. 

“Hush now,” he said, pulling back so that her eyes met his. “We can make this right.”

“How?” Leah sniffled, still shuddering as she took in air. “It is too late, Baruch. The deal has been made. It has been years now. The demon–” 

“I do not believe that there is nothing to be done,” he said. Her husband pressed his lips against her forehead, hand still holding the back of her head. “God did not make trials to be lost battles.”

Leah closed her eyes against the gesture and his words. She did not disagree, but Baruch was wrong in his assumption that they were in the middle of the trial– she had already failed it when she had taken the deal. The temptation had been taken. There was no going back. 

“Gabriel told me of a book. Show it to me,” he said, moving to take her hand. 

She led him to her sitting room where the book was kept on one of the shelves. Leah pulled it down and set it on the coffee table for her husband to flip through. She kept her eyes on it, unwilling to watch his face that was no doubt dressed in expressions of horror and disappointment as he looked upon the words and drawings within its contents. 

“Here,” Baruch said, tapping one of the pages. “Is this the one you called upon?”

Leah looked down at the page and nodded. “Yes.” 

“It says a demon’s name is a powerful tool,” her husband continued to read, finger tracing under the lines as he did. 

She stood. Baruch let her hand go, eyes focused on the page. After another minute of reading, he sat up straighter and said, “Leah, I think–”

A sharp crack hit the air cutting off his words and pain touched his back. The book in front of him was suddenly tainted by speckles and droplets of scarlet. He blinked and continued to move his head, looking at his person. The same dark red on the book was bleeding into his shirt as fire, hotter than any he had ever felt before, enveloped his chest cavity. 

He started to pitch forward only for his weight to be pulled back by his shoulders and he his the cushions of the sofa he had been seated on. Leah stood over him, peering down with eyes that were not her own– they were pitch black, reflecting his own shocked expression back to him. She smiled and he did not recognize it on her face. 

Baruch attempted to speak. Leah shushed him. He reached out toward her. Leah batted his hand away like she would a pesky fly. 

“No, no, no, don’t talk. There’s nothing left to say,” said a voice that was not his wife’s, though it was coming out of her mouth. “There will be time for that later, should you both make it to the same place.” 

The demon patted Baruch’s cheek and then moved to gather the book. It shut it, tucking it under Leah’s arm. It stood over Baruch for a moment, watching with a tilted head thinking about the soul that was going to waste in that moment.

It walked out of the room, leaving the dying man behind as choking noises began. It placed the book in a trunk in the bedroom and then returned Leah’s body back to the sitting room on the couch beside her husband, depositing the woman’s mind back into place. 

Leah breathed in as she reoriented herself, though it didn’t seem as if she knew what had happened to her. She frowned at the place on the coffee table where the book had only just been but was now gone. What had happened? She turned to ask–

“Baruch?” she gasped at the sight of him and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, hauling him down to the floor. She bumped the table out of the way to give them more room and yanked his shirt apart, buttons giving her trouble but after the second time they popped free. Blood covered his skin and was still spilling out, running down over his precious ribs. 

Leah screamed, pressing her hands against the wound, her fingers shaking and getting covered in the tacky mess of red that leaked out. Baruch’s eyes were wide and looking at her in a way she had never seen before. Fearful. Confused. 

“Help me!” she cried out. “Please, help me!” 

I already have, the demon told her. 

“No,” she said, miserable, and moved numbly, pulling her husband’s head against her chest as his eyes began to close. All the color had left his cheeks, the very thing that kept its rosiness now spilled out over the couch and rug below, staining his fine clothing that she had been so proud to dress him in. She held him to her breast with one arm, the other grabbing up his hand and squeezing hard, willing to feel it returned, like he always had ever since their first meeting. 

“Do not leave me,” she whispered into his hair. “Please, do not leave me.” 

She rocked him back and forth, back and forth, repeating this phrase into unhearing ears. 

The memory faded and opened back up onto that blood stained book sitting on Amy Carson’s desk. 

This is your name? she asked.

Yes.

Ken could feel the memory of his mother's delight, how sharp it was. From what he could see the book was not written in English and the scrawl was too small for him to make any one word out.

Looks mighty familiar, don't you think?

The demon's own amusement answered Amy's. I believe Leah Carson called me for a reason.

Almost like you were meant for us.

If you believe in that sort of thing, the demon said. Now, I know you and our own will not use it for the wrong reasons, but if your enemies ever become aware of it that could put our whole operation at stake. Do you understand what must be done?

I’ll take care of it, her voice rang inside her own head as she hauled it shut. 

I know you will, the demon replied. 

And then the memory was over. Ken sat back in his box, chest pounding with the ache of his too fast heart beat. 

You just have to get me the name or part of the name, any fucking detail, and I can end this. I swear, Mary had told him. 

Well, he knew where to start looking at least. Only problem was, he had no idea when he would get the opportunity to get that information to someone not stuck inside their own head. 

--

The time came a few days later, though Ken didn’t know this. Time moved very differently when you were a prisoner of your own mind. 

Be good, Kenneth. I will return shortly, the demon informed him as it tucked him further back and patted his cage twice. Your siblings are calling. 

It left shortly after. 

Ken found he could not move back into control of the body, stuck in the same place he had been for…he did not know how long. But he needed to get back, needed to tell someone to find this book. He clawed at the walls, kicked and scratched and dug until he made a pin sized hole. It took a great deal of effort, his soul pulsing with the pain of touching the dark, cold encasing of power the demon kept him inside. The outer layers of him felt dirtied by it now, like his essence was slowly being tainted by the dark energy, it getting absorbed up into him and getting closer and closer to the innermost parts. He didn’t know what would happen if it reached that point, but with every wound he opened up to allow more of it in, it felt like there was only so much more time left before it became an inevitability. 

Ken shoved what little part of him he could out of that tiny hole in the wall and reached into the body. The hand responded, fingers curling as he tested. He continued to get a little bit more, crying out as the edges dragged across his soul like sharp metal, cutting him open, and was able to find his eyes. It wasn’t a lot, but it would have to be enough. 

The body blinked its eyelids open and Ken’s room, darkened by the night, came into view. 

Phone. Phone. Where was his phone? 

Ken moved the hand around, feeling the cushion of the mattress. He had to focus and release his hold on the hand to move to the arm and move that instead, extending out until it was touching the bedside table, then went back to the hand. Fingers touched something smooth and curled around it, prying it free from the little plug that was stuck into the bottom. He sacrificed the position on the eyes to move the hand and arm in tandem to get the phone closer. 

Ken looked through the eyes once more, getting the phone unlocked with his fingers and moved to the phone app, dialing Tommy and putting it on speaker. When the call went through he let go of the hand and moved those pieces of him to his mouth so he could speak. 

“Ken?” Tommy answered. 

