#Concrete gravel boards

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[reasonsforhope]

The Klamath River’s salmon population has declined due to myriad factors, but the biggest culprit is believed to be a series of dams built along the river from 1918 to 1962, cutting off fish migration routes.

Now, after decades of Indigenous advocacy, four of the structures are being demolished as part of the largest dam removal project in United States history. In November, crews finished removing the first of the four dams as part of a push to restore 644 kilometres (400 miles) of fish habitat.

“Dam removal is the largest single step that we can take to restore the Klamath River ecosystem,” [Barry McCovey, a member of the Yurok Tribe and director of tribal fisheries,] told Al Jazeera. “We’re going to see benefits to the ecosystem and then, in turn, to the fishery for decades and decades to come.” ...

A ‘watershed moment’

Four years later, [after a catastrophic fish die-off in 2002,] in 2006, the licence for the hydroelectric dams expired. That created an opportunity, according to Mark Bransom, CEO of the Klamath River Renewal Corporation (KRRC), a nonprofit founded to oversee the dam removals.

Standards for protecting fisheries had increased since the initial license was issued, and the utility company responsible for the dams faced a choice. It could either upgrade the dams at an economic loss or enter into a settlement agreement that would allow it to operate the dams until they could be demolished.

“A big driver was the economics — knowing that they would have to modify these facilities to bring them up to modern environmental standards,” Bransom explained. “And the economics just didn’t pencil out.”

The utility company chose the settlement. In 2016, the KRRC was created to work with the state governments of California and Oregon to demolish the dams.

Final approval for the deal came in 2022, in what Bransom remembers as a “watershed moment”.

Regulators at the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) voted unanimously to tear down the dams, citing the benefit to the environment as well as to Indigenous tribes...

Tears of joy

Destruction of the first dam — the smallest, known as Copco 2 — began in June, with heavy machinery like excavators tearing down its concrete walls.

[Amy Cordalis, a Yurok Tribe member, fisherwoman and lawyer for the tribe,] was present for the start of the destruction. Bransom had invited her and fellow KRRC board members to visit the bend in the Klamath River where Copco 2 was being removed. She remembers taking his hand as they walked along a gravel ridge towards the water, a vein of blue nestled amid rolling hills.

“And then, there it was,” Cordalis said. “Or there it wasn’t. The dam was gone.”

For the first time in a century, water flowed freely through that area of the river. Cordalis felt like she was seeing her homelands restored.

Tears of joy began to roll down her cheeks. “I just cried so hard because it was so beautiful.”

The experience was also “profound” for Bransom. “It really was literally a jolt of energy that flowed through us,” he said, calling the visit “perhaps one of the most touching, most moving moments in my entire life”.

Demolition on Copco 2 was completed in November, with work starting on the other three dams. The entire project is scheduled to wrap in late 2024.

[A resilient river]

But experts like McCovey say major hurdles remain to restoring the river’s historic salmon population.

Climate change is warming the water. Wildfires and flash floods are contaminating the river with debris. And tiny particles from rubber vehicle tires are washing off roadways and into waterways, where their chemicals can kill fish within hours.

McCovey, however, is optimistic that the dam demolitions will help the river become more resilient.

“Dam removal is one of the best things we can do to help the Klamath basin be ready to handle climate change,” McCovey explained. He added that the river’s uninterrupted flow will also help flush out sediment and improve water quality.

The removal project is not the solution to all the river’s woes, but McCovey believes it’s a start — a step towards rebuilding the reciprocal relationship between the waterway and the Indigenous people who rely on it.

“We do a little bit of work, and then we start to see more salmon, and then maybe we get to eat more salmon, and that starts to help our people heal a little bit,” McCovey said. “And once we start healing, then we’re in a place where we can start to help the ecosystem a little bit more.”"

-via Al Jazeera, December 4, 2023

[kriosgat]

Driveway (San Francisco)

[suzukiblu]

Day four of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” behind the cut. tw: implications of past grooming/abuse and the inherent problems in someone who was in that situation trying to flirt with someone actually age-appropriate. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Sidewalk,” he says, quick and abrupt. “Uh–please. Just . . . can we land somewhere?” 

He needs to think straight, and he needs to take a step back, and he needs to–compartmentalize, and focus. 

Kon’s talking like–Kon’s acting like– 

Robin’s met a lot of people who feel like they need to sell themselves in one way or another, and a lot of kids who don’t act quite like–who aren’t– 

He doesn’t exactly like to think it, but right now Kon’s reminding him of some of the abuse and trafficking victims he’s met; the call girls and rent boys and just . . . 

Just the kids who act like somebody gave them a script, instead of like they figured out what they wanted to say for themselves. 

“Um–yeah, sure,” Kon says, just barely frowning, which is probably because Tim is having a very hard time acting okay about Kon talking to him like an escort chatting up a client or–

He really cannot act okay about that, no. 

It makes him think about Cadmus taking advantage of Kon’s time and life for barely anything more than room and board and wonder just what Kon was doing in Hawaii and just what kind of girls he’s dated, and–

He really, really cannot act okay about this at all. 

Kon shifts his grip on him and then flies them down to the mouth of an alley that opens out onto a sidewalk–again, terrible Gotham survival instincts, but Tim really doesn’t have the bandwidth to get into that right now–and lets Tim down onto the concrete and gravel. Tim takes a step back from him and clears his throat, trying not to be–not to seem–

Robin knows how to talk to escorts and prostitutes and victims and people who think they’re a product in just about every possible situation. Because obviously he does, and of course he does. There is just–there’s not a situation in which a Robin wouldn’t know how to do that. That’s just not a thing. 

But Tim Drake doesn’t know how to talk to Kon-El in this situation. 

“Thanks,” he tries awkwardly, and Kon shifts his weight and looks like he’s about to hunch his shoulders, but instead visibly redirects to stand up straighter; links his hands together behind his back. It pushes his chest out a little, and the way he’s standing is–

The way Kon’s standing is a display, even now. 

It always is, isn’t it. 

Tim thinks about the stupid teen-magazine poses, and thinks maybe he wasn’t actually prepared enough for the kind of relationship that involves paying for literally everything in the life of someone who views themselves as . . . whatever, exactly, Kon views himself as. 

Tim didn’t actually realize Kon viewed himself as anything but a superhero, and didn’t really follow through the logic of what somebody who thinks their entire purpose in life is to be useful might . . . assume here, maybe.

“Did I do something wrong?” Kon asks, looking uncomfortable. Tim tries to figure out how to say yes but I’m ninety-nine percent sure it was actually someone ELSE doing something wrong and you not knowing that said something WAS wrong in a way that won’t sound patronizing or too heavy or make Kon get defensive or just ditch him or–“I, uh–I just haven’t really done it before–with a guy, I mean–so I just . . . well, you can give me some tips, right? I’m not, like–I’m up for anything, y’know?” 

Tim hates this conversation.

[deafsignifcantother]

if music be the food of love, chapter 8

♥ here you go lovies, it’s series time | chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter nine ♥ summary: uhm yeah he confronts you and goes all demon on you but you're like "babe it's just us babe look at me". reader getting ready to jump off a bridge at any moment because this is the worst confrontation she's been through (but she's having a stone face to not let him win). ♥ relationships: aroace Alastor x deaf female reader (queerplatonic to romance) ♥ word count: 3.7k ♥ pinterest board ♥ notes: she's on artfight, and once again i'm getting catholic on you guys. she also is speaking more often. this story is NOT going to get nsfw but i like a lot of mildly sensual things bc I feel like alastor would do crazy shit and not realize how sensual it is. i wrote this while high (it's 3am) ♥ no tag list rn :3

And so you walk, head tilted downwards, back to the hotel. Chatter silences, and people eye you. Instead of sprinting away, they just back up, not knowing your next move. You watch every crack on the street as you step on them, crushing the gravel and tiny bits of concrete.

Zestial had walked you to the door, basically saying his form of "gg" and leaving you alone.

You think of the place where Alastor found you. Leaving Zestial's little study within Carmilla's professional ownership meant walking through that area and that memory.

Just two overlords find an interest in each other, sparing each other's life in a plan to corrupt the other. That's not exactly humorous.

You suppose it's possible that you'd both somehow taken a form of emotional poison, and it had only taken effect just now, but that's only an excuse for corrupt passion. But at the same time, it's not hard to imagine how this physically attractive person, who's been touchy since the day you met, could have lured you in.

The cars coming up the road don't crash like you expect; they only speed up. You're not angry anymore, that's good.

The hotel is a cemetery now. Each person inside could be tumbling out the moment the doors open. This is both a suspension of your imagination and the sudden thought that you made Alastor angry. He would have come for you first, right?

The two-door entrance, where you can't lock the doors with the key still inside, felt like introducing your doom. He'd know you're back. Are his ears twitching to the sound of your music? It's hard to imagine that any force outside his heart can penetrate his robust interior. You're special to me because I happen to love you quite a lot.

What kind of expression do you have? Do you look scared shitless, as you feel?

You open the doors, peaking your head in before anything else. You pause to catch your breath. Husk is looking off into a distance, and from this angle you can't tell if his eyes are locked into something or if it's a drunken stare.

When he notices you, he smirks, shrugs, a drunken stare. How dare he have the audacity to smirk at you?

If it hadn't been for the disaster of under an hour ago, Alastor might have given you the usual space. And if he had, you wouldn't have the sense that Alastor was just around the corner. Unless you're delusional with paranoia, it looks like Husk's on the verge of blurting it out.

You face your fears and walk closer to the foyer, letting the door close behind you. Your eyes dart to the couches, but there is no sign of him.

Husk throws a bottle your way, and it crashes against the wall. You don't jump; you just turn your head slowly. What a strange way to get your attention.

"His tower." He points upwards.

Good, because you're not going up there. You have time until Alastor decides to come down. He'll likely intrude in your space if you attempt to walk to your room. Should you stay here with Husk? Or is that going to summon him quicker?

"Husk."

He rolls his eyes, internally begging for you to leave him alone.

You approach, feet echoing through the silent room. A chill runs up your spine from his hard stare. Was he offended from earlier? It doesn't matter; he's going to indulge.

"When was the last time we saw each other, before all of this?" You suddenly ask.

"At a bar, probably. You'd think you were smarter than me and I'd win every time," he laughs at the memory. "Why? Wanna try again?"

You shake your head. "Was I by chance with Alastor?"

"No."

"In other words, we spent time alone, without Alastor."

"What the hell is your point?"

"Nothing," you give him a smile, "I'm just wondering."

He hid his smile at the memory, what a cute sentiment for you to bring it up. He growls. "I can tell when you're acting stupid. Stop this little act, it's not going anywhere."

Your smile grows more. "When was the last time you thought about me since then? Before you saw me?"

His eyes squint. "What?"

"Am I not allowed to ask questions?"

"No." He signs again.

You lean further on the desk, nodding with a faux understanding expression. "What if we make an unofficial deal?"

"No."

"So," you continue anyway. "You tell me something I want to know, and in return, I tell Alastor to leave you alone when I'm around. You know he'd listen to me. How does that sound?"

"You could have just bought me beer."

"Will that work?"

His hand goes to his forehead, trying to rub the drunkness from his brain.

"If you don't forget your promise."

You put a hand out, getting his attention again. "And we can gamble again, like old times."

"Sure." He places his hand on the table, staring at them, flexing his claws to prepare for his following words. "What's the question?"

"Did you know Alastor was going to bring me here?"

As he hit his fist on the table, it vibrated, a bottle on the wood shaking a bit. He hadn't touched the drink since you walked over.

His hands lift before dropping again. He wants to sign another why, but that won't satisfy you at this point.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"He said old friend. I didn't think about it too hard. He said you could help us."

Your spine straightens. Your shoulders raise, your eyebrows furrowing. "That I could help, that's what he said?"

And not that he wanted to be near you again?

"Don't let it get to your head," it's a strange comfort. "He's... Hey, just be cautious."

And then his ears flicker, eyes looking behind you, and you embrace the inevitable. If you could predict the future, you imagine Alastor's hands gripping your shoulders and instantly throwing you to the floor before eating you alive.

Warm breath brushes against your neck, the bangs of a familiar friend hitting your head. Husk turns away. You try to do the same, but a hand wraps around you and pulls you around.

