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[easymovebywinkelbros]

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[mentatemulator]

A Clockwork Mirror

Written for Vamptober prompt number 6 (yes, I'm doing them out of order)

Vampire who can't thrall your mind, but can thrall your body. It is approximately 1900 words long, or about 3 pages. It contains: Implied Violence Power Imbalance Dom/Sub Dynamics Dolls! Please enjoy!

~

Great tapestries adorned the walls of the Dollmaker's home, each depicting scenes of service and humility, as one might expect from the products of dolls. Felicity stared at them as she and her Master were led through the impressive estate, wondering how long it must have taken to create so many, and how many dolls were dedicated to the task. Perhaps they were fast with a needle.

She glanced past her Master's shoulder, at the doll who escorted them. They were fascinating creatures, but they made Felicity uneasy. There was something uncanny about them, she thought, in the way they moved, the way their faces could emote only so much within the limits of their artificial construction. And there was the question of how artificial they really were. One could, as a vampire (or near enough), detect the vital essence, the life within any given doll. Was it all magic, or...? It gave her goosebumps.

The doll stopped at a closed door, and gently knocked. The voice of the Dollmaker came from within.

“Yes, my dear?”

“The Lady Marie Hartley, and,” the briefest of hesitations in the doll's response, “companion to see you, Mistress.”

Felicity tried not to smirk. How indeed, to introduce your guest's thrall?

“Very good, show her in.”

The doll pulled the door open and held it for the Lady. Marie did not look back at Felicity, but only gave a mental command as she strode through the door:

Stay here. Behave.

And so Felicity found herself alone with the doll. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her trousers, and looked the thing up and down. White porcelain and lacquered wood beneath an absurdly frilly dress that made a halfhearted attempt to evoke a maid's uniform. Hands clasped at its waist. A head of auburn hair. Felicity wondered if it was real hair.

“Mistress' honored guest may wait in the parlor, if she wishes,” the thing spoke, its glass eyes respectfully downcast.

“Sure,” Felicity said. Master had said to stay, but Felicity didn't think she'd mind.

“This way.” The doll turned on its heel and led her down another corridor, past several more dolls busy with their own tasks, and through a larger set of double doors. The parlor contained a massive fireplace, currently glowing with a few meager embers, and a collection of luxurious chairs all arranged facing each other. Felicity dropped herself heavily into one of them. A grandfather clock sat against the wall ahead of her, ticking away.

“Would Mistress' honored guest like any refreshments?” The doll had taken up position to her left, near the wall. Felicity chewed on her lip while she stared at it. Something in her wanted to test this thing's limits.

“Call me Felix,” she finally said.

The doll seemed to consider that for a moment.

“Would Felix like any refreshments?”

“No, she would not.”

The doll gave the slightest of bows, and went silent. Felicity continued to stare while undoing the top button of her shirt. It was stuffy in here.

“Do you have a name?” she asked.

“This one does not have a name,” the doll stared straight ahead while it answered.

“What does your Mistress call you, then?”

“'My dear.'”

“What do the other dolls call you?”

“'That one.'”

“Fuck's sake,” Felicity said under her breath. She started rolling up her sleeves, trying to think of some way to push the doll's buttons. Assuming it had any. An idea came to her.

“Did you used to have a name?”

The doll hesitated.

Aha, I've hit on something! Felicity thought with some excitement.

“This one... does not understand the question.”

Felicity frowned.

“Before you were a doll, did you have a name?”

A longer pause.

“This one does not know.”

“So you weren't always a doll, then?” she prodded.

“This one does not know.” And yet there was a look on the doll's face of... concern? Confusion, maybe?

“You can't remember? From before you were made?” This could be so juicy, if she could just pry a little something out of the doll's clockwork mind.

“This one... this one...”

Yes, yes, think those existential thoughts for me, you creepy little bastard. Felicity leaned forward excitedly, ready for the revelation. The moment dragged on, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock.

“This one does not think Mistress would like it answering these questions,” the doll finally answered, its tone more certain. It gave a little smile, as if it was satisfied that it had resolved the conundrum.

Felicity grunted in frustration, and relaxed back into her chair. She put her chin into her hand.

“How boring.”

“This one apologizes.”

“Shut up!” Felicity snapped. The doll went dutifully silent. She hated talking to these things. Hated being here, surrounded by them. Perfect little clockwork slaves, is what they were, toiling away without a thought in their empty, porcelain heads. She didn't know why, but they made her angry.

“You're so pathetic, it makes me sick. Mistress this, Mistress that. You can't even think without your Mistress! Can't do anything! What good are you, eh?” She glared at the doll, but it remained silent. “Well?”

“May this one speak now?”

“Yes!”

“Does Felix not also have a Mistress?”

Felicity's stomach tied itself in a knot, and she shot to her feet.

“It's not the same thing at all! What do you know! Master- my Lady doesn't...” she stumbled, unsure what she intended to say.

“Is this one mistaken? This one apologizes, it believed you were Lady Hartley's thrall.”

“I am!” Felicity said with instinctual pride, “But we're nothing alike!” She started pacing back and forth, glowering at the doll all the while. “You think you have even a tenth of the pride and strength of a vampire?”

“Felix is not a vampire,” the doll said bluntly.

Felicity balled her fists and bit her lip hard. She felt unexpected tears sting the back of her eyes.

“And you're not even a person!” she shot back.

“That is correct,” the doll said with perfect serenity. It only made Felicity angrier.

“Such a perfect little clockwork cunt! So satisfied with being a soulless toy for Mistress.” Felicity stepped towards the doll, stood less than a foot from it. “What if I made you my toy, huh? Would you be my personal marionette?”

The doll looked oddly pained. Felicity's heart danced at the sight.

“This one is meant for Mistress. This one can only serve Mistress.”

“'This one,'” Felicity mocked, “won't have a choice,” and she projected her will through her eyes, throwing all of her borrowed power at the poor thing.

Only it did nothing. When she tried to clamp her psychic hands around the doll's mind, they merely slipped off and grasped at nothing. She tried again, staring into the glass orbs that passed for a doll's eyes. All she got for it was a glimpse of her own reflection. Was the thing protected, or was there nothing there to control in the first place? Felicity couldn't tell.

The doll was staring back at her quizzically. It seemed to sense that something had transpired.

“This one can only serve Mistress,” it repeated, “This one's mind is Hers.”

Felicity fumed.

“I don't need to control your mind,” she grabbed the doll's arms, “I have strength. Real strength.”

She forced the doll backwards, shoving it into the wall with a hard thump. One of the dollmade tapestries swayed above them, this one showing a doll defending its Mistress from a faceless assailant.

“My Lady gives me power,” she said through gritted teeth. “Power enough to handle a toy like you.”

The doll went very still. Felicity breathed hard, angry breaths. The ticking of the clock seemed very loud to her now. There was something within the doll that also ticked in time with the clock, she could feel it through the thing's limbs.

“I could tear open that piece of pottery you call a body,” she slid her hand down the doll's unyielding chest plate and took a hold of the front of its dress, “Have a look at whatever makes you tick.”

The doll shook in a way that must approximate a shiver. Felicity felt her outburst of rage dissipating with the simple pleasure of physical domination.

“Take pieces out, one by one,” her voice dropped to a hostile whisper, “To see how long you can keep tic tic ticking away,” said in time with the clock. Their faces were nearly touching. “How long you could keep defying me with your body bare, open to me. Broken.”

She began to pull on her fistful of dress, slowly, anticipating how it would tear open and reveal what was underneath. But in that moment, Felicity's entire body froze, locking her in position. Even her breathing stopped. She felt the familiar touch of her Master's mind.

“My, my,” Lady Marie's voice sounded from Felicity's left, but she couldn't turn to look at her, “Making trouble with the dolls, are we?”

Felicity made a strained groan in response, unable to to control her vocal chords, and only barely able to make her own lungs push air out. She heard her Master's footsteps approaching.

“Did I not tell you to behave, young lady?”

Control of her body returned to Felicity, and she immediately felt blood rush into her face, and her limbs shake. She released the doll, and spun to face her Master, head down, hands clasped in supplication.

“F-f-forgive me, Master, I didn't mean to... that is, I wasn't, uh...”

“Wasn't obeying me,” there was ice in Lady Marie's voice.

Felicity nodded. She bit down on her lip again, her head swimming with the force of her Master's disappointment.

“You will apologize to our host.”

Felicity glanced up, and realized to her horror that the Dollmaker was also there, standing with arms crossed, eyeing her. Felicity fell to her knees.

“Begging your pardon, my lady. I... I am deeply regretful, and beg your mercy.”

The Dollmaker looked her doll up and down, and then back to Felicity.

“Your apology is accepted.”

Felicity let out the breath she had been holding, “My lady is merciful.”

But I shall not be, Lady Marie's voice sounded in Felicity's mind. Her Master would wait until they had returned home to punish her. Felicity shuddered.

“I shall be taking tea with the good Dollmaker,” Lady Marie said aloud, “You shall wait outside.”

“Yes, Master.”

Master and Mistress strode away together. Felicity was again alone with the doll. She glanced at it, shame making her ears turn red. The doll stared back, unphased.

“This one must apologize again. It did not mean to insult Felix. It will walk you to the door.”

Felicity got shakily to her feet. She remained silent all the way to the door.

-

“Did she damage the doll at all?” Lady Marie asked as her glass was filled with bloodwine by a kitchen doll.

“No, not at all,” replied the Dollmaker after a sip of her own, more mundane, drink, “In fact, I rather think it enjoyed itself.”

“Oh?” Lady Marie mulled that over. “Could she have harmed it?”

The Dollmaker smiled.

“Perhaps. If it were amenable to the idea.”

“And if it were not?”

“I rather think the poor girl would have more than just a bruised ego.”

[angelofrainfrogs]

Spend the Night: Ch. 32

~Coauthored by @zeitghest~

Fandom(s): Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: The familiar melody of Grandfather’s Clock chimes through the echoing halls of the Pizzaplex…

Charlie wakes up in her Puppet’s vessel yet again with one goal in mind: to stop William Afton’s reign of terror for good. She enlists the help of Glamrock Freddy, the emphatic leader of the newest iteration of the Fazbear Band. But there seems to be more to this bear than meets the eye—and the same goes for the mysteriously familiar kid the duo find tinkering with animatronics down in Parts & Service.

With some help from friends new and old, Charlie’s journey into the bowels of the Pizzaplex will unravel mysteries none of them ever expected. 

Rating: T

Read on Ao3

Oh, what a shame that things turned out this way Forgive me But you really got to pay up for the suffering you're caused us Join into this children’s chorus

Crank those gears, the music is in me Been a real long day and we're dying to be free Don't stop now, 'cause I can guarantee When the silence drops we're the last thing that you'll see

~Showtime by Madame Macabre, MrCreepyPasta~

Out and into the unpredictable atrium they would go. Charlie planned on making a commotion with Gregory. They would do this outside Fazerblast, as it made more sense for William to be wandering near one of his lairs during the early portions of the night. With Charlie's skills in deception lacking, Gregory knew he'd have to bear the brunt of the acting work. All Charlie had to do was make sure no one untoward came close to him.

The walk there was somewhat tense, though Charlie tried to cut the air by reminding Gregory of all the fun things they’d get to do together once it was all over. It gave the kid the strength to keep moving. Everything had to go perfectly—it just had to. They couldn't afford to let William ruin anyone else's lives.

Turns out he wasn't so far away after all.

Tonight was the night. William refused to wait any longer—his family would be reunited or he’d let this whole place burn to the ground just like all the others. With Vanny missing and totally unreachable now just like the rest of those wretched, sorry excuses for animatronics, William was forced to wander the neon halls in search of Evan.

