#A Gruesome Job (Abigail)

[extraordinarygrrls]

continued from here

"Frank. No." She was kidding, she should've checked herself before being a smartass, but she wasn't all smiles anymore, not as she took his arm and led him to the sofa. "Stitches first, or during, case talk." For someone who is usually out on what Abigail could only describe as suicide missions, one would think he'd have a shred of self-preservation.

"Lead me through it, then stitches, are you insane? You know what, don't answer that." She lifted up his shirt so she could better survey the injury. "You're lucky I was just about to wash my darks anyway..." She found herself unable to get used to seeing Frank without a shirt off, not only was he built like some kind of freak, but his scars showed that Abby had been the only one bothering to take proper care of him.

She winced when she got a proper view of the injury. "Jesus, Castle... A machete wound? Were you fighting Jason Vorhees?" She got talkative when she was nervous, or worried. Spend enough time around her, you get to learn her little idiosyncrasies.

@maximummuses

[extraordinarygrrls]

Abigail simply wrote down his words in shorthand, she never once asked him to speak up, but did request clarification in a sentence or two. She knew to be polite, to listen carefully, it was almost nice just listening to something that wasn't her own thoughts, or the distant humming of fluorescent lights.

She let out a yelp when the lights suddenly went off, scrambling to find a light source. It was clear that the sudden change panicked her, left her like a dog in a lightning storm. The sounds seemed to make her worse, and he'd see her again with her eyes closed and her hands on her ears, letting out a low, uncomfortable hum from the back of her throat. Like she was sick. When the lights turned on again it was no better.

Body? Gone. Notes? Gone. Everything, and in such a short time. She covered her mouth to hide the expression on her face. "That's impossible." She finally said, looking at her now empty lab, all that's left is the notebook in her hands. They tightened around it. "That's... Impossible." She repeated, looking for any points of entry or exit, then looking up at the security cameras. "Okay, a missing body, missing records, in such a short time. The camera must've caught something, or we'll be in seriously deep shit. I will not be the one who loses a body on her first week here."

Taking off her lab coat and goggles, she heads to the door. She seemed to be the stylish opposite of Milton, favoring greens and earthy tones over cold blacks and greys, she's twee, but very smart-looking. "Let's get to that footage before it's tampered with. Has this ever happened before?"

In the dim-lit expanse of the forensic room, Agent Milton Dammers absorbed Abigail's words, his gaze fixating on the lifeless canvas before them. The revelation of the eye of providence tattoo on the corpse reverberated through his psyche, a disconcerting echo of his own clandestine affiliation.

As Abigail's soothing voice enveloped the room, Dammers, momentarily unsettled, found himself drawn into a silent contemplation. The cosmic threads of fate seemed to intertwine, linking investigator and investigated in an unspoken understanding of the arcane.

In response to her eager request, he began to murmur, his words a cryptic tapestry of occult knowledge woven with a touch of unease. Notes were methodically transcribed, the pen dancing across the paper in synchrony with his esoteric ruminations. Yet, as the culmination of his whispered thoughts reached a crescendo, an unforeseen darkness descended.

The abrupt plunge into darkness caught both investigator and forensic scientist off guard. In the ensuing blackness, Dammers, momentarily shrouded in mystery, spoke aloud, his voice resonating through the obscurity. "In the shadows, truths unseen may emerge," he intoned cryptically. The room, now veiled in darkness, held its breath, suspended between the tangible and the arcane, as if the very fabric of reality had momentarily faltered.

Strange noises echoed in the darkness, their origin elusive. When the light returned, a chilling discovery awaited them. The meticulously crafted notes and documents about the deceased had vanished from the table, leaving an air of enigma lingering in the room.

"The shadows reveal hidden truths," Dammers murmured as darkness enveloped the room. Mysterious noises echoed, and when the light returned, their notes vanished.

Milton, perplexed, stated, "They were right here. I don't understand." his gaze shifting between the corpse and the empty table. Together, they searched the dim-lit room, feeling the weight of unseen forces at play.

[firstdegreefangirl]

Chenford + prompt #17

Prompt 17: Talking about them to your friends/family

“Anyway, how was work?” Tamara snaps her binder closed and slides it back into her backpack, finished showing Lucy the project she’s working on for biology. “Anything particularly gruesome you care to share?”

“No!” Lucy laughs, swatting Tamara’s hand away from the bowl of fruit salad she’s making. “Nothing gruesome. And even if there were, I wouldn’t tell you about it. I’m not bringing that part of the job home with me.”

“Fine,” Tamara rolls her eyes. “Anything you can share?”

“Hmm,” Lucy pauses, thinking about her shift as she stirs the green beans in their saucepan. “It was pretty quiet, honestly. Don’t look at me like that! You can say it after the shift is over. It’s reflective, not anticipatory!”

“Anticipatory? Which one of us has the SATs next month?” Tamara sneaks a grape, popping it into her mouth.

“And which one is helping you study?” Lucy purses her lips. “Anyway, not much this morning. Or the afternoon, for that matter. Traffic patrol, mostly, a few tickets in a school zone. Gave John some tips for Henry’s wedding, flowers and that. Oh, met Tim for lunch while he went with Henry and Abigail to look at a venue.”

“Lunch?” Tamara’s eyes light up. “Lunch, you say?”

“Burritos,” Lucy nods. “From that place he likes, the one over on Fourth. Mediocre chicken, but the tortillas make up for it. Anyway, like two bites in, he gets some salsa on his chin, doesn’t even notice. It stayed there the whole meal, until I finally told him right before we left. Then he tries to play like it’s my fault he tries to put too much stuff in one burrito, so he can’t even bite into it without the filling falling out and getting all over his face.

“He said he’s finally caught up on reports from last month, though. No idea how he does that; it feels like he’s never at the division, always turning up on scenes to see what’s going on.”

“Yeah, and you always notice when he shows up, don’t you?”

“What? I mean, of course I – he's the sergeant, of course I notice when he’s there. I don’t know what you’re suggesting!”

“I’m just saying, it seems like you have as many stories about Tim as you do about yourself. It feels … telling.”

When Lucy looks up, Tamara is grinning ear to ear, like the cat that ate the canary.

“It’s not ‘telling!’ It’s not telling you anything!” Lucy waves her fingers around in air quotes, and turns back to the stove. She opens the oven to look at the chicken breasts, almost done baking. But as the rush of hot air comes up to hit her face, she realizes that she’s already picturing Tim’s face, just from thinking about him for a few minutes.

It’s not telling her anything.

It isn’t.

Is it?

[myheartisafish]

reading dear america books and rating them until i get bored (4/??)

Our fourth book in this journey is the second in publication order, The Winter of Red Snow: The Revolutionary War Diary of Abigail Jane Stewart by Kristina Gregory. We already know Kristina Gregory from my last review, the oregon trail diary. 

QUALITY rating: 4/10 George Washingtons. This book was teetering dangerously on the precipice of Straight-up-bad valley. I read half of it and then didn’t get around to the rest for about two months. 

DEAR AMERICA rating: I’ll be generous and give this one 8/10 Battlefield Surgeries. By no means did it reach the heights of Hattie Campbell, but there were some suitably gruesome moments, and plenty of death and sorrow.

THE CAST: 

Our main character is Abigail/Abby. She has two whole parents (who survive the whole book, shockingly!), two sisters (Elizabeth and Sally), and a little baby brother (Johnny).

There is also a GIRL BEST FRIEND (Lucy) and a MEAN BOY (Tom), and the usual random ensemble of neighbors etc.

Along the way we also meet various officials of the American Revolution like the Washingtons, Lafayette, etc. The book pretty much universally praises these people, especially George Washington. God DAMN does this book love George Washington. 

The book opens at the beginning of winter with the birth of baby Johnny, but they don’t give him a name at first because none of their other infant brothers survived their first winter. Bummer. 

Then the soldiers arrive! Hooray!!!! The girls rush out to watch the soldiers march in, and are soon horrified, because the soldiers have no shoes, and turn the snow red with their bloody feet (The ‘red snow’ our title foretold). I read this one as a child and this scene traumatized me. 

Then it’s Christmas. Hooray! Abby and fam make Egg Nog, and she graciously shares the recipe: 

One quart milk, one quart cream, one dozen eggs, 12 tablespoons sugar, one pint brandy, half-pint rye whiskey, quarter-pint rum, quarter-pint sherry. Mix. Store by cool window or in cellar.

That’s right, Abigail is endorsing that 11 year olds get absolutely krunk on egg nog. 

Abigail and fam visit the encampment. Papa says that there are women there with the soldiers too, but a lot of them are women... of Poor Reputation. Gosh!

