#Dick on his day job as a security guard on a mall: Is nice to see you Timmy! are you buying something?

[clownzaf]

I need a fanfiction of Tim Drake being basically Nicole from Class of 09. Jason never died so he never became Robin, he stayed a really pretty kid alone in a big house. He had no one to teach him morals or told him that something he’s doing is wrong (One of the things that can develop ASPD is inconsistent parenting and neglect!) + he’s awfully pretty so he suffered from grown adults trying to make moves on him since he was little.

The drugs and the suicide attempts are just plus!

He also is Duke’s and Stephanie’s classmate! So they see that kid who lives next door and is kind of an asshole and always ends up in the progress of someone’s death and decide to investigate him.

Neglect, multiple medical emergencies for suicide attempts, moving very often bc of his parents business (Even if they just stayed a couple of days before leaving him alone again) and the kid has started 10 lawsuits against pedophile teachers and ended up winning.

They decided to adopt him even if they had to drag him kicking and screaming.

Tim swears to god that if that family of furries is trying to kidnap him he’s gonna kill himself. He isn’t pathetic enough to put on a suit.

[badacts]

human shield

The grocery store at midnight is pleasant in a dreamy, sterile way - uniform, brightly coloured, the quiet only broken by someone’s top 40 playlist just loud enough to make out the words.

Dick, coasting along with one foot up on the back bar of the cart, is the one to break it when his phone goes off in his pocket. “Hello?”

“Grayson.” It’s his superior, Milan, terse as ever. It’s his day off, and he immediately jumps to Arkham breakout, and then, someone’s dead. Christ, he’s paranoid. “We need you to come to the West End mall. There’s a hostage situation, and the hostage-taker is asking for you.”

“I’ll be there,” Dick replies, abandoning his cart in the middle of the aisle without a thought. “Who is it?”

Of course, he’s already talking to the dial tone. It’s the impetus he needs to move fast, though.

It’s a usual set up - a cordon, cop cars and cops everywhere, worried or curious civilians hanging around outside along with some reporters that call to Dick as he jogs by. He waves a little to the familiar faces he sees, and then sees Milan standing at the back of a van.

“I’m here,” Dick says. “What’s happening?”

There’s a police negotiator Dick vaguely recognises sitting in the van, and he gives Dick an impatient look. “What’s happening is that this guy won’t let us do our job because he wants to talk to you.” Clearly not a fan, then.

“Isn’t your job to try give the guy what he wants?” Dick asks, hopping up into the van. There’s a computer screen with the mall CCTV pulled up on it, showing a couple of guys with rifles loitering in the main part of the mall.

“We’re just about to get footage of the hostages,” Milan says. She’s a slight, no-nonsense black woman who Dick would propose to in an instant if she weren’t definitely batting for a team that firmly doesn’t include him. “Thankfully they’ve holed up in a shop with an external wall, because we can get access via the vents for a look.”

“Great,” Dick says. “Any idea who the guy is?”

“Marcus O’Reilly,” Milan supplies, and hands him a slim brown file. “Just got out of Blackgate after serving his time for armed robbery and drugs charges.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Dick says, flipping the file open. A sullen face with a shaved head stares back. The guy doesn’t look familiar, either.

“You arrested him,” Milan supplies. “Warehouse bust, eighteen months ago.”

Dick thinks back. “I arrested fifteen people that evening.”

“Well, this one seems to have found the experience pretty memorable,” Milan says drily. “Usually I would assume he’s holding a grudge, but, knowing you, you probably gave him a particularly memorable pep talk that he’s hoping to hear one more time before he goes back to prison.”

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” Dick says, and then gestures to the negotiator’s setup. “Do you mind?”

The negotiator sighs but gives his seat up for Dick, hopping down from the van. Dick hopes he sticks close - this isn’t exactly Dick’s general wheelhouse, for all the practice he’s had at talking people down.

“We’re getting a sniper up on the roof,” Milan says matter-of-factly before he picks up the phone. “He’s not going to have a great shot, though.”

That’s true enough. The interior storefronts are all glass, as is a large portion of the western wall, but the eastern one, where the hostages are, is concrete. Whoever is up there will be able to see okay through the shop displays and window signage, but it’s a fair distance from one side to the other.

Dick picks up the stupid bright red negotiator phone and dials the number scrawled across the paper in front of the computer. It rings a few times before it clicks live.

“Hi,” Dick says, when O’Reilly doesn’t speak. “This is Detective Grayson.”

“S’up,” comes the reply. Despite the name, the guy sounds as Gotham as they come, and not all that old. Dick flicks his eyes back to the file and translates the birthdate to someone younger than him. “I wanna talk to you, man.”

“We’re talking right now, Marcus,” Dick says, leaning back in the chair. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Face to face,” O’Reilly corrects. “Come down here.”

“Are your friends going to let me in?” Dick asks.

“They will if I tell them to.”

Dick squints at the computer thoughtfully. “We need to talk about the hostages first, Marcus.”

“What about ‘em?” O’Reilly asks.

“If I’m going to come down there, I need a bit of a goodwill gesture. What about letting some of the hostages go free?” That’s his goal here. Get the innocents out. Everything else is just icing.

O’Reilly laughs. “Get real, Detective. You come down here, or I start killing ‘em one by one.” Then he hangs up.

“Nice guy,” Dick says, putting the phone down. “How far off are we on the camera?”

“Five seconds,” Milan says, and then, “There we go.”

On the screen, a new window pops up of slightly clearer footage. The hostage-takers - three of them, all visibly armed - are facing away from the wall, and so away from the camera, just inside the wide-view lens’ reach. The hostages are all sitting on the floor, lined up against the storefront. The shop stock has been shoved to the side to clear the space. It looks like a homeware store - the shopfront is stocked with blankets and pillows and vases.