"May I walk you to your chambers?"

"Always such a gentleman."

"Yes, I'm afraid that's true."

What does that mean? Ugh, he's the worst.

His grip doesn't leave you as he forces you to his side, the other hand holding his cane behind him, neither available for communication. This is better than getting his constant teasing.

But he's definitely been planning this since the moment you left. The more you reflect, the more genuine he seems. He hugged you after the meeting and invited you into the kitchen just to rest with you.

As the two traveled, nothing happened for a while. You just try to match his steps while getting comfortable in his rough grip.

And your room approaches. The optimistic part of you wants him to drop you off and leave you alone for the night. But, of course, that wasn't his plan. He stood in front of your door. Did he expect you to open it?

He just stared at it, smile dark, expecting, ready. His grip on your releases.

You reach a hand towards your door knob.

And then the door of his room slams open. A tentacle wraps around your waist, pulling you into the room and lifting you from your feet. It only lets go when Alastor closes the door from behind him.

You don't back away when he strides long and stands before you. He growls, showing his gums and his eyes showing nothing but resentment. He looks at every part of your calm face. His hands lift to grab you but then drop, once again expecting you to move.

After a few seconds of motionless stares, he lifts a hand, touching your speaker, the fast heartbeat pulsating against his fingers. He digs his fingers in the tight space between your skin and the metal. And then he slowly removes it, revealing the strong muscle layer beneath it. You sigh.

You often used to do that, placing your speaker somewhere to sneak up on a victim.

The music goes silent. Alastor kindly holds it in his hand, not letting his claws pierce it. You hate it when your speaker isn't a part of you. It feels as if your heart has been ripped out, and though it causes no pain, the emptiness is a physical and mental anguish.

And then he walks past you, placing the stereo on the table between two lounge chairs. The fireplace ignites. You look at him while he motions to the chair across from him, buttoning down his overcoat and laying it on the head of the chair.

Something horrible is advancing, slowly but surely the situation will only get worse. You try to have a normal stride as you sit on the opposite chair, pushing your dress under you more comfortably, trying not to fidget with your lace, red sleeves.

Whatever passion he shared for you only exists to show signs of warning, his smile more threatening than ever. If you end up dying, you'll die with a look of astonishment on your face.

"Dearest, how do you feel?" He asks. What a pointless question. Does he really expect you to answer? What a sensitive, compassionate question. You almost run away once again.

"Did I betray you?" You ask. "Do I need to apologize?"

His smile widens. Your tone is almost non-caring.

"I'd appreciate an apology, yes."

"Well, I'm sorry for doubting you. I still don't know if you were just joking or not, but judging by this reaction, I, uhm... I'm sorry."

"It's not just anger," he reads your mind.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. Jealousy? Aggravation? Hatred?

He continues before you have the chance to lift your hands. "I am fearful, too."

He crosses his legs, soothing his suit. His fingers interlock and rest on his knees, looking at you expectantly, waiting for your response to his rare sensitivity. But then he changes his mind, suddenly raising his hands, signing faster than usual. "Think about it. I presume you've grown to consider me some beast that comes from out the woods. And at the same time, you're just a girl who has clung to me. What does that make you? You melt into my touch while trying to get as far away from me as you can."

"You do the same thing."

And in an instant, his claws sharpen, his hair goes into spikes, and he grips onto the chair. You fight the urge to react in fear. This is just his emotive wall, you remind yourself. At least he's trying.

He isn't giving you room to respond; he hasn't been. "How insensitive. You're trying to dissect me but it won't work, I can see through you."

A stiff shrug is your only response. You squeeze your hands to soothe the shaking before you respond. "You're a trendsetter."

His body grows, contorting, and he lifts himself from his chair, both hands reaching to grab you. Even this smiling shadow circles you. The lights flicker before shutting off completely. The only light is the fireplace and the glow of his eyes, not including the green aura his anger lets off.

"You think this is a joke?"

Not at all. Acting like a scared little girl will only feed his ego; knowing his words messed with you will satisfy him.

This reaction is what you wanted. You stand, hands nearing his face, leaning close, straining your own life by swooping his bangs out of the way, pressing a kiss to the target on his forehead. You force your forehead on his. His hands immediately claw into your skin, a threat, a warning that he's going to break you in half.

But you speak to him, a low whisper. "Your love is not a joke to me."

His hands touch your stomach as he shoves you away. You fall to the floor, body having missed the chair behind you.

"Enough," he signs. "Do not touch me lest I'll take your soul."

You don't even try to sit up, head on his carpet. Your hair falls on either side of your face, and you keep your eyes on Alastor as he crawls just barely over you. You keep a straight face. "You wouldn't hurt me."

One of his hands raises while the other plants by your side, wrist brushing against your ankle. His bowtie is falling off, his collar half up and half down. The disordered fashion is unlike him, you've never seen it before.

"Physically."

And that hand presses on your stomach, clawing at it until the fabric of your dress rips. The warm air hits you. His threatening nature doesn't cause the usual butterflies.

He sits up. "I hate this dress."

When you tilt your head, he continues. "I hate the good memories, I hate cherishing you."

You raise to your elbows, but he slams you back down.

He finally crawls over you, knees cradling your thighs, his hands on either side of you. Your fingers brush against his. He leans down, putting his forehead against yours. His breathing is heavy, his smile is closed, and his lips threatening to open in a snarl. You keep your eyes open; his are calmly closed. Around dozen seconds pass, the longest minute of your life. His breathing slows, and his body returns to normal. His head remains in front of yours, almost shielding your eyes from his transformation. He tilts his head, not leaning in but changing the angle of his access.

And as quick as he can, he leans back, arms stiff and straight, eyes expansive with fascination. You try to calm your eyes and remain stoic, but your lips part, and your eyes shine in response. He runs his eyes through your upper body, with no sense of salaciousness, staring at the hole in your chest and your hands, relaxing against the floor.

If you're ever in danger, he thinks, it will be the end of me.

"That."

"That."

"Yes, that."

Like the rest of this conversation, you wait for him to interrupt you, but his arms relax. He can't stop staring at you, unblinking. Finally, you shift uncomfortably under his stare.

"What?" You pinch your fingers together.

His smile widens. He looks so attractive when he looks down at you like that, attempting to calm his breath, his red button-up wrinkled with violent movements. You log this memory into your brain to hold onto forever.

"The forehead touch, the first time we did that you were wearing this."

His hands slide down your waist, and you try to jolt away. His hands move back. "Apologies."

"I didn't know you liked the forehead thing so much."

"My darling, can't you remember that I initiated it first? But you refuse to remember, silly girl, while I can never forget. There was a swirl of love in your eyes, I had never seen somebody look at me like that. You had lost your mind."

You smile, lips lifting unintentionally. "Didn't you run away?"

His smile drops only a bit. He shakes his head, hands not lifting anymore, and he stands, offering a hand to you. As if you weigh nothing, he lifts you to your feet with one motion.

You change the topic, intending to save yourself. "May I touch your collar?"

He tilts his head up, still remaining silent but smiling, the corner of his mouth returning high on his cheeks at your touch. Your fingers fold his collar back, straightening his bowtie and tightening it. "There you go."

He grabs your wrists, puts them to his lips, and kisses them softly. Instead of dropping them immediately, he leans into your knuckles, holding himself there until you grab both cheeks. His eyes close, and he smiles small.

Can't wait to tell Zestial about this.

This embrace has only ever been in your imagination. You never pictured how warm Alastor was, how he admitted to liking (loving? still difficult to process) you, the way he held your speaker as if it was a newborn kitten, his claws never drawing blood on your skin no matter how much he wanted to, and you'd definitely never imagine his small smiles.

Is this what he has been wanting all along? Was Husk just seeing the worst in him?

Alastor's hands hold your shoulder blades as he pulls you in enough for your hands to still touch his cheeks. His hair rests against the top of your head, making you smile.

But with a twitch of his hands, you both realize something. You have yet to say it back. You bite your lip, leaning away, still not removing your hands from his face. His eyes peek at you, red eyes glowing. Your hands remain in their place.

Think of Zestial's advice, think of Zestial's advice, think of Zestial's advice.

A deep breath leaves you. He straightens his body, your hands falling from him. All you do is lift up your fingers, ily, not sign the sentence, and put it against his chest. He doesn't look at your hand. He stares at you.

Your other hand signs a soft "Please."

For now, he'll accept your hesitation. But he won't again.

You return your hands to yourself. "Let love be without dissimulation." His ears press to the back of his head. He tries to grab your hands, but you don't stop, so you take a big step back. "Abhor that which is evil and cleave to that which is good."

"Those verses mean nothing." His claws bump into each other as he signs, his precise angles long gone.

"They do to me, let love be genuine, Alastor. Mutual affection, don't you understand?"

Another argument approaches: "Do not bring those verses into my life, any of them. You challenged me once, and I will not let you challenge me again."

He points his finger at you, and you stare at it. "Is your love genuine?"

"You're letting words play in your head," he points to his temple, doing the crazy motion. "You're doubting me again."

"You didn't answer."

He reaches forward, fingers curved to emphasize his claws, but he stops his grasp only centimeters away from your shoulders. "My dear, you're driving me crazy."

"You ruined my dress."

"You're always so good at changing the subject."

You can't help but smile. Alastor's anger becomes less threatening the longer it lasts; his sharpened hair and strong shoulders just make you want to caress him into normalcy.

The lights flicker back on. You look around, eyeing the environment you didn't get the chance to see before. "So this is your room?"

His hands drop dramatically.

You sign, "I'm a bit disappointed there's no huge portraits of me, how dare you."

When you're eyeing the bones on his wall, he puts his overcoat back on, pulls the sleeves down, and buttons his waist. The rip around your stomach is the most visible part of your appearance, he snaps it away, glancing off to the side nervously. He needs to control himself more. He needs to stop acting like such a baby around you. But how you look at him draws him in more than anything; he's truly never been around someone who has treasured him as much as you do. Your eyes light up whenever he touches you, and you sulk when he pulls away. Do you live off of the contact? Sometimes it feels like it.

So when you turn to face him again, hands rubbing against the place on your stomach where the rip was, his eyes twitch a bit and watch your hands.

"Ah, my dear, put those hands to better use."

You squint, tilting your head before he wraps his arms around your thighs and lifts you up. You let out a loud woah, hands gripping his neck, his face plush against your collarbone. He feels the dip of the empty space where your speaker once was.

He spins around in awkward, dance-like steps, gaining laughs from you, his main goal. He wants this night to be a good memory. Your hands roam upwards to the back of his head, your nails digging into his skull, pulling on his hair. He groans, vibrating against your skin, tightening his hands on your thighs. When your hands run up his hair, puffing it up with your touches, he feels a chill down his spine. So that's what that feels like. It's thrilling.

Before you can even process the lack of contact, he throws you onto his bed. You bounce in place, the pillows moving alongside you, and a shadow pulls you higher up, wrapping a blanket around you.

Alastor swipes his hands together, almost clapping. "Get some rest, darling!"

And traveling with his shadow, he looms over you, standing, holding your speaker in one hand. He slips it in place, the music pulsating before starting off again. How exquisite, you must love him.

"Alastor." You try and sit up.

"No, no, darling, put your little head to rest." He pushes you down. "We have to make sure you don't start sulking again, I don't want my residents being tortured by your dear melodies," he snaps his fingers and puts you in your nightly clothes, the red dress draped over the same chair, his coat was, "I'll always be here if you need me."

"I know." You stare at him through your eyelashes. He definitely wants you to try to sleep so you don't go roaming around flustered. What time is it even? Considering his little meltdown, you won't try to test him on it.

"Well," he stands, and you realize how tall he is from this angle. "Try and have good dreams."

You just scoff, turning to your side, capturing a second pillow in your grasp, and cuddling with it. Alastor definitely doesn't use this bed, it smells like nothing at all. Disappointing. You need to change that soon.