Abigail tries to go to school, but it has been turned into a small pox hospital. Those poor soldiers!

Abigail and fam meet George Washington and his wife, who are great people. Seriously just so great. The best around. Abigail and fam get the job of doing laundry for George Washington.

Abigail witnesses a hanging. 

Two of their pigs are stolen- Papa knows it was by soldiers because of the blood in the footprints. Those poor soldiers! 

Abigail makes onion soup. 

Abigail goes to town and meets redcoats!!! She hates them because they are fat and greedy while those poor soldiers starve. Cool fatphobia, Abby. 

While they’re in town, GIRL BEST FRIEND Lucy sells her beautiful hair to a wigmaker for nine shillings, which are immediately stolen by soldiers because she hides them in her barn like a dumbass. Now she has no hair and no money. 

Abigail is invited to visit the soldiers with Mrs. Washington. Woohoo! She then meets a sick soldier whose feet are green and black. They go outside, and hear screaming, because the surgeon is cutting off his feet. Outside, Abby sees a trough of ‘firewood,’ which she soon realizes is not firewood, but human hands and feet. Those poor soldiers!

Abigail goes home and her sister Elizabeth, who also visited the soldiers a few days ago, relates a story of how she watched the surgeon saw off a man’s leg in front of her, but the bullet that the man was holding in his teeth slipped into his throat and he choked to death. Those poor soldiers!

We basically get a lot of Abigail’s chores and the poor soldiers stealing things and Mrs Washington being such a great lady. Also occasionally there’s a hanging, or a soldier is drummed out of camp for being a spy. 

We also get some progression on Lucy’s haircut plotline, when MEAN BOY Tom snatches her bonnet off her head and everyone sees her short hair. Her parents are so angry that they make her walk around without a bonnet so everyone can see what she did. Woohoo for public humiliation as a parenting strategy! 

Finally, something different happens! The kids are all playing on the frozen river, when there’s a sound like a shot and five boys fall through the ice and drown. They are all brothers, and one of them is MEAN BOY Tom. Abigail feels bad for not liking him, because he’s dead. But hey, at least their mom still has three living sons!

Lucy is so upset about her parents constantly enforcing public humiliation on her that she runs away. She tells Abigail where she went, but Abigail doesn’t write it in her diary because it’s a secret. Lucy’s parents feel bad for publicly humiliating her now that she’s gone. 

The wife of the soldier whose feet got cut off comes to stay with Abigail and fam because her husband died from infection after his surgery. Gee, and here I thought sawing off someone’s feet in a room full of smallpox without washing your hands was sanitary!

Her name is Mrs. Kent, and she shortly gives birth to a baby. Hooray! Nothing remarkable happens here.

Abigail visits the mass graves of the soldiers with Mrs. Washington (who is great). Those poor soldiers!

After several entries of Abigail refusing to tell us where Lucy went, we find out that she ran away to Philadelphia to stay with Abigail’s cousin. What a mystery!

More hangings. Those poor... Ugh!! I can’t take it anymore!! If I read the words ‘those poor soldiers!’ one more time I’m ripping this book in half like an elementary school assembly strongman show.

The army finally gets ready to leave. We learn that Mrs. Washington is a very wealthy woman, which makes it super cool that she’s so nice!! (Also she owns 300 slaves. This is not examined by the text. Don’t worry about it.)

Lucy learns that her hair was made into a wig that was bought by... Mrs. Washington!!!!! Hooray!!!!!! Isn’t Mrs. Washington great.

The army leaves. Thank god that’s the end of the book. 

The Epilogue

But wait, there’s more! How will we survive without knowing the fates of these made up people???

We learn that Abigail and Elizabeth both get married and have children, then move out west to Ohio. 

Abigail dies in 1823 at the age of 57, after being thrown from her horse.

Elizabeth and her husband die together when their house catches fire in 1825. 

The end!

Overall Death Rating: 10/10 

3,000 soldiers die over the winter so it’s a pretty large death toll.

Gruesomeness rating: 10/10

The battlefield surgeries and severed limbs are pretty gnarly. There’s also a nasty account of smallpox inoculations. 

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Haven (16/50)

Summary: They say Resembool is a haven, and they’re right. Lush pastures, quaint country town, farmers’ markets on Saturdays: a bucolic paradise.

But it’s more than that. Resembool is a haven for the runaways, the deserters, the people who don’t want to be found…

The Resembool community knows there’s something odd about Hohenheim, but they’re not going to let that stop them helping him out. This is Resembool after all, a place where no one has to hide and neighbours help neighbours, be they building a fence, chasing a sheep, or trying to save the country from an evil they inadvertently helped release centuries ago…

Or: A series of slices of life in an AU in which Hohenheim never leaves, and several broken state alchemists find hope and home in Resembool.

Rated: T

==

Haven

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [AO3]

Summary: A deserter from the military arrives in Resembool, and Trisha is certain that Hohenheim is the perfect person to try and get to know the newcomer. Hohenheim is not so sure, but goes along with it anyway. 

Characters: Hohenheim, Sarah, original characters

Content warning: Self harm and discussion of attempted suicide.

Note: You are free to imagine Sherman however you wish; my personal image of her is the late Helen McCrory. 

==

Within twenty-four hours of the stranger arriving in the town from the direction of Ishval, news of her arrival is all over Resembool. They don’t often get Amestrian military deserters coming through, most of the arrivals from Ishval are refugees escaping the persecution, but Resembool is a safe haven for everyone, and they’ve always maintained an easy peace within their little microcosm. 

The newcomer is a deserter, that much is clear from the uniform, although she’s torn off all the braid and stripes and identifiers. The rumour whispered through the town is that she’s an alchemist.

“I think you should investigate,” Trisha says over breakfast. 

Hohenheim just raises an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“You’re an alchemist. You’re the only alchemist in Resembool. She’s an alchemist. You’ve got something in common.”

“I’m a four hundred year old Philosopher’s Stone from a country that doesn’t exist anymore. I have nothing in common with anyone.”

Trisha just rolls her eyes, and Hohenheim knows that he’s not going to get out of this one easily. Well, he supposes it's his turn to be the nosy one. He’s lived here long enough without getting involved in other people’s affairs like the rest of the village does, it was bound to happen sooner or later. And he can’t deny that he’s definitely in the best position to be getting to know a potentially volatile military alchemist. 

In the end, he agrees to Trisha’s proposal for practical reasons, because someone has to find out if this latest arrival is going to be dangerous to their increasing Ishvalan population. Considering the furtive manner in which she arrived, on the run from the military as much as the Ishvalans are, Hohenheim thinks probably not, but in such times of conflict one can never be too careful. 

She’s holed up in a room in the small guesthouse by the station, and no-one has seen her since her arrival in the evening two days ago. 

Kenneth, who runs the guesthouse, knows immediately why Hohenheim is there when he walks in. 

“She’s in room two,” he says. “I’ve heard her moving about so I know she hasn’t…” He trails off, suicide still an uncomfortable concept for the majority of people. “But I’m a bit worried all the same.”

Hohenheim goes up the stairs and pauses in front of the locked door. He probably should have thought about what he was going to say before he got here, but he’s here now, and he’s going to have to make the best of it. 

He taps on the door. 

“Are you all right in there?”

He hears cautious footsteps come towards the door, but no one speaks and the door remains firmly locked. 

“We’re just a little concerned, that’s all,” he continues. “We want to make sure you’re safe; from yourself and from anything else.”

The door unlocks and opens a fraction, revealing a middle-aged woman with tired eyes. The hand that is holding the door is bandaged, and there’s blood seeping through the crepe.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Thank you for your concern. But I’m fine.”

Hohenheim looks pointedly at the bandage. The blood is blossoming on the back of her hand, not near a major vessel that could have caused massive damage. The bandage is tied awkwardly and inexpertly, and he can tell it’s a self-done job.

“Can I at least get you a doctor for your hand?”

The newcomer shakes her head. “It’s fine. It’s…” The pause is just a bit too long. “It’s nothing.”

She shifts uncomfortably in the doorframe and Hohenheim sees that her other hand is the same. He’s not known for being quick on the uptake, but if what they’re saying about her being a state alchemist is true, then she’d need her hands for whatever work she does.

Hohenheim really wishes that he’d brought Trisha with him. She’d know exactly what to say. She has the knack for making people open up to her and getting them to trust her. She managed to get him to do it, after all.

“Ok,” he says eventually. “If you’re sure.”

The woman nods, not meeting his eyes. She doesn’t look scared so much as exhausted and lifeless, weighed down by the world. 