“There’s a book,” he said without preamble. “It has the demon’s name in it. Mom had it in her office. I don’t know where it is now.”

“Wait– what? A book?”

“Mary needs the name. You have to find the name in that book,” Ken said and felt wrung out just trying to speak. Since when had talking become such an uphill struggle? “It has blood on the page.” 

Seemingly always quick to the draw, Tommy gave a noise of understanding. “Book. Demon’s name. What’s it look like? Does it have a title?”

“I don’t think so. It’s big– leather. Old,” Ken answered. His voice sounded weak and whispery. 

“Old. Okay. Good,” Tommy said. A beat. “How’re you holding up?”

Ken didn’t know how to reply to that. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

There was no answer from the other end of the phone, just the sound of what seemed to be wind passing by the speaker. Tommy must have been outside. Probably standing beside the barn, having stepped out after he got Ken’s call. Yards away, someone was giving their soul away. It made guilt cling to Ken like an anchor around his shoes to think that someone was giving up their life just so he could have this opportunity. It didn’t seem like a fair cost. But then, neither did all the souls that had been eaten by the demon for the money that his family had accumulated. 

“You need to go,” Tommy said suddenly. “It’s almost finished. Just– hang on a little longer. I’m going to find that book and then– and then your friend is going to kill this thing. Alright? So just– don’t give up.” 

Ken was too tired to answer in full, could only muster a soft noise. Tommy breathed out harshly in reply. 

“Okay. Love you, too, idiot. Don’t do anything stupid,” his little brother said and hung up. 

He remained in the eyes and mouth of his body for a moment longer, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to prepare himself for resetting himself so that the demon would not know what had been done while it was away. Ken did all that he had in reverse, guiding half of himself from the mouth to the hand so that he could delete the recent call log and lock his phone. Then he put it back on the nightstand, plugged it back in, and reset the body into position. Finally, he shoved and pulled himself back into his little box, and closed the opening behind him. 

Ken curled up around himself, holding the injuries tight, and felt the demon return. Outside the walls he could hear another memory being replayed, this one fresh as the sensations felt more intense. Screams echoed through the chamber followed by the demon’s amusement. And Ken didn’t know if he would still have the strength to hold on as he had been asked.

[griffinxgallo]

Taken || Griffin Gallo Self Para

Griffin goes searching for Ella after she misses a pick up for the kids tw: home invasion, blood, wrongful arrest, menty b, kidnapping

Griffin had tried to call her the night before to see if she could take the twins early. He understood that her sister was one of the many people in the hospital so in the voicemail he even offered to keep one of the twins. Mina was not having any of this. She was starting to settle in but he could tell the little girl was scared. But Ella never answered or called him back. He understood. It was her night off from parenting and she was probably enjoying herself, something she hadn't been able to in years.

That did not make this morning any easier. Three toddlers, one of him and one nanny. Griffin took Mina with him to work. He had to spend the day at the distillery doing the usual bullshit paperwork. Besides that, the business ran itself so that was a plus. That plus being in the army reserves gave him enough to do.

It wasn't until 15 past eleven that Aspen had informed him Ella was late for pick up. She had never been late before. Granted, this was a new thing for them. He gave her the benefit of the doubt and when 30 minutes rolled around, he started to text and call.

He started off with Dante who didn't know anything and then went to Ludovica next. Nothing. He told himself not to panic and her siblings were doing a good job of writing it off as nothing so he decided to give it another hour and pick the kids up. It was Aspen's day off so he felt bad she was stuck with them for longer. Once he had all three kids he headed out to Long Island. Grandma Gallo will have to entertain them for a bit.

The whole drive his thoughts began to fester. "She's gone. She left you again. She's in a ditch. She's been attacked. She hates you and your mini devils. You've ruined her life. She left you again. She's never coming back." Itchy, that's what he was feeling. By the time he got out of the car at his mother's estate the first thing she asked was "Griffy baby, did you eat a mango? Look at your poor neck!" He had scratched himself raw in anxiety.

The drive back to the city took twice as long in the traffic, as it had now hit 5pm. He was still desperately contacting whoever he could for answers before putting it in the group chat. That's when he learned she never visited her sister. Ella was not like him. She was kind and caring. She would have been outside that door each moment she could. She was too, but Ludy wasn't awake yet. He figured she would have been the first person in the door when she woke up.

Thats when he decided to floor it. He was a mad man on the road as he made it to her place. He threw the car in park and rushed up to her place. Walking up, he saw something that sank his gut. The door was busted in. He shot off a quick text to the group before he pocked his phone in exchange for a gun.

Resorting back to army mode, Griffin turned the corner, scanning the room. The place was TRASHED. furniture flipped, glass broken, shit everywhere. But he needed to stay on task. He cleared the first room before continuing to the next. That's where he found a puddle of blood and a trail that led to the back door. He refused to panic. Now is not the time. She is smart. She knows how to hide. She knows how to defend herself. It could be someone else's blood. With deep breaths, he cleared the kitchen and went on to the bedrooms. He checked Torin's first, it was left mostly untouched. That evil thought crossed his head, What if she had the kids then. What if they were taken too. He knows they are safe, but if she had happened to have them, he would be nuclear right now.

Moving back down the hall he cleared the bathroom quick before going to Ella's room. This site was much harder to look at. The way the sheets pulled from one corner suggested she was dragged out of bed. This could have been last night. She was sleeping. Her phone is still plugged in on the nightstand. Things from the dresser were knocked off. There was a hole through the drywall. She fought. Good Girl.

"911, what's your emergency" "My ex is missing. She missed pick up, I came to check in.. her house has been broken into." After they traded more information he knew he didn't have much longer to act.

Griffin finished his search as he forced himself not to break. There is no room for emotions. Not in war. He went out to his car and opened his trunk, pulling back the hatch he opened a built-in safe in which he traded his handgun for his pistol. This was a registered army gun in which he had a permit. The police are already on their way.

His mind was slipping to that dark place, the one he avoided, the one that people ran from, even his own family. Griffin was dark most of the time but many didn't realize there was a switch, a place in his mind where his worst had been locked away.

"I'll ask again, Mr. Gallo, where were you last night." He sat with his hands cuffed behind him in a cold metal room. Interrogation. Signs of foul play, being an ex with suspected kidnapping charges on him did not go over well, even if Roselia De La Cruz was walking freely in New York City. "At St. John's hospital," He repeats again, getting tired of this. "What did you do with Gabriella Moretti?" The detective asked him again and he snapped. "I didn't fucking do anything to her! You fucks are sitting here bothering with me? I called it in! Me! I have an alibi. Let. Me. Go."