Dick figures the centremost figure has got to be Marcus. He’s got one of the hostages on his knees, closer than the others, and in easy reach of both his hands and the handgun he’s holding. The hostage is turned towards the camera, their face just visible behind Marcus’s hip.

“Fuck,” Dick says, dumbstruck and loud enough to surprise even himself.

“What?” Milan demands sharply.

“That’s my brother,” Dick says.

*

He can see it, in his mind’s eye. Tim in the wrong place, at the wrong time, knowing that there’s shit-all he can do as Tim Drake-Wayne and not much more he can do to get out of the situation and be not-Tim-Drake-Wayne when there are five guns versus him and a bunch of civilians.

Tim wouldn’t sit and let the others get threatened. He’d volunteer himself as the most valuable hostage, tell them his whole life story to make sure they knew the precise monetary value of his continued being alive. 

Or, worse, he’d talk until he got their attention and was singled out that way, neglecting to mention at all that he was a rich man’s rich son. Going by the bruise blooming over his jaw, Dick is going to take door number two this time.

Milan had said some things about conflict of interest and safety and ‘not getting yourself killed’, but they both know the only option was for him to go. He straps on a bulletproof vest over the thin WE body armour he always wears at work. Hopefully none of the grocery store security cameras had been pointing at his car while he changed earlier, or some rent-a-cop must have gotten an eyeful. 

He debates, and then straps on his piece as well as the electrified escrima that looks just like a standard-issue folding baton. It’s not going to save him or anyone else against five guys with high-powered weapons, but it’s better than nothing.

He gets a SWAT escort to the front doors. At least they, unlike the uniform GCPD guys, don’t look at him like he’s a bomb about to go off. The captain - Jenkins, Dick thinks - waves him off with a cheery, “See you soon,” not entirely belied by the way he’d assured Dick and Milan both they’d come in as fast as possible, guns blazing, when necessary.

“See you,” Dick says, and ventures forward alone. The mall is a mess from where people fled earlier - it’s one of those late-night places, where the cinema and restaurants stay open until midnight or so. It’s a Saturday, and even in Gotham there would have been some crowds.

He winds his way through to the shop and slips past the men guarding the door - not in full body armour, he notes, but their faces are covered with balaclavas - without a word. 

“Hey,” he says to announce his presence. One of the hostages, very quietly, sobs. He looks around quickly, checking for injuries, and doesn’t find anything serious. He saves Tim for last, meeting his eyes quick and away before looking to O’Reilly. “I’m here. In the flesh.”

“In position,” Smith, the sniper, says over the comms.

“Visibility is poor,” Oracle says in his other ear. “It’s starting to rain. He’s not going to be able to see shit.”

“Detective Grayson, everybody,” O’Reilly says, tone mock-warm. He’s the only one not wearing a mask. He’s pulled Tim up as a proper human shield, and they’re almost of a height. The half-inch he has on Tim is going to make shooting him from the rooftop across the street almost impossible in these conditions.

“You’ve got me,” Dick says calmly. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I lied,” O’Reilly says. “I don’t really want to talk. I just want to kill you.”

“Okay,” Dick replies. “Well, I’m here now. Why don’t you let the hostages go?”

O’Reilly moves too fast. The gun goes off, and for a moment Dick expects pain. Then, from behind him, someone screams.

He’s shot one of the hostages. Belly wound, bleeding badly. Marcus says, cold, “I’m not here to make bargains.”

“You’ve got something against shoppers?” Dick asks. He’s still calm. So far.

“To be honest, I just don’t care.” He smiles like someone who should have been in Arkham, not Blackgate.

“Let them go,” Dick says. 

O’Reilly tilts his head. Then he grins. “You know what? Fine. All of you at the front? Go. And take that guy with you.”

The hostages don’t move, staring wide-eyed between him and the other hostage-takers and Dick. The one with the gut wound is panting and clutching at his stomach, rapidly going grey.

O’Reilly shouts, “Go!” Then he fires a bullet into the ceiling.

One of the fluorescent lights overhead shatters in a spray of plastic. The hostages, though - they run, two of them barely pausing to hoist the injured one between them. Then it’s just the five guys with guns, Tim, Dick, and a puddle of blood.

“Are you going to let that one go, too?” Dick asks.

“Not a chance,” O’Reilly replies. He’s got an arm slung around Tim’s neck.

“He’s a kid,” Dick says, steadily. He doesn’t think that, really, or at least not most of the time. But in jeans, sneakers and an oversized hoodie, Tim looks young.

In his ear, the SWAT team are reporting on the condition of the hostages as they’re whisked to safety. Dick blocks it out.

“You think I don’t watch the news? That I can’t go to a library?” O’Reilly says. He’s smiling, small and mean. “I’m not an idiot. I know exactly who this guy is.” And he jams the muzzle of his gun hard against the side of Tim’s head. “This is your little brother.”

Tim doesn’t flinch. He says, “Adopted brother.”

There’s a cold silence, and then O’Reilly moves the gun from Tim’s skull - quick death - to somewhere down near his kidneys. “Alright, smart guy.”

Dick gives Tim a look that says, shut up. Tim, being smarter than their other siblings, does so.

“Me ‘n’ my brother, we were both at the warehouse that night. Got arrested and thrown in Blackgate, matching sentences,” O’Reilly says.

“Bet your mom’s really proud,” Dick says before he can stop himself. 

O’Reilly ignores him. “Billy had debts, though. And I couldn’t protect him, in there, not like I could out here. And guess how that ended up for him?”

“William O’Reilly’s dead,” Babs fills in flatly, at the same time O’Reilly bellows, “He’s dead! And it’s your fault!”