“Welcome to Resembool,” Hohenheim says. 

The woman gives a sad smile. “Thank you, but I don’t really think I’m welcome, considering where I’ve been and what I’ve done.”

“Everyone’s welcome, as long as you intend no harm.” He pauses. “You’re not the first deserter we’ve had to stay for a while. I promise that you’re safe here. You’re a state alchemist, aren’t you?”

“I was.” She looks down at her bandaged hands. “Not anymore.” There’s a long silence. “Actually, maybe a doctor would be a good idea. Thank you.”

X

A couple of hours later, Sarah is unwrapping the bloody bandages. The damage looks horrible, but as Sarah explains, it’s largely superficial. The skin's completely gone from the backs of her hands, scraped away like the boys’s skinned knees when they trip over but on a much more intense scale. It was done deliberately, this was no accident.

“It’ll scar badly,” Sarah says, “but as long as it’s kept clean it shouldn’t be a problem. Hohenheim, do you think you could heal it without leaving a scar?”

“No,” the woman says quietly.  “The scarring is the point. It needs to stay.”

Everything falls into place then. State alchemists sometimes tattoo their unique circles onto their hands to save drawing one every time, and this state alchemist has decided to obscure her tattoos and render them useless in a rather gruesome but nonetheless effective manner. 

Sarah disinfects the wounds and ties up fresh bandages. “There. Just be careful, and give us a shout if you need any help.”

“Thank you.” 

Sarah leaves then, off to see her other patients, but Hohenheim stays a while longer. They’re sitting in the ancient and rarely used sitting room in the guest house and the furniture smells vaguely of damp, but it’s safe, and quiet. 

“You’re all very helpful,” the newcomer says eventually. She sounds a little dubious. 

Hohenheim shrugs. “We live on the edge of a warzone. A lot of the people who arrive here need help, so we give it to them. There’s no right or wrong side. This village looks after people. It always has, for as long as I can remember.”

“How long have you been here?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

They fall into silence again. 

“Abigail,” the woman says suddenly. “I’m checked in as Jane Doe but my name is Abigail Sherman. Or just Ab.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Abigail.”

“I take it you’re an alchemist too?” she asks. 

“Yes. Not state. Just me.”

Ab smiles. “I remember what that was like. Then I joined the military.”

“Maybe you’ll get back to that, in time.”

“I don’t know. I specialised in air and wind-based alchemy. It’s done a lot of damage in its day.”

“It doesn’t have to. No alchemy has to be destructive.” Hohenheim gets up to leave. “You just have to make it constructive instead. It’s in your hands. You just have to choose how you want to use it. You can hurt, or you can help. In Resembool we choose to help.”

“Hohenheim?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

[extraordinarygrrls]

fantasywritten​:

“I suggest you back the FUCK OFF.”

Abby took a breath, steeled herself. She must admit, Mark has deeply unsettled her recently. She’s not one who reads social cues, but she can certainly look into someone’s eyes and sense that something just isn’t... Right. Added by Peter’s suspicions that get more and more valid. How did he escape that trap? John doesn’t make mistakes, and Amanda was a quick study, the third accomplice? Well, she couldn’t say... Could she?

“Strahm shouldn’t be the one off the case, you should be.” Yes, he had a hole in his throat, and that whole night was a disaster, and Mark saved the Denlon girl, on the other hand... “This case is bad for you, Mark. It’s making you sick, you’ve been cavalier and callous to and about the victims, argumentative with other officers... And if I’m being completely frank, this is not the first time you’ve stuck around even when it’s the worst thing you could’ve done for yourself.”

He should’ve left after Angelina’s death, for a while, but instead he just worked while being a complete wreck.

[extraordinarygrrls]

What if I just thought of fictional weddings for my OCs, what then

This is Abby's idea of a wedding, a park wedding, gardenias in her hair, with a very pretty but simple dress and an emerald (or green cubic zirconia, she's not picky) ring., she'd want a small guest list, relatively lax, since it's a park whatever kids are there can just play around. As long as she feels pretty, and there's love, and everyone is happy, she's happy. She figures if she tries too hard to make it perfect she'll stress herself out. (makes eyes @thehumanpuzzle )

[thesardonicwriter]

The Way It Is, Chapter 4 (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

After two weeks of nonstop treatment, Arthur���s face was finally starting to look better. You hadn’t risked another trip into town. Now that Arthur was up and moving, you wanted to be with him. The last thing that they needed was for him to think he was doing better than he actually was while you were gone and hurting himself again. Or worse, getting caught by the Pinkertons. You didn’t even want to imagine the torture they would go through before they were killed. It was sure to be a slow and painful death, especially after what Abigail had done to Milton. Arthur described it once, the gruesome reality of having someone’s brains sprayed directly onto his face. You had, of course, seen a bullet go through more than a couple of skulls, usually from your own gun, but you had always been a safe distance away and never really had to face the aftermath. You figured that whoever had found Milton hadn’t seen it up close or at all. No, there would be no mercy for them now.

You forced Arthur to his feet. He didn’t protest verbally, but you could see the complaint in his eyes. Even after years of going through this kind of shit, he was still reluctant. Imagine that. He was always so proactive on jobs and helping out others, it was strange to see him so unwilling to do something to help himself. You had no qualms about dragging him out of the cave if it was necessary. Thankfully, Arthur would listen to you. Usually. Even now, as he leaned heavily against you, he was still walking forward.

“That’s it. Just a couple more feet,” you promised.

“You said that already,” Arthur huffed.

“Gotta keep you on your toes. Literally. C’mon, what happened to Arthur Morgan? The guy who could intimidate the world’s strongest man? The guy who, if your ridiculous campfire stories are to be trusted, fought a lion?”

Arthur groaned. “Don’t remind me. That damned Margaret or whatever his name was nearly got me killed. Did get a lot of folk killed down at Emerald Ranch, all to give me some piece a junk for my troubles.”

“Sure he did.”

You chuckled softly. A part of you didn’t believe anything like that could ever have happened, but they were far enough east around that time that you would have believed anything was possible. You looked up at him. He was staring at the ground with an intense expression. All of his energy was focused on getting his leg back up to full strength. He’d been sitting around in that cave for too long. When he stood up for the first time, he immediately fell back on his ass, clutching his wounded leg and grimacing. You had gone out into the woods to take care of the Count after that. You found that the white steed had taken a liking to you. If he was close enough, he’d come to the sound of your voice. You made sure that that pretty white coat of his stayed white and lustrous. While you were out there in the woods, you fashioned a fallen branch into a kind of staff for Arthur to make walking a little easier. Now, he was insisting that he didn’t need it. You had some requests of your own, such as taking him down the mountain side and back. Not all the way, of course. Just a few meters away from the cave. It was still well within view. 

The real challenge was getting the food you cooked to stay in their stomachs. The food you’d bought at the general store had run out in a week. Since Arthur was awake, you felt comfortable going out to do some hunting. However, if you tried to do anything more than roast whatever game you’d managed to catch, it never turned out right. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of ingredients, but it wasn’t pleasant. It was, somewhat, better than having nothing. Hopefully, they’d be off this mountain soon.

“Hey, y’know what I could really go for?” Arthur asked.

“What?”

“Some fish. Dutch’s old rod was in with the Count’s things and I’ve always got mine handy. How’s about we head down to a nice place and try to catch somethin’?”

“Arthur Morgan, suggestin’ that we go fishin’? Now I’ve seen everything.” You didn’t bother trying to hide your grin. “Stay here, I’ll grab the rods.”

You quickly ran back to the cave, crawling inside and grabbing what they needed. You took a few scraps of bread and cheese, too, in case they needed some extra bait. Arthur was waiting somewhat eagerly for you to come back. You helped him move down the more tricky parts of the mountain. There were more than a few places that could get a little steep and slick if one step was wrong. They were following the small stream you’d discovered hidden in one of the many crevices. It was about 20 minutes of walking (mostly because they had to stop every now and then to let Arthur rest) to get to the spring the stream fed into.

Your breath was taken away as you looked at the sight before you. Crystal blue water stretched out just far enough. Vegetation was spread all around them. Some of the plants you knew, but most you couldn’t name off the top of your head. The water reflected the beauty around them. It was somewhat obscured, but that only added to it. The stream fed into the spring like a small waterfall, ensuring that the area would never be completely silent. Not even the lowest part of the rocks reached the surface, standing several inches above the water. A perfect fishing spot. 

“Wow,” you spoke quietly.

“Wow indeed,” Arthur agreed.