[exitwound]

i think my house is haunted and I'm being targeted. how to deal with it?

you need to make a sigil to ask the ghost to make itself sweet to you, to love you sweetly, and maybe, if it wants, to disappear easy. use little handfuls of gravel on a smooth surface like a concrete step, or use salt on the desk, use sand from the ocean on a cutting board, use anything. and shape the dust it into the shape of your sigil, just follow your intuition, you’ll know when it looks right, or you won’t, but it’ll eventually look right and you’ll stop changing it. put your hand over the sigil. or your face. tell the ghost you love it. tell the ghost that it doesn’t want to hurt you. when you look into what scared you, see how much it doesn’t want you to be afraid of it, see how much there is no such thing as evil. make rose tea. make your favourite kind of tea. make my favourite kind of tea. no one is targeting you. no one can touch you. you are haunting you. make a blanket fort. no one can target you in a blanket fort. hiding under the blankets in your bed works too. once i texted the suicide hotline like um not suicidal i just don’t know what to do because i feel like everything’s out to get me. and honestly they didn’t help but it was nice taking to someone and they did help actually when they asked, what usually helps? what helps you not be haunted? for me the answer was falling asleep. what else helps, asked the crisis hotline volunteer. Remembering that the ghost loves me

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 29

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Season three is here!!

The sounds of dry snarling surround us as Rick kneels at the base of the fence, taking a pair of bolt cutters to the wire, snipping it open. Maggie brings her axe down on the skull of the nearest walker with Glenn's help, Dad jamming his knife into another's eyeball just a moment later. The bodies drop into the grass. Rick peels the fence back for us to squeeze through, with his sights on the treeline behind us.

My Dad makes it through first, helping Rick brace the wire apart as the rest of us follow after him, one by one.

I step into the gravelled walkway, suddenly up close and personal with the prison. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my knife, a faint sense of excitement rising from my toes to my scalp. It ain't Buckingham palace, but it sure feels like it. The yard sits just on the other side of the fence, so close yet so far, stretching on for what looks like the length of I'on even know how many soccer fields. The grass is green, green like a pasture on a milk carton. Walkers stumble around, with nothing better to do than bake in the sun. It's kinda beautiful.

"Hurry," Rick's hissing, just as T-Dog and Mouse bring up the rear; the last to slip through. "That's it."

I share a glance with Carl at my side, who's grinning cheesily under the brim of his cowboy hat.

"So cool," He says.

"Okay. That's everyone," His Dad grunts. "Close it up."

They replace the wire door. Glenn jumps in and starts knotting it back together with a spool of red wire.

As he's securing the last loop, a walker crashes into him through the fence. He jumps back just in time. It grabs a handful of nothing, reaching after us as we turn away from it, jogging down the walkway, slow but steady. All the walkers in the field are coming up to the fence to gawk at us, growl at us as we pass by. It's like we're the new guys in town. Are we gonna take all of them out? Can we?

We make our way through the open gate up ahead, gathering in the main gateway area.

The sun beats down on us, sweat slipping down my neck.

"It's perfect," Rick's smiling to himself as we come to a stop behind him. I think he's right. The dirt road we're standing on leads underneath the vehicle gate, all the way up the hill and comes to a stop at another, smaller gate which is open. It's letting the walkers wandering around in the concrete courtyard have free reign of the field. Not good. There's a guard tower on every corner of the yard, overlooking the place. We ain't never had guard towers before. I can see Rick getting all amped up, just like the rest of us. He turns, wielding his machete like a pointer in a class discussion. "If we can shut that gate, prevent more from filling the field, we can pick off these walkers."

I try to count them. But once I get past ten, I remember it don't matter. We can do anything.

"We can take this place by tonight," He gestures.

No more sleeping in the car with Dad and Mouse, wondering what that noise in the trees was. No more running.

"So, how do we shut the gate?" Herschel starts thinking. I know he don't exactly love sleeping in the cars, neither.

"I'll do it," Glenn offers, squinting against the sun. "You guys can cover me."

Maggie shakes her head. "No. It's a suicide run."

"I'm the fastest. It makes sense."

"If speed mattered, Glenn, we'd be sending Harley in," Rick scoffs, tryna be funny. "She's the fastest."

I know he's only tryna make a point, but I can't help but think there's no bother. I am the fastest. I'm the smallest, I'm the youngest, and I'm the weakest, but I'm also the fastest. They saw how I ran outta camp that night at the quarry, how ain't nobody was able to catch up with me for a good five minutes. Ever since I got those keys at Thanton Memorial, I been wanting to do more.

"Why not?" I ask honestly, even though we've been through this before. "Why can't I help?"

My Dad turns a look on me. "Harley, baby, save it. You know the hospital was different."

"Yeah, but—"

"Mind yer mouth, girl. I said it ain't happenin'."

To soften the blow a little, Glenn adds, "Maybe some other time, you can help, okay? But... not now."

"Not now," Rick agrees. I done asked them so many times to let me help out. I ain't surprised they're brushing me off again. It's what they do whenever Carl does the same thing, but I'on know why. I got two hands. I'm smart. I can help. "No. Harley, you, T, Glenn, Maggie, and Beth can post up along this fence line, draw as many as you can away from me and pop 'em when they get too close."

I suck it up. I got no business arguing with them right now. "Okay. M'sorry."

"That's alright," He placates, before dolling out more instructions to the rest of the group.

Herschel and Carl make for the tower to our left, while Carol and my Dad make for the tower to our right. That leaves Rick standing in front of the main gate, hyping himself up to make a run for the courtyard. It reminds me of the day we crossed that frozen river.

"C'mon, Harley," Glenn grabs my hand, ordering Mouse, "Stay there, boy."

He leads me over to the fence line with the others, where he takes up a position next to me.

"You got your gun?" He checks, as Maggie and Beth start hollering at the walkers behind him.

"Hey, over here!"

"Hey! Hey, come here!"

Nodding, I unholster my small pistol as he holds out his palm to me.

Routinely, I pluck out my hearing aids and hand them over, the silence enveloping me. He stuffs them in his pocket.

'Okay,' He signs, 'Start shooting.'

I click the safety of my pistol off. As I line my sights up with the closest walker on the other side of the fence, I see Rick slipping past the main gate and into the field. If that were me in there, I'd be dodging and weaving 'em just like in a soccer game.

Focus, Harley, I scold myself, pulling the trigger. The lady-walker's cheek explodes onto her shoulder.

When I pull the trigger again, her entire head explodes, limp body collapsing like a sack of sand.

Rick continues making his way up the hill, hauling ass with a slight jog. The walkers around him are dropping like flies. Every chance he almost gets to shoot one down, somebody else does it for him. A crossbow bolt pierces their forehead, a bullet from one of the towers rips through their face, or they're turning their heads, lured the opposite direction as they catch wind of us folk at the fence.

They're pilin' up quickly, now. Quicker than we can shoot 'em down.

It's time to holster my gun, brandishing Merle's knife, instead. Rearing back, I stick the blade into the knee of a walker sidled up to the fence. It wobbles a little, its leg twisting, folding in half under the dead weight. Crouching down, I stab its leaky eye.

Warm, curdled blood spurts up my arm, and it's fucking disgusting, but I pull the blade out and carry on.

Taking down the next walker, I glance up to try and spot Rick. Where is he? Is he alright?

There he is. He's almost there; almost at the gate.

Right then, the ground in front of him is shot to pieces, the pebbles flying all over the place like he's stepped on a mine.

He skids to a stop, looking up at Dad and Carol's tower in scolding. Carol gives a little shrug as she reloads. Whoopsies.

Shaking it off, he finally approaches the gate. He takes the wire in his hands, kicking one of the walkers in the stomach and sending it onto its ass as he drags it closed, hooking some metal clips onto it. Once it's secured, he makes a dash for the closest tower.

He disappears behind the metal door. Thirty seconds later, he appears at the top, waving down to us.

'He made it,' Glenn signs to me, his hands bloodied.

'Are you okay?'

His expression softens. 'I'm okay. Let's finish them off.'

'Let's do it.'

With Rick outta the way, it's easy pickings; shooting ducks in a barrel.

The walkers keep dropping, one by one, sometimes two by two, until there's only one of the bastards left standing.

Everyone holds their fire for a moment, as if we're asking each other, Who wants the honors?

We watch Rick lift his rifle, peering down the scope. It could only be him. We all know that. It takes him only half a second to shoot a bullet into its head, and then its legs give out and it's the last to slump into the grass, leaving the field completely still. We did it.

Glenn hands me back my hearing aids, and the first thing I hear is Carol exclaiming, "Fantastic!"

"Nice work, chicken," Dad praises as they step out of the tower, ruffling my cropped hair.

"I killed five, Daddy," I brag a little bit, sheathing my blade as we make for the main gate. "That's, like, half of ten!"

"I know, I saw. I's thinkin' to myself, 'Is that Jackie Chan Junior down there, or what?'"

"Who the Hell's that?"

Glenn just laughs. "Never mind."

"Are you okay?" Carol asks Lori.

"I haven't felt this good in weeks," She sighs as we enter the field.

Holy shit. I know I said we did, but we actually took the place. We did it. All in the matter of an hour, we went from wasting away on a random highway to having an entire prison yard to ourselves. I chase after Carl as he runs ahead, squealing and holding my arms out, like I want the wind to hug me back. This is more than just cool. This is incredible! It feels like we got the whole world again!

"Oh," Carol laughs from behind us, "We haven't had this much space since we left the farm!"

T-Dog cups his mouth and calls out, "Wuh-hooooooo!"

I copy him, screaming, Wuh-hooooooo!, as I run myself around in circles. "We did it!"

"She's gonna drive herself dizzy," Maggie laughs, "Messin' about like that."

"Let her," Dad says as they walk past me, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"We did it!"

"Mmm," Glenn hums, sucking the meat offa the little bone in his hand. "Just like Mom used to make."

He throws it into the fire, knocking a piece of wood over and sending a flurry of embers floating up into the stars.

It's safe to say I ended up tiring myself out this afternoon. It's strange to be worn out, but not from fighting for my life or because I haven't eaten in days. I'm just a kid who's had too much fun. Sitting next to Carl on an old blanket, I peel off a bit of stringy meat with my teeth and chew it as I gaze out at Rick's small figure in the distance, pacing the courtyard fence line. I ain't sure he had any dinner.

This is it, though. This is the place he was talking about for all them months. It turned out to be real. I wish I could say I never doubted him, but there were some nights I thought we'd be on the run forever. I thought he was just spouting nonsense. There weren't no place for us to live like we wanted to, somewhere for us to call home. The work ain't done yet. We still have to get inside the prison. But with the warm night air sitting around us, and the sky twinkling over our heads, I'm happy to stay like this for just one night, even if Rick ain't. He's been at that fence for what feels like hours. He's like that dog again, sniffing out a bone he can't quite reach, not just yet. I wish he'd rest.

"Tomorrow, we'll put all the bodies together." T-Dog muses, absentmindedly petting Mouse.

I stop watching Rick and remember to swallow my mouthful, going in for another bite.

"Wanna keep them away from the water," He continues. "If we can dig a canal under the fence, we'll have plenty of fresh water."

"The soil is good," Herschel adds. In the light of the fire, I can make out the pinkish burn the sun has left on his face. It reminds me of my own sunburn, but it only stings a little. "We could plant some seed. Grow some tomatoes, soybeans, cucumbers."

"Eugh," Carl mumbles. "Tomatoes..."

Herschel's gaze drifts over to the fence line, then. He seems to remember Rick. "That's his third time around."

Everyone spares the man a glance, but only a glance.

"If there were any part of it compromised, he'd have found it by now."

"This'll be a good place to have the baby," Beth chirps, changing the subject. Rick's always a tricky one. "It's safe."

"The prison or the yard?" Lori jokes, idly cupping her belly. "At this rate, the baby might come tonight."

Wiping the grease from my lips, I muse, "Back in Sharpsburg, my Daddy said ya might let me name the baby."

"Oh, yeah? What would you pick?"

I give a bit of a shrug, taking another bite, 'cause I ain't given it much thought. "Sum' like... Bob."

Glenn humors me, "And if it's a girl?"

"Uhh... Bob...-ette?"

"Sure." T-Dog deadpans, shaking his head and chuckling. "If you want it to hate you for the rest of its life."

I throw my bone into the fire as Lori says, "We'll see."

That's adult language for, Not in a million years.

"Harley?" Carol asks me from across the group. "How's your Dad feeling about being in a place like this?"

I know what she means. A prison.

"I ain't asked him, yet."

She treads carefully when she asks, "It wasn't... It wasn't this prison, right?"