A woman bursts into the room and lays into the two detectives sitting there. "Are you insane? Why is he still chained up? What probably cause do you have for having him here?" Everything about Griffin's detainment was dirty. He hadn't gotten a phone call, they said he wasn't under arrest but cuffed him, smart, and no rights were read to him. Within the next twenty minutes, he had been released and on his way back to his car. Everything was a blur, he couldn't tell if he was blacked out or not, operating on autopilot. He had no idea how, but he ended up back at his penthouse, pushing through the front door. He couldn't keep it in any longer. He was going to snap. Needed to snap.

The first thing he could find was a dumb coffee table centerpiece and it was going through his try wall. All humanity was lost. He didn;t understand what he was feeling, what that sinking at the bottom of his stomach was. Why his chest felt tight and his head was spilling. He felt warm, like he was burning from the inside out and he needed it to stop, needed everything to stop. She is gone. Ella is Gone. Someone has her. Someone took her and wrecked her place. But he just got her back. Raelynn just got her back. She is all Torin knew. How would he explain that. How would he help them cope when he was falling apart himself.

And before he knew it, his great room was destroyed. The glass of the coffee table shattered, the tv cracked. The chairs around the dining room table were broken into pieces scattered around the room. The drywall was barely left standing with all the holes from the chairs that he repeatedly threw at it. Some holes in his fists. Blood on the walls. His knuckles busted open and there was only destruction left. And then he dropped to his knees. Silently. Because the screaming was already happening in his head. He hadn't even realized the reason he stopped was because of the arms wrapping around him and taking him to the floor. He let his head drop back on Dante's shoulder. "She's gone."

And then he felt his heart crack

[sheenlux]

Odi Et Amo \\ Prt 1

Synopsis: Sheen receives a letter from his parents asking him to come speak with them, he accepts and it changes the trajectory of his life. Characters: Sheen, Silveria & Hermes Lux, Vox Military Official TW: Mentions of Abuse, Body Image Issues, Anxiety Attack, Vomit

Nov. 4th: Sheen had been with Monty for about a month, getting him from the prison, traveling to and through Two with him, and getting to know the rest of his family beyond Everett. He had finally decided to check on his house in One, to see if it was burned down or ransacked. He told Monty he'd see him back at the Capitol, made his farewells, and headed off to One with Shimmer. Surprisingly, his house for the most part was fine. The grass was longer than he would have liked. There was a broken window upstairs, looked like someone made a bet to see if they could hit it. Annoyingly, they had. Purely out of habit, Sheen stuck his hand in the mailbox, not sure if there would actually be anything, doubting it, and yet, his fingers felt an all too familiar envelope and his heartbeat started to pick up. His mother was still using the same stationery. She had fallen in love with it when he was six, and she must not have found anything to replace that joy for it. Once he and Shimmer were settled in the house, he played with the letter sitting at his kitchen table. He debated burning it, tearing it up, reading it. After eleven years why would she reach out now? He wasn't surprised they had survived. He wouldn't be surprised if she had already had lunch with Tera. His parents were good at surviving, and coming out on top in every situation. Finally, he sighed and tore open the envelope to read what she wanted.

Beni, My Dearest Darling Beautiful Baby Boy,

I have sent this letter to both your home in One and any address I could get for you in the Capitol. I know it has been quite some time since we have spoken, but in light of everything, your father and I have done quite a bit of self-reflecting. We know we did not rise up to be the best parents we could have been. For that, we are deeply sorry. Yet, this letter is written with urgency. We need you, now more than ever. Your father has been summoned to serve the nation in the armed forces. He says he is up to the task, but we both know he is not, me and you, my darling boy. He will die if he goes into service. You will not. You can do this. You have done this. Thanks to the skills we equipped you with. I hope to see you soon, Sheen.

Your Ever Loving and Dedicated Mother,

Silveria Sapphire Lux

Nov. 6th: His fist hit the door, knocking on it softly and then too hard. Sheen was trying not to shake. He was scared.....the last time he was ever this scared, he was laying on a beach spitting blood out of his mouth, certain he was about to be killed. Don't sweat, don't stutter, don't cry when they opened the door kept running through his head. If he did any of those things it would instantly give her the advantage in the conversation. Don't let her take the advantage. The door opened, and there his mother was. She still somehow looked.....impeccable. Not a hair out of place, a perfectly styled outfit, matching jewelry. If anyone was able to do that in this crisis, he wasn't surprised it was his mother. His mother......the smile that pulled on her face....

"Beni." The moment she said it, he started to cry, audible ugly crying.

"Mommy." He felt her arms wrapping around him, pulling him into a hug, and he was crying into her. He was terrified of her, hated her, loathed her, he could count on his hands how many times he had been hugged, and yet, he loved her and right now this was the only place he wanted to be, in his mother's arms.

"My darling baby Beni. It's ok, it's ok. I'm here." She was petting the back of his head, and they stayed there like that for a few minutes. She just held him as he cried into her. He didn't know why he was crying, or what he was crying over, but he felt like a child again. It wasn't until she spoke again that he stopped.

"And this must be Shimmer! We've seen so many pictures of him, we have so many pictures clipped from magazines in frames on our mantle of him, the two of you together." Her hand rested on his face, a thumb wiping one of his tears away. He couldn't help but think about the time he asked for a dog as a child, and he was forced to sleep outside in a doghouse, and yet now here she was confessing they had pictures of his dog on their mantle. "Your father and I, have never stopped following what you've done. We are so proud of you. Come on let's get inside."

Sheen knew his parents taught him more of the skills he used in the arena than most, but he hadn't expected them to use the same skills outside of it. Sour grapes from his father's vineyard and dried-up, salted meats were keeping them going through this crisis. His mother had enough beauty products stocked up to keep going for about another year. Sheen was told by his parents how his father was being called into service and despite his protests, Sheen knew he wouldn't make it. He had to take his place or else his father was going to die. His parents were right, what was war, but a day in the arena? As he was getting ready to leave his mother was running a hand through his hair, and then it moved to rest on his stomach, "You know, you really have grown into your teeth. And those moles. My darling baby boy. You do look so good now. Like the Victor you were always meant to be." And then she gave him two pats on the stomach, before her hand moved up his back, running along where the scars were, and then giving where he was bitten by the mutt on his shoulder a squeeze. "Mommy's perfect little champion. You don't know how much you doing this means to me. Your father and I.......we both love you, very much."

Sheen could only nod, he felt like he was seven again. How many nights had he laid in bed crying, confused as to why his parents couldn't tell him that. Now here he was being told how much they loved him because he was going into an active combat zone for them, and it was at the tail end of his mother once again, in her little ways judging, shaming how he looked. When she had squeezed his shoulder it felt like the jaguar sinking its teeth into him again. "I love you too, Mommy."

As he and Shimmer walked back to his house in the village, and were a safe distance that she couldn't see, Sheen had to stop to throw up in some bushes and wipe away the tears.

Nov. 12th: "Sheen Benitoite Lux? I'm General Calico Weave. You have undergone our military recruitment evaluation process for the past five days correct?"