Without another word, they both put together their rods, sharing the bait. You moved a few paces away to keep their lines from getting crossed. They sat in silence for a long time. It was comfortable. Perfect, unlike that first night Arthur had been awake. In a place like this, it was easy to forget fear and just… live. Really live and be human for a few fleeting moments. That was all that you really wanted now. Precious moments, surrounded by beauty.

Arthur stopped fidgeting and looked up. You glanced back at him. He was staring at the sky in wonder. His mouth was slightly agape and blue-green eyes were wide. You turned to see what he was looking at. 

The sun was slowly setting in the west. From where they were, they actually had a pretty good view of it. The fading sun cast a glow of orange over the tops of the trees. The usual blue of the sky was melting into the oranges and yellows. The clouds were a light pinkish colour, lazily floating towards nothing. Purples meshed with reds, light and dark came together and it was only for a few moments. Before anything else could be seen or said, the moment was gone. 

Arthur closed his mouth. There was a soft smile traced across his lips still. You stared at the retreating sun for a moment. It really was something else. No matter how many sunsets you saw, you would never get used to the sight of them. Each one of them was so different from the last, so unique.

“I missed the sun,” Arthur said.

“We can see it from the cave,” you shrugged.

“Yeah, but you know that ain’t the same as standing in a place like this and watchin’ it. Don’t try and fool yourself now.”

“Nah, I s’pose not. We better be headin’ back now. I don’t think any of our fish friends are interested in cheese.”

“Hold on! I’ve got somethin’!”

Arthur pulled back on the rod, reeling in whatever it was he had quickly. You watched in anticipation. Neither of them were expecting for his leg to give out at that exact moment.

Arthur was pulled into the water. He landed with a loud splash that sent water up over the rocks and onto you’s boots. Dread overtook you as you looked into the water. Arthur sputtered when he came back to the surface, wiping water from his eyes. He gave his head a good shake and held up the fishing rod.

“Had to cut the line to keep the rod,” he said.

“You okay?” you asked him. You hoped that your voice didn’t sound as worried as you felt.

“Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, help me outta here.”

You made your way down the rocks closer to the water’s edge. You found the spot closest to the water and held out your hand. Arthur swam over to you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. You started to pull back but was met with a much greater force pulling you in. You barely had time to brace yourself before you were completely submerged. It took you a moment to get your bearings under water. Her eyes stung but you needed to look around. You found the surface and swam quickly. As soon as you were up, you took a deep gulp of fresh air into your lungs. Arthur was laughing like a madman. It wasn’t often that you heard Arthur laugh, but it did nothing to make you less angry at him. You sent a wave of water his way.

“You dumbass! Now we’re both soaked!” You complained.

“Ah, you’re enjoyin’ yourself, don’t lie.” Arthur was still smiling and trying not to laugh. “You need to do that, y’know. Take a little time for yourself. God knows you’ve spent enough of it on an old fool like me.”

“Fool? Yes. Old? No. If you’re old, then so am I and I ain’t ready for that conversation yet. And as for lookin’ out for you? If I didn’t do it, who would?” Arthur opened his mouth to say something back. “All right, will this shut you up? I’ll promise to watch you if you promise to watch me. We’ll take care of each other. Deal?”

You held out your hand expectantly. Arthur didn’t hesitate to take it in his own. His palms were rough and calloused. You were sure that yours felt much the same to him. They shook on it, making it official. You pulled your hand away. As Arthur turned around, you put your hands on his shoulders and pushed down with all of your strength. He was completely submerged. You let out a laugh of your own until you felt his hand on your ankle. Just like that, you were back underwater. You could just barely make out Arthur swimming back for air. You did the same. You pushed your hair out of your face. It was the first time that you had smiled in what felt like months.

You laid on your back and let yourself float. You looked up at the night sky. If Arthur was feeling this good, then their days on the mountain were numbered. If it was just the two of them, they could get off with relative ease. They could even make it back west, if they tried. Find someplace far away from the trains and settle there. Together. Make some kind of a life for whatever time that they had left. You wasn’t going back to being an outlaw. You knew that you could, if you really wanted to. You had been doing well for yourself before Arthur found you. Somehow, it felt wrong to think about going back to that life without the rest of the gang by your side.

Arthur entwined his fingers with yours. You looked over at him. He was staring at the sky, too. As you looked back up, you wondered what was causing that pensive look on his face. Was he worried about the same things you were? All you knew was that he was there and present. With his hand in your own, you could forget about the rest of the world. It was just the two of them in this moment, in their little secret spring. They were unburdened by the need for conversation. The only sound was the soft trickle of the stream.

Arthur let you go and swam to the edge. He pulled himself out of the water. Arthur shook his body like he was a dog, running his fingers through his hair. He leaned down and held out a hand to you. You swam over tentatively and took it. You still didn’t entirely trust Arthur now, not after that stunt. But there were no tricks up Arthur’s sleeve, not this time. He pulled you up with little difficulty, considering his leg wound. 

You stood next to him for a moment, inches away from being flush against his chest. They had been forced to be close together over the past couple of weeks, sure, but this felt different somehow. You took a step back to get rid of the feeling. You didn’t like it and you didn’t like who was causing it.

On the sodden trek back to their temporary home, you kept your arms tight around yourself. By the time they got back to the cave, you were shivering. You made your way into the cave and started gathering up the blankets.

“Make sure to get out of those wet clothes, Arthur. The last thing we need is one of us catchin’ pneumonia,” you warned.

He nodded, facing towards the back of the cave as he started to unbutton his shirt. You stared at his back for longer than you should have. When you turned to face your own wall, your cheeks were burning. Quickly, you took off your own clothes and wrapped one of the blankets around yourself tightly. You set the clothes close to the entrance. You sat against one of the walls and leaned your head back. You let yourself dream of the virgin west for a short while before taking watch.

[extraordinarygrrls]

Abigail Cain realized very quickly that she grossly overestimated her own social skills, especially in a situation so delicate. She just... Didn’t understand. They hadn’t even washed the blood off, were paramedics called, or just the police? The woman is clearly in a great deal of pain both physically and psychologically. She immediately raised both hands to Amanda to show she was no harm.

Of course she’s not okay, Einstein. “Right, yes. Well... Alive is a... It’s a start.” God dammit, Abigail.

And then came the questions, about Donnie, about a missing person. She’d done a lot of forensic work in the past little while, there was no telling if a body she’d cut open was Amanda’s missing person. At least, Abigail had no clue, she hadn’t given her a name, but Cecil was one of them. Granted, if she’d known, she wouldn’t tell her, not now.

“I’m sorry, Amanda. I couldn’t really tell you, it’s not my area I’m, well... I’m just a lab rat.” Her fellow detectives loved reminding her as much. “But I think a hospital would likely be a better place to take you... I can stay with you, if you don’t have anyone else to call.”

The first signs of Abby’s bleeding heart, she was not going to be some cold, logical, amoral scientist. She was going to care about people, she was going to be good.

extraordinarygrrls 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 :

(Abby) ❛  i don’t think we’ve met, i’m Abigail Cain. I work here, at the station, I'm a forensic scientist. ❜ don't mention anything weird, abby. don't talk about how you also cut open the guy she cut open to free herself, even though that is a thing you have in common with her. "you've been through a lot so... i mean maybe it's me, this is my first case, but they seemed kinda harsh, and i don't thin that's okay, are you okay? i'm talking too much aren't i."

She flinches, dried blood on her hands and down her cheeks and chest... ❝ Sorry... didn't mean to f-flinch. ... Name's Amanda ... and, I... I guess I'm 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 ? I... don't know if I'm okay... No one told me if you guys called Donnie's family... I knew him from the clinic... Am I going to jail... ? I-I just wanna go home ❞ She looks away, down at the table the detectives left her at. She says she wants to go home, but she doesn't have one. She just wants to go back to where she and Cecil stayed; having only enough for one month's rent, her time there was starting to tick. He went missing right when shit was getting tougher for them.

❝ A-Also I filed a missing person's report a month ago... I-Is there any news on it? ❞ (Or was it disregarded because the one filing it is a junkie?) Is her follow-up thought, but she keeps it to herself.

[elfnerdherder]

The Gunmetal Kiss: Chapter 6

[Support my Patreon] [Read on Ao3]

Well, guys, it’s here! This was a baby fic, but I’d love to thank all of you for the time and patience you’ve shown through the last couple of years of stagnant posting and random rambles of how much work sucks. I think I’ve settled into a groove of my new job now, and I’m hoping to get into a once a week update, kind of how I used to. Baby steps!