"Nah. He went to Arrendale State Prison." Nobody ever knows where that is, so I add, "It's kinda near Tennessee, I guess."

"Well, at least, there's that," Says T-Dog. "Imagine the world ending, only for you to end up in the same prison again. Woof."

I stick around for a couple more minutes, finishing off some more of the barn owl meat and baked beans, but after a while, I let everyone know I'm gonna go talk to my Dad for a bit. I know if I don't bring him some food, he'll end up going hungry for the night.

"We'll save your spot for you," Glenn tells me, instead of getting up to escort me like he usually does. It's safe here.

Grabbing a bowl of food, I stand from the blanket and cross the field, stepping up to the overturned bus.

I look up. "Uh... Dad?"

His face appears as he leans over the side, meeting my gaze through the dark. "Oh. Hey, babe."

There's a small problem. "How am I gonna get up there?"

"Well, ya climb."

"Oh. Thanks," I mumble, rolling my eyes at that remarkably unhelpful tidbit. I step onto the tyre, grabbing some sort of pipe on the undercarriage, and try to get a good foothold on another piece of metal, but it's too hard. I pull away. "Ugh. Dad. Help."

"I'm only playin'." He chuckles, setting his crossbow aside and laying on his belly. "C'mon. I gotcha."

Reaching down for me, he effortlessly catches me as I jump for his hand, pulling me up next to him.

"There ya go."

"Could'a done that in the first place," I point out, taking a seat by his side. "I brought'cha some dinner."

Bathed in the moonlight, his brow crumples as he frowns, eventually taking the bowl from me. "You ate?"

"Yeah. Makin' sure you get some, too, 'fore T-Dog eats it all."

"Thank you, baby."

"Ya welcome," I shrug, swinging my feet back and forth. "Carol's wonderin' if you're okay, bein' back in a prison and all."

Spooning some food into his mouth, he garbles, "Lady's almost as brown-nosed as Dale was."

"Well... I'm wonderin', too."

Something about my quiet admission gets him to actually answer this time. Swallowing his mouthful, the bump in his throat bobs up and down before he sucks in a big breath and lets it all out again. "I'm fine," He says, "'Sides, we ain't actually inside, yet."

I guess not. "But we will be."

"I said I'm fine, baby." He insists, biting down on a big piece of meat so he can pretend he can't say anything else.

My Dad ain't never talked much about his four and a half years in Arrendale State Prison, but I do know that when he came back, he slept on the porch for nearly a whole month afterwards because he couldn't stand being in his own bedroom. There were a lot of things that were better than they were before he left us. Like how he appreciated every meal, even if it was just a cheese sandwich. How most mornings, I'd wake up to him stroking my hair and just looking at me. But there were a lot of things that were worse. Enough to matter.

I overheard him telling Merle once that the guards used to beat on him extra, because they knew he wouldn't fight back. He had me to get home to. He couldn't afford to fuck up and add more months or years to his sentence. They all used to beat on him.

I don't want Dad to think I see him as a pussy or nothin', so I tell him, "I know. I's just makin' sure."

"I can tell ya what, though," He scoffs, slinging the bone over the fence, "I ain't gon' be sleepin' in no fuckin' cell again."

"I'm sure they got proper bedrooms somewhere in there, right? Like, for the guards?"

Holding back some bitterness, he tells me, "No, chicken. They don't."

"Oh. Well, we can just sleep outside or somethin', then."

"Ain't you been nagging everyone about wantin' a real bed to sleep in?"

Yeah. "But—"

"Well, you're sleepin' inside, then." He decides. "I want'chu to have that."

I want him to have that too, but I ain't gonna win that argument. So, I just agree. "Okay, Daddy. Fine."

"Jesus. We're already hashin' out terms," He jokes, "And we ain't even made it inside the courtyard, yet."

"We're positive thinkers!"

"You definitely are, ya silly monkey." He picks up his crossbow and slings it on, standing up. "C'mon. Let's head back, now."

"Okay. But only 'cause I miss the fire."

He climbs down first and helps me down afterward, catching me and setting me on the grass. We make the walk back together.

"Bethy," Herschel's saying as we approach, "Sing Paddy Reilly for me. I haven't heard that one, I think, since your mother was alive."

Maggie gives him a tense look. "Daddy, not that one. Please."

"Well, uh... How about Partin' Glass?"

My Dad and I sit down on the blanket as Beth shyly protests, "Nobody wants to hear."

"Why not?" Glenn asks, putting on a small smile.

There's no real reason not to, so she gives in. "Okay. Daryl, do you know that one?"

"Yeah." Maggie chirps, some of the sadness that was weighing her face down disappearing. "You can play us through it."

"I can try," He corrects her, before he gets back up and heads over to the cars near the gate, grabbing his guitar from the backseat.

As I notice Carol sending me a questioning look, I feel myself trying not to glare at her. "Don't ask him about it."

Understanding, she nods to herself.

When my Dad returns, he settles the guitar in his lap, looking at Beth.

She only hesitates for a moment or two before she opens her mouth, and the words that come out are some of the prettiest I ever heard. Slowly, my Dad adds a few strokes of the strings here and there, before he starts to get a real feel for it and pieces something real lovely and quaint together, something I think most people wouldn't think he'd ever be able to make, but he's just as gentle with the chords as an artist would be with his canvas and paints. She sings softly about spending her days in good company, memories she can't recall.

T-Dog lays with his arm resting under his head, gazing up at the stars as the melody flows over him.

Lori and Carl sway side to side, Maggie fondly watching her sister as she holds Glenn's hand.

She joins in singing at the passing of the next lyric, and it's obvious they prolly used to do this a lot when they were my age.

Herschel looks into the fire, a picture of peace.

It even lures Rick over from the fence line after a minute or so. He sneaks in while nobody has the opportunity to make a comment about how long he's been over there, sitting next to me and Carl. I pass him some leftovers, too, before he can weasel his way out of it.

"Thanks, honey," He hesitates to say as he takes the bowl, despite himself.

"Good night and joy," The girls duet, "Be with you all. Good night and joy... Be with you all."

Dad strums a chord one last time, finishing the song off.

"Beautiful," Herschel decides.

He sets the guitar on the ground, sending me a fleeting smile.

"Better all turn in," Rick clears his throat, reminding me of where we are. "I'll take first watch. We got a big day tomorrow."

Glenn frowns, "What do you mean?"

"Look, I know getting to this point has been a lotta work," He sighs, looking from one person to the next, studying the exhaustion on their faces. "This was a great win, but we've gotta push just a little bit more. Most of the walkers are dressed as guards and prisoners. It looks like this place fell pretty early. It could mean the supplies are intact. They'd have an infirmary. A kitchen. Commissary."

T-Dog jumps in, asking, "An armory?"

"There'll be one nearby," Dad guesses. "Can't risk havin' it inside, 'case a riot breaks out and some John Doe thinks he's Rambo."

"Makes sense."

"This place could be a gold mine," Rick exclaims.

I can tell he ain't got nobody on the hook with this idea, except maybe Dad, and me. Sure, I'm tired. I'm only eight but I could sleep for the rest of my life. That don't mean I ain't eager as all Hell to see what else this place has for us. Hell, I'd do it tonight.

Herschel is the first to speak up. "We're dangerously low on ammo. We wouldn't even make a dent."

"That's why we have to go in there," He says like it's obvious. "Hand to hand."

Alright. He really weren't kiddin', then. Tomorrow is a big day. Even bigger than this one.

"After all we been through... We can handle it."

Early the next morning, I notice slight movement from across the fire as I'm poking at a tin of leftover beans with a stick.

Carl lifts his head from the blanket, blinking away sleep like a dazed frog. It looks like a coyote came along during the night and got into a brawl with his hair, but I know it's just 'cause he had a good night's rest under the stars, feeling safe. There's nothing like it.

Clicking my fingers at him, I draw his attention.

'Want some breakfast?,' I sign, knowing my hair prolly looks just as messy, even if it's barely longer than his.

Yawning, he stands from the blanket and comes to sit next to me in the grass.

'You kicked me again,' I tell him while we wait for the beans to warm up, the smell of smoke and fresh dirt on the breeze.

'I did?,' He frowns.

'Yeah. In your sleep. I think you broke a bone.'

'That sucks. Put in your—.' He gestures to his ear.

Keeping a little scepticism, I dig into my backpack and fit my hearing aids in.

"What is it?"

"Drama queen," He enjoys saying very loudly into my left ear.

Startled, I smack him away. Ugh. Walked right into that one. "Seriously? You ain't gettin' a single bean, anymore."

He just giggles to himself, sitting back on his palms. He thinks he's a real comedian.

Apparently, by this time tomorrow, we'll all be sat up in one of them cell blocks together, living the life. Looking at the buildings now, I take notice of the giant letters painted onto the sides of the cement walls, the shambling masses of walkers on the ground, unaware of the birds on the fence watching them with stalking eyes, waiting for one to succumb to its weight. I can only imagine what's on the inside.

I'm reminded of Carl when he suddenly contemplates aloud, "Man. I hope it won't be like the CDC."

Turning to look at him, my heart gives a little kick. The CDC? What's he mean?

"Or the farm," He adds, but I'm sure it's not an afterthought.

"It won't be," I say almost forcefully, offended he'd even think that way. "Don't say that, Carl."

"Sorry," He mutters regretfully as he sits upright, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're right. Forget I said that."

I know I should prolly take a page outta my Dad's book at this moment. Whenever there's uncertainty ahead of us, or somethin' awful has happened, he don't spout some empty promise. There might come a day where he's made himself a liar. Instead, he says something like, We'll try our best, or, There's nothin' more we can do. I always find the insignificance comforting. I know as sure as I do that the sun's gonna come up tomorrow, he's telling the truth. You can't be let down when you're dreaming in the dirt to begin with.

I don't think I can bring myself to say them things right now, not after everything we did to get here.

Besides, I'm in the dirt no matter what I say.

"None of that matters." I try and convince him. "Everything's gonna be like we hoped. This is our second chance."

"Third chance," He corrects. "Technically."

"Whatever. Even better. Third time's the charm, ya know."

He turns a suspicious look on me, like I've just done something bizarre. "You're being, like... positive."

"I'm a positive thinker," I tell him, just like I told my Dad last night.

"Since when?"

"Um... Since yesterday. I think."

That makes him giggle. "Okay. But, you need to say something negative. It's weird when you don't."

Obliging, I drawl, "You's a sour-faced scaredy cat, Carl, and I'on like the way you think. Makes me wanna punch yer lights out."

He can't help but let out a snort-laugh. "Thanks."

"Ya welcome." I watch him as he gazes out at the prison buildings for a moment, before I ask, "You believe me, right?"

He glances at me. "Do you believe you?"

I was kinda hoping he would answer first. "Well... Yeah."

"I do, too, then." He says, much to my relief. "Even if you did sound like my Dad just now."

"Who the Hell's burnin' beans this early in the morning?"

Our heads whip in the direction of my Dad's voice. He's sitting up, rubbing at the pink indentations of grass on his neck. Oh, right. The beans. Grabbing the stick, I poke the tin outta the way of the smouldering ash and blow the thin smoke away from it.

It clears, revealing the perfectly saucy, not-burnt beans. The smell draws Mouse from his slumber.

"Uh. Nobody," I quip. "Want some?"

"Nah, babe," He groans, scratching the dog behind his ears. "You have 'em."

"What about me? Do I get some?" Carl asks as I grab a spoon. "I'm sorry I scared you before."

I don't hesitate to pick up a second one, handing it to him. "I'on care. Here."

"Thanks."

Dad frowns at him. "You scared her?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah." The boy admits, sensing he might be in trouble. "I kinda shouted in her ear. It was dumb."

"Ease up on that shit a little," He chides. "And don't let me catch you doin' it."

"Sorry, Daryl."

"I'on care," I reassure Carl again, spooning beans into my mouth. My Dad's just protective. Sometimes, it can feel like I'm less of a daughter and more of a pet, but he's always been like that. Especially after I lost my hearing, and especially when he's stressed.

After everybody else has woken up and the beans are long gone, Rick announces, "Let's do this, then."

The courtyard is just as much a massacre as the field was.

The birds perched onto the fence fly off as soon as the first blood is spilled.