Michael was keeping them apart, which William found incomprehensible. Once again, his eldest son's reasons had eluded even his brilliant mind.

Michael had grown quite the rebellious streak that Will never had the chance to correct in him. Serves him right for spoiling the boy...

Then, he spotted them—alone and looking petrified were Charlie and Evan, standing hand in hand.

Charlie appeared... relatively the same as before she died. Taller, William noted. He walked quiet and slow from Bonnie Bowl as the two watched the doors of Fazerblast with dreadful gazes.

With a light tap in the vents as inconspicuous as mini-Music Man pattering around, Ennard signaled to Michael and Freddy that the game was on. The pair shared a resolute nod, then as one stomped towards Charlie and Gregory.

“EVAN!” Michael growled, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Freddy walked inches behind him, acting the part of a robot who Mike had hotwired to do his bidding and his alone. The bear scanned the area with narrowed eyes, expression otherwise passive. He had no emotional stake in this event—he was simply here to follow Michael's orders, whatever those may be.

“Where the hell are you?!” Michael continued, emerging into the main atrium. He spotted Gregory and Charlie standing, freezing in his tracks as his eyes widened in rage. “Come here, Evan! Why don't you ever listen to me, you little shit?!”

As Michael ranted, Freddy caught sight of Bonnie stalking them from the shadows on the top level, peering through the glass-paneled railing with glowing purple eyes. Freddy blinked, tearing his gaze away to look back at the “terrified” Charlie and Gregory.

That isn't Bonnie anymore.

The thought echoed in Freddy's head as he shifted, articulating wires tensed as he prepared to move at Michael's command.

Gregory spun on his heel, with Charlie unable to even try to react before he grabbed onto her hand and yanked her forward into a slow jog. It looked as though he was trying to run faster, though appeared scared and uncoordinated.

“RUN!” he told Charlie, who was dragging her feet in an almost scared frozen position. She'd started to move voluntarily when she remembered the act they were putting on depending on her bolting towards the backrooms. In what was her most gripping performance yet, Charlie managed to scream in a scared and high-pitched tone.

“MICHAEL! Stop—stop chasing us!” she shouted as if trying to talk sense into her old friend.

“EVAN!”

The sound of a father in the throes of an adrenaline-fueled panic had caught Charlie off-guard. She wasn't sure if she’d ever heard William so worried. She could only remember that awful birthday party in ’83 as the only proof he had true, powerfully raw emotions.

William bolted down a flight of stairs, skidding in the oversized suit and having to place a firm hand on the floor to prevent himself from drifting too far off his own set track.

“Get away from him, Michael!” he snarled towards his eldest, in hot pursuit of the fleeing group.

Mike let out a growl of frustration, his head swiveling between the escaping duo and William desperately trying to right himself. After a split-second's hesitation Mike snapped his fingers and pointed towards Charlie and Gregory, calling to the animatronic at his shoulder without even bothering to look: “Freddy! Follow them!”

The bear took off, his pace quicker than a typical human's—though Charlie and Gregory were not typical in the slightest, nor were they entirely human anymore. Freddy didn't speak, eyes forward as he moved with the utmost confidence in his ability to nab his prey. Michael started to follow as well, though at a slower pace so he could address William.

Yes, they wanted to get him into the basement as soon as possible, but they also didn't want him to actually get ahold of Gregory—if Mike could stall just a bit to put some distance between them, that would be ideal. Despite the panic clouding William's brain, the Bonnie suit was still fast.

“Father, stay out of this!” Michael hissed, turning around so he was walking backwards whilst facing the purple rabbit. He glared hard, speaking through clenched teeth. “This is your fucking fault, as usual! I'm just trying to talk to my brother—honestly!”

The words were gnarled with a sickly sweet tone that set even Freddy's receding form on edge. It was clearly a blatant lie—the true intentions behind Michael's pursuit were obviously much darker than a simple conversation, and he wanted William to know it.

William was befuddled, both by Michael’s youthful appearance and his speed. The rabbit gave an almost worried expression as he jogged for his son.

“Talk? Michael, stop harassing your brother! You haven’t learned a thing at all, have you?!” he exclaimed, incredulous that Michael was acting this way after all this time.

What did he expect, really? Michael was completely psychotic. He never heard the end of it from other parents and kids his age—how he’d torment and mock for fun. Shoving his brother’s head into a pneumatic jaw for a “prank” was the icing on top of the cake. For all William knew, the boy probably meant to end his brother that day.

Now revived thanks to something Will didn’t yet know, but made immortal by the Remnant William did have a hand in, Evan likely came to his senses and escaped with Charlie. Still a bad choice, but the lesser of two evils.

“Stop! Before you hurt him worse than Remnant can repair,” William warned, paw outstretched as he attempted to grab Michael.

“Fuck off!” Michael snapped, slapping William's hand away and turning to run forward, picking up speed as he did so. “Evan pissed me off, and now I'm going to get him back—it's eye for an eye, Father.”

His tone was mocking and defiant, calling back to those days in the early eighties when Michael actually spoke like this. Though William still existed in a position of paternal trust and authority at the time, Mike was known to push the envelope with him every chance he got.

“Evan was always your favorite...,” Michael spat over his shoulder. This statement was the closest thing to truth he'd said so far; he always wondered if William favored Evan more, despite his claims of how proud he was that Michael seemed to be “just like him” in so many ways. Just more fodder to goad William into following them down the twisting pathways to the basement...

Such a claim had made William slow, a look of disbelief rounding over the rabbit’s face. That was before he sped up, growling once again.

His bastard of a son was mocking him. Michael had the nerve to break his father’s arm and gouge his chest the last time they saw each other, and blatantly disrespected him even now. Just as Mike reached the backrooms, a mechanical death grip grasped onto his shirt and pulled him back.

“Listen here, you shit!” The impact of William tossing Michael into the wall left a human-shaped indentation on the drywall. “You presume to know everything, don’t you?! You idiot; I don’t love your brother over you. Or your sister!”

William was never good at words. Everything came out wrong and calloused. His actions were cruel and imposing in order to get his children to listen to him—after all, they were like him in so many ways. Discipline was often the only thing they’d understand.

And still, he didn’t say it. William danced around the subject of loving his son, positive that even if he wanted to reiterate the truth, Michael would claim his hatred for him once more.

Michael wheezed, the wind knocked out of his mechanical lungs from the shocking impact. He hadn't planned on getting caught, but William was faster than him—always one step faster. Henry's androids were strong and sturdy, but they could still get damaged.

As Michael twisted painfully onto his hands and knees, an error flashed sheer white in the corner of his vision. A gyroscope in his skull needed recalibration, and he could feel a warm, wet trail down the back of his head from where it'd hit the wall. When Michael touched it his fingers came away red with sticky synthetic blood.

“You bastard,” Michael grunted, righting himself with shaky arms and legs as his body quickly readjusted to normalcy as best it could. He glared at the rabbit with nothing but fierce hatred, taking a wobbly step back in the direction of where the others had run and wiping the blood off on his pants as he did so.

William cocked his head, watching his son back up like a kicked puppy. It almost warmed his heart at the sight. Michael may have hated him, but William only saw his victory as a way of winning this argument. For every reversed step Michael took, William responded with an equal advance.

Seeing the blood run free, William blinked and looked down his nose at his son. “Watch your language—now, let’s find your brother before he gets scared.”

He spoke casually as if it was the old days. Like Michael had acted up and William employed some corporal punishment to get his point across. A rare tactic, and certainly nothing this extreme had ever been used… But desperate times called for desperate measures.

It almost made one wonder where William thought he was—or when.

Michael gently smacked the side of his head with the base of his palm, vainly hoping the gyroscope would realign on its own. This only made the notification blink faster and Michael suppressed a groan. Clearly, his injury wasn't pulling at his father's heartstrings. In fact, seeing a head wound that surely would have severely damaged a normal human seemed to make William a bit smug.

A shot of dark fear ran up Michael's spine. It was so familiar, the old feeling of horror at how cruel his father had become. Though Michael had searched for William in order to try and undo his wrongs, in the back of his mind there was always a tiny voice that hoped he wouldn't find him... He just knew this was no longer the man who used to be a parent, made abundantly clear when Michael saw the body melded to that golden Bonnie suit. Staring into those bright, silver eyes, Mike realized with striking finality that his father's humanity was well and truly gone. He was just a being driven mad by his own fantasies.

And now, it was time to put those fantasies to an end. Michael turned with a sneer, a little unsteady at first when he tried to walk at a normal pace. Thankfully the rest of his inner parts were able to overcompensate well enough despite the misaligned gyroscope, and soon Mike was leading his father down the predetermined path. He made a point to look around corners and pause every so often to listen, pretending like he had no idea where they were actually headed and searching for Evan, too.

William did very much differ from the man from his childhood when it was just the two of them, Mom, and the Emilys.

Before the restaurant.

Before Freddy Fazbear.

Before the unfortunate chain of events that lead to what culminated as finally taking Michael’s father off of spiritual life support.

“Bonnie” shambled behind Michael, eyes darting around for Evan and calling him every so often the further they descended. It was only after a five minute stretch of unbearable silence that William mentioned:

“Oh… You’re bleeding, Michael…”

He spoke slowly, as if Mike couldn’t have possibly realized that himself by now. It was matted in his hair and half-smeared over his forehead and cheek. Maybe William assumed he had brain damage now and couldn’t think for himself. Ah, well.

“DAD! CHARLIE?!” shouted the panicked voice of a child, startling William from his train of thought.

“That's him!” William perked up, ears twitching at the sound—so much closer to his goal now more than ever.

As they rounded the corner, the final piece of their ruse came into view: Freddy was waiting in the middle of the hallway just outside Henry’s workshop. He stood at attention, and clutched tightly in his grasp was Gregory. The boy’s arms were cinched behind his back, held firmly at the wrists by one strong paw. Freddy’s other claw laced through Gregory’s hair, pulling the boy’s head back at an almost painful angle in an effort to make him immobile.

Mike had to give the kid credit: Gregory looked utterly terrified.

“I have caught Evan as you instructed, Michael,” Freddy said, his tone unnaturally flat. Mike’s sour expression slowly morphed into a grin. He glanced towards his father, then back to Freddy. If William hadn’t thought he was psychotic before, he surely would in a few seconds.

“Perfect,” Michael said, starting to walk fast now towards the bear and his brother. He pointed to the workshop, his grin practically devilish at this point. “Take him in there—I’ve got some things I want to tell him that Father won’t be pleased with overhearing...”

Gregory thrashed his legs uselessly. It was no use. No matter how hard he “tried,” there was no budging Freddy's paws. Their locking grip over his wrists and in his hair made him feel like a wild animal trapped and hauled by the scruff.

“LET ME GO!” Gregory managed to cry, all pent up and red in the face as he kicked the empty air. “I'm sorry! Okay?! I said I was sorry! He's hurting me!”

He could only protest in vain as Freddy quickly ran them into the darkness. With hands on his head in shock at the state of his child and the intentionally murderous grin Michael bore, William watched at the horror his eldest wrought.

“You're being a damn monster again, Michael!” he muttered, unknowing to his own hypocrisy as he stormed the room beyond the storage area.

…It was dark. An all-consuming darkness, with no focal point to speak of. Not even Bonnie’s animatronic eyes could make out anything in the smoke-scented depths.

“Evan!” shouted an increasingly distraught William, attempting to feel his way around the room. “... Kids?”

That was when it hit him. The next part of the plan was in play, a combination of Henry’s tinkering and William’s own man-made depravity come back to haunt him anew. The already delusional bunny stood no chance—not when he saw a feminine frame standing underneath a blinking, red EXIT sign, silhouetted with a demanding posture.

And then it was William's turn to feel true fear, if only for a second.