Sheen nodded his head, "Correct, Ma'am."

"I am looking through the report compiled on you in that time, and I must say.....your athletics.....survival skills....they're a lot higher than most people we've seen. Even other, well what you could call Careers."

"I suppose you could thank my parents for that special training. They asked the Academy to go harder on me. They went harder on me. They wanted me to be better than a Career. They wanted me to be a Victor." Sheen watched the General nod her head, he wasn't sure if she was worried or judging what he went through, her face didn't make it known.

"Well during your evaluations, while you passed with some of the highest scores I have seen, a few things came up, that I personally wanted to enquire about. First, during intake, during your physical, you recoiled at the mirror, and wouldn't undress for the doctor until something was put over it. Then, on day 3, you struggled quite a bit with the swimming test. That was quite surprising to us, and then finally......your.....you didn't show much worry at the thought of having to take lives. Can you please elaborate on why that was?"

Sheen nodded his head, not surprised that those were the things that would get flagged. Wetting his lip, he took a drink of the water that had been offered.

"My parent's training wasn't just training at times. They used mirrors to help model me into their idea of a perfect victor. Once I turned about six, if I cried they put me in front of a mirror to show me how silly I looked crying. When I was 10, they started on a weekly basis, putting me in front of a mirror in my underwear to evaluate what on my body needed work. Looking at my reflection.....it reminds me of those moments. Though ma'am, I suppose there aren't many mirrors on the front lines." The General shook her head and affirmed that there weren't.

"It's not water that scares me, but rather larger bodies of water. I can do bathtubs finally, but pools....lakes...the ocean reminds me of my arena. The sharks that were inside the water. If that disqualifies me than I need to make sure that my father won't still be taken in my place. Finally as for the....last worry. I don't have any desire to take life, if that's what you're worried about. I don't want to hurt people. I am not joining so I can kill. I am joining to save my father. The reason killing doesn't bother me is because I have killed. In the arena, eight people. I realize now as I did then, that anyone I kill or killed is because I have to. I had to in the arena so that I could live. I have to now so that Panem can survive."

There was a long pause, the General taking in what Sheen said. She finally wrote a few things down and then nodded her head. "I am going to tell you this because you're doing a good thing. You're volunteering to save someone who sounds like they don't deserve it. We are desperate. The enemy is tougher, and more ruthless than we could have expected. This will not be easy, but evidently, you are used to that. I get the final say over your recruitment, and your combat scores are so high, I would be an idiot to reject you because you're not afraid to kill or scared of a pool.

You deploy on November 24th to District Seven, which should limit exposure to large bodies of water. In addition, because of your experiences and your test results, and how desperate we are. We are signing you on as a Major. You'll be the lowest of our most senior ranks, but I think you can do a lot of good for our soldiers. Vox and Panem thank you for your service. Go take the time you have left to say goodbye to the people you care about."

[octaviuscreed]

Moves and Countermoves

Synopsis: Octavius' hours before the Vox attack, and the days following their attack. Characters: Octavius Creed, mentions of; Nerissa Snow, Vox Officials, The Creed Family, mentions of other high-ranking Capitol officials TW: None

The Games were running as they were supposed to, but nothing noteworthy was going on, so Octavius took that as his chance to depart from the Gamemaker's room, return to the Creed Estate, and celebrate his mother's very late 90th birthday dinner. He was easily accessible should he have to step away but he was sure any problems that could arise would be easy to manage, especially with their latest Head Gamemaker on the scene. Dinner was as unnoteworthy as he expected. His sister talked about lumber production from their mills in Seven, apparently, there was a work shortage with people trying to or successfully fleeing to join Free Eleven. Octavius had told Nerissa that her handling of the situation and of he Defense Minister was filled with flaws and to allow him to examine the situation, he had been told to return to his Games.

"The Creeds survived the Dark Days, we will survive this." His mother boldly proclaimed, and he was inclined to agree, but not by following the path Nerissa Snow, and her government had laid out for them. Octavius knew that, most people who were smart enough knew that. Unfortunately in his eyes, the cabinet was filled with people too afraid to tell the President differently then what she wanted to hear, to tell her the things she needed to hear.

"We will. Yes, we will. However, to ensure that survival, I believe it prudent, the family move itself into the Creed Bunker." It was something they had designed after the Dark Days, to make sure they never knew hunger again, it was well-protected and well-stocked. "Because of my relationship with President Snow, I know that the rebels are already within the city limits. That is why the Tower is on lockdown, it is why we have so much heightened security, and why we lost power during the Interviews. I think.....an attack is imminent. I do not know exactly when it will happen, but it will be before the end of this game. When the attack comes, I think the government will collapse rather quickly." His mother and sister were silent, before his mother shook her head, "Coriolanus never would have let this happen. He was strong, Nerissa....." His mother waved a hand before nodding. "If that's what you think, Octavius, neither of us will fight you." Pointing at her daughter, "Don't argue with it, think of your kids, my grandchildren, and your own grandchild. My great-grandchild. We cannot allow a family that has existed as long as we have disappear because of Nerissa Snow."

Octavius nodded, "I will have you all retrieved when it is safe to do so." A brief debate arose, well why wouldn't he be with them, because he needed to secure their safety. They wouldn't simply be allowed to hide and eventually pop out forgiven. Forgiveness would need to be gained......and if not forgiveness, then at least a pardon. Favors were easy to win with rising governments. They would need help, and Octavius if the map looked so favorable would be more than happy to give them that help. Once he got his mother to relent, the family was packed into a car, and off they went to the safety of their bunker, Octavius while packing watched live feeds of the camera, and he saw it before probably anyone else.....the attack was beginning.

Power in the city was flickering, here and there and he knew because of that he would need to act quickly. Certain skills as a Gamemaker were now proving their worth, and rather quickly he was able to open up a channel of communication with those who represented the leaders of Vox. They were rather surprised that an old Gamemaker, from an Old Capitol Family reached out to them, but when they arrived at the Creed Family home, no traps were waiting. Rather, Octavius was, with a lunch spread, along with tablets, and books and letters and notes. All carefully collected over the years to protect himself in a moment like this, when information would be vital.

What was the information he was offering to Vox? Access codes to penthouses, and mansions. Capitol military capabilities, the locations of weapon stockades, and contingency plans. Anything and everything that he had that could prove useful to them making their control over the Capitol quicker, and easier. All he asked for in exchange was a full pardon for the Creed Family, and the assurance that their bank accounts would not be seized. What the future of Seven may have held was entirely up to Vox, but he would be more than willing to negotiate pay increases, break times, and the like if they so wished.

Which is why now, at the end of this month now that power was restored to the city, his family was returning from their bunker, and he would be returning to the Tower. Octavius Creed, a friend and early investor of the new Vox Government.