A special thanks to my patrons: @evertonem @starlit-catastrophe @kenobi-is-king @sylarana @frostylicker Duhaunt6, Mendacious Bean, Superlurk, and Cecily! You guys are the best!

Chapter 6:

May 8, 2017:

Nothing.

May 9, 2017:

Nothing.

May 10, 2017:

Nothing.

July 28, 2017:

Nothing.

October 13, 2017:

Nothing.

December 25, 2017:

Nothing.

January 1, 2018:

Nothing.

February 1, 2018:

Nothing.

March 1, 2018:

Nothing.

April 1, 2018:

Nothing.

May 1, 2018:

Nothing.

June 1, 2018:

Nothing.

July 1, 2018:

Nothing.

August 1, 2018:

Nothing.

September 1, 2018:

Nothing.

October 1, 2018:

Nothing.

November 1, 2018:

Nothing.

December 1, 2018:

Nothing.

December 31, 2018:

Nothing.

January 1, 2019:

And Time Froze.

           Will Graham died often. He died often, and nothing happened. People died, and nothing happened. Sometimes, he was commended for his work. Sometimes, he had a desire to put mirror shards in the eyes of his targets.

           He doesn’t, but sometimes he thinks about it.

           He’d told Alana it was a mirror, but it wasn’t, was it? He became, but he could become anything, and was he truly a person when he was constantly becoming something else? He thought of how Hannibal looked at him, hungry. How he’d slid that knife so smooth.

           He’d wanted to confess something about Mason Verger. Will Graham did work outside of the United States.

           Time passed, and nothing happened. Nothing happened because Will Graham was not a thing to retain information, but a thing to mirror the world around him just long enough to pass the power along. Never for himself, never himself, and nothing happened as the time passed. Will Graham wasn’t truly Will Graham. He was a ghost.

           Ghost Agents aren’t people. Will Graham never had feelings for Hannibal.

           Dying this time wasn’t anything special. It was nothing, but he knew it’d stain his ex-lover’s eyes forever, make them cry themselves to sleep. Enough they’d never know he was alive. Enough to know they’d not pry for him.

           Enough to know he’d never again exist to them.

           Despite the smell, sewers were the best of exits. Most of them were scarcely occupied by humans, and it led to avenues of quick getaways. Climbing out of the gutter and sliding out of the stained and wet jacket, he tossed it in the dumpster nearby and rounded the corner, picking up his bug-out bag.

           Standing poised before a bleeding sun and Will’s only escape, Hannibal Lecter’s knife glinted, reflected and nearly blinded Will. He paused for the briefest of moments, his mind reflecting, turning in on itself. He stood slowly and gripped the duffle bag tight, calculating.

           He couldn’t speak. He swallowed, throat tight, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Nearly two years. Nearly two years, and Hannibal looked good.

           Hannibal had a knife in his hand. Hannibal’s hand cut throats so smooth.

           “You found me,” he said, hoarse.

           “I never lost you,” Hannibal explained calmly. “You simply kept your head down and refused to see.”

           Will held his breath just long enough to make it hurt. He exhaled slow, allowed it to burn.

           “You going to stick me with that?”

           “You were telling the truth the whole time, I think,” Hannibal said. “Bits and pieces, but true. I wondered, long after, if you had to doctor your own wounds most times, and that’s why they were so gruesome in the aftermath.”

           “I’m not going to get into a knife fight with you. I’ll subdue you and move on.”

           “I thought to throw away the hideous canvas, but it was a ship adrift at sea. It seemed somehow fitting for you.”

           “Enough, Hannibal.”

           “It was not enough,” Hannibal interrupted, curt. “It was not so near enough time as I’d have liked, and in truth, Will Graham, I don’t believe it was near enough time for you, either.”

           He tasted Ortolan and brimstone. Will bit at a dry spot on his lip, tore hard enough bleed. His grip on his bag didn’t falter, but his breath did.

           “I thought you a remarkably difficult read until I realized it wasn’t that I couldn’t read you, but that you were never quite yourself to read. I miscalculated your affections, or so I supposed until I saw what it was for you to mirror someone’s affection back onto themselves. Then, I felt rather lucky in realizing I was able to experience a genuine intimacy with you.”

           “You walk a fine line between arrogance and confidence.”

           “You’d claim what you and I shared somehow compared to the watered-down version delivered in the coffee shop to Abigail Hobbs, whose grief and anger towards her father drew her into witness protection after your death? Or your romantic interludes with Nathanial, who could not convince you to come back to bed after you’d sufficiently pleased him?”

           “If I was so unobservant I didn’t notice the third man in the room, I should retire,” said Will. It sounded far droller than he felt.

           “You’re hungry for something, aren’t you?” Hannibal asked, and there it was: that look in his eye, that hungry look that made something inside of Will hungry, too.

           “No,” Will rasped.

           “You once wanted to get to know me,” Hannibal urged, and his voice softened. It wasn’t rough, but hesitant, something smacking of vulnerability, but Will didn’t want to think of that right now. “I had thought you’d maybe like to know me still.”

           He thought about fighting the Great, Red Dragon, how Hannibal had slit his throat so smooth. How his eyes burned, and there was a set to his jaw that hinted at a protective nature, an urge to act because he wouldn’t stand the notion that Will could get hurt again.

           Will stupidly thought of Alana wondering who’d first got in his head and scrambled it all up.

           “We have to go,” he said, and he glanced to his watch.

           “Will –”

           “I’ll…I’ll talk, but we have to go.”

           Hannibal looked likely to resist, but after a brief, taut second, he relaxed. “My car is less likely to be found.”

           It wasn’t a lie. Will gripped his duffle bag tight, then relaxed. He gave a brief nod and gestured for Hannibal to lead the way.

           There was a certain edge to be the one holding the keys to the car. It was a fucking Bentley, and Will allowed himself the luxury of melting into the leather. The last mission had been tiring, in truth.

           There’d been a lot of missions that’d been tiring, if that was something he was willing to admit. Maybe not yet, not at a moment like this.

           His duffle bag rested between his legs. In it held the key to a thousand identities, a thousand opportunities. He wasn’t sure if his mind was turning or reeling. “Tell me about Mason Verger.”

           Hannibal held both hands on the wheel as they peeled through casual suburbs and took stop signs rather than street light intersections. Will saw the care of it, and his fingers fidgeted with the lock button.

           “Mason Verger was a pedophile, and my work colleague shared it with me after a troubling day at set when she broke down crying and couldn’t continue the scene.

           “I…do not have a tolerance for those that think themselves above the repercussions of harming the innocent that are in no place to protect themselves. I thought it important that I convince him of his wrongdoing, therefore I set out the careful planning of our friendship and his inevitable destruction.”

           As orange, dull streetlights striped and skewered his face, it made his grim smile feral. Will liked it. It made him remember Dolarhyde dying. Will was shot, and Hannibal hadn’t hesitated in stabbing Dolarhyde so that Dolarhyde couldn’t stab back.

           The scar was ugly, hidden only by a beard Will painstakingly maintained. It was difficult to blend in with a scar like that. Difficult to do your job when people kept asking questions.

           “It was only one party, but it was enough. We procured drugs from his personal stash, and he didn’t notice that I mixed a potent blend of psychedelics into the powder. He took them without thought, and I’m sure you know the rest.”

           “How the hell did you get a hold of something like that,”

           “I have a friend in the pharmacy business. Big pharma is actually a large problem that the federal government should look into,” he chided lightly.

           “Not my job.”

           “No, but I’d like to know about that,” he replied, and at the next stop sign he grabbed one of Will’s fidgeting hands, letting it rest in the neutral space between them on the armrest.

           “Hannibal—”

           “You said you would talk.”

           He did say he’d talk. Will chewed his bottom lip and nodded in approval at Hannibal’s turn of head towards the interstate. Interstates were safe at night. Safer than people thought, so long as you didn’t drive like an ass and draw attention to yourself.

           He waited for a few miles before he spoke. Hannibal’s patience was fine-tuned and calm, not at all intrusive. He knew Will had no sort of idea where they were going, knew he was at the mercy of Hannibal’s need to know.

           And Will had known that walking towards the car, yet he’d gotten in anyway.

           “What you saw was me using my hyper-empathy disorder in order to so completely ingrain myself into the space of another person that I’m able to aptly anticipate their needs or any potential hazards of them being within my workspace and mission. I was recruited because despite that, it doesn’t hamper my ability to kill someone, should the need arise.”

           Admitting that was easier than admitting to the rest of the job. Other people had scrutinized his psyche before; one more was nothing.

           “You’re good at it.”

           “As are you,” Will countered.