Dick had already seen where this was going, but he’s not exactly keen on the confirmation. “I didn’t make you rob people at gunpoint, Marcus.”

“He’d be alive, if it weren’t for you,” O’Reilly snarls. “But guess what? Here you are, and here’s your brother. So I think it’s my turn to make good tonight.”

“What about your friends?” Dick asks. “What do they want out of this, exactly? Because I don’t think I’ve done anything to them.”

“These guys?” O’Reilly asks, suddenly amused again. “I made some friends in high places when I got out. Show ‘im, boys.”

As one, the figures on either side of O’Reilly pull their balaclavas off. And underneath, they’re wearing masks that are slitted eyes and the curve of a beak. Owls.

Talons.

“Shit,” Babs mutters, and then, “Hurry it up, Black Bat!”

“Smith,” Milan is saying over the comms, “Do you have a shot?”

“Maybe,” Smith says. He sounds laconic, but snipers almost always do when they’re working. “Not a great one.”

So they’ve got back-up incoming. But by the look on O’Reilly’s face, they don’t have long.

“They don’t want anything,” O’Reilly says, “But, if you ask me? I think they’re probably just as happy as I am to see you both bleedin’ out on the floor.”

“Smith,” someone prompts.

“I don’t have the shot,” Smith says, “I repeat, I do not - ulp!” Then there’s nothing but silence.

“Get eyes on Smith,” Milan demands to someone else. “Now.”

Dick, aware they might have another Talon in play, aware he might be about to get shot in the back, says, “So, what’re you waiting for, exactly?”

“I’m not waiting,” O’Reilly says, “I’m just savouring.” And he raises his gun back to Tim’s head.

Tim, who’s looking at Dick with a placid facial expression, his eyes asking, what now? Because they’re not Nightwing and Red Robin. They’re Dick and Tim, and what they can do is limited by the clothes they’re wearing, and by the eyes watching them.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, not really. Neither of them is faster than a bullet. 

The gun goes off. Dick doesn’t close his eyes.

He’s expecting blood, and he gets it. What he’s not expecting is two more gunshots straight afterward.

The owl masks shatter. And O’Reilly, missing the top of his skull, drops to the ground and just barely doesn’t drag an in-one-piece-Tim with him.

“Don’t ever say I don’t do anything for you, Timmy,” a rough, half-robotic, familiar voice says over their comms, there and then gone. 

Jason.

“It’s a mask!” someone is yelling over the comms, but Dick’s already flying forward and catching Tim up in his arms, pushing him towards the wall and covering him with his body.

“What the hell were you doing here?” he demands, pulling Tim’s head against his shoulder, a show of sibling comfort that abruptly becomes real when he realises Tim is shivering. 

“Christmas shopping,” Tim mumbles into his chest, and Dick, despite himself, laughs.

[forlornmelody]

Kord Center Mall: John & Jane Shepard’s First Day

Rating: T (some sexual references)

Fandom(s): Mass Effect, The Valor Series, DC Comics

Ship: Kaidan Alenko/Male Shepard

AO3 Link: Here

Summary: Fresh out of the Marines, John Shepard and his twin Jane attend their onboarding session as security guards at Kord Center Mall. Not the most prestigious job, but it has its perks, right?

Note: This is a cross over, mall-verse AU concocted by @scifi-ginger and myself. You’ve been warned. 

By the time they finally finished signing and filling out all the paperwork, Jane Shepard’s hand was cramping. Mostly Blah blah, observe and report, you get sued, we dispose of you --that sort of shit.

“All done?”

“I sure hope so.”

“Jane!” John hisses, elbowing her.

“What?”

“We’re trying to make a good first impression.”

Jane rolls her eyes, eyeing the dark-haired woman on the other side of the desk. “Do you go by Torin or Kerr?”

Torin narrows her eyes at Jane before answering. “Torin’s fine.”

“We’re already hired, right?”

“She could fire us at any time.”

Jane scoffed. “And you’re hurting for night detail, right?” Torin nodded. “See? We’re fine.”

-*-*-

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Torin shakes her head. “If anything happens, call me or Vakarian. If it’s something we can’t handle, we’ll call the PD on duty.”

John nudges her elbow. “It’ll be good for you. Work on your people skills.”

Following Torin toward the security feed room, Jane whispers fiercely in his ear. “And I’m still saying we could join the police force. We don’t even have to enroll at the Academy. Easiest scores to beat in the region.”

“And break up riots every weekend? No thanks.”

“Alright. So, you come in through this door using your badge. Clock in using your badge. Check your cuffs, keys, radio, and glove case.” She leads them past the lockers to a bulletin board. “Check your deployment here.” Torin points next to their names. “You’re on floor duty until lunch.”

Torin walks them down the first floor of the mall, and Jane Shepard finds herself on edge. There’s too many exits. Too many people she doesn’t recognize. Not enough cover. Jane’s chest starts to tighten up until John squeezes her shoulder. She should’ve signed up for another tour.

They pass a Barnes & Noble, a crystal shop reeking of incense, Lush, a Starbucks, a couple department stores, M.A.C., Dick’s Sporting Goods, and Peets. Up on the second floor, Jane spots Claire’s, an arcade, F.Y.E., and Spencers, among others.

Their boss's voice cuts through the vaporwave and the hum of customers spending more money than they have. “Basically, be friendly, but aware of any suspicious activity. Ah! Here we are. The center of consumer civilization.” Torin sweeps her arm across the food court. “Security gets a discount.”

“Nice!” Her twin brother grins. Jane rolls her eyes.

“This is also where most of the action happens.” Torin walks a circle around the tables, and Jane and John follow.

John is so focused on what Torin is saying that he doesn’t notice the dark-haired man in a hoodie getting up from his seat. Jane seizes John’s arm, but she’s too late to catch him before the other man’s coffee spills all over John’s new uniform.