“Who...” he whispered, barely audible from his overworked voice box.

“Will? I missed you, Will…”

The voice was soft, slightly distorted in a dreamlike way as the silhouette moved gracefully towards the rabbit. It never got close though, fading in and out of view as it disappeared into pockets of darkness between tiny string lights hung on the wall that seemed to flicker on in time with the figure’s approach. Eventually it stopped, the light above its head revealing her faint outline once again. Tall, matronly, and graceful, the aura stretched her arms out to beckon William closer.

“Don’t you miss me, too, sweetheart?”

Freddy and Michael were waiting in the opposite corner of the room with baited breath as William slowly began walking towards his delusion. Gregory had been shuffled out into the hallway during the rabbit’s initial confusion, leaving the boys to lie in wait.

Of course, it wasn’t his long-deceased wife calling out. But it was arguably the next best thing: a being made in her image, crafted with love and care—and a sprinkling of murderous intent. Without Ballora’s outer shell to hide within, this had always been the shakiest part of the plan. Yet thanks to a refurbished mind-altering disc Ennard had found within their wires, Henry had been able to fiddle with it enough to produce a solid approximation of the ballerina’s likeness. The closer you looked the more cracks appeared in the illusion, hence the lowlights. In near-darkness, it was hard to lock onto how the figure's outline fizzled and glitched on occasion.

Really, the biggest miracle was Ennard tapping into only one of their voice boxes in time to keep up the ruse.

“Yes—” William’s response was instantaneous as he shambled forward. For as much as he’d cursed her name for dying and leaving him alone with a murderous son and only the fleeting memory of their other children, he was surprisingly soft-sounding.

It felt as if it took eons to cross the floor and make it to her. Her outstretched hand waiting for his—

“Cynthia, you have no idea how—”

CLUNK

William whipped around, the lights cutting out in a jolt as an electric fizzle of static cut through the air. Behind him, the door locked and he was confined to a space barely wider than he was.

It was a damned charging pod.

William raised his arms and beat on the door to no avail. He shouted as his hands impacted glass and metal with no use.

“You tricked me! MICHAEL, YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE MONSTER, YOU TRICKED ME AGAIN!” William shouted, beating on the door to no avail. “Where is she?! Where’s Evan?! Michael?!”

He caught sight of his wife again—only she was wrong now, twisting into a horrible, writhing mass that seemed move up, crawling along the wall like a horrific insect. How could he be fooled by such stupid lies?

“MICHAEL!” William groaned, commanding him to: “LET ME OUT!”

“Gosh, he’s gotten awfully whiny with old age. Hasn’t he, Evan?” wondered a particularly posh tone. The unmistakable candor of his daughter had frozen William solid.

“Yeah… he’s kind of annoying now,” a smaller voice spoke up bluntly.

“Oh, you guys have no fucking idea how much trouble it is to take care of a senile old man,” Michael lamented with a heavy sigh, moving into place between his siblings. It was then that the half-shot overhead lights flickered on, revealing a group just barely able to squeeze in enough so they could all be seen through the charging pod’s porthole.

Front and center were the Afton kids, standing strong and solid in their androids, reborn again from Charlie’s quick soul-transfer. Charlie herself made up the fourth member of their stalwart quartet and lingering slightly behind their shoulders was the ghost of Cassidy, her excited rage palpable to all those around her. Next to her were Glamrock Freddy and Gregory, both completely unharmed and holding hands in a very non-opposing, rather affectionate way.

And then, finally, striding up to the charging pod was an older man with a face hardened by years of anguish. His eyes, though? They remained bright with unquenchable hope.

“Hello, old friend,” Henry Emily said, pressing a hand to the glass porthole as he looked proudly upon their prize.

William’s confused and lost gaze only turned to that of rage and betrayal at being tricked. They all worked together now?

That kid on the arm of the Glamrock Freddy wasn’t Evan at all—just some look-alike that successfully lured him into their trap with what little sympathy Will had left. And he’d even used up precious Remnant on the little shit… With his wife nowhere to be seen, he inferred that she too must’ve been a trap. Henry took up most of the view now, forcing William’s sight to lock on in contempt to his former friend.

“You… You tricked me—Henry, I was going to make it all right again!” William claimed, as if that was his plan the whole time: to bring back everyone he’d wronged at the expense of these strangers’ lives.

And maybe that could’ve been accomplished if given some time. Though none of the ghosts desired more bloodshed unless the blood they let was William’s, and his alone.

“Please, you need to believe me…,” he claimed, and Henry sneered at that voice. The meek sounding one; the one William would use to repeatedly get his way with anyone who just never knew better.

“It’s over! You lose again, shithead!” Cassidy interrupted, unable to hold herself together as the cacophonous giggles erupted forth. She attempt to cover her mouth and stay quiet, though the sight of William about to be slowly tortured was simply too funny for her to resist. “Now you’re going to go fishing foreeeever, Willy!”

“SHUT UP!” William shrieked at the girl, fear betraying in his smooth way of talking. “No fishing! P-please…! And don’t you dare put me in that god damn office—”

It was so odd, Gregory noted, watching the creature he feared most beg for mercy. Odd, but not unwelcome.

“I haven’t believed a word you’ve said in decades, Will,” Henry remarked, ignoring the rabbit-man’s plaintive cries. His once-soft eyes held nothing but pure hatred for the being in front of him, and he spoke in a voice unbecoming of his usual nature—low and powerful, commanding authority with every syllable.

Henry was holding back the urge to phase through the glass and strangle William with his bare hands, just like the disgusting murderer did to Charlie all those years ago. It wouldn’t be enough to destroy him, but damn would it be satisfying. Even in his ghostly form, he was sure the raw emotion backing his actions could snap a few animatronic joints.

“How could you?” Henry continued, locking onto those glowing eyes without an ounce of fear. William’s gaze shifted away uncomfortably, causing Henry to smack the side of the pod so loudly everyone in the room jumped. “LOOK AT ME, YOU FUCKING COWARD!”

The rabbit’s wide eyes snapped to his and Henry relaxed ever-so-slightly. “Yes, that’s right—you’re a coward, William. You couldn’t accept that you ever did anything wrong, so you had to fuck things up even worse.”

There was a slight pause for Henry to suck in a deep breath, steeling himself for the answer his next query was about to receive. Whatever it was, he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied—but he just wanted to see William squirm in discomfort.

In a cold voice, face twisted in a mask of accusatory hatred, he asked: “Why did you kill my daughter, Will? She trusted you—we all did. And you betrayed that trust forever in one night. I just want to know why.”

The silence grew over them as William’s head slumped. As soon as he retook eye contact, the shame and guilt had forced William’s head to hang. He would take anything over this confrontation with his only friend. Or rather, his former friend. He’d take fishing, old man consequences—hell, he’d take Mr. Fucking Hippo over this trial of his peers.

After a pain-filled eternity waiting with baited breath, they’d finally know why. William couldn’t look at either Henry or Charlie, so he chose to look past them instead.

“It was an accident. I swear it was! I came to the dinner, I drove there drunk… I blacked out on the highway, Henry…,” the disgraced Afton admitted, for the first time in a long time being genuine with the way he spoke. Henry’s disappointment and rage had gutted the truth from deep inside him. “I came to when… W-When she was on the ground. She was covered in rain water… My hands around her throat—I was jealous, I think… I wanted what you had. And I was a bad friend for taking it from you…”

Charlie had long-since covered her ears, though her wobbling lip indicated she could still hear everything. Even if there was a smidgeon of truth in that explanation, Charlie couldn’t forgive him.

What if he’d called an ambulance, instead of hopping back in the car and leaving her to suck in her last breath of rainwater? Would Charlie have survived?

She supposed it didn’t matter all that much now.

Michael moved to Charlie’s side, wrapping an arm around her waist and letting her lean on his shoulder as she vainly blocked out her killer’s words. He couldn’t be there for his dear friend on that fateful day, but he could certainly stand with her now.

“I took your trust and I squandered it, Hen; I’m sorry,” William said with finality, now looking Henry in the eye. The truth did not set William free; it burned coming out instead.

Henry was silent as he listened to William’s explanation. His heart ached for all the family he’d lost, blood-related and otherwise. He and William used to be like brothers, practically inseparable after their first meeting in college so long ago.

“…‘A bad friend,’” Henry echoed hollowly after a moment. He laughed, the sound choked with pain and hurt. “A bad friend… you MURDERED my daughter! And you couldn’t even fucking own up to it, you absolute bastard!”

The ghost was shaking now, nails scraping against the glass where they pressed in, trying so hard not to reach through and destroy William just as he’d destroyed his sweet Charlie.

“I wouldn’t have forgiven you—nothing could make up for killing an innocent child—my sweet girl. But if you’d have just let me help you before you—”

Henry cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a shuddering breath. That opportunity was long gone; he’d offered William his shoulder to cry on when Evan died, offered an ear for his friend to scream his confused frustration into… but William chose a different path. He went on a route of self-destruction, the loss of one child clouding his mind to the other two he still had, as well as all those willing to stand by his side through it all.

Eventually Henry looked up again, glaring daggers at the Bonnie suit that represented so much heartache and torment.

“I’ll never forgive you,” he said with a soft shake of his head, then locked onto those glowing eyes with pure, unadulterated loathing. “I just have one more thing to say, and then I’m going to leave you at the mercy of those you’ve wronged far worse than me: I hate you, William Afton. I hope you rot in the deepest pit of hell for all eternity.”

And with that Henry stepped back, dipping his head in deference to whichever spirit wanted to speak to the horrible rabbit next.

Charlie began to sob unabashed into the crook of Michael’s shoulder. Hearing that all of this might’ve been prevented if William just opened up?

It burned her inside.

Her whole life was taken from her in less than three minutes because William self-destructed, unwilling to let anyone in after the death of his youngest child. She tried to remind herself that she was fine now, that the battle long-fought was now closing to its end.

But she wasn’t okay.

Charlie was dead, and that would never change. She could play dress up in a robotic skin and pretend to be happy, but it wasn’t the same without a pulse. For the dozenth time this weekend, Charlie was glad that Michael was there to hold her up. Without him, she might’ve fallen to the floor in a pool of her own tears long ago.

As Henry backed away from the glass William began to pound on the door, desperate for them to release the locks.

“HENRY!” he gasped out, moving into an unbridled panic. “DON’T! Don’t leave me with them! Please—I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Charlie! I’m sorry, Michael! I-I’m sorry—”

To cease his meaningless rambles Cassidy popped up in front of the window, face bloody and distorted on her command into something nightmarish. She’d often manipulate her appearance to frighten the old man back to place, as it was one of the only joys she had left in this world. William jolted backwards, his head and back hitting the pod wall as he screamed in terror.

Freddy had picked Gregory up by this point, holding him close as they listened to William’s anguished shouting. He wasn’t trying to hide Gregory—after everything he’d been through, the boy deserved to stay with the rest of the spirits as long as he could stand—but Freddy reasoned they could both use the mutual comfort.

As Cassidy tormented William Henry fell back into line next to Charlie, rubbing soothing circles on her back as she cried into Michael’s shoulder. He and Mike gave each other a grim, understanding nod, and at that moment the youngest Afton moved forward. Clutching Lizzie’s hand, Evan pulled his sister to the charging pod with determined steps.

“Cas, can you let us have a turn?” Evan asked in a surprisingly confident tone. For a moment Cassidy would disregard her former suit-mate’s request, but upon seeing his and Lizzie’s expressions she backed away so they could stand directly in front of the glass.

“Dad?” Evan called, standing on tiptoe to see William as he cringed away from the souls of his dead children. Evan tried to be strong, he really did… but all it took was one deep, shuddering breath to break open the dam of fresh tears he’d been holding in for almost forty years. Hot lines tracked down his cheeks, the sensation both foreign and all too familiar to the boy whose defense mechanism had been sobbing loud enough for his father to come save him.