I drive Merle's knife into the walker's rubbery kneecap, twisting it around the bone, feeling some sorta crack, and finishing it off with a stab to the brain when it falls against the fence. Pulling the blade out from between the pink mush and browned skull, I watch them who's inside the courtyard make their way across it in a tight formation, lashing out at any walkers that get too close.

When they make it to the undercover area, all five of them skid to a stop.

They back themselves up against the wall, hiding from the sea of walkers just around the corner.

As they linger there, a couple sets of body armour stumble out from behind a dumpster. Wait, not armour. Walkers wearing armour. The only way to tell are the fingers poking out from under the sleeves, their arms raising as Dad tries shooting a visor.

The bolt ricochets off the plastic, landing somewhere in the piles of trash.

"Hey! Walkers!" Beth shouts, rattling the fence. "Over here! C'mon!"

"Over here!"

"Hey, ugly!" I shout at the walker closest to me, luring it in and stabbing it in the soft part of its knee.

When it falls over, Carl deals the finishing blow with his lead pipe.

"Thanks," I lilt, breathless.

The group realizes they ain't gettin' through that armour. In good old, Hand to hand, fashion, as Rick called it, they start charging at them. My Dad wrestles one up against the wall, grabbing its helmet and ripping it off, rearing back, bludgeoning it into the walker's face until it turns to mush, drops to the ground. Glenn slashes another's neck in two, kicking it away from him in a spray of blood.

When the opportunity strikes, Rick runs for the far gate, pulling it shut and securing it with more clips.

Maggie struggles to keep a big brute offa her, before she drives her knife up its nose.

The walker's blood freckles her face as it falls.

She's completely beaming. "See that?!"

Glenn and T only have a few seconds to be impressed, turning to hack down the next walker that approaches them.

Then, finally, the courtyard falls still.

Letting out a sigh, I sheathe my knife and grip onto the fence, watching the group talk amongst themselves in the wake of all the bodies. They point to a few of them, shake their heads some. I expect them to reconvene with us, but instead, they walk off.

"What's going on?" Lori wonders, as Rick and my Dad very carefully open the door to one of the cell blocks.

After a tense moment, they all creep inside, weapons drawn.

"They would only go in there if they thought it was safe," Herschel reassures us all. "We just have to trust them, and wait."

Carol glances at me and Carl. "You kids okay?"

"Don't worry about me," The boy says, while I just give a simple nod.

The next time the big, red door opens, Maggie appears and jogs over to us, pulling the clips off our gate.

"C'mon, y'all." She drags it open, that beautiful smile still plastered on her sweaty face. "Let's go get our things."

Her Dad asks, "You cleared it?"

She's already halfway down the hill, grinning at us over her shoulder. "We sure did!"

Wearing my backpack and clutching my soccer ball to my stomach, I follow everyone into the cellblock.

The dark, damp-smelling corridor stretches on for a while, lazily opening up to a huge, even damper-smelling room. I come to a stop with everyone else on the concrete platform, peering up at the sickeningly tall ceiling. Bands of sunlight drain in through the barred windows all the way at the top, too far outta reach for me to catch a glimpse of any of the greenery I know is on the other side.

"Nice, right?" Maggie smiles, right before a dead walker body falls from the second storey railing. Eugh.

It lands with a splat, T-Dog taking its ankles into his hands to drag it away.

Definitely no Buckingham Palace, alright, but like I said — Compared to being on the road, it might as well be. 

We continue on into the cell hall, taking it all in as Rick plods down the rusty stairs. "So. What do you think?"

"Home sweet home," Glenn muses.

"Home sweet home," He agrees, stepping onto ground level.

"I love it," I exclaim.

He laughs, his face covered in grime and sweat, but happy; very happy. "I knew you would."

Lori wonders aloud, "It's secure?"

"This cell block is."

Still eager to find out more, I ask him, "What about the rest of the prison, Rick?"

"We'll find the cafeteria and the infirmary in a few hours," He nods, hands on his hips. "Gotta clear the bodies from here, first."

Okay. "Can I choose a cell?"

"Sure, go ahead. S'all yours."

A girly sigh. "We're sleeping in cells—...?"

Behind me, Beth sounds disappointed with the idea, but I don't mind. When ya think about it, a cell is just a bedroom with a funny door. I step into the first one I come across that don't got any walker bodies laying up in it, and sit down on the bare mattress, bouncing on it a little. A smile creeps onto my face. A bed. A real bed. Mouse jumps up next to me, seeming just as pleased with this discovery.

"We did it, Mouse," I mutter happily, setting my things down on the bedside tray. "It's home sweet home."

"Knock, knock," Beth sing-songs, as Carl peeps out from behind her. "Wanna bunk together?"

Nodding straight away, I gasp, "Together-together? All three of us?"

Mouse stares at me with that sweet, empty-brained look of his.

"The four of us, I mean?"

"It'll be like a sleepover." She smiles, placing her blankets on the bed. "One of us will have to take the floor, though."

"I can do it," Carl offers, tryna play the gentleman. Gross. Before Beth can protest, he's scurrying away to grab another mattress.

"You want the top bunk or the bottom bunk, Harley?"

"I want the top bunk," I decide, pulling my blanket outta my backpack and climbing the ladder. Crawling onto the cold mattress, I splay the blanket out and give the limp pillow a few punches and a hearty shake, in an effort to fluff it out a little bit. "Perfect."

Underneath me, Beth exclaims to herself as she sits down, "It's actually— It's actually comfortable."

"Got one," Carl announces as he walks back in, stumbling around with a mattress in his grasp.

"Can you even see around that thing?" I tease.

"Yep," Without much care, he dumps the thing on the ground, proudly dusting his hands off on his hips. "There."

Rick saunters up to the door then, leaning against it as he smirks at us. "What are you guys doin'?"

"This is our cell," I chirp.

He shakes his head. "You kids are ridiculous. Don't you want your own space?"

"Nope," All three of us answer at the same time.

"Let me know how long that lasts," He drawls, looking the cell up and down.

Hopping down from my bunk, I follow him outta the room and climb up the stairs, finding my Dad at the top. He's got two mattresses laying on the floor of the perch, his blanket splayed out across the both of them, crossbow leaning against the wall.

"You find a cell, yet, chicken?" He groans as he reclines on the makeshift bed, tryna get comfortable.

I kneel down beside him. "Yeah, I'm sharin' with Beth and Carl."

"All three of ya?" He quirks a brow. "How's that workin'?"

"Carl's on the floor," I try not to laugh. "It's a bit like the CDC, ain't it? When we first got there?"

"The CDC? Ain't like there's air-conditioning or hot water in this joint," He scoffs. "I ain't so sure."

"There ain't no bombs, neither, so I'll take it." I move to lay down next to him. We both stare up at the ceiling, even though there's nothin' up there, except for a few mishappen stains and scratches, like constellations. "Carl says it's like the CDC, too."

"Did he?"

"And the farm," I add, knocking my boots together. "But not 'cause of the air-con. 'Cause of... everythin' else."

S'true. I lied to Carl, when I pretended everything was gonna be fine. I might got a dirty mouth, but I try not to make a habit of dirtying it with anythin' other than a few swear words, especially not a lie. Third time's the charm. I'on even know what that means.

He turns his head to look at me, frowning the slightest bit through his hair. "You was so excited just yesterday?"

"I know. I still am," I admit, "But—..."

He waits a while for me to continue, but I just end up shrugging. The words are anchored down somewhere, won't come out.

Dad must get my meaning, though. "Harley, there's a whole world out there. If this don't work out, there'll be somewhere else."

"But I like it here."

"I know ya do. You can keep likin' it, too," He pinches my arm, "If ya stop thinkin' about what might happen to it."

"What is gonna happen to it?"

That's a question nobody ever has the answer to, but everybody's always asking it. "I don't know, baby. Maybe nothin'."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

I like that idea. Nothin' happening, ever, except for the sun rising and setting. "That's a lotta time to grow soybeans."

"Huh?"

"Soybeans," I repeat, smiling. "Herschel said last night he wants to grow some. Tomatoes and cucumbers, too."

"There ya go, then. Just think about them."

"Nah. I'll just get hungry."

My Dad sighs for a moment, studying the ceiling, before he props himself up on his elbows. "I'mma get some fresh air for a bit."

"What?"

"Ya heard," He dismisses me, mumbling something to himself as he scoots off the mattress, something about suffocating.

He's only been in here all of five minutes. I watch him pull on his leather vest, grabbing his crossbow and slinging it over his shoulder, very obviously trying not to look at any of the walls around us for too long. I ain't sure how he's gonna make it through the night in here, if he can't even make it through an hour of housewarming, but there's nothing I can do besides keep my mouth shut.

As he plods down the squeaky staircase, somebody else climbs up it, bumping his shoulder.

"You alright, man?" Glenn frowns, hesitating on the next stair up. "Where you going?"

"Outside," He pointedly replies, not looking back.

"Well, I can see that."

"I'm just gonna trail 'round the perimeter for a while."

We listen to his heavy footsteps retreat, retreat, retreat, and then the loud clanging of the metal gate.

After sharing a sympathetic look with me, Glenn continues on without a word, leaving me to get up and retreat back into my cell.

End notes.

I'm so excited for this season! I set aside some time to plan it all out in my notes and I had a lot of fun doing it. It reminded me of the times I was brainstorming for season one.

I hope you enjoyed this introduction to the new season!

Kindly let me know what you thought! See you next time :)

[drowning-in-cacophony]

inauspicious

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 270: Lights and Sirens tw: mentions of blood/implied dead body

“Shit,” she swears, as filthy as the floor. His head shoots up so fast his neck cracks, an awful sound buried underneath the piercing cry of the sirens, blaring through the night’s secrecy.

“The cops?” He goes to scrub at his face, only to pause a second before, remembering the viscera slick down his palm. “Fucking hell. That’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck? Is that all you can say?” She peers around the curtain, now sporting a bad taste to her mouth. Lights splash up the road as the cars – cars, count them, more than one – come bumping around the corner. Their mouths look hungry, their visors dimmed out. Her eyes suffer like the concrete: blue and red, a bright cacophony bored into her retinas. “They’re going to find us.”

“Not necessarily,” he argues, and she pauses in her watching to shoot him an incredulous look. Is now when he chooses to become an optimist? He catches her eyes. Grimaces as he follows them to the mess on the floorboards. “There’s lots of houses here. They might not find us; they might not even be here for us.”

“Lots of empty houses.” She glances through the crack in the curtains, careful not to shift the fabric. Empty houses means little distractions, and more than one car means they’re here to look for something. It’s not likely to be something unrelated to them now, is it? Not when they’re not here innocent. “We have to move.”

“And leave the evidence?” he hisses, gesturing his stained hands. A fleck of crimson takes flight for its glorious moment, only to spatter on the tip of her boot. “We’re too close to give in now.”

“We’ll try again-” Every moment they spend talking is a moment handed over to the lights. The sirens cut out now as the cars come to their stop – down road from their location, but that means nothing. In their absence, the silence is stifling. A hot, crawling thing, making its way through every part of her body. The sound of the car doors opening, boots on the gravel road – that’s just as bad. There’s no clock in here but she feels the seconds anyway, the beat-beat of them draining away. If they’re going to escape, it has to be now. They could sneak out the back door, run and hope not to be noticed by the gleaning beams of torches that they will be no doubt pulling from their belts.

“I think this time is it.” A decisive cut, which makes two for the night. His eyes are wide, his intention solemn, even if his heart must be beating just as hard as hers is. “We can’t leave this one.”

“Great.” She’s got nothing on her palms, other than a bit of dust from the curtains, so nothing stops her from scrubbing her face in exasperation. Of course their luck would deliver like this. She trusts his judgement, though – he’s not the type to exaggerate chances, not when he knows what she’s got shoved down the back of her waistband. An urging at her spine begs her to check through the curtains, but it wouldn’t change much. She’ll get to peek through the frosted glass of the front door for shadows, hear their crunching approach through the letterbox, because if this time is it, there’s only one thing for her to do.

“Thank you,” he tells her before she’s even reaching a hand around her back. She shoots him something terse this time.