“Ah, crap, sorry.” The other man scrambles, grabbing a fistful of napkins. “Here.” His tan hands pat them against John’s chest.

John clears his throat, and Jane smirks as she sees a blush creep up from his collar. “Heh, no worries.”

Jane coughs. “Goner.”

“Remind me to put in another order for shirts. What size are you again?”

“Large.” He grabs the wrist of the man in front of him. “John Shepard, and this is my sister Jane. You come here a lot?”

“Kaidan  Alenko.” The wrist grab turns into a handshake, but neither of them seem eager to let go. “I study here between classes.” He reddens. “Student discount.”

Torin coughs, and Jane’s brother finally realizes they’re both waiting on him. “Heh. Sorry. Catch you later?”

Kaidan nods, pulling back discreetly. “Sure. See you around.”

Jane snickers to herself. John will never live this moment down.

Torin leads them past the food court. “And over here we have a 24 Hour fitness! And before you ask--” She turns to smirk at them. “--yes you get a free membership.”

Jane can feel her mouth watering. “Sign me up.”

[cloud-maan-og-blog]

                                                          TEX                    [ORIGINAL POST - 8/14/2017] My name is Todd and I'm a night shift security guard at Ashland Town Center Mall in Northern Kentucky, or at least I was. I've spent many an hour walking the long, dark, corridors lined with stores and garnished with kiosks, soda machines, and cheap amusements. Most nights are quite peaceful, nothing really happens to warrant the shotgun hidden in the back office. All of the doors are locked so no one really comes in after the lady who waxes the floor leaves and I am left alone with my thoughts until the next shift comes at 5:00AM. Thankfully Joe likes to come in a half hour early to goof off and eat breakfast in the food court while no one else is around. He's a talkative one, though. After he eats he walks with me through the halls going on and on about whatever happened that day, occasionally listening to my thoughts. I can't say that I don't welcome the company, but at that time of night I usually just like being alone. Even so, we are best friends. You can have a bestie in your late twenties, right? Late in 2016 we got a little merry-go-round. The kind that's made of thick plastic with a glazed look to the paint. When I first saw it I actually mistook it for porcelain. It was a sight to behold, that much is true. It had a 'finer' look to it than most of the kiddie ride machines next to the play area. Our machines are nice, but this was on a whole other level. It was like putting a fine china plate in a cabinet full of plastic cups. The difference was that drastic. It's also worth noting that is was a noticeably bigger than most similar attractions that I've seen, roughly ten feet wide. It had a cowboy theme, sporting four ornately detailed horses, just the right size for a child, with shiny brass rods connecting to the ceiling, which was a standard tent-like structure like you would see on any other merry-go-round, but with beautifully painted scenes of cowboys riding their stallions through the Mesa Verde and lassoing bulls, cowboy stuff. The thing that really made this machine unique was a five(ish) foot tall figure of a cowboy, molded from the same material as the horses with the same glazed look and just as detailed. His face resembled John Wayne and he was waving his hat as if he were at a rodeo cheering on a bull rider from the stands, a shiny sheriff's badge almost glistening on his chest. Whoever painted this guy did a really good job. He seemed like a happy, upstanding kind of guy, so I named him Tex. Sometimes I would talk to Tex at night, mostly for catharsis sake, greeting him with a tip of my baseball cap and a gruff sounding "howdy, Tex." Sort of a cowboy salute. Of course he never greeted me back. There's something nice about opening up to something that doesn't talk back. They can't really go out with you to Buffalo Wild Wings and tell your crush about your foot fetish then leave you to pick up the tab while he takes her home for a roll in the haystack. Needless to say, we didn't speak for a while. Joe, if you're reading this; dick move. I guess I'm being a little too passive aggressive about this. It's too late in the game to be upset about that all things considered. Of course I told Tex about it the next day and it really helped me put things into perspective and before I knew it, me and Joe were friends again, though we began avoiding alcohol after that. After that I began unloading other emotional baggage onto Tex; how I finally got off of heroine, how I used to fantasize about marrying Cher (I had a poster of her over my bed as a teenager), and many dark and embarrassing things that I'm not too keen on recounting. I even showed off some sick baton trick that I had been working on. By the time that fidget spinners were the official big fad of 2017, Tex knew most of my secrets that even Joe didn't know. He was my silent Psychiatrist, my fortress of solitude. His big, cartoonish John Wayne face was my solace in a sea of consciousness. This was therapy for me. One night, after being contacted about my upcoming 10 year High School Reunion, I started looking back on that time; a time that I had long ago pushed out of my mind. Thoughts swam through my head of something that I had done. Something really really bad. I had never forgotten, but had just ignored it until it was no longer seemed to be an issue in my mind. But it was an issue now, and I just had to get it off of my chest. Thankfully, I knew someone that would hear me out. So I trudged over to the food court, bought a Mellow Yellow from the vending machine, and pulled up a chair next to Tex where I recounted my most detestable crime. I stood and tipped my hat and said, "hey, Tex." His face was the same as ever. Still unsure of whether or not I wanted to say this out loud, to vocally state that I had actually done what I did, I sat down and began drinking my Mellow Yellow, playing the events of that day over and over in my head. I felt a tear rolling down my cheek and decided that I had best say my piece and get it over with. I told him about when I was seventeen, how I partied day in and day our for years and woke up in a corn field somewhere in Iowa with a car full of contraband, how I partook of said contraband all alone and tried to drive all the way home higher than an kite, and how I ran over a kid that was waiting at a street corner for the school bus with her friends and mother, and how I did the worst thing that I ever could have done; I kept driving. I remember seeing the girl's mother running out into the street to her child. The sound of her friends screaming in terror. I found out that she actually lived with only a few scrapes and bruises but that doesn't make it any better. I ran from my problems, from my crime, instead of dealing with them directly and facing the consequences for my actions. I never came clean. That is something that I'll regret for the rest of my life. I sat in relative darkness next to Tex for what felt like hours, the stench of guilt wafting out of my every pore, draining from my tear ducts almost unceasingly. A polluted river of sorrow, salty with regret. I had never told anyone that story, not even Joe. Saying it out loud seemed to put everything in perspective. Finally I stood, thanked Tex for listening, and finished my rounds before heading back to the office to watch some Youtube videos and get my mind off of all this, at least for a while. I had a couple of days free and decided to get away; I needed some alone time and some private fishing would do nicely. So I went to my family's old lake-house in Ohio where I spent my time quietly casting my line and contemplating my life. It didn't feel good looking at myself that critically, neglectful person I was deep down reflected back so clearly in the sky-blue water. My dreams were just repeats of that day playing back over and over and every waking moment was stifled by guilt. I knew what I had to do, but I just wasn't ready yet. I didn't want to go to prison. So I returned home, got some rest, and went to work the next day as usual. I stepped into the mall just before closing, the last shoppers filtering out the front door with their bags. As I made my way to the back office I passed by the merry-go-round and found Tex gone. The merry-go-round was there, but he wasn't. The molded place where his over-sized feet were once bolted down was vacant, revealing a tiny plaque reading "Voodoo Attractions." The bolts were neatly placed on the floor nearby. I figured that Tex had been taken to a workshop to be refurbished and went on with my life. I spent an hour or so watching Youtube on my phone, occasionally glancing up at the video feed from the security cameras before finally going on my first rounds, which were pretty uneventful, the only notable thing being a large, plastic trash can that I had found overturned in the food court. The janitor must have missed one. Earl is getting pretty old now that I thought about it. I sighed and picked up the trash, placing it in the can, carefully balancing it so it wouldn't fall over again before returning to my business and wondering what had knocked it over in the first place. It was probably Joe for all I knew, I thought I had heard him slip in earlier. At about 3:30AM I went on my last rounds for the night. All was peaceful; the light of the full moon was shining in through the windows in the ceiling and I felt as if I was falling back into my old groove. Then I heard it. KERKLUNK! The sound was loud like a gunshot. I turned around, standing in the moonlight, shining my flashlight frantically into the darkness. Panic gripped me for a moment, then I stopped and chuckled. It must have been that trash can falling over again. I was just being silly. It's been four years since I started this job and never once had I come so close to leaping out of my skin. I broke into a full laugh, allowing it to echo through the dark corridors. KERKLUNK! All laughter ceased and I listened... KERKLUNK! It was closer this time. KERKLUNK! Closer. KERKLUNK! Faster. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! The noises were steady now, rhythmic like... footsteps. I readied myself for a fight, flicking my baton open with my right hand and wielding my solid, metal flashlight like a club with my left. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! The steps were in a full run now and coming fast. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! As they approached I could hear a creaking noise between each step, like creaky floorboards and old. CREAKERKLUNK!CREAKERKLUNK! I could see it's shadow rounding the dark corner and come right for me. CREAKERKLUNK! CREAKERKLUNK! It was just outside my circle of moonlight. CREAKERKLUNK! CREAKERKLUNK! It came into view, charging at me with all the ferocity of an angry bull. It was Tex. Before I could do anything, he knocked me to the floor. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. His hard plastic exterior expanding and contracting, bending almost organically and producing a loud CREAK! with every movement. Suddenly he was on top of me. I instinctively covered my face before Tex unleashed a barrage of punches, breaking my left wrist and my nose in one massive swing. I recoiled in pain, leaving my face wide open to attacks. Every punch felt like being beaten with a wooden baseball bat landing with the force of a meteor. His plasticine face was stretched into a wicked grin. There was magic in this thing, dark magic. I managed to dodge one of his attacks and scrambled out from under the plastic behemoth, but to no avail. He grabbed me by the ankle, dragging me back before continuing his assault. My vision began to go dark. Was this it for me? Was my last memory going to be this thing punching me to death? I was fading away and there wasn't much that I could do except resign to my fate. I closed my eyes, preparing for death's kiss. BANG! A gunshot! The onslaught ceased. My eyes snapped open to see Tex looming above me, a rain of thick plastic shards from his back clattering over me. The grin that once adorned his painted face was now a wide-eyed visage of surprise and anger. A rush of adrenaline brought me back to full consciousness just as Tex stood up and charged at his assailant. It was Joe! Joe and that beautiful shotgun from the back office! I've never been so happy to see that man in my life. He fired again. BANG! Tex's left arm exploded! He turned, visibly angry, and charged at Joe, knocking him to the ground with a powerful right hook to the face before disappearing into the darkness. Joe quickly stood, shotgun in hand, and helped me up. "You okay, man?" I nodded as he forcefully patted my face, still processing what had just happened to me. Joe took me outside where we called the police and sipped a much deserved Mellow Yellow in the parking lot as far away from the mall as possible without leaving the premises. I explained everything that had happened the last few days, only leaving out the daring confession I had made to what I previously thought was an inanimate object with no capacity for intelligence. He was upset to find out that I had opened up to a statue instead of him, but forgave me all the same. We would start fresh from here. But I would never forget that sound, the inhuman creaking that came from that statue. I looked at Joe in light of the rising sun; a massive, dark bruise over the right side of his face becoming suddenly apparent. I smiled. "You should see your face, man," I said with a chuckle, "that bruise isn't going away anytime soon." "Wait till you see your's," replied Joe, taking out his cellphone and setting it to the mirror function. I beheld my image in all of it's glory, my entire face puffed up like giant, purple cauliflower. I laughed, Joe laughed, everything hurt from head to toe, and we were both on the same page for the first time in months. Finally the police arrived and Joe and I gave our version of the events. Of course we were laughed at. In hindsight I shouldn't have expected anything less. The story was preposterous. Two men attacked by a living statue? It's unbelievable, right? Things got even more unbelievable when we all went inside and found Tex once again bolted to the merry-go-round as he was when I first saw him, his left arm and back missing sizable chunks of plastic. We were arrested for destruction of property and disorderly conduct. We spent the next week in jail before a court date was decided and when our day in court came we found ourselves not against the mall personnel, as we and our attorney had previously expected, but four tall men in dark suits. The kind of men that had secrets and preferred to keep them under wraps. I very clearly remember one of them looking directly at me and smirking; it felt... scary. They claimed to be from Voodoo Attractions, the company that had rented Tex to the mall. They accused us of vandalizing their property, using fake security footage showing me and Joe getting drunk before shooting Tex with the shotgun, getting into a fist fight, and going outside to "prank call the cops." The 911 dispatcher gave a similar claim. This was backed up by audio of Joe calling in to report a murder and ending it with a lame refrigerator joke. None of this had actually happened; I knew this, Joe knew this. But their evidence was solid in the eyes of the jury. We were sentenced to six months in jail, two months probation, and a hefty fee, not to mention court costs. It was unjust, it was wrong, but it happened and, to be honest; I'm starting to think that we got off easy. The two police officers that had arrested us never appeared in court to testify and Joe told me that the 911 dispatcher that he had spoken to on the phone was a man. There's nothing about this that isn't fishy. So we spent the next six months in jail and now I'm back at home, sitting on my living room couch with an electronic monitor strapped to my ankle, typing my story in hopes that some of you might heed this warning to watch out for any products from Voodoo Attractions and never interact with them. I know I have. In my mind I can still hear the creaking and kerklanking sounds that Tex made when he moved. I've been hearing them for months and will probably be hearing them for the rest of my life. But since I've gotten out of jail, I've been questioning whether the sounds are actually in my head or if he's somewhere nearby, watching me, waiting for another opportunity to strike. [UPDATE - 8/16/2017] I've been tracking down the girl that I ran over with my car when I was in High School. I've talked to her mother and we're scheduled to meet this weekend. This is going to be really hard, but if I can tell a sentient, plastic cowboy about my misdoings, I think I can tell a person. Wish me luck. [USER 1 COMMENT] I may be wrong, but isn't the baseline jail time for hit and run 6 months?  Maybe Tex was helping you pay for your crime, in a very scary and strange way [RESPONSE FROM TODD] I never thought of it like that. It puts a moralistic spin on things. [USER 2 COMMENT] Depending on jurisdiction a hit and run involving personal injury to a minor is considered an egregious act. It can be called anything from a traffic offense to attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon namely an automobile, and  God forbid the police know OP was under the influence.Congrats for facing your demons OP. Takes balls. Hope all goes well. [UPDATE - 8/21/2017]Hello. Todd here. Things went well with the girl and her mom, but it looks like I might be spending some time in prison. My trial is Friday. I'll be sure to tell you the verdict when it's over and you probably won't hear from me after that. Thanks for sending your words of encouragement and for understanding. UPDATE 8-27-17 Hey, guys. It's me, Joe, Todd's best friend. You probably read about me at some point. Just got back from Iowa. What a trip. Todd gave me the password and told me to tell both of you what happened to him or whatever. He won't be getting back here for quite a while, with him going to prison and all. Court stuff is complicated and brain-numbinly stupid, so I'm going to make it quick. There was a trial, the miracle girl forgave him, it was touching, but he had a ten year sentence on the table. So Todd took a plea bargain that reduced the sentence to three years. On the bright side, until he gets out, I get to live in his house. At least as long as I can keep up rent, this place is a little pricier than I'm used to. Shouldn't be, though. The door was off the hinges when I got here. It was just laying out in the yard for the whole neighborhood to see. The property value should have plummeted to nothing by now, but hey, whatever, I'll live. Now if you don't mind, I'm gonna get offa here and be a handy man for some dandy ladies. Peace. [LINK TO ORIGINAL POST - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/6u95r1/tex/]