It was combination of things that led to Evan’s demise that day in ‘83. There was Michael, of course—the initiating factor, there was no denying that even if Evan had forgiven him. William had been distracted during the incident, working with those delicate spring lock suits and trying to ensure that no one got hurt when finagling themselves into the fuzzy death trap.

But even if by some miracle he could’ve heard Evan’s cries from the back room, they weren’t loud enough—in fact, Evan had been so scared the moment he was lifted up and shoved towards Golden Freddy’s gaping maw that his vocal cords had fizzled out into nothing more than a silent scream.

Really, it wasn’t William’s fault he hadn’t got to Evan in time to prevent the bite. However, everything the man had done afterwards in the name of resurrecting his family was his responsibility and his alone.

“D-Dad, how… how c-could you hurt s-so m-many people?!” Evan sobbed, clutching Lizzie’s hand while his other squeezed into a tiny fist, free-flowing tears dripping onto his shirt to stain dark splotches in the fabric. “I-I trusted you… we l-loved you…”

The sound of William's heart breaking was nearly audible. He floundered for a reason—

Reasons? Or excuses? he thought bitterly to himself, realizing the weight of Evan's words.

Loved. Past tense.

Evan shared the same opinion as his brother now. No longer was Will his little boy's hero, but another monster that hid under his bed or lurked in the shadows.

“No—” William began, his voice coming out in a choking sound. “—No... Son, please don't say that...” His hand faltered slightly as it touched the glass, begging for a connection with the son he lost so long ago. “I did it for all of you... I just wanted you back so badly, Evan. I-I lost sight of what mattered...”

He realized it all too late. After the countless times he returned, rage inside his heart feeding his awful bloodlust… There was no turning back from it all; no need to deny it.

“Please, Evan? Y-You can't say you don't love me anymore...!” he fretted. William may not have had a proper throat, but it felt like he’d swallowed barbed wire. His actions meant nothing, as his children hated him now for what he had done.

Evan’s bottom lip quivered violently as he tried to hold in his crying while William spoke. He knew the man he called “Dad” out of habit wasn’t going to apologize—he couldn’t, not now—but Evan was still willing to hear him out. As expected, William was full of nothing but pleading excuses, and while the anguish in his voice twisted like a knife in Evan’s heart… he still couldn’t forgive him.

He opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a choked-off sob. Evan quickly shook his head, turning to bury his face in the comfort of his big sister that he’d been missing for so long. He cried openly into her shirt, clinging to the back of it with such force it was a wonder he didn’t rip holes into the fabric.

Michael couldn’t stand to hear his brother cry. He’d hated the sound as a kid too, though for entirely different reasons. Back then, it’d just been an annoying, almost constant noise—at least in Michael’s mind. It took him far too long to realize that Evan would cry far less if his big brother hadn’t turned so cruel over the years. Of course, Evan’s final birthday party quickly saw the end of Michael’s mean streak, and not a moment too soon—the worst thing would be for Michael to have turned out anything remotely similar to how his father was now, blindly indifferent towards others in order to achieve his own selfish goals.

Listening to Evan’s body-shaking sobs in this dim workshop spurred Michael into action. He carefully detached himself from Charlie, letting Henry hold onto his daughter as she recovered from her own emotional reaction. Within seconds he was at his siblings’ side, and at the gentle touch to his shoulder Evan looked up at him. He released his grip on Lizzie to cling to Michael’s waist instead, burying his face into the presence of the strong, safe big brother he used to have, finally returned after so many years of darkness.

“Liz, if you’ve got anything to say I’d suggest you say it now, because if we keep him around much longer I might very well do something that may go against our plan,” Michael murmured in a voice tense with poorly-controlled anger. He was keeping it together for his family, but if he had his way William would be slowly ripped apart limb by limb, and Michael would make sure he felt every second of it.

What could Elizabeth even say? She didn't want an apology from her father. It wouldn't do any good to her now. He had a chance to make things right when she found him years ago, and all he did was use her to further his plan—sending Mike in as a decoy and making them both suffer pain unimaginable both so close and so far apart.

She wanted to put that behind her. The fire that killed both Michael and Henry; those horrible years in the dank warehouse of Circus Baby's Pizza World; that one and only day the clown had been on stage... Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to forget as much as she could. Should she be unable to move on after all of this, Liz would want her memory to be wiped. All she wanted to remember were the Emilys and her brothers. Good and bad times, at least they wouldn't concern the man that asked her for ideas on a fun new character—only to have that same character churn her to bits inside its body.

Staring William in the eyes with the utmost calm, like she’d practiced for this very moment in her head, she murmured coldly: “I don't have anything to say to him. Come on, Evan.”

William watched as Elizabeth turned from him. It was like every good memory he had with his children played in his mind in rapid succession, only to be burned to ashes by Liz's indifferent words. She was the very last person he expected to snub him. And now, there was no one...

Gregory took in a deep breath. Now seemed as good a time as any... Letting go of Freddy's hand he approached the glass, staring up at the shaking rabbit inside with piercing silver eyes that seemed to mock William’s very existence.

“You awful, nasty... cruel man,” Gregory growled with furrowed brows. “You ruined my friends’ lives, and fucked over mine. I'm really gonna enjoy this.”

With that he walked towards a set of thick cables leading to a powered-down arcade box. He plugged them into the terminal, then typed in Henry’s special code to begin a direct download from the charging pod. In tandem, from a flush cavity in the pod emerged a two-pronged device which quickly snapped into place using the access points in the back of Bonnie’s skull before the rabbit-man had a chance to react.

“Do what?! Liz! Evan! What's the kid doing?!” William gasped, sounding as if he were hyperventilating. “Do you REALLY think that'll keep me trapped forever, you stupid boy? MICHAEL, MAKE HIM STOP!”

“Don't talk to him!” Michael snapped, stepping up to the porthole so William was forced to stare into his icy eyes. He let out a laugh, short and humorless as he looked upon the frail man who'd been so confident just hours before. “All that reincarnation made you stupid—do you honestly think I'd so much as lift a finger to help you? I've told you before, and I'll say it again: I fucking hate you. You've put me through so much hell I can't even begin to describe the depths of it.”

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment as he took a calming breath. Then he gazed upon William again, looking down his nose at the trembling creature in the charging pod who was losing just a little bit of himself every second.

“You know, I used to hate that I'd inherited your face,” Michael continued, touching his cheek as he recalled those long hours in front of the mirror regretting his very existence. “I cursed you and your damn genetics, and every time someone told me how much I resembled 'my dear father' I wanted to run into the nearest bathroom and just rip my fucking skin off.”

Michael's nails pressed into the false flesh, hard enough to leave faint indents. He shook his head, lips curled into a grinning sneer.

“But now... I'm glad I still look like you. I'm glad because now I can finally use this horrible face to do some good in the end. Even if I was too late for all the kids you selfishly took away, I can take you down in their stead—me and the one kid you just couldn't quite catch.”

He spared a side-long glance at Gregory, then pressed his palm up to the glass just as Henry had done. “And then, once you're wiped from existence, I'm going to be the nicest fucking person in this damn town and prove everything you could've been if you just got out of your own head and took a second to pay attention to your own fucking children.”

Mike needed to get it all out, Gregory thought, watching with intent as he slowed his furious typing.

William, who before had been frozen speechless... started to laugh. It was by no means confident. Nervous, certainly, and devoid of humor as he began to rant.

“You'll never be happy. I'll keep coming back as many times as I need to—”

Gregory wasn't going to sit idly and let William sow doubt in their minds. His fingers restarted their quick pace, the commands he entered poised and practiced, not missing a beat before smacking the enter key. A sudden flash of yellow sparked as the charging pod was redirected, taking energy from its subject and subsequently shutting William down with a loud spark. His download was quick, flying through ethernet cables and into the boxed arcade machine.

“Shut up, already. Old freak...,” Gregory griped, sounding bored as William's personality had finally drained into the little, half-burned game called Midnight Motorist.

What a weird choice, he thought. Though he supposed they’d only grabbed what was available. Gregory turned to look at the group of dead people, feeling their collective anxiety and animosity center solely on the game now.

Without prompting, Charlie stepped forward. She knew what she had to do, and made a beeline for the powered-down pod first. A pale hand was pressed to its stark red outer casing and Charlie closed her eyes, feeling with that special power lain deep in her being for any lingering piece of William’s soul. As expected, thankfully, she came up empty.

She hadn’t been able to sense his soul at all this weekend, in fact—at least, not in the traditional sense. Not like her father’s or the Aftons’; Cassidy’s or Hannah’s. William’s decrepit self was buried deep underneath something sharp and twisting. If Charlie had to describe it, she’d liken it to what she imagined reaching into the internet and grabbing a handful of code would feel like.

Cold. Digital. Like the man had been reduced to something that was more suited to the virtual world instead of reality.

The charging pod was empty of life. Charlie moved to the standing console, peering down at the dusty game. Now here she could sense… something. A tiny spark of blue fire that didn’t quite fit with the rest of the unassuming box. Breath shuddering, Charlie placed a palm flat against this and closed her eyes once more. She imagined a net encompassing the system, trapping anything and everything inside. She swore she heard the faintest, tinniest scream.

It made her smile.

“Alright, guys—we got him,” she announced, stepping back to join the others. There was a moment of silence as the weight of that statement fell upon the room.

“…Well?” Gregory asked, gesturing to the console now that there was no serial murderer to intimidate. “Anyone wanna take the first shot at busting this thing?”

***

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[tradgicworks]

Heartfelt:P-1 A World of Sorrow

When a student of a private school disappears during stormy night, three strangers come together to look for her and end up discovering the dark secrets of the world around them. WORD COUNT - 3134

The light of the setting sun peered into the old diner. Black clouds dotted the sky. Sophie took a long sip from her milkshake and stared wistfully at the horizon. Her golden bangle bracelet slid down her arm as she did.

“What’s wrong?” Gwyneth asked as she noticed her gaze.

Gwyneth brushed her bangs aside. Her dark brown colored eyes were filled with concern. She had voluminous long black hair that covered her shoulders like a fluffy mane. She wore a uniform which consisted of a long skirt, a simple tucked in blouse, and a blazer- all in different shades of purple.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just thinking about some stuff,” Sophie said with a meek smile.

"What kinda stuff?" Gwyneth asked.

"Midterms, winter vacation, piano practice. The usual," Sophie replied.

“Wow, not even trying to hide the fact that you weren’t paying attention to my story, huh?" Gwyneth gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm sorry," Sophie awkwardly smiled.

 “It's okay, I forgive you. Anyways, remember that girl that went missing a couple months ago, she was a freshman, um, vice president of the chess club or something. Well some of the older students have been talking about how this isn’t the first time that it has happened,” Gwyneth ate one of her few remaining fries. “Near the end of last year’s spring semester a different freshman suddenly moved away. This normally wouldn't have been seen as strange except for the fact that it was right in the middle of finals. Supposedly, one of her friends decided to call her parents to ask about what happened only to be told that the phone number had been out of service for weeks.”

“Spooky,” Sophie commented simply.

“Mhm. So, the older girls started talking and it turned out that a lot of students went missing over the years. They say that it's been about fifteen students in total that have suddenly disappeared. For every single one of them there was a convenient excuse for why, but all of it just seems too coincidental,” Gwyneth leaned in for dramatic effect. “Me thinks there’s a conspiracy afoot.”

“Really? I suppose it is strange, but it could just be that the seniors get overactive imaginations with how much free time they have during finals,” Sophie sighed.