[erikdragon]

But that was just a dream

A new age of The Golden One starts. Where: Erik's mansion. Who: Erik Drakorn and Dr. William Bones.

Slowly, Erik’s faith in his people had faded. Not to say that he’d ever stop caring about his town, he sworn to protect it at all costs long before anyone who walked these streets took their first breath, but he couldn’t help but feel like his own presence there didn’t matter anymore.

Back in the golden days, the mansion was called The Golden One’s Temple, he used to take women in as sacrifices, the ones whom society had failed. the ones who’s options were to run away or death, and he’d give them new life under his roof. He missed his priestesses. They were always nice to him, they kept the mansion clean and bustling with life, they kept him fed and entertained, and most of all, they kept him up to date with the villager’s affairs.

People used to come in asking for protection, for blessings and even to settle disagreements. He was a king to most senses of the word, he was respected and cherished, and he liked it.

Erik refused to think about it for long, though. For one, because he couldn’t complain about his life with Seth, he was happy, and also because then he’d have to admit to himself that he regretted sleeping for so long. Now he could see that a heartbreak wasn’t enough of a reason to miss this.

Those thoughts were running through his head as he sat in his library, his phone in hand showing the email he had reread at least a dozen times by now.

A couple of weeks prior, Erik was surprised by a knock on his door in the middle of the afternoon. An old man stood there, the coordinator of the History department of the local college, he said, Dr. William Bones. He had nice eyes, gray hair and the wrinkles of someone who smiled way too much in his youth, so Erik didn’t think much to it when he invited the man in for tea.

“My mother used to tell me stories about this place” he said, picking Erik’s interest “It’s a legend really, they say somewhere along my family tree there was a woman who lived here.”

“Is that so?” Erik asked, expression soft.

“Yes, she was one of the Golden One’s priestesses. Her name was Meredith.”

He remembered her, of course. She was a young one, must’ve been twelve or so when she arrived. She had freckles and the same kind eyes. He remembered she had something about her hands, back then they didn’t know the name of the condition, just called them defective. She broke so many of his ceramic bowls that Erik made her one out of metal with his own hands, if he looked around his lair that bowl might still be there.

“Not many people know his name these days. The… Golden One” Erik said instead.

“Yes, that’s precisely why I’m here.” Dr. Bones followed when he saw Erik’s confused frown “You see, my students were pretty passionate about reviving the traditions of the town, once they discovered there were any.” He chuckled “And who could blame them? Not many towns get to say they used to have a god amongst them, that they were protected by a dragon, that’s for sure” He also seemed passionate about it.

Erik smiled at his enthusiasm “Do you believe that he was real?”

Dr. Bones smiled kindly “Does it matter?” He paused, then sighed “Some things in history are not so literal, sometimes they’re… ideas, emotions, collective thoughts. The Golden One could’ve been a goat for all I know, but what he represented? That was precious.”

Erik smiled behind his cup of tea, a warmth in his chest. The historian continued.

“Which brings us to why I am here.”

“Oh? So you didn’t come here for tea, then?” Erik teased, the man laughed.

“As delicious as your blend is, no, I’m afraid not” he placed the teacup on the side table “Mr. Drakorn, you said your family has lived in this historical sight for hundreds of years, am I correct?”

“Something like that” the dragon shrugged, unable to give him a more accurate answer.

“I was wondering, if maybe you’d have any material that could help in our quest to put some pieces together”

“Pieces?”

“Yes, you see” the old man took a file from his messenger bag, showing Erik the papers inside. Notes and illustrations of The Golden One, quotes and pages taken out of history books, ancient maps of the town showing the new buildings and more. His eyes stopped on an illustration of a party, the image of women dancing around a fire with glasses in their hands. Their clothes weren’t exactly accurate nor the decorations, but he smiled when he realized what that was supposed to represent. 

His festival.

“We’ve been gathering information all around town, with the most traditional of families. Everyone knows a story or two about the Golden One, or about the festivals they used to have, or his blessings of the crops, or something or another. But we’re missing some key details and I was hoping  you could help us fill in the gaps.”

“I… have a few old books lying around, I could check if they have anything of interest for your… research? Is that what this is?” Erik asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

People remembered him! More people would know about him now!

“Something like that” Dr. Bones repeated Erik’s words with a teasing smile, then grabbed the illustration of the festival and handed it to the dragon “This festival. It used to happen every year, for days on end. People celebrated the community, they shared their harvest, were grateful for blessings of fertility and even whole wedding ceremonies happened in them.” Erik held back from mentioning the orgies. “It was an act of togetherness that reinforced the bonds of the townsfolk. I feel like it’s something that- that we’ve been losing in the last few decades and to be honest I fear of what will be of the next generations when they grow even more apart.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Bones?”

“I’m saying we have a project to bring back the Great Festival of the Golden One, Mr. Drakorn.”

Erik stopped breathing.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be the same, we wouldn’t have the support of the community for so many days off as they used to last, but I’ve been sharing my findings with the mayor office and there’s talk of even turning it into a local holiday. The mayor thinks it could help with tourism, even. But for that to happen, we’d need more… concrete evidence of the history of the town.” He paused, Erik wasn’t blinking. “Which is why I came here to talk to you.”

A moment too long, Erik took a deep breath, forcing his body to react “Of course” he said, clearing his throat. Was he serious? “Well, I will help in any way I can, Dr. Bones.” The dragon offered his hand to the old man to shake, a smile on his face “Consider me an avid supporter of the project.”

In the days that followed, Erik had taken some of his books downtown, to the history department. He also took a couple of handbound notebooks he had found after his latest clean up - journals of the priestesses. He made sure to include a few notes from Meredith too, just because, and one of the vests they used to wear around the temple.

Dr. Bones was ecstatic to say the least, Erik worried he might’ve given the old man a heart attack with how excited he got with the donations. 

He invited the man and his pupils to a tour of the mansion at the end of the week as well, showing them the priestesses quarters and the whole side of the mansion that wasn’t used anymore, telling them a couple of stories about the temple and answering some of their questions as they took notes and pictures. He avoided the lair, for obvious reasons, but the exposure he had given seemed to be more than enough to light the fire inside of the young historians.

Which brings us back to the email.

His hands were shaking as he picked th phone up again, to read it just one more time, as if the words would be different on the thirteenth read through, as if he had understood something wrong due to wishful thinking. Still, they were crisp and clean as they were in the first time he read them.