           “When I care about something, Will, I will protect it at all costs. I know what it is to be unable to protect the things that I love, and I promised myself that it would never happen again.”

           There was something in the way that he said ‘love’ that made Will’s breath stutter past his lips.

           “You don’t know me, Hannibal. You can’t suggest you love me.”

           “I know more than others, otherwise you would not be so defensive of it. Instead, you’d be cruel, as you were to the rest of your targets that now think you dead.”

           “You want me to be cruel to you?” Will asked –he didn’t appreciate the sound of it being more incredulous than threatening.

           “No, I’m informing you that if you didn’t want me to follow you, you should have made me think you were dead. You ensured such a thing from every target after me, which leads me to assume you wanted me to find you.”

           Will was still more baffled than angry that Hannibal had found him. Of all the stupid, risky, outlandish things someone had done just to get his attention…

           “That’s not unreasonable, given the evidence,” Will allowed. Begrudgingly.

           “And given how good you are at disappearing, I’d promised myself should I get you in this car, Will Graham, I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight again,” he continued, amiably. “As I said, I want to get to know you. I think I’d be more than pleased with what I find.”

           Will looked at their hands clasped. He thought of the boat adrift at sea, likely still on the wall of that bedroom inside of a house that was dusty and abandoned. He wondered if Jack would comb through that house and find himself standing in front of that canvas. If he did, he would more than likely think of Hannibal asking Will if he wanted it back. He’d ponder it for years after, should they get away with this. Had that been a codeword? Did Will betray the organization, and I was too stupid to see it?

           The bag at his feet held enough futures to last a lifetime of over and over again. Rebirth and death. Rebirth and death.

           Red Dragon had tied Hannibal in a fisherman’s knot. In his spare time, Will quite enjoyed the sport of it. Maybe he’d like to know about that? Maybe they’d find a place in the forest where no prying eyes could see?

           Will smiled. “I’d like to get to know you, too.”

           There was nothing but miles of road behind them. Just ahead lay every possibility.

[oscar-isaacs-number-one-bitch]

“Assassination Nation” Movie Review

It’s difficult to pin down one specific way to describe Assassination Nation. The sophomore effort from writer/director Sam Levinson (son of legend Barry Levinson) is so chock full of energy and pure, unadulterated, gen z-style righteous fury that any focus on one particular genre, even insofar as the film’s brief exploration of those genres, really doesn’t play much into the overall narrative or even thematics of the film’s central premise (which, believe me, is absolutely one of the most visceral experiences you’ll have this year) except to show the audience that “hey, bet you thought we wouldn’t go there/include that, did you?” In fact, the most apt description of any genre this film might be pinned to is more of a feminist pulp horror/satire, a genre which, between this and Coralie Fargeat’s Revenge, is getting a serious boost in 2018, and justifiably so. This means that what we’re left with as an audience is more an experience and a message than an actual story, but one that’s told with such creativity and commitment to the more absurd parts of what story it has that it starts to feel just real enough to be legit.

The big central conceit of the plot is (at least at first) more a play on the idea of character assassination than a literal one (though that does become part of it later on) as an unknown computer hacker begins targeting a few select people and dumping all of their person data onto the internet for the public to view, and because this is conservative small-town America (at least as far as the older characters in the film are concerned), this information happens to contain a lot of explicit and often overtly sexual material not only inconsistent with but often in direct contrast to the views these characters claim to hold. The problem is, they’re not the only targets, and once the hacker starts targeting the younger inhabitants of the town (most of them teenage girls from a local high school), including our four main characters (played by Odessa Young, Suki Waterhouse, Hari Nef, and musician Abra), eventually people start looking for someone to blame due to the high paranoia and “concern” for public safety. Somehow (in a way I won’t spoil here), the target gets turned on these four teenage girls, and because this is a town called Salem (yes, that’s literally the name of the town), this is going to go down almost exactly how you might think it does.

If two paragraphs ago is where I laid out what kind of film this was, this is the one where I lay out what kind of impact it has and what makes it impactful. I won’t concede it being perfect or even particularly well-made in terms of editing, production design, screenwriting, or even character development, but it is damn near impossible to deny the impact that the film has on the viewer upon the introduction of the end credits. This is not your typical fun grindhouse teenage slasher type of horror satire. The film’s opening 30 seconds literally include an entire barn-full of trigger warnings for blood, violence, homophobia, transphobia, fragile male egos, more violence, blood, and gore, nationalism, mob revenge, and explicit reference to sexual assault and coercion.

What makes all of these so potent though, is that this is the generation raised on the “fun,” stylized kind of violence, taking on that kind of violence as their own, but presenting it realistically, hence the trigger warnings right at the beginning. None of it is pretty, none of it is fun, and very little of it is actually positive right up until the very end. The actual murders that occur are gruesome and heinous, the bloodshed is harsh and uncompromising, and the notion of a town called Salem trying to find seemingly any excuse to turn its literal rifle scopes on teenage girls as the central problem to something that is not only in no way their fault couldn’t be less subtle or poignant if the main character’s name had been Abigail or a Proctor family had been present. In order to even sell most of this, the burden is placed on the performances by our four central characters, and these actresses do an admirable and impressive job not only selling it, but getting you to buy into the deluxe package (particularly in the cases of Hari Nef and Abra, who themselves are completely three-dimensional characters not just subjected to being “the trans and black ones.”)

In fact the greatest positive takeaway from the whole endeavor is the sheer energy of its underlying thematic weight of a feminist power fantasy. The pulp horror/satire not only serves as a jumping off point for the fury of its pacing and visceral aggression of its explicitness, but also as a springboard for its narrative literally playing itself out not only as feminist pulp horror narrative, but as explicit message to the Trump administration and those who continue to support the ideals held up by it in this day and age that they know how these people tend to treat/judge the opinions, dreams, hopes, wishes, and even bodies of teenage girls, and not only are they justifiably and righteously angry about it, they’re not taking this lying down, no way in hell. That’s a level of boldness you can only get in these in-your-face, “maybe cult hits someday” types of films that come out between the summer movie season and the winter awards rush, and it really has to be seen to be believed. It’s more of an experience than it is a film proper, but filmmaking has never been, nor should it ever be, one kind of thing, and making films grounded more in an audience experience than a story in their own right, is sometimes necessary to remind us of that fact. I was damn glad I actually got to catch this one before it left my local theater.

There are a few negatives to the film; I didn’t forget about those, although it’s difficult to really care as much about them afterwards. The editing is a bit jarring sometimes, some of the other supporting characters are pretty shallow even for purposefully not having much to them in the first place, the script (while certainly hyper-aware of shallow teenage conversation nuances) isn’t exactly the best, most of the characters don’t really change and what change there is barely registers, and the whole mystery of who the actual hacker is eventually gets lost once the film reveals that it’s really more of an introductory piece to what the film is actually trying to say, so the story point just kind of drops until a very sudden turn at the very end that doesn’t exactly feel earned, but again, this is more of an experience than a film proper anyway, so who’s really counting.

This is the kind of film that will definitely define the lines of a generational divide in terms of how much one appreciates and understands what it’s attempting to do/trying to say, and also in terms of personal enjoyment (basically it’s one that your parents might think is terrible, but certain members of your extended family might think is still pretty interesting even if they don’t fully enjoy it themselves). It’s certainly not for everyone, and definitely not for the faint of heart (if the abundance of trigger warnings in the teaser trailer and opening 30 seconds didn’t give it away), but it’s definitely an experience worth having if you can handle what it throws at you in terms of sheer, visceral, feminist rage. Perhaps the greatest “well that was unexpected” experiment in filmmaking in 2018, it may not be the best of the year by a two-point shot, but it should definitely be counted among the must-sees.

I’m giving “Assassination Nation” a 7.9/10

[extraordinarygrrls]

"It's a work in progress, I'll keep you updated... The dead don't have missions, either," Abby interjected, getting up from the sofa and moving to the kitchen to make them some coffee, they were gonna need it, lots of it. "I've spent my adult life doing a lot of thinking on the dead."

Away from the crisis of a heavily bleeding wound, Abby felt her home was hers again, it was safe, and it was okay. Gamera absent-mindedly ate pieces of cucumber in his enclosure, she was making coffee, and Frank was brooding. Home sweet home.

"I see it as a nothingness, a blankness. When you look at the dead there are no thoughts or dreams, worries or priorities. Mom would say that's because their souls have left their bodies, maybe so, but I don't see what difference it makes. They're just..." She shrugged. "Nothing. It's not good or bad, it's nothing at all."