“Aw come on, humor me at least," Gwyneth leaned back. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the academy has a dedicated security team that answers directly to Capital City’s police department? We even have a creepy name for them- Wardens- that’s not normal!”

“Well, given the kind of students that attend it’s not that strange,” Sophie said.

“You really are playing devil's advocate today, huh?” Gwyneth gave a friendly smile.

“Sorry,” Sophie lowered her gaze.

Gwyneth’s smile turned to a face of concern. 

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay-'' Gwyneth started before she was interrupted by the chimes of their phones.

“Curfew,” Sophie swiped at her smartphone. “It’s time to head back.”

“Right...” Gwyneth gazed at her for a few seconds as she packed up her things and got ready to leave before following suit.

The two left a tip for the waiter and headed out into the cold air of the coming winter. The sleepy sky matched the energy of the few students that remained outside, all of them in a quiet hurry to get back to the main campus of Dorothy Elaine Atham's Private Academy for Young Women, or “the academy” as the students plainly referred to it. It was originally constructed in the early 1940s, yet it managed to remain one of the most prestigious high schools in Capital City. This was mostly due to the academy having the support of the Capital City Police Department. They would employ off-duty officers to act as the academy’s security team, or ‘Wardens’ as they were officially referred to. As a result the academy set itself apart as one of the safest private high schools in the entirety of the United States. Strict curfews, no relationships, mandatory dorms, quarterly inspections by the Wardens, uniforms and an arduous curriculum were some of the measures taken to keep the students safe. Wealthy families from all over the country enrolled their children with peace of mind that they would be safe, allowing the school to afford top of the line facilities, staff, and to further its reputation even more. It was said that the academy was so stern with its policies that even the lightest violation could lead to expulsion. Of course that was just a rumor.

Sophie and Gwyneth eventually found themselves back at the main entrance of the academy. Tall walls made of brick and black fencing led to two large half open gates. A flower bed filled with wilting violet roses that matched the student’s outfits sat underneath them. A tall Warden stood at the side of the entrance. Her bright green eyes filled with overwhelming sternness locked with Sophie’s. Sophie averted her gaze and made her way in alongside Gwyneth.

“W-Well, see you tomorrow,” Sophie said to Gwyneth as she took out a pair of wireless earbuds.

“Wait,” Gwyneth gently grabbed her arm before she left. “How about we walk back to your dorm together? I got some more spooky stories I want to tell you about.”

“You won’t make it back to your dorm in time if we do that, you’re on the other side of campus.” Sophie replied.

“I could just stay at your place, y’know like a sleepover,” Gwyneth doubled down as she let go of her arm.

“We both know you can’t do that,” Sophie let out a long breath and held Gwyneth’s shoulders. “I’m fine, really. I know you’re worried about me but I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep. That’s all.”

“Are you sure?” Gwyneth asked.

“I’m sure,” Sophie looked her in the eyes. “I promise that I’m okay.

“Breakfast?” Gwyneth asked dejectedly.

“Of course, breakfast sounds great,” Sophie gave a convincing enough smile. “Now let’s hurry, before the dorm doors lock.” She said as she let go of her.

“Yeah, goodnight,” Gwyneth smiled slightly.

“Goodnight,” Sophie replied before putting in her earbuds and selecting a classical music playlist.

The sun was halfway nestled into the horizon by the time they split. Night was rapidly approaching. The pitch black clouds moved as a mound, thunder rumbled in the distance. The academy resembled a small college more than a high school. Four buildings took up the majority of the campus, each housing their respective grade. A well decorated plaza rested in the middle of the four buildings, where the freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors could interact with each other during lunch or after classes. The dorms sat a few hundred feet from their respective buildings. Wilting but mostly green grass took the majority of the empty space in the campus. Trees and flower beds stood beside the lamp posts that lit up the sprawling walkways. The campus barely had enough room for everything that was built on it, but it was efficient nonetheless.

Sophie’s brows furrowed as the freshmen dorm came into view. It was tucked away in the farthest corner of the campus. While the other dorms enjoyed a nice view of the academy, the freshmen dorms were greeted with the old auditorium. It was by far the oldest building on campus and in a desperate need for renovation. Unfortunately, the construction was inexplicably postponed until the end of the semester- leaving the freshmen with the sight of an ugly, half finished, and decaying building.

Sophie glanced at the front doors. A girl leaned against the doors as she chewed gum. Sophie overlapped the ends of her blazer together and averted her eyes. The girl stopped chewing as Sophie walked to the entrance. Sophie quickly took out her ID card and pressed it against the door’s scanner. The girl swatted her ID to the ground as it finished scanning.

“Whoops,” The girl, Eva, leered in a pretentious tone as she put her arm around her shoulder. “Didn’t see you there princess.”

Eva blew a bubble with her gum and popped it with a sharp snap. Her dyed ash blonde hair was tied into a messy bun. Her hazel colored eyes were flecked with dull orange blemishes. She wore a thick black hoodie and a short skirt which barely fell within the academy’s dress code. A faint but irritatingly smug smirk stretched across her face.

“What do you want, Eva?” Sophie said meekly.

“Nothing much, nothing much at all. I just wanted to talk to my dear friend for uh,” Eva glanced at her wrist watch. “Five minutes.”

“We’re not friends,” Sophie kept her gaze glued to the floor.

“It hurts me to hear you say that,” Eva squeezed her shoulder until she winced from the pain. “Listen, I need a little favor. As you know, winter break is in a week and I’m running low on funds, so I was wondering if you can help me. It’ll run you about five thousand dollars, but of course that’s nothing compared to all the allowance money your mommy and daddy are giving you, right?”

“No,” Sophie muttered.

“Excuse me?,” Eva tilted her head until she met her gaze. “You need to speak up, I can’t hear you through your teeth.”

“I’m not giving you anything,” Sophie pushed her off of herself. “Leave me alone or I’ll report you to the Wardens!”

“Oh, really now?” Eva chuckled dryly. “I think you and I both know you can’t follow up on such a threat, not without putting that friend of yours in a whole lot of trouble…Well you do have a point, I can’t take what’s not in my hands after all…” She glanced at her watch and gave a sadistic smirk.

“But neither can you,” Eva said before sweeping Sophie’s legs and causing her to trip backwards.

Sophie yelped in pain as she just managed to catch herself. By the time she got up Eva was already inside of the dorm with her ID in hand. She rushed to the doors only to find that they were already locked. The sound of a grandfather clock chimed through the PA system signaling the start of the curfew. 

“It’s a good thing you managed to scan the door before you dropped your ID, huh? That way it's on record that you got in here before curfew. Your perfect attendance is not in danger, though it was a real shame you lost your ID. Don’t worry though I’ll turn it in to the lost and found in the morning. Have a nice night, princess! I hear it's going to be a dark and stormy one,” Eva laughed while waving Sophie’s ID in the air. 

“Wait!” Sophie pleaded as she desperately tried to open the door, but no matter how much she pushed against them, the doors refused to budge.

She froze as she felt a cold drop of rain fall down her neck. She looked up at the rumbling dark sky. It began to pour. Sophie clung to what little shelter could find at the side of the building. She took out her phone and tried to call Gwyneth, only to find that her screen had shattered completely from when she tripped. She looked around for a Warden but found none. She yanked out her earbuds and angrily threw them into her bag in frustration. Pathetically faint music leaked out of them. She leaned against the wall and sunk until she was sitting with her knees to her chest.

Despite its claims to security, the reality is that the school can’t keep everyone safe. With the majority of students coming from wealthy backgrounds, treating one too harshly could lead to the parents withdrawing their donations. Without those funds, the school would cease to function- something the academy avoided at all costs. As such, there was an unwritten rule that the wealthier the family, the more lenient the punishment. Though many students did not take advantage of this reality, after all attending the academy was a privilege. All except for Eva. Nobody really knows why, but the school would turn a blind eye to her many misdeeds. Some speculated that it was due to her role as one of the academy’s star athletes, others thought that she was secretly related to the headmaster. Regardless of the rumors, the reality was that she was cruel, spiteful, and above all, manipulative. She made a habit of harassing students that had unfortunately drawn her attention. Whether it be through blackmail, harassment, or slander, she would abuse her victim until they were forced to do whatever she wanted. No matter how much students tried to retaliate she always seemed to have the upper hand and the academy would turn the other way. As a result she had gained an infamous reputation amongst the freshmen and sophomores as someone to be avoided at all costs. Unfortunately for Sophie, Eva seemed to be obsessed with making her time at the academy as miserable as possible. Eva’s persistence was so overwhelming that Sophie ended up being isolated from the rest of her class out of fear of Eva alone. The only person brave enough to still talk to her was her closest friend Gwyneth. She did her best to make sure that Sophie was rarely alone and felt safe. However, even that backfired. Eva had somehow managed to take a photo of Gwyneth that would lead to her expulsion if revealed to the public. Ever since then, Eva has hung that threat over Sophie’s head and she couldn’t let anything happen to her best friend. As such, Sophie felt so alone. She felt as if she was left to fend for herself against the clutches of a monster.

Sophie pressed her face against her knees, frustration weighing at her heart, and began to cry. Harsh winds began to pick up and slam waves of rain against her. Sophie took a shaky deep breath and slowly rose to her feet. She looked at her surroundings to try to find better shelter. Her gaze eventually lingered on the auditorium. She choked down a cough before grabbing her bag and heading towards the unfinished building.

. . .

The outside of the auditorium was a mix of moldy wood and peeling paint. Its towering size gave it the imposing essence of a Victorian mansion. Overgrown vines and unkept leaves dressed the entirety it’s walls. Sophie steeled herself as she approached the entrance. She stopped under a small awning that hung over the front doors where no rain seemed to fall. Lightning followed by thunder struck as she gripped her rain soaked skirt and wrung out the excess water. She shivered from the cold as she dried herself the best she could. When she finished, she leaned against the door. 

“The dorms open up at 6 am, I’ll be able to get my ID back then,” She thought to herself as she stared at the hole riddled awning. “Maybe father will buy me a new phone, it was pretty old anyways.”

She grabbed her wrist and felt for her bracelet, her only reminder of warmth. A wave of sadness surged through her.

“Mom, Dad, I want to go back home,” She whispered to herself.

Chills spread out through her entire body as the door she braced herself against suddenly flung open with a sharp clang. She regained her balance and turned around. The door’s handle laid on the floor completely broken. The darkness of the auditorium greeted her with a gust of musty, but warm, air. She took a step back only to have the freezing rain fall on the back of her neck. Sophie looked at the entrance with an uneasy face. After a few moments she hesitantly walked in.

The building was much larger than it appeared. A few work-lights left turned on lit the auditorium with sheets of inconsistent light. Door frames to rooms that were used for the construction’s storage lined the walkways. The long hallways on either side of Sophie curved out of view. In front of her sat two large doors. She pushed the heavy doors open and stepped inside. She found herself in the academy’s theater. Rows of weathered red fabric seats stepped down into the center stage. The stage’s walnut flooring was scuffed from years of use and subsequent neglect. Two large maroon curtains blocked the view to the backstage.  A small podium sat at the front of it, its paint flaking off to the bare wood. She climbed onto the stage, its visage faintly lit by the work-lights that peered through the half opened doors.

Sophie stared at the seats in a silent awe. She imagined what the theater would look like if it were full of people and wondered why the academy refused to finish renovations. As she pondered, her gaze lowered to the podium. Her eyes narrowed. Faint scratches lined the bottom of it. She wiped a layer of dust off with her hand and revealed a string of faintly recognizable letters.

“Save me?” Sophie slowly read out loud.

“Heard.” A breathy and raspy voice that stretched out every syllable echoed through the theater. “You.”

The doors slammed shut, snuffing out the work-lights and leaving her in complete darkness.

“W-Who’s there?” Sophie stammered.