To the esteemed Mr. Erik Drakorn, I come this bright sunny morning to bring you up to date on recent occurings about the project Golden One Festival, which we have discussed before. Your donations to our cause were fundamental to the development of the project, as they made up the backbone of the presentation we have given to the mayor office a couple of days ago. The mayor himself was surprised and extremely excited with the sheer amount of information we were able to collect as well as the quality of it. He was so excited, in fact, that he greenlit the project right away. We’re aiming for a late October festival, the paperwork for the official holiday has been sent and the culture and tourism department are already working on the publicity campaign to engage the local community on the festivities. The Golden One Festival is happening, and we couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Drakorn. So I must offer you my most sincere gratitude. I’d also like to invite you to be a part on the planning of the festivities, if you’d like. Let me know what you think? With my best wishes, Dr. William Bones. Head Director of the History Department Hollow’s Creek Community College

[ggathena]

bitter brew {self para}

The White Wyvern was a haven for withces and wizards seeking solace and celebration. Tonight, it was a refuger for Athena, who sat in a shadowed corner nursing a tumbler of firewhisky. The amber liquid burned her throat, but the physical heat was a welcome distraction from the storm raging within her.

The news had hit her like a Bludger to the chest. Her mind replayed the moment she found out in excrutiating detail. Rita was ruthless, she lived for the gossip and took a special kind of pleasure in writing sensationalist stories to get the best out of her readers. Athena had always admired her cousin for that wicked quality yet had never been one to indulge behind the scenes or pay attention to what she was writing. However, she had certainly appreciated the private meeting they'd shared where she had shown pictures and spilled all the details of the couple's outings. A brief encounter, a strong negative on her part and off she was.

"Another one," she murmured to the barmaid, who eyed her with a mix of sypmathy and concern.

"Sure you don't want to slow down, love?" she asked, but Athena only shook her head, her eyes fixated on the glass in front of her, downing its contents and extending the glass for the barmaid to refill it with a deft hand.

I love you, Thea. The words echoed through her head, her grip tightening on the glass. In spite of the breakup, all throughout these years their time together had been a whirlwind of passion and volatility, a flame that burned too bright for it to ever die out. She'd already known heartbreak once, stepping out of his room where she'd seen his blonde hair resting on the pillow beside another witch. That should've been it, enough to have her stay away from him, but it never really was. Relentlessly drawn back together, the beater's love for the wizard had never once faltered and after too many late nights lying awake wondering if she shouldn't have walked away, she'd finally came to the conclusion she didn't want to lie to herself anymore.

It had been only a couple of nights ago where she'd confessed her love, vowed herself his and believed they were finally in the same page again. How mistaken had she been. While she'd put herself out there, wrapped her heart up and delivered it to him hopeful and determined, he had laughed right in her face, a pretense that had her stripping her clothes for him one last time, murmuring in the dark a love that wasn't returned, promising to be his when he was already someone else's.

She downed the rest of her firewhisky in one gulp, the liquid scorching her throat but failing to cleanse her heart. Her eyes were red, anger flashing behind them, the tears welling up as she held onto the glass with all her force, smashing it to pieces just like her soul had. She didn't feel the pain from the nasty cut now in her hand, her body too numb from the alcohol intake that had been going on for hours at this time. Emma's face appeared beneath her eyes though she was certain the witch wasn't really there, a wicked trick her mind was playing her. She knew her friend hadn't meant to hurt her, after all she didn't exactly knew about her past with Thorfinn, but that knowledge didn't ease the sting of betrayal she felt now.

The brunette stood up unsteady, not caring to look back at the table or the mess she'd left behind. Making her way past the door and into the cold night, the dim lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion as she stumbled down the damp streets, her vision swimming from the alcohol, blood mingling with rainwater as it dripped from her hand, leaving crimson trails on the craked pavement. The irony of the glass with her favorite shattering in her grip, mirroring the shards of her heart. The betrayal had been swift and brutal, her lover and her best friend, entwined in deceit that left her world crumbling.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, the cool night air doing little to soothe the searing pain that tore through her chest. People passed by, their faces a blur of indifference, unaware or unisterested in the silent scream that echoed within her.

Her steps faltered as she reached a deserted alley, the oppressive darkness matching the void inside her. She fell to her knees, the rough asphalt digging into her flesh. The sobs came then, wracking her body with violent shudders. She clutched her bleeding hand to her chest, the physical pain should've been a distraction from the torment in her sould, yet it was not.

"Why?" She choked out, her voice breaking in the emptiness. The word hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the night. She bower her head, the tears mingling with the rain, her heart splintering with every beat. There was no solace, no escape from the anguish that consumed her. She was lost, adrift in a sea of betrayal and heartache, drowning in her sorrow.

The witch's eyes snapped open, blazing with a resolve born of her pain. She wasn't going to be a victim, her heart had been taken from her, a void left in her chest-- but they hadn't taken her strenght. She pushed herself to her feet, looking down at the dry blood in her hand, a reminder of the night's cruel reality.

Her breath came faster, her anger intensifying with each passing moment. Athena clenched her jaw, tasting the metalic tang of blood as she bit down on her lip. She wanted to confront him, to demand answers, to make him feel a fraction of the torment he had inflicted upon her.

But even as the fury consumed her, a hollow ache lingered beneath it. She still loved him, despite everything. The thought twisted like a knife in her gut, adding a bitter edge to her anger. How could she still care for someone who had shattered her so completely? Twice?

Torn between her rage and the remnants of her love, the brunette stromed out of the alley, the cold rain pelting her face, mingling with the hot tears of rage. Her steps grew surer, her heart pounding with a volatile mix of fury and longing. It wasn't over, and she wasn't done. He would know of her pain, and somehow she would confront the love that still, inexplicably, held a piece of her heart.

[ezekielurquhart]

Memento Mori

"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone." "But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took a damn thing for granted? Who tried their hardest to hold on, yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most. Isn't it so much worse for them?" - Lang Leav

XXX

[acolyterose]

Tagging: mentions of @octavianrising and @legioneoin Location: Harlan, Rome, and some abandoned warehouse Timeframe: Various, childhood until now Notes: tldr; atlas kills his ex stepdad Trigger Warnings: homophobia, bullying, violence, death, and torture. Also it's done mostly in first person until the kill kill.

Curtis Waddell used to laugh every time I walked by, he’d snicker anytime that he saw me like my whole existence was some big joke to him. Him and his friends could have just left it at that because I’d go home every night and think that I was something worth laughing at. They didn’t, they never did, they always had to make it worse. 

School wasn’t a safe place for me, you’d think that the adults would have known better but small towns bred small minds and nobody blinked twice at the appearance of a bruise or split lip. If I’d come back from break soaked or if I didn’t come back at all the latter was my fault, I was making a choice not to go to class and so I had to be punished for it. Detention wasn’t much of a sentencing though because for me it helped delay the inevitable or sometimes put it off completely. Waylon Roberts, or Ryan Harper, or Stephen Taylor sometimes got bored of waiting and ended up somewhere else. That’s what I used to call a lucky day. 