“Just do your thing.” Making sure to step as silently as she can, and as wide as she can first, if she wants to avoid slipping in the matter splattered all over the floor, she crosses to the ajar door of the room. The hallway it opens out onto is darker than it, considering there’s no streetlamp to glitter fluorescent through gently sheer curtains. Moody in the shadows, grey in the highlights. She slips down it, remembering where the quietest floorboards are, and to keep herself shrouded, ducks into the open door closer to the one at the end. That frosted abyss, her target board. Fingertips finally snag the item in her waistband; she pulls it out, a small cylinder she briskly shakes out to something longer. In her hands, it’ll prove deadly if any sniffing trails lead the lights to their door.

While he continues defilement on a dirty floor, she prepares to lay waste to a baying horde.

[ibviously]

Project Pollux

Summary: Worlds collide when Agent Dioscuri is intercepted by Natasha Romanov. As the Avengers scramble to keep infinity stones from Thanos’s grasp, Agent Dioscuri scrambles from theirs. When the past is dissected and history resurfaces, Dioscuri fights to contain ugly, imperative truths. A pawn in the middle of a death-match, Dioscuri is forced to pick a side, or end up flipping the board.

Chapter Summary: Lux flees the Avengers, only to land in the hands of a malevolent friend from the past.

Warnings: Descriptions of violence.

Chapter 3: Tyrannize

“All my life I’ve been incapable of even picturing any other love, and I’ve reached the point now of sometimes thinking that love consists precisely in the right, voluntarily granted by the beloved object, to be tryannized over.” From Notes from Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky.

January 8th. 1:12 am. Avengers Compound, NY.

The motorcycle’s engine roared under the two-handed grip of Lux’s fists, sending warm reverberations through her palms. From years of hijacking vehicles during Dreykov and Von-Arx’s special, sanctioned missions, Lux knew how to start an engine with the touch of her hand. Now, the sleek black bike that sat in the compound’s driveway tore into the gravel road, roaring toward the city. The engine glowed under her, sending out a bright streak of orange as Lux drove the motorcycle into the night.

Through the thick overgrowth of the forest, Lux could see the tell-tale glimmer of the city lights. She reminded herself, as the familiar trill of fear sounded in her stomach, that she need just enter the city and disappear into the shuffle of early-morning commuters and light-night parties. In what margin, in New York City, Lux would be anyone, and that meant she was no one.

Hours later, when the paved road Lux turned onto transformed into a highway, and the highway, resembling a clogged artery, became a stagnant clamor of red, Lux began to weave. She tensed her stomach, manipulating the bike with great delicacy between cars, letting the shift of her hips and the lean of her shoulders into the handlebars guide her. Eventually, the Holland Tunnel came to replace the cover of night, which was just then fading with the sky. With layers of concrete and the cover of a thousand cars shielding her from the Avengers, Lux felt her body relax for the first time in days.

In all twenty-two years of Lux’s sentient life, she had been to the City five times. All were assassination missions. The men were always wearing a suit, tie undone, hand around something cold and strong when they saw her. The look of shock was always undiluted and honest, as if their belief that they were infallible and bulletproof was as solid as the skyscrapers they lived on the top of. And then there was the begging. Lux would hear their last words, shrill and desperate, ringing in her ears all the way home. Wall Street executives, pharmaceutical engineers, and drug mougels alike- they all said ‘please.’

Lux arrived outside a parking garage, glided into a spot, and walked as quickly as she could, head down, toward the building’s elevator. She had no doubt that the Avengers would soon notice her escape, if Steve hadn’t already sounded the alarm bell. She also knew that as soon as they tracked the bike she stole, Stark would have every camera in the vicinity tapped and inspected. In short, Lux had to be fast, not careful.

A pang of hunger shot from her gut. Food had become the first priority. If she was going to get anywhere fast, she needed food.

With the filling presence of adrenaline fading fast, Lux felt the drag of her three day hunger strike weighting down her body and her mind. Once on the sidewalk, Lux ducked into the nearest convenience store, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. A security camera hung in each of the four corners of the store, surely transmitting her image to Tony Stark at this very moment. Lux lifted her chin, shooting a brazen, satisfied grin into the camera’s eye. Just in case Stark was looking. To hell with stealth, and fuck the Avengers.

The cashier smacked on a wad of bubble gum, bending over the counter, thumbs typing furiously on her phone. The tap of her acrylics sent an audible confirmation of her distraction as Lux slipped a sandwich into her pocket, striding out of the door with the click-clack trailing behind her. Wasting no time, Lux scarfed the sandwich while she walked. A heavy, grey day was dawning over the city and Lux shivered against the wind. She reminded herself to listen more diligently behind her, as she would not have the tell-tale print of shadows under the sun.

On foot, Lux didn’t have a chance slipping through the city unnoticed. Even if they sent out the members she had seen with her own eyes, she was pathetically outnumbered. Taxis it was. She was headed to the dense green of the southward countryside, where she could slip into a dinky motel and plan her next move.

As the yellow streak of a cab slowed, Lux raised her hand, catching the eyes of the older woman in the driver’s seat. The cab pulled to the curb, just as Lux saw a man beside her, his raised hand mirroring hers.

“I apologize-“ His voice was smooth and dark as wine, “I wasn’t my intention to hijack your ride.” Lux studied the man, perplexed by his perfectly mannered appearance. He wore a long, black coat, tailored to his exact proportions. A matching black suit peaked through, the tie shining like obsidian below his neck. His hair, sporting the same gleam of the tie and slicked back to reveal a pale, sharp face, kissed his shoulders. Something twisted in Lux’s gut. She told herself it was the sandwich.

“I-I’m sorry,” she spat out, having been stunned to silence by a wave of deja-vu and fear. “Do I know you?”

Before the man could answer, the driver rolled down her window, shouted in a gravely, smoker’s tone, “Hey! Are you in or are you out?”

The man’s eyes, the brightest green Lux had ever seen, crinkled in humor. “Shall we share?” Lux’s brow furrowed in mistrusted. “I’ll pay,” the man offered.

Sighing, Lux offered her hand to the man, succumbing to his proposal. She was planning on a ride and run, anyways. Plus, the Avengers wouldn’t be searching for a party of two. He could act as a sort of temporary camouflage.

“Amelia,” Lux smiled, surprised at the glacial chill of the man’s hand.

The man smiled, “A pleasure.” He turned, entering the cab from the street-facing side. Lux slide herself in and was enveloped by the aroma of cigarettes and peppermint candy.

“Where to?” the woman demanded, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. She twirled a red sucker in her wrinkled mouth, her brown eyes contorting in impatience in the rear-view mirror.

Lux stayed silent, waiting for the man to fill the silence with his answer.

“Irving Building, please,” His voice hitched at the last syllable. Lux swung her gaze to his face, studying his expression. It was cool, limp, almost amused. He was lying.

Lux smiled, pushing her seatbelt into the lock. “Me too,” she purred, “What a perfect coincidence.” She felt the force of movement push her into the cabs smoky seats and the city whirled around them. A trill of fear sounded within her, unmistakeable, this time. Whoever this man was, it was no coincidence that they were in the same cab.

“So,” Lux cooed, adopting her most feminine disposition, “What’s your business at Irving?” Many of the bodies she had left cooling in their penthouses were Wall Street associates. The antiseptic sting of the building clung to their clothing. Lux inhaled and smelt no such aroma coming off the man. He smelled of cold wind and juniper, and something sweeter that Lux couldn’t identify. Rum?

“Precisely that,” A silky chuckle loosed from his lips, “Business…” He dragged the “s” as he leaned closer to Lux, inhaling her as she had him. Lux cursed herself for her lack of discretion. He knew she was mining for details, trying to pin him before they arrived at their destination. “And yourself?”

Straightening her back to meet his gaze, Lux painted on her coyest smile, raking her eyes along his body, back up to his face. He did not squirm under her assessment. Instead, he preened like some bird of paradise, enjoying the dissection. “I just really feel like we’ve met before,” Lux evaded, tilting her head, “Where have I seen you before?” Her flirtatious lilt emanated through the cab like cigarette smoke.

The man held her gaze, leaning closer, too close- his lips grazed her ear and sent a shiver over her skin. “Don’t be afraid Agent Dioscuri, I’m not here to bring you back to them.”

Lux’s spine went rigid. She moved her hands to her lap and placed one over the other to keep them from shaking. “I’d like to get out,” Lux half-shouted at the driver, moving her hands onto the door’s handle. The tremor of terror that leaped in her stomach spread across her body, like a chill, when Lux looked into the rear-view to see the driver’s eyes had glazed over and shone a bright, acidic blue. She was unresponsive to her request.

The man was facing her now, his mouth opening in a feline grin. Lux pushed her back to the cab’s door, readying herself to roll out into the street. She would rather take her chances with a parade of cars than with the stranger eating her with his eyes.

“Who are you?” Lux’s words came out in whispers. As if in reply, a golden staff appeared in the man’s grasp, crowned with a blue jewel that emitted the same glow in the driver’s eyes. Lux’s entire body vibrated, pulled toward the staff. Images, ephemeral and hazy, floated about her consciousness.

Green eyes, the same that watched her now, were looking at her, full with pity. Hands arrested her arms, pulling her back. Her shoulders burned in pain. Hot tears dripped down her face into the earth under her boots. A presence in her body- as if she weren’t in control. A man with a sharp, emancipated face, his skin red as blood. And then she was looking off the edge of a cliff, her throat raw from screaming, but she heard no sound.

The man’s voice drew her from memory. “You wound me, lovely. You really don’t remember me?” The man frowned, her cold hand cradling Lux’s chin. She tried to open her mouth to bite, but her body was still, arrested by some invisible force. His frown deepened, “But I suppose they did place you back in that barbaric contraption after- didn’t they?” Rage, hot and corrosive, filled Lux’s body.

A warm whisper tickled Lux’s ear as the man, once again, leaned into her neck. “You fought valiantly that day, I’ll have you know. And your sister, the meek thing, went over so easily, it was almost like she didn’t want her death to weigh solely on you.”

Lux felt as if she were being scalded from the inside out. She imagined tearing into his face, the heat of his blood warming her fingers as she tore his eyes out. From behind the man, Lux could see they had arrived in another parking garage. The woman pulled the cab up to the top level, where the grey concrete melted into the grey sky.

“I argued with them, you know. I thought it should’ve been you thrown into that blackness. You’re far too angry.”

Memories whirled in Lux’s mind and she thought she might puke. Instead, she screamed, the sound ripping from her throat and into the air as she kicked her heel into the man’s jaw. His head shot backward, shattering the glass window behind him. Buzzing with rage and fear, Lux scrambled backward, pulling the handle and tumbling out of the car. She had managed to pull herself to her feet, readying herself to jump onto the adjacent building’s roof, when the air was whipped into a frenzy around her. Lux raised her hand to her face, squinting up into the sky.

Before she could make out the dark mass that descended upon her, she was shot across the lot, caught by the unforgiving concrete.

January 8th. 5:32 am. New York, NY.

Wanda grimaced from the jet’s window as Lux was crushed into the concrete, a web of cracks reaching out from around her body. Her nails dug into her palms as the jet descended, jostling her teammates.

Steve’s jaw was set in its usual stoic flex, his blue eyes glued out the front window. Waves of worry rolled from his still body. Bucky, crouched by the jet’s back hatch, had been silent the whole flight. He twirled a knife in his metal hand, flipping it over and over as Natasha landed the jet.

“Alright hosers,” Tony’s voice crackled in Wanda’s earpiece. “Natasha, you secure the civilian. Wanda, you’re on clean-up, make sure this little tussle stays contained. Steve- don’t get K.Oed again. Bucky…sick em?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, shooting a sympathetic look back at Wanda. “Since when Tony start running the game plan?” Wanda asked, picking at her black nail polish as the jet settled to the ground.

Steve turned, striding from the cockpit towards Bucky’s position in the back. “He doesn’t,” Steve spat curtly, “But follow his orders for now.” He slung his shield off his back, readying himself. The back hatch opened and a clap, booming and grand as thunder, reverberated into the jet.

Jumping down from the jet, Wanda whirled to her right, where Lux was straddling a large man, driving her fists into his face with such force the concrete shook. She was glowing, an orange phosphorescence coming off of her skin in waves. Wanda sprinted toward her, Steve and Bucky at her heels. Coming closer, Wanda could see the sweat glistening on Lux’s brow and the gleam of her teeth as she grinned and drove her knuckles down.