[sending-the-message]

TEX by CloudMaan-0

[ORIGINAL POST - 8/14/2017]

My name is Todd and I’m a night shift security guard at Ashland Town Center Mall in Northern Kentucky, or at least I was. I’ve spent many an hour walking the long, dark, corridors lined with stores and garnished with kiosks, soda machines, and cheap amusements. Most nights are quite peaceful, nothing really happens to warrant the shotgun hidden in the back office. All of the doors are locked so no one really comes in after the lady who waxes the floor leaves and I am left alone with my thoughts until the next shift comes at 5:00AM. Thankfully Joe likes to come in a half hour early to goof off and eat breakfast in the food court while no one else is around. He’s a talkative one, though. After he eats he walks with me through the halls going on and on about whatever happened that day, occasionally listening to my thoughts. I can’t say that I don’t welcome the company, but at that time of night I usually just like being alone. Even so, we are best friends. You can have a bestie in your late twenties, right?

Late in 2016 we got a little merry-go-round. The kind that’s made of thick plastic with a glazed look to the paint. When I first saw it I actually mistook it for porcelain. It was a sight to behold, that much is true. It had a ‘finer’ look to it than most of the kiddie ride machines next to the play area. Our machines are nice, but this was on a whole other level. It was like putting a fine china plate in a cabinet full of plastic cups. The difference was that drastic. It’s also worth noting that is was a noticeably bigger than most similar attractions that I’ve seen, roughly ten feet wide.