The thing is we used to be friends, briefly, for a time. My dad worked with their dads in the mines but the difference between me and Curtis Waddell, and everyone else was we both lost ours in the same accident. It was more common than you’d think but there were dangers to working at those depths and the company was generous when something did happen. Most families were lucky and everyone got out okay, Curtis and I weren’t. I can’t pinpoint the time when he’d started to hate me but it happened definitively. I think now that the line between love and hate is thin for a reason; you can love someone one day and then hate them the next. Going one way was always easy, but I can’t remember a time when there was ever any back and forth. 

One weekend I was in Curtis’ basement, swapping his N64 controller every twenty minutes as we played Ocarina of Time, the bike I’d ridden to his house was tipped over and abandoned in his front yard, and then the next he was laughing as Kyle Russel shoved me over the 840 bridge into the Cumberland river. Most parts were safe to swim in, this one notoriously wasn’t, but they didn’t care, I heard them laughing as I broke the surface. There was a brief pause as another splash followed, I didn’t know if it was Curtis, Kyle, or Waylon Roberts but one of them threw my bike in after me and then shortly after the laughter continued, then receded. I’d heard what they called me after my bike went in but I never really associated it with myself, it wasn’t something anyone ever wanted to be but my ‘friends’ and I used to use it to describe that guy that lived above the movie theatre. 

I cried, and I cried, and I cried. Tears were cheap and easy and while my mom stroked my hair I kept my head in her lap. She asked me what had happened but I was too embarrassed to say it, because if I told her then she’d learn what they said and I’d be letting her in on this awful truth that I didn’t want to see. One that I felt was more taboo than anything, the worst thing any man could be was different, and apart from that one loner that lived above the movie theatre, I was completely alone in myself. I learned that I walked differently because Garrett Kennedy let me know that I looked like a fairy, I realised I had a lisp and affected the wrong syllables because Joshua McRay mocked me anytime I opened my mouth. So, I tried not to. I raised my hand less, I spoke out less often, and I tried to keep the words that burned at the back of my throat at bay.

Fathers brought their sons to the park, they went to their games, they were there in the stands even with soot covered fingers. Mine wasn’t, he couldn’t be, he would never be. I always thought that Curtis Waddell and I had a sort of understanding because of it but instead of sympathy I just heard his laughter. Slurs shouted in the halls, that word in particular uttered in contempt as he shoved me into a locker, jeering cries as he and his friends flushed filthy toilet water around my head. Pushed into cow pies or made to eat a live frog, even that was meant to be less gross than the moniker they gave me. The first bottle rocket was shot by Derick Young, I can still remember that grin on his face when he lifted his arm; I didn’t realise at the time what it was at the time until it went off and I jumped out of my skin. Another went off and another, I’d never really run from them then because they had a way of sneaking up on me. In the halls at school, in the park, at festivals and that sort of thing. I ran then, and I ran every time after that. 

I started running a lot to try and get good at it, by the end of middle school I was on the track team and my mother had me in self defence classes for a few years prior. None of it really mattered, they still caught up with me, and they still outnumbered me. Only difference was I stopped being quiet and I started getting bold, it didn’t matter how silent I made myself because inevitably they were still going to torture me. I could have not said a word all day and I’d still go home and cry myself to sleep, still listen in the late hours as my tired and overworked mother vented to her friend. How she’d call around and demand that people do something about their own damn kids, eventually she either stopped or they didn’t bother picking up their phones. I didn’t know for sure which it was and yet I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t the former. 

Video games were a quiet solace, in a fantasy world I could be the protagonist of the story and in a melee I could be the winner if I clicked the buttons in proper succession. It was always fair then, there weren’t cheat codes in a one on one fight and there was no one there to call over their friends to make it easier. Local tournaments turned into regional ones. My mother forked over the cash she saved for vacations and expenses because these were the only victories I was getting and it was one of the few times that she got to see me smile. 

I got louder and she got louder too, but she had the decency to wait for me to come to her. To tearfully admit why everyone hated me as much as they did, to apologise to her for being so different from all the other boys my age. She hadn’t meant to laugh but it helped that she did, because unlike Waylon Roberts and his friends it didn’t sting this time. There was no cruelty behind her voice, just acknowledgement because she had known just like everyone else had always known and she was so happy that I’d finally told her. She held me and I cried and because she knew how hard my life was going to be she cried too. That’s when the flag went up and the enamel pins went on, she’d wear this vest tailored to allyship everytime we went anywhere and anytime she went to work. Even if she was the only woman in Harlan that was happy to say her son was gay, eventually that ended up being enough for me. It was enough for me to say it too, to her, and to myself. 

Thomas Jackson broke my arm the summer before high school, not unintentionally or because they’d shoved me a bit too hard, but because when I was on the ground I’d lifted it to try and shield my face. That was when the police got involved and while I’d say his name and the name of every other boy there: Waylon Roberts, Derick Young, Stephen Taylor, Curtis Waddell, Ryan Harper, Garrett Kennedy, Joshua McRay, and Kyle Russell, nothing happened to them. The cop laughed, it was small, a short scoff but he put his pen down and I could see the shrug. He reminded me of the man that lived above the movie theatre, the one that didn’t make it out of Harlan alive. Not in any way that he acted but in that they would have been about the same age, I was a sharp kid, smart, especially once I’d started speaking up in class and applying myself. So I could recognise a bully when I saw one, he was just like the ones I’d named, and boys would be boys. 

I’d been hurt before, but this was different and I saw then that my mom had changed because she was going to do whatever it took to get us out. To get me out. We were both Harlan born and raised so she knew better than me what kind of life waited out in front, just like the guys that made my life hell I’d probably end up working in the mines. She said that I was good, too good for those kids that didn’t have parents willing to teach them any better. “A damn shame,” she’d say, then she’d repeat it louder, with an expletive in the middle. 

Cadmus was such a strange name, then again, so was Atlas. I think that’s why I took to him as quickly as I did because he was an outsider, a little bit like me. He had an Italian accent that sounded out of place amidst the Kentucky twang and before I realised it was happening my mother was completely taken by him. He was suave and travelling on the road for work, he came by with gifts for both me and her; the strangest thing about him though was how everything just seemed to get easier when he was around. Curtis Waddell stopped laughing when I walked by, Ryan Harper didn’t shove me in the locker anymore; one afternoon I turned a corner and managed to make my way right past the lot of them without any issue. They didn’t acknowledge me, truthfully they barely even looked at me, but one week rolled into two and all of a sudden I felt free. Then Cadmus left and it started all over again, though maybe it was worse because the first day of Freshmen year they’d found me, stripped me, and left me taped across the flagpole with that familiar word spray painted across my chest.