The man, Wanda realized with a jolt of hot curiosity, was Loki. His pale, sculpted face was bleeding and bruised. His hand shot toward Lux’s throat, but was interrupted by the flight of Steve’s shield, smashing into Loki’s wrist. An arc of blue energy shot up toward Lux, but was met with a projectile of Wanda’s own power, intercepting and diffusing it.

Once they reached the pair, Bucky grabbed Lux by the shoulders, hauling her off of Loki, while Steve did the same to her bludgeoned adversary. Loki’s mauled face split into a grin, his gaze never wavering from Lux as the two super soldiers secured them. Tony descended from above, landing with a clank beside Wanda. Natasha, having rescued the civilian in the taxi cab, joined them. For the moment, the only sounds that emanated from the circle were Lux’s labored huffs and Loki’s silken laugh.

A second boom, twin to the one Wanda heard as she exited the jet, sounded from above. This time, it was accompanied by the smashing of Thor into the center of the circle, his hammer gripped in rage by his side.

“Loki!” Thor boomed, striding towards Steve, who released the God, limp and wheezing at Thor’s feet. “What is the meaning of this?” He demanded, grabbing Loki’s collar.

Wanda’s gaze swung to Lux, who was standing, to Wanda’s surprise, still by Bucky’s side. Her face, like Loki’s, was decorated by bruises. Her lip was fat and bleeding and a cut had opened on her forehead. Lux, sensing Wanda’s attention, shot a glare in her direction. Wanda smiled, meeting the glare with the gleam of both rows of her teeth. Lux’s facade dropped, disarmed by Wanda’s warmth. Lux redirected her attention to the brothers in front of her.

“I’m here,” Loki coughed blood onto Thor’s feet, “To collect a debt.” He pointed a long finger at Lux, who seemed frozen in place.

“To who?” Steve asked, his hands still binding Loki’s arms behind him.

Loki cast his eyes to the ground, pulling in a deep breath. “This is bigger than all of you.” A look up at Thor, “Bigger than you, brother.” A sly smile towards Lux, “Even grander than you, little firefly. I do suggest you all stay out of it.” Loki’s expression dipped into something darker, a slip in his mask of cool amusement. Wanda realized, with no pleasure, that Loki was afraid. For whatever reason Loki needed Lux, it was not in self-service.

“What infernal plan are you tangled in now,” Thor grumbled. The air crackled around him. Wanda felt the hair on her arms stand at attention. Loki only chuckled, hanging his head in defiance. Whatever information they needed from him, Wanda knew they wouldn’t get it here. Plus, they needed to get out of the city fast, before the ordeal became more conspicuous. Stark had been on their ass about the importance of subtlety.

As if one cue, Tony’s voice came from his iron suit. “Alright gang we need to bring this party back to the compound.” Tony turned toward Lux and pointed. “That means you too, Goldie Locks. I have a feeling the compound will be just right for you now.”

Lux scowled at Tony but said nothing. Bucky, Wanda noticed, stepped in front of Lux, his human band making contact with her hip and pushing her behind him. His blue eyes trailed Loki’s every breath. He looked murderous, Wanda thought. He looked like The Winter Soldier.

Thor released Loki’s collar, gathering a pair of cuffs that were looped into his armor. With a clank, Thor cuffed Loki’s arms behind his back. Steve and Tony drew toward him. “You don’t have the facilities to contain him. Loki will return to Asgard, with me. I will find out what he’s up to.” Thor turned his attention to Lux, raising a hand in acknowledgment. “I apologize for my brother’s actions and any harm done to you,” he apologized.

Lux sent a curt nod of her head in reply. Just as a vertical ray of rainbow came down from the sky, Loki lunged for Lux, his staff extending towards her. This time, Steve moved in front, his shield raised. The next second, Thor and Loki were gone, an Asgardian rune sizzling in the concrete where their feet once stood.

Steve move, securing his shield on his back, and walked towards Wanda. “Like we discussed,” he mumbled in her ear. With a deep breath, Wanda spun on her heals, facing Lux, who was tucked behind Bucky, staring at the ground where Loki stood just moments before. Her eyes, a pale gold, looked hallow and hopeless. All the rage that drove her out of the compound and drove her fists into Loki’s face was gone, leaving Lux empty.

Bucky, with a grumble, stepped away from Lux as Wanda approached. Again, Wanda was met with Lux’s cold glare as she raked her gaze up and down Wanda’s body. The shuffle behind Wanda told her the others were gathering on the jet.

“You’re like me,” Lux assessed, crossing her arms in front of her. Wanda nodded. She was sure Lux felt the same pull, the same vibration in her body, that she felt around Vision. Around Loki’s scepter. And now she felt it around Lux. Whatever lay inside her called towards Wanda’s magic, singing a twin song.

“Infinity stones,” Wanda started, “they can be a bitch to control. But you’ll learn- in time.”

Lux frowned. “And who taught you to control it?”

“Tony, and Natasha- and Vision and Steve and Bruce and Thor and Clint…all of them.” Wanda smiled, extending her hand towards Lux. “They’re good Lux. All of them. And they need your help. We need your help.”

Lux kept her arms crossed and watched as the rest of the team filed onto the jet. She caught Steve’s eyes from afar, watching her in anticipation. Lux remembered the worry in his voice when he came down to check on her. She remembered Bucky’s voice, thick with concern, as they spoke. She remembered the sweet warmth of the hot chocolate and the warmth of his hand on her hip. Lux told herself that these things, the concern and the well-intentioned actions, could be easily faked. But now, with forces that stroke fear into the hearts of gods after her, Lux didn’t have a choice. The Avenger’s Compound was the safest option, at least for now.

Extending her arm, Lux took Wanda’s hand, allowing her to lead her onto the jet. A voice, chipper and sweet, sounded in her head, as if someone were speaking directly into her ear. We’re gonna have fun, Lux. I can just tell.

A jolt of surprise shot through Lux. The voice was Wanda’s.

Lux spoke into her own mind- Are you speaking to me? You can do that?

We can do that, Wanda answered as they stepped up onto the jet’s ramp.

It’s a stone thing? Lux asked, the jet humming to life beneath her.

Wanda’s silver bell laugh filled Lux’s mind. Yeah- a stone thing.

January 8th. 8:57 pm. Avengers Compound, NY.

The hot water fell on Lux’s body, loosening the day’s tension from her shoulders. In the Red Room, she had only been allowed cold showers. Now, in her own bathroom, her skin burning under the shower’s stream, Lux was in heaven. She leaned her forehead against the dark tile and drew slow, full breaths.

After nearly an hour of sitting under the hot water, Lux dressed herself in a pair of sheer grey sleep shorts and a matching tank top. She had used every product that sat in the bathroom cabinets and now smelt of sweet citrus and cedar. She melted into the bed, covering her eyes with her hands and replayed the day’s events.

The jet ride back was tense. Squirming under Steve’s presence, Lux had adhered to her characteristic silence, staring at the space between her boots. Upon landing, Wanda and her twin, Pietro, had given her a tour of the compound. The trio walked, for hours, scouring every inch of the building and the grounds. Finally, after memorizing the compound’s layout and eating her weight in Chinese takeout, Lux was lead to her own room.

It was strange having so much space to herself. A king bed occupied the center of the room, flanked by a closet and a desk and chair. In an adjacent room as a bathroom, complete with a deep bathtub and candles galore.

Lux chuckled to herself. It was ironic and cruel how the place that had once been her prison had become her safe house. She warned herself not to get too comfortable. She chastised herself against attachment.

Just as Lux reached to turn off the lamp on the side table, a knock sounded against the door.

Rising from bed, Lux harbored the warm hope that it was Wanda. During their tour, she had grown fonder of the girl’s mannerisms, the quirk of her laugh and her immediate acceptance of Lux. If she had to be here, Lux thought, she might as well have a friend.

Disappointment followed surprise when Lux opened the door to find Steve, clad in a sweater and the same blue-eyed gaze, leaning against her doorframe.

“Settling in?” He asked. Steve’s voice was unusually low. His hair was wet, like Lux’s, and he smelled clean, like aftershave and sandalwood.

Lux nodded, shifting in place on the plush carpet. She shrunk at his larger-than-life presence. His shoulders eclipsed the whole doorway and he looked down upon Lux with fervent intensity.

“Yes. I just showered. It was…warm.”

Steve nodded, dragging his gaze up and down Lux’s body, as if in search for something.

“Were you hurt today? There’s a med bay in the basement, there’s always someone there if…-“

Lux interrupted with a huff, angling her eyes up at Steve. He flinched at the sudden eye-contact, as if she had startled him. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” Lux blurted, “And I’m sorry I stole that motorcycle.”

Steve’s concern broke into a grin at Lux’s words. He ran his tongue over his front teeth and huffed a laugh. “You’re not in trouble for running, Lux. I actually thought you’d try it a lot sooner.”

“I know,” Lux mumbled, wringing her hands, “I’m just sorry for what I did to you…I know it isn’t pleasant.”

A nod from Steve. His features contorted at the memory and Lux felt a weight, like lead in her stomach, at the thought of hurting him again.

“Well,” Steve started, straightening himself, “The day usually starts at 0600, I’ll meet you in the training arena.”

“Training?” Lux parroted. She titled her head to the side in confusion, sending locks of silken, gold hair over her eyes.

Mindlessly, Steve reached out, tucking the strands behind Lux’s ear. His touch was feather-light, a whisper across her cheek, and then it was gone. Steve’s blue eyes fell to Lux’s lips, which were parted in surprise at the tender touch.

Clearing his throat, Steve shoved his hand into her pocket. “Your punches were sloppy and you were slow to a defensive position,” he stated plainly, stepping back from the doorway.

His curt assessment drew a laugh from Lux. She propped both hands on her exposed midriff and shook her head. “Was I that bad, Mr. Captain America Sir?”

Steve smiled down at Lux and she felt a blooming of traitorous, dangerous warmth open in her chest. “Just call me Steve.” The request as soft and just as gentle as his touch.

“Goodnight Steve,” Lux whispered back, closing the door as Steve turned to leave.

That night, Lux slept without dreams.

[ofsecondchances]

the scrapes etched into their palms are already healing, the product of multiple failed ollies over concrete steps. a perk of their affliction is their less-than-natural ability to pick themselves up after a fall... and this has to be the fifth time today. they've set a goal, and they intend to fulfil it. but their board just doesn't want to cooperate. again and again, they land with relative ease only lurch forward and add another rip or tear to their clothing. there's gravel embedded in their knees and anyone less stubborn than them would have given up some time ago. yet lee persists.

once again a rolling of wheels across concrete is interrupted by a moment of silence, followed by an impact and scraping of wood against a railing, then finished up with a light slamming of rubber against the ground. for a split second, lee's ready to begin celebrating their victory. but then the front of the board turns sharply and ceases movement, throwing the skateboarder to the floor in an unceremonious pile of limbs and cursing.

as the skateboard slows to an eventual halt a short distance away, lee rolls onto their back and stares up at the sky. their jeans are frayed and ragged at the knees, and a sense of defeat is creeping in. maybe they'll just lay there for a while until boredom comes? maybe that'll dull the pain of their failure?

"balls." they mutter.

[rjzimmerman]

This story from Anthropocene Magazine tells us how some of the obscure research projects being conducted in labs around the world can produce some boring but environmentally stunning outcomes that can be beneficial to all of us. So be careful the next time you think "nerds." Excerpt:

A common mineral present just beneath the Earth’s crust could help to negate the carbon footprint of concrete, researchers report in the journal Royal Society Open Science. The study details a way to turn the mineral olivine, which also forms the green gemstone peridot, into an alternative for cement and other construction materials. The research team has launched a startup to commercialize their patented process.

Concrete, the most widely used material in the world, is a mix of cement, water, gravel and sand. The production of cement and concrete results in about 8 percent of the world’s carbon dioxide emissions.

Most of these emissions are generated when limestone is heated at high temperatures to produce powdery cement. The emissions come from burning fossil fuels for heat, but also from the chemical reaction itself.

Some manufacturers are reducing concrete’s emissions by replacing part of the cement with waste material such as fly ash and slag or adding other recycled materials. Studies have shown that this replacement does not reduce the strength of concrete.