It had a cowboy theme, sporting four ornately detailed horses, just the right size for a child, with shiny brass rods connecting to the ceiling, which was a standard tent-like structure like you would see on any other merry-go-round, but with beautifully painted scenes of cowboys riding their stallions through the Mesa Verde and lassoing bulls, cowboy stuff. The thing that really made this machine unique was a five(ish) foot tall figure of a cowboy, molded from the same material as the horses with the same glazed look and just as detailed. His face resembled John Wayne and he was waving his hat as if he were at a rodeo cheering on a bull rider from the stands, a shiny sheriff’s badge almost glistening on his chest. Whoever painted this guy did a really good job. He seemed like a happy, upstanding kind of guy, so I named him Tex.

Sometimes I would talk to Tex at night, mostly for catharsis sake, greeting him with a tip of my baseball cap and a gruff sounding “howdy, Tex.” Sort of a cowboy salute. Of course he never greeted me back. There’s something nice about opening up to something that doesn’t talk back. They can’t really go out with you to Buffalo Wild Wings and tell your crush about your foot fetish then leave you to pick up the tab while he takes her home for a roll in the haystack. Needless to say, we didn’t speak for a while. Joe, if you’re reading this; dick move. I guess I’m being a little too passive aggressive about this. It’s too late in the game to be upset about that all things considered. Of course I told Tex about it the next day and it really helped me put things into perspective and before I knew it, me and Joe were friends again, though we began avoiding alcohol after that.

After that I began unloading other emotional baggage onto Tex; how I finally got off of heroine, how I used to fantasize about marrying Cher (I had a poster of her over my bed as a teenager), and many dark and embarrassing things that I’m not too keen on recounting. I even showed off some sick baton trick that I had been working on. By the time that fidget spinners were the official big fad of 2017, Tex knew most of my secrets that even Joe didn’t know. He was my silent Psychiatrist, my fortress of solitude. His big, cartoonish John Wayne face was my solace in a sea of consciousness. This was therapy for me.

One night, after being contacted about my upcoming 10 year High School Reunion, I started looking back on that time; a time that I had long ago pushed out of my mind. Thoughts swam through my head of something that I had done. Something really really bad. I had never forgotten, but had just ignored it until it was no longer seemed to be an issue in my mind. But it was an issue now, and I just had to get it off of my chest. Thankfully, I knew someone that would hear me out. So I trudged over to the food court, bought a Mellow Yellow from the vending machine, and pulled up a chair next to Tex where I recounted my most detestable crime.

I stood and tipped my hat and said, “hey, Tex.” His face was the same as ever. Still unsure of whether or not I wanted to say this out loud, to vocally state that I had actually done what I did, I sat down and began drinking my Mellow Yellow, playing the events of that day over and over in my head. I felt a tear rolling down my cheek and decided that I had best say my piece and get it over with.

I told him about when I was seventeen, how I partied day in and day our for years and woke up in a corn field somewhere in Iowa with a car full of contraband, how I partook of said contraband all alone and tried to drive all the way home higher than an kite, and how I ran over a kid that was waiting at a street corner for the school bus with her friends and mother, and how I did the worst thing that I ever could have done; I kept driving. I remember seeing the girl’s mother running out into the street to her child. The sound of her friends screaming in terror. I found out that she actually lived with only a few scrapes and bruises but that doesn’t make it any better. I ran from my problems, from my crime, instead of dealing with them directly and facing the consequences for my actions. I never came clean. That is something that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

I sat in relative darkness next to Tex for what felt like hours, the stench of guilt wafting out of my every pore, draining from my tear ducts almost unceasingly. A polluted river of sorrow, salty with regret. I had never told anyone that story, not even Joe. Saying it out loud seemed to put everything in perspective. Finally I stood, thanked Tex for listening, and finished my rounds before heading back to the office to watch some Youtube videos and get my mind off of all this, at least for a while.

I had a couple of days free and decided to get away; I needed some alone time and some private fishing would do nicely. So I went to my family’s old lake-house in Ohio where I spent my time quietly casting my line and contemplating my life. It didn’t feel good looking at myself that critically, neglectful person I was deep down reflected back so clearly in the sky-blue water. My dreams were just repeats of that day playing back over and over and every waking moment was stifled by guilt. I knew what I had to do, but I just wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t want to go to prison. So I returned home, got some rest, and went to work the next day as usual.

I stepped into the mall just before closing, the last shoppers filtering out the front door with their bags. As I made my way to the back office I passed by the merry-go-round and found Tex gone. The merry-go-round was there, but he wasn’t. The molded place where his over-sized feet were once bolted down was vacant, revealing a tiny plaque reading “Voodoo Attractions.” The bolts were neatly placed on the floor nearby. I figured that Tex had been taken to a workshop to be refurbished and went on with my life. I spent an hour or so watching Youtube on my phone, occasionally glancing up at the video feed from the security cameras before finally going on my first rounds, which were pretty uneventful, the only notable thing being a large, plastic trash can that I had found overturned in the food court. The janitor must have missed one. Earl is getting pretty old now that I thought about it. I sighed and picked up the trash, placing it in the can, carefully balancing it so it wouldn’t fall over again before returning to my business and wondering what had knocked it over in the first place. It was probably Joe for all I knew, I thought I had heard him slip in earlier.

At about 3:30AM I went on my last rounds for the night. All was peaceful; the light of the full moon was shining in through the windows in the ceiling and I felt as if I was falling back into my old groove. Then I heard it. KERKLUNK! The sound was loud like a gunshot. I turned around, standing in the moonlight, shining my flashlight frantically into the darkness. Panic gripped me for a moment, then I stopped and chuckled. It must have been that trash can falling over again. I was just being silly. It’s been four years since I started this job and never once had I come so close to leaping out of my skin. I broke into a full laugh, allowing it to echo through the dark corridors. KERKLUNK! All laughter ceased and I listened… KERKLUNK! It was closer this time. KERKLUNK! Closer. KERKLUNK! Faster. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! The noises were steady now, rhythmic like… footsteps.