As the pot brewed, she returned to Frank, and checked his pulse, flipping his hand over and pressing his wrist. "You're alive. Maladjusted, but alive... Being dead seems like an awful way to live."

extraordinarygrrls​:

“You sound like someone who hasn’t fallen down the rabbit hole of Jack the Ripper conspiracies. Maybe that’s for the best.” She started to bandage his abdomen, careful to not further exacerbate any injuries.

“We have 21 days, between this murder and the next,” Abby tells him. “If they’re repeating his steps, they’ll repeat the timing too. 21 days of peace, and some kind of mysterious correspondence to the police. I don’t know what it’ll say, though. The context isn’t there, but maybe they’re too crazy, or too arrogant to care… I’ve been working on something, a map that overlays London and NYC, that’s a big part of the conspiracies, the shape that shows up on a map when you draw it out. Something, something freemasons…”

When she finished, she made sure the gauze was secure enough to stay on, but not tight enough to crush him. Abigail stopped again, looking at his hand, looking at her own. “There, all better… Mostly. That means 21 days to take it easy, Castle.” She knew he would ignore her, in many things, he’d respect her opinion, but he wouldn’t entertain the idea of a break.

“So you care. You care about the ones who get hurt, enough to kill… You have a strange idea of what it means to be dead, Castle, depriving yourself of the good things in life, and keeping the bad. And the mission, of course, the work.”

“Too many other things to focus on.”  Besides, despite what some may say, Frank Castle was never one for conspiracy theories.  Not when there were real issues staring him down.  Not when those issues can be solved with an M1911.

“Hear about any correspondance yet?”  Forensics have come a long way since the Victorian Era.  The world in general has come a long way since then.  Technology has made people easier to find, easier to catch, easier to kill.  But then again, the Zodiac Killer was only twenty-years ago, and they never found him.  But New York is a different beast, a different jungle.  And with all the masks and capes in New York City, there is no shortage of predators to hunt this particular prey.

“Anything interesting that shows up on the New York map?”  What Frank means is is there anything I can work with.  Some kind of trail or path.  Something that gives him an idea of where to look for the killer.

“Hrm.”  Castle won’t be taking it easy.  The war doesn’t give him a day of rest.  The war will never let him have a moment of peace.  So he never expects them.  The war and his life have become so intertwined, so interconnected, that it is impossible to imagine one without the other now.  If he were to ever consider taking a break from the war, even for a day, it would be like taking a break from his life.

“It’s because the dead don’t have leisures or pleasures.  All the dead have is a mission.  Nothing more and nothing less.”  And he has chosen his a long time ago.  So long ago that even if he ever thought about leaving the war behind, he couldn’t.  Twelve years since their deaths.  Twelve years of fighting a forever war.  It’s impossible to leave behind.

[recentanimenews]

Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka – 04 – Taking the Bait

Asuka has a recurring dream where she’s too late to save her leader Fracine from her injuries. Before she dies, she names Asuka to succeed her, and assures her that while the world has a lot of problems, it is also full of beautiful things worth protecting.

Asuka apparently needed to be taught this lesson in the worst way  possible, as one of the current problems plaguing the world (groups who wish to use magic to hurt people and gain power) takes one of the beautiful things (her friend Nozomi) hostage.

Nozomi’s father is to blame for her capture, not Asuka. It would seem that terrible things need to be done in the name of national security, but it’s clearly better if the ones doing the terrible things didn’t have such lightly-protected family.

In a further display of cynical pragmatism that borders on comical, Nozomi’s dad is told his daughter will be a “sacrifice” that will give Public Safety the budget and mandate they need to go out there and really bust some heads.

Since no police or military unit will mount a rescue, it falls to Asuka. With Francine’s words still ringing in her head she doesn’t spend much time mulling over whether going into action to save Nozomi is the right thing to do.

Considering how sweetly and adorably portrayed as Asuka’s friends were, it was fairly inevitable that one of them would end up in some real shit. But while Sayoko was merely caught in some crossfire, Abigail and her twin Russian sorcerer mercenaries spare no cruelty as they burn Nozomi’s skin off and simulate drowning, all while the cameras roll.

You get the feeling even if Kurumi can heal her many physical wounds, unless she can also remove all memory of the ordeal, Nozomi is going to be severely scarred by the torture. But first thing’s first: she has to be rescued. Asuka and Kurumi have no trouble getting past the initial waves of guards, but Abigail isn’t remotely concerned they’ve arrived. In fact, she’s delighted they took the bait. She feints “freeing” Nozomi, but slices one her arms off.

Unfortunately for her, in such close quarters Abigail has the disadvantage, which Kurumi exploits by impaling her with a giant needle, after which she and her familiar Sacchuu grab Nozomi and rush her to safety while Asuka keeps the Russians busy with a grenade.

She knows that won’t be nearly enough to kill them, but is still confident in her abilities to handle the three mages alone. But she underestimates the Russians’ magic, getting smashed into a wall and allowing Abigail to go after Kurumi (who hasn’t even started getting serious yet).

Overall, the stakes were succinctly set: poor Nozomi’s life and many other lives will be lost in gruesome fashion if Asuka and Kurumi (and whatever other magical girls/guys wish to participate) can’t get the job done. I would hope that whenever this is all over, Asuka will cool it with the “not my fight” attitude, and Nozomi’s dad will quit torturing people. Bad guys are going to do bad guy stuff regardless…so don’t give them any excuses!

By: magicalchurlsukui

[extraordinarygrrls]

For @igavehimlxfe

Early into her schooling, Abigail Cain already knew she wasn't going to have a good time. She was in the second grade and hadn't made a single friend within the old stone walls of St. Andrew's. The teachers spoke a lot about God, and morality, and she just wanted to learn about all the things her father and uncle learned. She adored them both, and already became extremely interested in science.

But this morning, there was something to get her uniform on for. Her parents needed to work early and late, and they felt more at ease knowing that someone was going to accompany her to school, even if it was only a short distance. It took a lot of convincing, of course, Dan insisted on the scientist getting some actual vitamin D, but eventually, they muscled Herbert out of his basement lab. Abby adored him and was so excited when the occasion arose that it was just them. She wasn't allowed in the basement without Herbert's permission, and that's where he always was.

Abigail was already dressed, breakfast eaten, bag packed, and she was ready and raring to go by the time he came up the stairs. She always looked so nerdy, something about how she dawdled about, how she she stood. Abigail was a very awkward but earnest little girl, and for once she was more excited than nervous to go to school. Bouncing on her toes, gazing up at him, she smiled when she heard him finally agree to walk her. "Morning, Uncle Herbert! Are you ready to go? I can show you the way!" She was very good at remembering directions, but tended to wonder off.

[extraordinarygrrls]

I am smarter than them. It was the only time Abby would have that kind of ego. Uncle Herbert believes in me. Have a good day, and study hard, you can do it.

Of course, as with any other day for Abby at St. Amicus, it wasn't without its pitfalls, the nuns, the teachers, her classmates, everyone seemed to make a snap judgment about Abigail Cain. That she was different in a bad way, that she wasn't like them, and that they didn't like her. She would do group projects alone, which she actually liked, full control over her work but lunchtimes were difficult. She would run from bullies in the garden and end up in the library, or a music room. It made her sad, being shoved inside because no one wanted her outside.

She trudged out the door at the end of the day but immediately lit up when she saw him. Herbert West, right on time, waiting for her. She flapped her little hands with glee and excitement before running to the mad scientist with a great big grin on her face, hugging him tight. "Uncle Herbert! You came... You promised, and you came..."

Abby was buried in her uncle's torso, but he could see a small group of kids mocking her, jeering and flapping their hands in derision, calling her a baby. Kids could be cruel, but Abigail didn't seem to notice.

"Well... it's not easy to be re-animated." That was the best response Herbert could come up with. Coming back to life was a fight, of course there was bound to be some... interesting effects. He'd conquered death, he just needed to work his way through that particular effect.

"At three exactly." Herbert scowled at the premise that Dan would forget Abigail. Really now, forget his child? Dan cared very deeply for her, he just worked late at the hospital. Why were children so foolish? Other than Abigail.

He knelt down to her level and tilted her little chin up towards him. "Just remember, Abigail- you are smarter than them, and while they're wasting their time playing meaningless games, you're helping me with something so large, their little minds couldn't remotely comprehend it." He poked her right in the center of the forehead. "But you can. Have a good day, study hard."

With that, he got back to his feet and stepped away, urging little Abigail on. She could do it. She could.