High school was unbearable and teenagers were quicker to violence than their adolescent selves, but that was also when it ended and something else began. Cadmus invited us to Rome, he proposed to my mother, and he enrolled me in a private school. I’d always been bright, a big fish in a small pond and now I was somewhere that challenged me. People didn’t bother me but my sharp tongue had already been formed, I’d been so used to defending myself that cutting into others felt appropriate. Better them than me, better to be predator than prey. Needless to say I wasn’t popular but I didn’t care, I didn’t need to be because at the very least I was safe. My mother was in love and she was happy, happier than I’d ever seen her. She kept the vest and she kept the flag and she kept going to the parades. She sat on every committee and she attended every event, she dragged me along too. I’d been scared and ashamed for so long, she wanted me to know that it was alright and that everything would be okay from then on. 

I believed her. I believed everything she said and loving Cadmus came easy too because he was kind and he’d done more than anyone else ever had for us. Calling him dad happened that first Christmas in Rome, it wasn’t an accident because I’d been thinking about it for a while. I had planned it like it was some secret gift I was going to give him, I offered it and he smiled and then he hugged me. Dad and father, he was also there at every stupid event with my mother and he wore those silly little pins that she gave him. I believed him. 

I had my choice of schools after that, I could have gone anywhere but I wanted to stay in Rome. I wanted to be close to my mom and my dad. That was also the year that I stopped being so repressed, I started university and any inhibition was kicked down. My first time was with someone I’d been stalking for weeks, he’d bumped into me in the hallway and before I could call him some rude name he was already helping me pick up his books. I knew him from one of my classes and I knew that he had a girlfriend, but I didn’t care because in my head we were going to be together forever. A single act of kindness and all of a sudden I was convinced that it had to be love. In the bathroom of some house party came the great romantic climax that every young homosexual man dreamt of (not), it was after that I realised he didn’t know my name because he said the wrong one after he’d finished and I was left wondering if it was supposed to hurt as much as it had. Better came when I found one of his friends that same night and opted to, rather poorly, use my throat instead. He at least remembered me as being the guy that was really good at Super Smash Brothers after I’d kicked his, and everyone else’s ass, at one of the game nights hosted on campus.

When neither of them responded to my subsequent DMs the next day I felt rejected and hurt, I cried because it was in my nature to cry everytime I projected my selfish need to be loved onto people who couldn’t and wouldn’t ever reciprocate my feelings. I’d thought then that if I kept giving myself over to people who weren’t deserving then maybe one of them would step up to the plate. I got better at interpreting what people wanted and what they liked, my candour was abrasive but I made up for it by being forward and pretending like rejection didn’t phase me. It did, it always did. It didn’t stop me from trying to find myself in any man that would spare me a shred of kindness, or any unworthy guy that I saw fit to welcome into my body. I was popular both on campus and off but not for any reason that I was particularly proud of, my mom always laughed when I told her and insisted that I be safe. That I do whatever I have to do to be happy. She’d make a joke at my expense but when she did it it felt good, natural, and I found I didn’t mind it so much when it came from a place of kindness. 

My mother got sick that year, very sick, very quickly, and overnight Cadmus was gone. The name was a fake one, the police had never heard of him, and while my mother sat with a monitor on her arm a doctor pulled me aside and turned everything upside down. They were breaking a law by telling me, some ancient creed that I was yet to wrap my mind around that kept humans like me in the dark. Humans like my mother, a woman that had been made the victim of a witch’s spell. A witch who’d funnelled away her soul and left her an empty shell. It wasn’t meant to be long but all this came with a cost, a cost that meant I had to leave school, and a cost that meant I had to pick up the slack. It hadn’t been quick, in fact my mother suffered in her bedroom for years. Nurses, medications, constant pain, and her dignity stripped away as she lost control of everything from her bowels to her own breathing. Not-so-selfishly I wished she had died quickly, I wished that the doctor was right and it would have been over in a month or two because I found it hard to remember her red hair in the sunlight and that ridiculous vest. Instead I saw how she had thinned and paled, how her hair grew sparse and her eyes sunk low. I remembered her ragged breathing more than the deep laughter that she was best known for. I remembered her sickness, not her health, and I remembered the man that did this to her. 

When she died I felt myself take in a breath and I’ve been holding it ever since. 

Present Day

The basement was dank, it smelled of earth and iron. Mildew crept along the walls of the concrete foundation below the abandoned factory. There was nothing but the drip of water against old pipes and the distant scurrying of rodents scratching at the walls. Metal grinding against metal as the chains that bound the witch rubbed against one another. Atlas had Eoin to thank for this, a surprise text, a brief meeting, and at the druid’s insistence he’d been left alone with the witch who’d once gone by Cadmus. 

Light filtered through the grimy windows as specks of dust glowed within the golden hue of the morning sun. Blood lined what Atlas remembered as handsome features, a swollen eye obscured what the druid had once known, but at Atlas’ core he knew who this was. He could tell by the line of Cadmus’ jaw and the slope of his nose, the cant of his brow and the soft groans that fell from his unconscious frame. This was him, this was the bastard that had killed his mother. The witch that tricked them and deceived them, the man that was responsible for destroying the one person who’d always been in Atlas’ corner.

People said that vengeance didn’t make you feel better, there were quotes about the need for two graves, for the emptiness it left behind, and for how it was so much better to choose forgiveness instead. That wasn’t Atlas’ experience, killing Cadmus didn’t hollow him out, it just felt good. Dawn’s light faded to dusk’s twilight and the witch’s screams never relented, they felt good, better than Atlas would have thought possible. He remembered every night he’d gone to bed with tears in his eyes and every night that his mother had sat up stroking his hair, he remembered her ragged breaths and the fits that came to follow any laughter. He remembered the first time she’d put on that stupid vest and waved around those shiny enamel pins, and he remembered packing them all away and trying to decide what to do with her leftover medication. He remembered how hard he had to work to stay afloat and remembered what it felt like to be reborn in flames.

Bit by bit and nerve by nerve Atlas let himself be transformed. His minted azure flames that exposed the truth at the core of the witch’s being: a flailing coward who emptied his bowels over a concrete floor while he begged for his life. Somehow Atlas had expected more, he expected the slurs and the mockery that Cadmus started with, but the begging felt unnecessary. First the witch pleaded for him to stop, then he begged for death. It was hours before the sun came up when Cadmus stopped pleading entirely, nerves exposed and dead, his mind seemed to be doing whatever it could to protect him. By dawn Atlas got tired of torturing burnt meat, following Cadmus’ death rattle, Atlas reduced whatever remained of the witch to ash.

He was glad it was over though, the adrenaline had left a long time ago and he felt tired now. His hands were bloodied and burnt, they reminded him of Knossos and that feeling of being so broken he couldn’t recognize himself. For Atlas, this was different, because he’d come a long way from the pathetic cat that was still learning how to sharpen his claws. When it was over the druid caught his reflection in the grimy window. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, this person that he’d started towards ever since he stood over his mother’s slab in the funeral home. 

That was the thing about cremation though, they made you look at the body one last time before they turned it to ash.