A bittersweet melody of hums snaked through the dark and into Sophie’s ears in reply.

“Show y-yourself,” Fear gripped at her heart, she clutched her school bag ready to swing it whatever was lurking in the darkness.

“Heard,” The voice repeated, this time more strained. “You.”

“T-This isn’t f-funny, please stop!” She said with a slight whimper.

“Save. You. You. Want. Me. To. Save...” The voice called from behind her causing her to jump in fear.

She swung her schoolbag wildly but it collided against nothing.

“Go. Somewhere. Safe. You. Want. To. Go. Somewhere. Safe. Somewhere. Home...” The voice grew louder.

“Stay away…” She said silently.

Her breaths grew frantic. An overwhelming dread welled in her gut. Panic coursed through her entire body.

“I. Can. Help.” The voice whispered.

A raspy strand of flesh wrapped around her feet before she could react. Her horrified scream was cut short as another strand that gagged her mouth shut. More and more threads wrapped around her body until she was stuck in an airtight cage. She shrieked in muffled terror as she was yanked behind the curtains. Lightning flashed illuminating the theater in a pang of white before decaying back into darkness. Silence followed. The night continued as normal as a stormy night could. Though a few freshmen swore that they heard strange noises coming from the old auditorium that night. Screams of struggles, pleads for help, and a blood curdling shriek to name a few. Of course nobody took it too seriously. It was just a rumor after all.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Unique Weapons, 12: Blades, bludgeons and bows of all shapes, sizes and mysterious backgrounds. Heroes and villains across fiction can often be immediately recognized by their signature weapon, causing the weapon itself to be an iconic part of the character. From Perrin’s spiked half moon axe to Roland’s enormous sandalwood revolvers, the jedi’s lightsabers, Arya’s needle, Legolas’s bow, Wolfwood’s Punisher, Detritus’s Piecemaker, the bride’s katana, Bond’s Walther PPK, Robin Hood’s longbow, Jason’s machete or Indiana Jones’s whip, a weapon can even function as a physical manifestation of the character’s personality. None of these weapons are intensely magical in their own right but can serve as the physical basis for family heirlooms, legendary artifacts and magical or masterwork weapons. Alternatively they can be found as loot and become part of a PC’s distinctive appearance, allowing the player to become fully immersed in their character’s look and feel. —Note: Some entries call for the DM to “Roll a Random Weapon” which simply means that the DM can roll from the pregenerated lists on this blog or choose whatever weapon they feel would be appropriate for the situation.

A bronze dagger with twin straight blades each a foot in length. Despite its apparent great age it is still a masterwork of blacksmithing and is capable of slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the construction of the knife is identical to that used by a void cult who performed human sacrifice in an attempt to create an otherworldly entity known as the Outsider.

A beautifully crafted compound bow with a fitted handle and a curved staff that tightens smoothly.

A simple, solid-looking longsword with a plain hilt of cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip. The blade itself is rather dull but its edge has a cold and frosty glint and a single silver letter shines near the hilt. Despite its unsharpened edges the blade cuts through flesh and metal as if charmed to do so. The weapon never needs sharpening or maintenance and rests in a scabbard of weathered brown leather.

A large heavy crossbow built by ancient dwarven combat engineers. The weapon is powered by a system of clockwork gears and torsion springs. When not in use, it hums almost inaudibly and ticks reassuringly like a steady grandfather clock.

A longsword made of durable steel with a distinctive rippled pattern that never requires sharpening. The weapon feels heavier than it should be, as though it carries the weight of responsibility, duty and honour. The name of the sword is spelled out in raised letters along the grip, causing the wielder's palm to read “Oathkeeper” when held tightly.

A spiky and particularly cruel whip that can collapse into a small disk making it easy to conceal. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as a Lamia or Mayhenian Scourge and is the favourite weapon of the empire's secret service agents as a tool of covertness, intimidation and information extraction.

A longsword with a long thin, blade carrying a slight curve, its edge cruel enough to cut silence and make it scream.

A Random Weapon that when held, causes the wielder to hear discordant and wild music. While the chaotic rhythms pound in his ears he can see the true shape of the reality around him in all its harshness and dark truths.  

A spiked shield made from the horned skull of a great desert dinosaur.

A rapier with a thin, flexible, whiplike blade and a complicated basket hilt. Branded into the leather grip is the motto of a master swordsman; “I Am Fate's Sword. She Wields Me Cruelly.”

—Click Here for homebrew Masterwork Weapon Bonuses or Here for homebrew Minor Weapon Enchantments to give these objects even more personality and mechanical benefits.  

-Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Or keep reading for 90 more weapons.

—Note: The previous 10 weapons are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A bronze dagger with twin straight blades each a foot in length. Despite its apparent great age it is still a masterwork of blacksmithing and is capable of slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the construction of the knife is identical to that used by a void cult who performed human sacrifice in an attempt to create an otherworldly entity known as the Outsider.

A beautifully crafted compound bow with a fitted handle and a curved staff that tightens smoothly.

A simple, solid-looking longsword with a plain hilt of cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip. The blade itself is rather dull but its edge has a cold and frosty glint and a single silver letter shines near the hilt. Despite its unsharpened edges the blade cuts through flesh and metal as if charmed to do so. The weapon never needs sharpening or maintenance and rests in a scabbard of weathered brown leather.

A large heavy crossbow built by ancient dwarven combat engineers. The weapon is powered by a system of clockwork gears and torsion springs. When not in use, it hums almost inaudibly and ticks reassuringly like a steady grandfather clock.

A longsword made of durable steel with a distinctive rippled pattern that never requires sharpening. The weapon feels heavier than it should be, as though it carries the weight of responsibility, duty and honour. The name of the sword is spelled out in raised letters along the grip, causing the wielder's palm to read “Oathkeeper” when held tightly.

A spiky and particularly cruel whip that can collapse into a small disk making it easy to conceal. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as a Lamia or Mayhenian Scourge and is the favourite weapon of the empire's secret service agents as a tool of covertness, intimidation and information extraction.

A longsword with a long thin, blade carrying a slight curve, its edge cruel enough to cut silence and make it scream.

A Random Weapon that when held, causes the wielder to hear discordant and wild music. While the chaotic rhythms pound in his ears he can see the true shape of the reality around him in all its harshness and dark truths.  

A spiked shield made from the horned skull of a great desert dinosaur.

A rapier with a thin, flexible, whiplike blade and a complicated basket hilt. Branded into the leather grip is the motto of a master swordsman; “I Am Fate's Sword. She Wields Me Cruelly.”

A barbaric axe adorned with a crude markings and a skull. When in the presence of magic, a dark aura expands from the blade, trying to pull the arcane essence into it.

A bastard sword of unearthly beauty with patterns of silver inlay on a black blade. A spindle of green light emanates from an emerald set in the hilt.

A bastard sword with a slight curve, its handle is silvery and woven with very fine wire. The blade is made from a metal which was only found once, in a meteorite. It has a pearl in its pommel, which seems clear except for a small cloud that moves through it. When swung it always moves faster than the wielder intended, making it difficult to control.

A bastard sword with an elaborate hilt, that rests in a matte black, scabbard covered with rows of runic signs and symbols. The blade is pure silver and polished to a pure shine of mirror-like brightness. The sword and sheath are first found in an oblong packet of thickly wrapped sheep's skins fastened with a leather strap.

A battleaxe with a heavy blade that is notched and stained, with sharp, wicked curves. Small holes dot the blade near the handle and when the wielder swings the axe, air whistles through these spaces.

A beautifully decorated scimitar adorned with long red ribbons of silk that seem to move in accordance with the wielder's intentions. This impressive and distracting display makes it easier to strike enemies.

A black lacquered quiver containing two dozen crossbow bolts, all made from a fibrous mineral that shimmers like strands of polished silver. The unidentifiable material gleams and shimmers in the light, radiating all the colours of the rainbow.

A bloodstained longsword set with a blade composed of iron layered with bronze and is inscribed with the name Orckeeper. The hilt is wrapped in dull brown deer leather and ends in a sharp blade where a pommel would normally be.

A blowpipe with an ornate copper viper wrapping around the deep brown oaken pipe.

A braided rope quiver containing 5d8 arrows constructed from palm tree wood, gull feathers and tipped with shark teeth.

A broadsword with a thick, wide blade. The grip has a dark, swirly look to it, giving the aspect of a cosmic void. The crossguard has a hollow centre and a sharp diamond shape with pointed edges that matches its pommel. The rain guard is adorned with jewels that emanate with regality.

A bundle of carefully wrapped silk cloth that contains three skinny darts and a blowgun cleverly disguised as finely carved pipe.

A cestus (Gauntlet statistics) of blackened leather reinforced with strips of dark iron over the fingers and cruel spikes along the back of the hand and forearm.

A curved dagger with a hilt carved in the shape of a three-headed lion. Knowledgeable PC's will know that the lion hilt is the symbol of a wood elf family of high nobility.

A double edged longsword with a jewel encrusted hilt, crafted from a golden alloy.

A dagger made of volcanic glass with an ornate silver embossed ebony handle. It is wicked sharp but fragile if bludgeoned.

A cavalry sword (Scimitar statistics) that's simple, heavy and murderously well-sharpened.

A dagger set with a wavy blade with an ever so slight chromatic sheen to it.

A curved bastard sword with a slight red tint to it. The blade is serrated with cruel barbs. The black-red iron seems to pulse with an unnatural hunger.

A dagger that appears to be made entirely of ice, although it is not cold to the touch and does not melt in hot conditions. Snowflakes appear and disappear in a swirling cloud about the blade. When it is used in combat, the wielder’s skin takes on a bluish hue, as if he were suffering from frostbite, he suffers no ill effects from this condition and the colour fades a few minutes after releasing the weapon.

A burlap bundle enwrapping 11 javelins made of elm wood tipped with steel.

A longsword that appears to be carved from stone from afar but upon close inspection is simply raw iron that is pitted and craggy. An ancient Elven crown rune is stamped in gold at the seat of the blade, just above the quillons. Two black rainbow tourmalines are bound at each end of the quillons, while a red one is set into the pommel. When the longsword is used in combat, golden light crackles like lighting up and down the blade.

A decorative leather forearm guard with flowing scrollwork and golden lacing. A paired stiletto (Dagger statistics) that matches the armor’s aesthetics is sheathed on the underside of the armguard and is easily concealable.

A driftwood stick with a heavy seaweed rope suspending a heavy block of coral at the end. The object can be wielded as a crude but perfectly serviceable flail.

A fine greatsword bearing a blade of steel with a hilt wrapped in brown leather. The blade has been carbonized with a flat pine green paint to keep it from reflecting light except along the edges. The pommel contains a puny, well cut chrysoberyl. The tapered flat quillons are unremarkable, but the crossbar is stamped with the image of a ring, and a window. The sword rests in a scabbard of beaten silver.

A finely crafted longsword, set with a matte white blade and a hilt of polished silver and gold wire.

A finely ornamented hunting saber (Longsword statistics), perfectly suited for being on some noble's hip as they make a big show of bringing in a deer.

A gnomish contraption that’s half defence, half offence. The weapon is a large turtle shell that can be strapped to the wielder’s wrist, with a dagger like blade that juts out just longer and wider than the wielder’s open hand. The oddly designed spiked shield is particularly useful in cramped tunnels or warrens where swinging a weapon is difficult or outright impossible.

A greatsword that appears to be made of darkness, its shape is a tangible black void, outlined in a crimson streak which is the source of the blade's faint light. It crackles like lightning when drawn, and creates a sharp buzzing sound when swung, like that of an angry bee. Oddly, when the blade strikes a foe, there is no sound from the hit, despite the strength behind it. Visible on the weapon’s pommel of the blade is an elven glyph meaning "Magic".