[ofjanuaryembcrs]

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Beverly Martha Marsh

NICKNAME(S): Bev, Bevvy (do not fucking call her that, it reminds her of her dad and that is not something she wants to think about), Beaverly, Slut

AGE: 18

DATE OF BIRTH: February 13th, 1976

HOMETOWN: Derry, Maine

CURRENT LOCATION: Derry, Maine

ETHNICITY: English, Irish, Scottish

NATIONALITY: American

GENDER: Cis female

PRONOUNS: She/her

ORIENTATION: Biromantic bisexual, though she’s never really discussed it with anyone. She kissed a few girls at parties back in Portland, but she’s never gone further than that. She does like girls though.

RELIGION: Agnostic. No one in her family has ever been really religious - her father and aunt were raised Catholic, though, while her mother was raised Methodist. 

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: While she definitely has left-leaning beliefs, she doesn’t follow politics enough to have a specific opinion on every issue. She identifies as a liberal democrat though.

OCCUPATION: Student, a clerk at the fabric store in the strip mall

LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: Bev currently lives with her aunt in a tiny, two bedroom apartment near the one she used to live in with her dad. It’s older, but Bev’s never been one to complain as long as she’s got a roof over her head. 

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: English

ACCENT: Maine

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Sophia Lillis (younger), Abigail Cowen (older)

HAIR COLOUR: Red

EYE COLOUR: Blue

HEIGHT: 5′7″

WEIGHT: 120 lbs

BUILD: Slim

TATTOOS: She has a collection of seven small birds on her rib cage. Bev got it on her eighteenth birthday - before she and her aunt moved back to Derry. At the time, she wasn’t sure why seven felt like the right number, but now she knows that there’s one for each of the losers.

PIERCINGS: Bev’s had her ears pierced for as long as she can remember. When she was sixteen, she got her cartilage pierced. A few weeks ago, she also pierced her nose because it’s the 90s and everyone’s got a nose piercing.

CLOTHING STYLE: Okay so fashion is actually Beverly’s favorite thing in the world. Growing up, her father always restricted what she could or couldn’t wear and now that he’s dead, she wears whatever the fuck she wants. Bev’s style is eclectic; some days she’s in a black, ripped crop top with a bright red plaid skirt and combat boots, and then the next day she’s in a soft summer dress with sandals and a flower crown. Beverly makes most of her own clothes, or she tailors and alters things she finds at the thrift store. She does wear makeup, mostly because it’s fun to put on.

USUAL EXPRESSION: Her lips are almost always turned up in a soft smirk like there’s some sort of joke or secret that only the two of you are in on. Her dark eyes are warm and loving unless you give her a reason why they shouldn’t be. 

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS:  Freckles scattered across her face, shoulders and arms, as well as a scar on the palm of her hand.

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS: None

NEUROLOGICAL CONDITIONS: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (undiagnosed) 

ALLERGIES: None

SLEEPING HABITS: Beverly is usually more of a night owl than an early bird. She sometimes struggles with falling asleep, which means she usually stays up listening to music or flipping through magazines until she gets tired. If she’s really restless, she’ll sneak out and visit a friend or go to the quarry to look at the stars.

EATING HABITS: Honestly, Bev’s eating habits aren’t great. Her aunt works ridiculous hours and Bev is horrible when it comes to cooking, so she lives on a diet of takeout and meals that are quick and cheap to make. She does try and eat a balanced meal most of the time, though, and she doesn’t go crazy with sweets. Junk food isn’t something she gorges herself on, really. 

EXERCISE HABITS: She doesn’t work out regularly really, but Bev walks or bikes most places. She does run sometimes if she’s feeling stressed or upset, but her stamina isn’t great due to the fact that she’s smoked cigarettes since she was twelve. 

EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Pretty high. Beverly still has nightmares about different elements of her childhood, but usually, she can calm herself down afterward. She’s not too distressed most of the time, at least on the outside. Bev’s good at letting things go, or at least ignoring them until they’re a serious problem.

SOCIABILITY: High. Bev’s a very social person. She doesn’t like be alone, really, and tends to surround herself with people she loves and cares about. Making new friends isn’t her strongest suit, but she’s okay at it. Bev’s kind to strangers, and can usually make small talk with people.

BODY TEMPERATURE: Bev’s usually cold, even when it’s pretty warm outside. She tends to wear layers just for this reason.

ADDICTIONS: Cigarettes. She picked up the nasty habit when she was twelve and hasn’t been able to quit for longer than a month since. It’s not something she’s proud of, but she also can’t seem to let it go. 

DRUG USE: Recreational marijuana use, though she only smokes it with friends. It’s not her favorite stress-reliever, but it’ll get the job done. 

ALCOHOL USE: Beverly is a social drinker; if her friends are drinking, so is she. She’s a giggly drunk who can sometimes be a little flirty, and she rarely throws up. Her hangovers can be pretty brutal, though. 

PERSONALITY

LABEL: The Empath

POSITIVE TRAITS: Compassionate, Forgiving, Creative, Loyal, Tenacious, Brave

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Impulsive, Stubborn, Sarcastic, Distant, Rebellious

GOALS/DESIRES: More than anything, Beverly wants to work in fashion. She loves designing and creating her own clothes, and would love to do that on a larger scale once she graduates. It’s unlikely that she’ll get a scholarship to any school, but she’s still applying to places with fashion design programs. If she manages to get in one, she’ll take out loans to go. 

FEARS: Her father, though she does have some peace of mind now that he’s dead. Anyone that majorly reminds her of him scares her a bit too. Beverly’s aware of the way men stare at her, and that troubles her a lot too. Sometimes she can use their leering to her advantage, but most of the time, it just creeps her out. 

HOBBIES: Bev likes making her own clothing. She spends a good deal of her time at her sewing machine, making new things from scratch or altering things she’s found at a thrift store. She also makes things for her friends, for holidays or their birthdays. Most of the time, she doesn’t have money for a gift, so she makes them something instead. Sketching out designs for her own clothes takes up a portion of her time too. If she’s bored in class, Bev will begin drawing out a new dress or skirt or something that she wants to make one day. When she isn’t working on clothes, Bev can be found reading. She developed a love for poetry when she moved to Portland, though she didn’t understand why until she moved back. She also likes murder mysteries and true crime books. Weirdly enough, gruesome stories fascinate her. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. 

HABITS: Beverly plays with her hair a lot. She’s kept it short ever since she was thirteen, though now it falls to her shoulders. If she’s stressed or nervous, she’ll play with it even more than normal. Smoking also helps calm her nerves. If she’s trying to quit, she’ll chew a lot of gum.

FAVOURITES

WEATHER: Overcast weather is Beverly’s favorite. Sunshine is nice sometimes, but she thrives in cloudy, slightly chilly weather. That’s why Fall is her favorite season. She loves being outdoors when the air is crisp and you can taste the rain.

COLOUR: Bev loves pink. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being feminine, and Beverly will make sure you know that. She loves red a lot too, though.

MUSIC: Bev loves both pop music and alternative stuff. She loves Whitney Houston (though no one can love her as much as Eddie), and she used to be really into Madonna. Now, she listens to Green Day and some girl bands. She likes some rap too.

MOVIES: Honestly, Bev can watch pretty much any movie; she loves romantic comedies, though. Because she’s friends with the losers and the party, she’s developed a taste for sci-fi and adventure movies. Bev also likes horror movies, but only if they’re slasher movies. When the antagonist is human, she’s fine.

SPORT: Sports aren’t Beverly’s thing. Her lungs are terrible after smoking for so long, so she can’t really play much. But, she’s in the stands at every game Mike or Ben are playing in. She wouldn’t miss that for the world. 

BEVERAGE: Coke or coffee

FOOD: Pizza with green peppers, mushrooms and sausage 

ANIMAL: Bev’s always liked otters a lot. They’re adorable, and they hold hands to stay together. What’s not to like?

FAMILY

FATHER: Alvin Marsh, an actual piece of shit (Deceased)

MOTHER: Elfrieda Marsh, not a great mom when she was alive (Deceased)

SIBLING(S): None

PET(S): A kitten from Richie the Cat’s litter, given to her by Mike Hanlon

FAMILY’S FINANCIAL STATUS: Bev has lived with her aunt since she was thirteen. They manage to make ends meet, but they certainly are far from being wealthy. Bev doesn’t like to talk about it, but she’s definitely poorer than most of her friends. She can’t always afford to go bowling or go to the movies every week, but she never wants her friends to feel sorry for her. 

EXTRA

ZODIAC SIGN: Aquarius

MBTI: ENFP

ENNEAGRAM: Type 1w2. Bev wants to make a difference, but she also wants to help others. 

TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good

PRIMARY VICE: Wrath

PRIMARY VIRTUE: Charity

ELEMENT: Air