I readied myself for a fight, flicking my baton open with my right hand and wielding my solid, metal flashlight like a club with my left. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! The steps were in a full run now and coming fast. KERKLUNK! KERKLUNK! As they approached I could hear a creaking noise between each step, like creaky floorboards and old. CREAKERKLUNK!CREAKERKLUNK! I could see it’s shadow rounding the dark corner and come right for me. CREAKERKLUNK! CREAKERKLUNK! It was just outside my circle of moonlight. CREAKERKLUNK! CREAKERKLUNK! It came into view, charging at me with all the ferocity of an angry bull. It was Tex.

Before I could do anything, he knocked me to the floor. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. His hard plastic exterior expanding and contracting, bending almost organically and producing a loud CREAK! with every movement. Suddenly he was on top of me. I instinctively covered my face before Tex unleashed a barrage of punches, breaking my left wrist and my nose in one massive swing. I recoiled in pain, leaving my face wide open to attacks. Every punch felt like being beaten with a wooden baseball bat landing with the force of a meteor. His plasticine face was stretched into a wicked grin. There was magic in this thing, dark magic.

I managed to dodge one of his attacks and scrambled out from under the plastic behemoth, but to no avail. He grabbed me by the ankle, dragging me back before continuing his assault. My vision began to go dark. Was this it for me? Was my last memory going to be this thing punching me to death? I was fading away and there wasn’t much that I could do except resign to my fate. I closed my eyes, preparing for death’s kiss. BANG! A gunshot! The onslaught ceased.

My eyes snapped open to see Tex looming above me, a rain of thick plastic shards from his back clattering over me. The grin that once adorned his painted face was now a wide-eyed visage of surprise and anger. A rush of adrenaline brought me back to full consciousness just as Tex stood up and charged at his assailant. It was Joe! Joe and that beautiful shotgun from the back office! I’ve never been so happy to see that man in my life. He fired again. BANG! Tex’s left arm exploded! He turned, visibly angry, and charged at Joe, knocking him to the ground with a powerful right hook to the face before disappearing into the darkness.

Joe quickly stood, shotgun in hand, and helped me up. “You okay, man?” I nodded as he forcefully patted my face, still processing what had just happened to me. Joe took me outside where we called the police and sipped a much deserved Mellow Yellow in the parking lot as far away from the mall as possible without leaving the premises. I explained everything that had happened the last few days, only leaving out the daring confession I had made to what I previously thought was an inanimate object with no capacity for intelligence. He was upset to find out that I had opened up to a statue instead of him, but forgave me all the same. We would start fresh from here. But I would never forget that sound, the inhuman creaking that came from that statue. I looked at Joe in light of the rising sun; a massive, dark bruise over the right side of his face becoming suddenly apparent. I smiled.

“You should see your face, man,” I said with a chuckle, “that bruise isn’t going away anytime soon.”

“Wait till you see your’s,” replied Joe, taking out his cellphone and setting it to the mirror function. I beheld my image in all of it’s glory, my entire face puffed up like giant, purple cauliflower. I laughed, Joe laughed, everything hurt from head to toe, and we were both on the same page for the first time in months.

Finally the police arrived and Joe and I gave our version of the events. Of course we were laughed at. In hindsight I shouldn’t have expected anything less. The story was preposterous. Two men attacked by a living statue? It’s unbelievable, right? Things got even more unbelievable when we all went inside and found Tex once again bolted to the merry-go-round as he was when I first saw him, his left arm and back missing sizable chunks of plastic. We were arrested for destruction of property and disorderly conduct.

We spent the next week in jail before a court date was decided and when our day in court came we found ourselves not against the mall personnel, as we and our attorney had previously expected, but four tall men in dark suits. The kind of men that had secrets and preferred to keep them under wraps. I very clearly remember one of them looking directly at me and smirking; it felt… scary. They claimed to be from Voodoo Attractions, the company that had rented Tex to the mall. They accused us of vandalizing their property, using fake security footage showing me and Joe getting drunk before shooting Tex with the shotgun, getting into a fist fight, and going outside to “prank call the cops.” The 911 dispatcher gave a similar claim. This was backed up by audio of Joe calling in to report a murder and ending it with a lame refrigerator joke. None of this had actually happened; I knew this, Joe knew this. But their evidence was solid in the eyes of the jury. We were sentenced to six months in jail, two months probation, and a hefty fee, not to mention court costs.

It was unjust, it was wrong, but it happened and, to be honest; I’m starting to think that we got off easy. The two police officers that had arrested us never appeared in court to testify and Joe told me that the 911 dispatcher that he had spoken to on the phone was a man. There’s nothing about this that isn’t fishy. So we spent the next six months in jail and now I’m back at home, sitting on my living room couch with an electronic monitor strapped to my ankle, typing my story in hopes that some of you might heed this warning to watch out for any products from Voodoo Attractions and never interact with them. I know I have. In my mind I can still hear the creaking and kerklanking sounds that Tex made when he moved. I’ve been hearing them for months and will probably be hearing them for the rest of my life. But since I’ve gotten out of jail, I’ve been questioning whether the sounds are actually in my head or if he’s somewhere nearby, watching me, waiting for another opportunity to strike.

[UPDATE - 8/16/2017]

I’ve been tracking down the girl that I ran over with my car when I was in High School. I’ve talked to her mother and we’re scheduled to meet this weekend. This is going to be really hard, but if I can tell a sentient, plastic cowboy about my misdoings, I think I can tell a person. Wish me luck.