A greatsword with a long but relatively thing blade. Along both flats of the blade, etched in elven are the words; "My mark is before me, I shall not waver"

A heavy crossbow with an inlay of polished and engraved staghorn featuring trophies of arms bearing designs similar to the coat of arms of the local nobility.

A greatsword, heavy and broad of blade, sharpened on both edges and coming to a blunt point. The blade is forged of one piece with the hilt from a mottled, tawny-bronze alloy and is shot through with silky black marbling along the length of the blade itself. The weapon possesses a simple grip of brown jasper plaques carved with indentations for curled fingers; its quillons are simple, heavy and swept back slightly, its pommel a heavy bronze ring bearing a tassel of tawny leather braids.

A heavy and hardened olive wood staff engrained with beautiful swirling, natural patterns.

A heavy mace that bears obvious hammer strikes, around which are floral designs.

A lacquered case containing a matching set of dueling rapiers that refuse to deal a killing blow. The individual swords are marked "His" and "Hers" in High Elven.

A lacquered wooden case containing 15 crossbow bolts made from ceramics with a unique spiral design. These partially hollow bolts, fragment upon impact, showering their targets in razor sharp shrapnel and blinding ceramic dust.

A lacquered wooden quiver containing two dozen slender, needle-like arrows designed to pierce cloth and leather armor, leaving deep, puncture wounds.

A large battleaxe of a dark grey metal. Its handle is wrapped with a grimy strip of leather which is stained by the blood of countless creatures.

A large scythe with a fleshy, dark red handle, and a blade made of a large jaw, lined with incisors.

A leather bundle containing 17 crossbow bolts with shafts of ash wood engraved with knotwork and fletching of gray feathers.

A light crossbow carved from lustrous ebony. The main body of the weapon shows a golden engraving of vine tendrils and leaves

A longsword forged from a single, solid piece of burnished steel, its craftsmanship is clearly elven in nature. The hilt is longer than normal and gently twisted, creating a good gripping surface. The sword is lacking in quillons or crossguard but does sport a distinctive large spherical "eye" placed at the top of the hilt between the blade and the hilt. The carved eye's pupil always faces outward, as if looking at its target, creating an eerie effect for its foes.

A light pick whose head is shaped like an ibis head with glassy black eyes. Painted along the haft are complex hieroglyphs that may speak to the history of the weapon's crafter.

A long handled, dwarven made warhammer with a striking head artfully designed to look like a ram-headed criosphinx.

A long-handled halberd with a narrow, razor- sharp blade and wickedly barbed tip that bears a faintly glowing, sickly green aura. The shaft is wrapped in dried skin peeled from the corpses of zombies. The faint odour of rotting eggs surrounds the wielder in combat.

A long, green steel spiked chain, with every third link bearing a small pair of red, razor sharp blades about a half inch long. A third of the length from either end is a leather-wrapped handle approximately a foot in length. Half foot long blades adorn the ends, themselves attached by six inch handles.

A longsword made of siderite steel, forged by dwarven machine forges, workmanship simple, but elegant. Its full length forty and a half inches, the blade, twenty seven and a quarter. Exquisitely balanced, the weight of the blade is exactly equal to weight of handle. The weight of the whole sword surely below forty ounces.

A longbow crafted from thick wood with carved stone at the tips and handle. The stonework is made of simple but elegant geometric pattern.

A longbow crafted of mahogany with a wingspan of 62 inches. The weapon has a perfectly poised grip, a smooth neck with laminated layers of woven wood, whale bones and tendons. The arch has an incredible lightness and is accurate to perfection. Although not too long, hiding in the composite is entwined a considerable distance of wire. Equipped with a silk-hemp string and velvet accurately stretched over the protruding handles 22 inches, gives the tension precisely 55 pounds of power.

A longspear made of dead wood, tipped with a cruel iron tip. A pair of long ribbons are tied near the top, seemingly made of orange leaves.

A longbow made of dark yew wood with a string obtained from the sinew of a wild bull.

A longsword with a hilt wrapped in ebony with steel rivets. The pommel is of “skullcrusher” shape, allowing its use as a bludgeon in a pinch. There are straight, square quillons at the crossbar, with a large ring protruding from one of the blade sides. Its scabbard is of coyote fur with oiled brown pigskin accents and steel trim.

A massive greataxe with a dark, obsidian blade and a handle of ivory that is six feet long. The axe head is held to the shaft by golden cord. The haft is covered with intricately carved images of the gods. Among the images displayed are Stronmaus smashing moons with his hammer, Hiatea slaying a 50-headed hydra with her flaming spear, and Iallanis joining the hands of Memnor and Karontor together.

A longsword with a simple grip made of olive wood and a brilliant bronze blade inlaid with electrum. Its curved guard resembles an ancient harp.

A particularly large and obtuse maul with a slightly curved spike on one end.

A perfectly functional Random Weapon that's slightly damp to the touch. Any cloth or leather parts of the weapon are replaced by lustrous fish scales and metal portions are instead crafted from seashells and worked as hard as any metal.

A pitch-black shortsword that is invisible in firelight.

A polished quarterstaff made from petrified redwood. The glossy sheen of the fossils displays its beautiful colouration of patches of blues, yellows and oranges with deep red veins running throughout the staff.    

A primitive dagger made by taking a human jawbone and inserting shards of obsidian in place of the teeth.

A primitively decorated blowgun made of fire blackened wood, with a wide mouthpiece made of hammered copper that never oxidizes due to a special coating that seems beyond the skills of the people who made the barrel.

A Random Melee Weapon that made from scales, talons and teeth shed by a dragon. Spaced out along the weapon's length are precious metals and gems from a dragon's hoard. The weapon grows slightly warm when within 50 feet of a dragon.

A Random Sword that is unusually long and thin, yet surprisingly strong. The handle is made of a yellowed ivory, in which an observer will notice small glyphs and sigils constantly fading in and out of sight.

A quarterstaff carved in the style of a totem pole with four wooden human figures in the fetal position stacked on top of each other, from top to bottom the human figures start large and get smaller.

A Random Sword whose surface is constantly melting and reforming into patterns filled with silently screaming faces, as if one for each person slain by the blade.

A rapier with a blade composed of steel alloyed with brass. The weapon’s hilt is wrapped in pebbled indigo deer leather. Its scabbard is of goat fur with brown suede accents and steel trim.

A Random Weapon of exquisite workmanship, decorated with abstract patterns and inlays.

A longsword of fine blue steel, hilted with a single cross-quillon and a plain, spherical polished knob pommel. Set in the heart of the tang, where the quillons meet just above the fine chain-wrapping of the grip, is a large cabochon-cut black sapphire.

A redwood lance whose tip is shaped like an elongated heart.

A Random Weapon that is half the weight of a normal example of its kind. The object is black and inscribed with spiders, webs and references of a spider queen.

A round shield about three feet across with a foot-long iron spike in the middle. The shield is made from two layers of wood with the grain of each layer at a right angle to the other layer increasing the strength of the shield. The wood is covered in a layer of decorated cowhide. The iron spike screws into a “puddle" of lead in the middle of the shield and can be unscrewed and placed in a sheath on the back of the shield when not in use.

A Random Weapon with pieces of bone and solidified ash seamlessly integrated into its form. The weapon vibrates slightly when a creature within 30 feet is dead or dying.

A rusty shortsword with a thin, unblemished section along the centre of the blade. Inscribing the surname of an extinct gnomish noble family on that section attunes the sword to its family, causing it to act as a bane weapon against that family line.

A sabre-like longsword with a narrow, slightly curved blade and almost nonexistent hand-guard. Its dark steel is inlaid with a mosaic of unpolished jet chips and raw rock crystal that date from a time before the written word.

A sacrificial dagger with a serrated blade set into a hilt made of human bone carved in the shape of a scorpion’s tail. After the weapon kills a living creature, a dark mist seeps from the dagger until the blood dries.

A scimitar of rather poor steel, honed to a keen edge with a guard of iron curved into rearing serpents. Its grip is of leather, dyed red that looks as though it was recently replaced.

A set of a dozen seemingly too heavy shuriken, strung on a twisted wire with an elaborate clasp in order to carry them.

A shortsword gilded with interesting metalwork and discrete patterning. The blade is coloured a dull silver and the hilt is a matte gold-bronze.

A shortbow made from the horn of a unicorn delicately split and fashioned by the fey.

A shortsword of the gladius style that is about as average as it gets. The leather grip is slightly worn but comfortable, the metal of the blade is neither dull nor shining, and the edge is adequately sharp. The weapon would look perfectly at home at the side of any rank and file soldier.

A sickle with a glowing white blade shaped like the moon, and an embellished navy blue hilt adorned with marble stars.

A simple pugio (Dagger statistics) which comes in a heavy scabbard made of bone, wood, and thin strips of metal. The blade is immaculately sharp and bright, but the scabbard looks as though an ox stomped on it.

A simply designed, light brown katar-style dagger, with a basic cross guard and an H shaped grip with a little bit of flair at the ends.

A six foot long trident with a handle of dark wood and three prongs of red iron.

A skillfully carved quarterstaff, each end carved in the likeness of a horned viper with hardened fangs. One half of the staff has been stained is a pale green, while the other has been stained is a deep black.

A slashing shortsword with a black, fire opal grip with an onyx gemstone abutting the back of the heft. Engraved in the heft are the maker's marks; the image of a lion and a tiger, one on each of the sides. The wide blade extends from a small guard and is made of the highest quality steel that doesn't rust or stain. The weapon tingles the hand while held, in a sensation neither pleasant nor painful. Its sheath is made of lapis lazuli, inlaid with specks of precious metals, depicting a starry sky, the natural lines of the material having been used in the imagery of a landscape under night sky.

A small steel boot-knife with a scrimshawed bone handle.

A steel greatclub wrapped in scaly yellow shocker skin, its wrought iron head is covered with engraved lightning.

A strange dwarven battleaxe that has one axe head, but the back of that is a large claw. The battleaxe has a chain and switch on the handle that allows the claw to close. The user can crash the claw into the ground and use it to pick up tightly packed or loose dirt or solid rock. The wielder can then swing the axe to throw the rock using the same statistics of a standard sling. If the wielder is proficient with the battleaxe they will also be considered proficient with its sling. The act of scooping up the dirt and launching can be done in a single smooth attack motion.

A strange, mystical longspear that is difficult to look directly as if some restless force lies within it, just beneath the surface. The wood of the shaft is bone white and smooth, while the steel spearhead is textured like a stag's horn.

A sizable claymore (Greatsword statistics) favored by the militant highland tribes. Apparently the weapon's crafter had a sense of humour, as etched into the flats of the blade are the words “FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY”.

[teamhook]

Emma and Killian :|: CSMM

This is my last submission for the @captainswanmoviemarathon​​

Thanks to everyone in the Discord for letting me bounce ideas and for all the help.

Thanks to @revanmeetra87​​ who helped me write the thing. She kinda tricked me, she knows what I’m talking about. Still love her. :)

Thanks to @ultraluckycatnd​​ for Beta services :)

The story is inspired by Kate and Leopold, it will not be an exact retell of the movie. I hope you guys enjoy reading it.

FFN

AO3

Will a man out of time be the happy ending of a cynical woman that doesn’t believe in fairytales? Could they take the leap together?

“I’m not sleepy Papa, tell me a story,” the girl urges with big fluttering eyes, begging.

The man looks lovingly at the young girl and smiles as he shakes his head. He starts telling her an unlikely love tale.