Civil and environmental engineers at Imperial College London turned to olivine, a magnesium silicate mineral that is found in the rocks in the Earth’s upper mantle. The mineral naturally reacts with carbon dioxide from the air and turns into magnesium carbonate. But this process works at a very slow geological timescale.

The team wanted to see if they could speed up this carbonate-forming process. They crushed olivine samples and mixed them into sulfuric acid. This separated the silica from the olivine and created magnesium sulfate. When they bubbled carbon dioxide gas through the mixture, it reacted with the sulfate to produce magnesium carbonate, resulting in the sequestration of carbon dioxide.

The silica can be used as a cement substitute in concrete to add strength. And the magnesium carbonate can be used as a binder or filler in other low-carbon construction products such as bricks, blocks and board, the team writes in the paper.

Replacing 35 percent of regular Portland cement in concrete with the silica would give carbon-neutral cement, the researchers write. Replacing more than that could would make concrete carbon negative.

Further, they add that the olivine processing is not energy intensive and could be done electrically using renewable energy.

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[rabbitcruiser]

Bixby Bridge, CA (No. 3)

Over 300,000 board feet (700 m3) of Douglas fir timber, used to build a 250-foot (76 m) high falsework to support the arch during construction, was transported from the railroad terminal in Monterey over the narrow, one-way road to the bridge site. The falsework, built by crews led by E. C. Panton, the general superintendent, and I. O. Jahlstrom, resident engineer of Ward Engineering Co., was difficult to raise, because it was constantly exposed to high winds. Some of the falsework timbers were 10 by 10 inches (250 mm × 250 mm).[18] It took two months to construct the falsework alone. When high waves threatened the falsework foundation, construction was halted for a short time until winter storms abated.

The crews excavated 4,700 cubic yards (3,600 m3) of earth and rock. Eight hundred and twenty-five trucks brought in 600,000 pounds of reinforcing steel. Sand and gravel were supplied from a plant in Big Sur.

Construction required 45,000 sacks or 6,600 cubic yards (5,000 m3) of cement which was transported from Davenport, near Santa Cruz, and from San Andreas. Crews began placing concrete on November 27. The concrete was transported across the canyon on platforms using slings suspended from a cable 300 feet (91 m) above the creek.

The bridge was completed on October 15, 1932, although the highway was not finished for another five years. At its completion, the bridge cost $199,861 and, at 360 feet (110 m), was the longest concrete arch span on the California State Highway System. The bridge was necessary to complete the two-lane road which opened in 1937 after 18 years of construction. The completion of construction was celebrated with a ribbon-cutting ceremony led by Dr. John L.D. Roberts, who had conceived of the need for the road.

Source: Wikipedia

[oh-he-grows]

a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend had a thousand leftover concrete pavers to give away, so I rented a u-haul and spent twelve hours moving bricks like a caveman with the help of my lovely family. hopefully it will be enough for the entire garden plan but I just want to sleep for seventeen straight hours now

i still have to work out whether i want to use gravel underlayment or that new foam board stuff, but i’ll figure it out one way or another

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[elnavegador]

My favorite Umbrella Academy WIPS ❤️

Lygerside Daydream

(Or the one about hallucinations and a life that never was)

Delores kisses his check. “I missed you.” 

Five smiles, taking her smooth hand between his calloused ones. “I never left.” 

The conversation dies around them and she laughs, melodic sound surrounding him, echoing like it shouldn’t.

“You always do.” 

—--------------------------------------

“Cinque, amore.” She says, wearing her favorite sunhat; the one she almost never uses in fear of wearing it out, the one with a mirriad of flowers that don’t match, the one with flowers he doesn’t remember the name of anymore.    

It’s only Delores and him, as it has been for a long time. It feels like forever, sometimes. 

Or: there’s something wrong, Five knows, he also knows he would do anything to keep Delores looking at him like that. 

—----------------------------------------

There’s this story he heard a long time ago; so long that details twist and shape into something new. There’s this story that changes in every iteration, but the end remains the same.  

“Do I know you?” She asks, tilting her head like a bird. “I feel like I know you.” 

There’s an answer trapped in his throat, between the larynx and the trachea. She keeps staring, eyes so dark he can't see the pupil and a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. The clock on the wall stops at seven.  

The scarf around her head is a nice shade of blue, it reminds Five of–of something; there’s a series of numbers written in chalk on the board, displacement equations she had been working on before he arrived, there’s a wrong decimal. The clock on the wall is stuck at seven.  

“I don’t think so.” He finally says. 

The smile widens and it should feel mocking, a threat, but instead it’s like coming home. Five smiles back.  

“Delores.” She says. He says. The clock ticks again and the room turns black. 

.

There’s something that is not quite a man at the bottom of the hill. Man-shaped, earth-teetered, unmoving with its gaze fixed in the gravel sky. Up, up, up where it can never reach, up where time is the same as it has always been. 

Its fingers twitch, once, two and thrice, its neck is sore, bruised in a way it doesn’t notice anymore. The gray shifts and time doesn’t forgive, so it takes one step after the other, feet rising from the broken concrete, heavy, breaking the vines threaded into its broken boots, life that clings, uncaring.

It keeps walking. 

Capgras Delusion

(or the one where Five returns earlier and tries to find a way to take his siblings from Reginald)

It's a hit or miss if the smoke will offer him comfort or send him into a panic attack, today it seems it's the first one and he exhales. 

"He's hurting them," Five says, relying on the script. It’s been two years, they always have this conversation and it always goes the same way. 

“Teaching them, Mister Five, powers like yours 

"You read the book." Vanya's book, he let him read it under Five's supervision. It's the only reason he hasn't tattled to Reginald. 

"I did, Mister Five and I still think that if we offer it to your father--" 

"No," he says and this is an usual argument, too "it's alright if you admire him, but don't be blind to the kind of man he is. He will push them harder and this time Ben won't be the only one to die." 

He wishes, not for the first time, that he had Allison's power. These inane conversations would be over, then. 

"How many of us have to die for you to realize?" Five says, getting off script. But he's tired "How much more suffering will be enough for you?" 

Pogo is frustrated, too and Five had been careful of pushing him too far all this time, but he can't sit idle anymore. Not when his siblings are crying every damn night for a man that doesn't give a fuck about them. 

He has plans already in case Pogo tattles. In case Reginald knows he's here. 

It would be easier if Pogo was on his side, yes, but he can work even if he doesn't.  Five can do it. He has to. 

"There's nothing I can do about it, I take care of the children, but--" 

"He already made Be–Six kill the rabbits, didn't he?"  

Pogo’s face falls and something twists inside Five. 

"I have a plan," Five says carefully.

Maggot Pie (heh)

The fucker left them a note in the fridge, which is more than he would’ve left a few months ago, but still–A. Fucking. Note.

If I don’t return at 9, assume I’m dead. (Or look for me, which amounts for the same with the kind of organization this family is capable of) — 5

And then a direction below.

It’s nine and a half already. There’s nobody else at the academy and Diego is only here because there wasn’t any orange juice left in his apartment and he was craving some. That he hasn’t been at the Academy in over a week and seen some of his siblings for longer is unrelated.

He pats his pockets and lets out a sigh of relief when he feels the little portatil phone, --smartphone, according to Luther’s lectures, who took with shiny eyes and disgusting ease the new technology of this timeline– it’s usually a roll of the dice if Diego will remember to take it with him, useful as it is, it’s matter entirely if it’s going to remain unbroken.

He calls Luther first, who the most likely to come back running at the first hint of danger, with the rest of them is a hit or miss. He answers after two rings.

“Return to the Academy now, there’s an emergency.”

He hangs up before Luther can respond.

The thing is–Five is usually good at knowing the kind of danger he will face when he goes out like this; sometimes he takes one of them, one or two times Luther or Viktor, usually Diego, because he’s out kicking ass anyway while the rest want to live peacefully, or as peaceful as a Hargreeves can get. And if he deemed his mission dangerous enough to leave them a direction and an hour–

When Diego finds him, he’s going to fucking kill him. He’s going to make him wish he died in his little errand.

He shakes his head, not useful right now. He’s certain Luther called Allison as soon as Diego hung* up, if he’s not with her already. He calls Viktor next.

“Come to the Academy. Five is missing.”

Then Klaus and it’s actually a miracle when he actually responds.

“Return to the Academy or I will burn your clothes.”

He hangs up before his shierk can leave him deaf. Sometimes different measures must be taken to make them do shit. It’s like herding cats. It’s not that they wouldn’t come for Five, but they do overestimate his capabilities.

Diego, as the one that goes the most with him on these missions to thwart the Commission’s efforts to ‘correct’ the timeline, is intimately aware that he’s far from indestructible, as much as he likes to pretend otherwise.

And, boy, how he likes to pretend.

In between maps of probabilities that make sense to nobody but him and single-minded [...] to razor to the ground his former employers, they’ve been worried about him, or rather, they’ve been worried about how his new obsession could come back to bite them in the ass.

It’s an uncharitable thought, but it’s an uncharitable world and all the Hargreeves are selfish at heart.

For what is worth, Five tried to relax the first days, weeks even, after they arrived to the new 2019, Diego knows, he went out to do who knows what in hilarious grandpa clothes nobody dared to make fun of in fear of him going back to the uniform; he hung out with Klaus, the two of them disappearing for days at time, returning suspiciously giggly, but there was no way Diego was poking at that within a ten foot pole*; he stayed sometimes in Viktor’s apartment and the two little [rascals] were actually getting along again.

And then he holed himself up in his room for three days straight and when he came out it was with the intense look he had when he first arrived at the funeral talking about the future.

He even put on a suit and everything.

There is no way Diego is telling him this, but he misses his little grandpa outfits and his easier smiles and the way he actually talked to them.

Now there’s a note Diego stumbled across on pure chance and him going alone on a mission he was clearly reluctant to go when he could have taken Diego with him. The fucker didn’t even bother

He glances at the clock. Nine and forty.

His leg is bouncing and he considers for a second going to the address alone–but that is the kind of shit that got them in this situation, if Five had just called him, then maybe–

Diego glares at the note with Five’s stupid neat handwriting.

Infections of a different kind

(Which is already posted, but I'm having trouble with) (In this one Five returns earlier too, but commits the mistake of telling his siblings and Reginald about the apocalypse)

Diego wasn’t close to Five, most of them weren’t, not really, that doesn’t mean that his absence didn’t hit them all. It was in the holes in their    and plates of food Mom kept putting for him before Pogo told (programed) her not to. 

But he returned and they haven't been allowed to see him for a week. 

It’s bullshit, it’s what it is. 

“Mom,” he says when she’s putting the covers over him. 

Some of his siblings don’t want Mom to tuck them goodnight anymore, but fuck them. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Why can’t we see Five?” 

She stops for a few seconds, before smiling in “He’s in a very delicate state, it’s important that he gets to rest undisturbed.” 

Diego thinks about that for a second, “we can be quiet.” 

“I know you can, sweetheart, but your Father prefers that he heals alone. You know he likes to be cautious.” 

He scowls, that’s a way to put it, but something about this smells bad. 

Diego doesn't know why he pictured him drinking with his father and talking about how bothersome kids are. 

He looked rather pathetic the last time they saw him. Really fucked up, he wasn’t even aware a person could be that thin and sickly and still resemble his smug brother, that is less smug and more sad. 

And that’s it: Five looks really sad. 

Mom cut some of his beard and washed him, so he looks less like a homeless person, but he’s still hard to look at.    and he will never be able to forget his scream, even if he was several rooms apart. 

He wants to hit and rip apart something, what the fuck happened to him? He said something about the end of the world and called out for someone called Delores, did someone have him captive or something? 

And what are they supposed to do about it when it all happens in the future? 

Five isn’t supposed to look like that, he’s supposed to be smug and insufferable. He was his asshol-ish self that first day and okay, the crying and laughing were creepy, but he was getting there again the more time he spended in the infirmary. 

But now they moved him out and they haven’t been allowed to see him. Which is utter bull-shit and if Dad thinks he’s going to obey that, he’s got another thing coming for him.    

He’s in a room nobody uses, which doesn’t tell him much, considering they use just about a third of them, that’s his intel from the spyed conversations between Pogo and Mom. 

“Where are we going?” 

Diego doesn’t jump, but he hits his shoulder on the wall anyway.  

He glares at Klaus, “you are not going anywhere.”