:|:

Killian Jones was walking through the growing city looking on as everyone went about their daily business. The noise of the Brooklyn Bridge construction was deafening. He missed life out on the open sea, but this was his life now. While looking out at the sea, he noticed a man that appeared to be following him. He stopped at a small haberdashery shop and noticed the same man from earlier was there too. This had to be a coincidence. Before he could think about it any further, the clock tower chimed; it was time to go home. Liam was going to be in a dreadful mood if he was late. Bloody parties. His brother had stopped being his older brother; he now acted like his keeper.

“Killian, you are the Duke of Albany, you need to dress better. You also need to find a wife. Brother, appearances matter.”

Brennan Jones had quickly gone through the inheritance their mother had left behind, a worthless title was all their father had left them. Once the money was gone, so was he. Liam had retired from the Royal Navy to become Killian’s guardian, even if he was old enough to not require one. He had been in the Navy himself, after all. His brother should worry more about finding himself a wife and not have to alter his life because his little brother had become a blemish on the family name. Milah had been more than a dalliance; he had loved her and she had used him. Once the affair was revealed, she played the victim; the young virile man seduced the older bored wife with stories of great adventures. So then it was decided to make the move for a fresh start.

The party had started by the time he got there, and anyone who was anyone was there. Smee, his manservant, helped him get ready for the evening. Sometime later that night, Liam pulled him aside and told him to find a wife. There were wealthy women lined up for him to choose from, but Killian’s response was simple. “Brother, I don’t want to marry for money. Marriage is the promise of eternal love. As a man of honor, I cannot promise eternity when my heart isn’t true.”

As Killian walked off, an unknown guest caught his eye. It was the man from earlier. He was walking around with some sort of strange device. With his curiosity piqued, Killian followed the strange man as he explored room to room. The man got spooked when he noticed Killian following him around. He ran out of the party and fled to the street. As Killian trailed behind, his attention was momentarily thwarted by a vision with fair skin and golden hair. After she passed, his attention snapped back to his original target.

Killian ran after him, yelling for him to “Stop!!”

The man kept running, not bothering to turn back. It seemed that his destination was the Brooklyn Bridge. The other man neared the end of the girder, as Killian jumped in an effort to stop the man from falling to his death. As he grabbed hold of the man’s hand, the other man screamed “Let go!” Killian shook his head. “No, you will die if I let go!” The other man tried to pull his hand out of Killian’s grip and finally succeeded, but Killian desperately grabbed a hold of the man with his other hand, losing his tenuous grip on the rope he had been holding on to, and they both fell into the unknown.

Wednesday

Killian woke up in an unfamiliar place. Was it all a dream ? His eyes focused on the strange surroundings. He jolted up. Where the bloody hell is he ?

A loud ringing startled him. The man he followed into the abyss emerged from a closed door.

“You really shouldn’t have followed me,” the man said as he studied Killian.

The ringing started again but this time, the man picked up an object. “Hello, oh, Emma. No, I haven’t seen your IPad. What? Yes. I’m sure you didn’t leave it here.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it will turn up.”

Killian just sat, staring at him.

“Sorry about that. I can’t believe it. You are here.”

“You obviously know who I am, but I have no idea who you are.”

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Jefferson. Your great-great-grandson,” he smiled.

“I’m not even married,” Killian scoffed. “Let’s say I believe you. Why kidnap me? We don’t have any money, there’s no ransom money.”

Jefferson scrunched his face. “What? No, you’re not kidnapped.” He sighed. “You followed me through the portal and it closed behind us. So you have to stay put.”

Killian looked around. “Where the bloody hell am I? You say I’m not kidnapped, but you want me to stay put?”

“Look, I’m not holding you against your will. It’s for your safety. You are still in New York, but things have changed. New York is not as safe as it once was,” Jefferson said.

Killian got up and walked to the window, as he shook his head. “That is not New York.” He turned his back to the window and headed towards the sofa.

A feminine voice startled them. “Yeah, that’s good old New York alright.” She smiled as she entered the room, closing the window behind her.

Killian stared at the woman. “Have I seen you before?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed at the newcomer as Jefferson grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s find that iPad. Killian, I’ll be right back, don’t move,” he said.

Killian sat down on the sofa still a little disoriented, his eyes continuing to follow the lass as she left the room. He knows he has seen her somewhere, but is utterly confused about where that was.

Emma and Jefferson arrived at his small office to look for the IPad. “I told you to take care of it when you asked to borrow it,” she sighed.

He rolled his eyes. “I took care of it just fine. It was just for two days while I got my laptop back from the repair guy. I thought I gave it back to you.”

“No, you didn’t. Damn it, Jeff, I need it back!” she glared at him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it,” he said with a big smile on his face.

“Okay,” she turned to him, “why are you so excited?”

“I did it! Emma, I really did it!”

“You did what Jeff?”

“I found it. The portal, a crack in the fabric of time. I traveled back in time and walked around in 1876.” He waggled his eyebrows in unison. “That’s not the best part; my great-great-grandfather followed me.“ The crazed glee was unable to stay hidden from his face.

Emma pursed her lips. “So what you are saying is that you found a portal and I’m to believe that the man out there is not Sergeant Pepper but a man out of time?”

“Emma, I told you about him. He is the Duke of Albany. He is a brilliant engineer; he invented the counterweight pulley. You know, the elevator?”

“And that’s him out there?” Emma stated sarcastically. “Right. Jeff, if you’re trying to create a distraction from my missing iPad, there are more believable ways to do it.”

“I’m serious!” he protested.

Emma glared, placing her hands on her hips. “No. You’re never serious. That’s the problem! Your head’s always 5,000 miles away in Wonderland.”

“Emma-”

A soft tap on the door interrupted Jefferson.

“Pardon me,” said Killian, hovering in the doorway. “Might I be of help?”

“Yeah,” Emma replied. “Tell your pal Jeff to stop messing with me.”

“‘Messing’...with you? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” said Killian, perplexed.

“Oh, right.” Emma rolled her eyes. “How could I forget the whole ‘man out of time’ thing. How about this: Tell Jefferson to stop insulting my intelligence.”

As they spoke, Jefferson was digging through his desk. “Found it!” he yelped, holding the iPad aloft. “Found it. You can go, Emma.”

Emma grabbed it and walked out before slamming the door shut, effectively waking up the slumbering apricot mastiff. The startled dog’s barking was loud and constant, creating madness as she ran around the room.

Jefferson cringed, “Cat shut up!”

While Jefferson kept trying to tame the beast, Killian stared at the door.

After a few treat bribes and belly rubs, Jefferson finally broke Killian’s enchantment. “I’m sorry about her.”

“Who is she? I feel like I’ve seen her before.” Killian’s eye was still set on the door.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but women have changed since your time. They are dangerous.” Jefferson walked to the front door and locked it.

Killian kept his steely-eyes on Jefferson. “You say I’m not kidnapped, yet you lock the door.”

Jefferson laughed. “I’m protecting you. New York is not the same as it was. I can’t let you go out there.”

Killian glared at him.

Cat scratched at the door urgently.

“Look, man, your clothes make you look like you’re some Renaissance Faire crazed fanatic. I can tell you’re kind of antsy. I will get you home, but the portal closed. My backup is for next Tuesday. We can discuss this more, but I really need to take Cat for her walk,” Jefferson said as the dog barked.

Killian sighed; there was not much he could do.

“While I’m out, I was wondering if you could look over these.” Jefferson handed Killian some notebooks.

Killian grabbed them and sat down.

“I shouldn’t be gone long. Don’t open the door for anyone,” Jefferson said as he secured Cat’s leash. The door closed behind them, and then there was a click.

Jefferson and Cat were waiting for the elevator. He heard the ding and once the door opened, he took a step in, but Cat hesitated and he realized only too late why. He fell into the empty elevator shaft as the door closed behind him. He was still holding onto the leash as he attempted to pull himself up. A frightened Cat whimpering above managed to get out of her collar. Jefferson was unaware the sealed elevator door was the only thing preventing him from falling to his possible death. “Good girl, Cat stay, don’t move.” He tried again to pull himself up but failed as he lost his grip and fell, only to land on top of the elevator a couple of floors below.

Meanwhile, Killian was exploring the apartment. He was in awe of all the different appliances. He was washing his face when a knock on the door suddenly startled him. As he neared the door, it burst open, revealing the fiery blonde from before.

“Jeff!!!! Hey, you renaissance man, where is he? He forgot my charger and you can’t just kick Cat outside. She unloaded Lake Erie out there.”

“I have not, milady. Jeff stepped outside with her.”

“Fine, let’s go. I have enough time to stop for a replacement charger. I said let’s go!” she said, rolling her eyes as she handed him Cat’s leash.

He stammered and did as instructed as they walked out of the apartment building. Killian held on to Cat. “Lass, I take it you’re a career woman. I once courted a librarian in Sussex,” he smiled.

She stared at him askance. “Did you, now.”

“Indeed I did, I…” He trailed off as he began to suspect she wasn’t taking their conversation seriously. “Librarian is a fine avocation for a lady; what is yours? Please forgive me if I’m being too forward,” Killian decided to say instead.

“I’m in market research,” she said, which explained very little to him.

At his undoubtedly confused look, she continued. “I figure out what customers like and don’t like about products.”

“Ahh,” he said, nodding. “Very valuable research, indeed.”

“Yeah, well, thankfully my boss thinks so too. Speaking of, I am already running late. If I want to get my charger, I have to go now. Wait...give these to Jefferson when you see him. I am sick of getting his mail.” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew some envelopes. “See you.” With another swish of her blonde hair, she was gone.

Killian admired the no-nonsense blonde; there was something about her that called to him. She wasn’t like any of the women he had met in his life, and not just because she was a career woman. He was not afraid of that. He had a feeling she was going to be a challenge, and he does love a good challenge.

In a slight daze, Killian watched her turn the corner and continue out of sight. Was everyone in this city constantly on the move?

Cat, who had been crouched and snuffling at the street, suddenly shook herself vigorously, and Killian looked down at her.

It is then he noticed the pungent droppings she had left beside him. Wrinkling his nose with distaste, he decided to move on. After all, it would likely be indistinguishable from the horse manure every city had.

Though, come to think of it, he hasn’t really seen any horses. Or street manure. Just the noisy, swift carriages that seem to move of their own will.

“Excuse me!” a voice called over the general din.

He turned to see a female constable looking at him irritably - but surely he was imagining her annoyance. What could he possibly have done to invoke her attention?

“Sir, aren’t you going to pick that up!?” The frown lines were evident on the face of the woman.

Killian stared at the woman. “I refuse, respectfully.” He gave her a charming smile.

The woman mocked him and smiled back. “It’s against the law to leave the poop there. I repeat, are you picking that up or not?”

“I’m sorry, you’re saying there’s a law that forces gentlemen to pick up canine feces?” he grimaced.

“Yes, there is. Are you picking up the poop or not?” the lady cop urged.

“I refuse, respectfully.” He clicked his feet together.

“Alright, what’s your name fancy pants?”

“My name is Killian Brendan Rowe Conor Gordon Philip Jones.”

The woman rolled her eyes, then spotted the envelopes he was holding and grabbed one. With a wicked smile, she said, “Here, Jefferson Hatter.” She handed him a paper and walked away.

Killian turned to Cat as she wiggled her tail, and suddenly darted in the opposite direction. He jerked behind her. The city flashed before him, and they ended up in front of the completed Brooklyn Bridge. Killian was in awe that the structure still stood. The sound of the fire brigade caught Cat’s attention and she followed, with a stunned Killian trailing behind. They end up back in front of the apartment building as Jefferson was on an apparatus to move him to be taken to the hospital. Cat whimpered next to Killian.

“Killian, what are you doing outside? Get back inside. I’ll be back soon.”

“Jefferson, I saw the bridge and -”

“I know you’re excited but you cannot go out again.” Jefferson said as he was put inside the ambulance.

Killian looked at Cat and they went inside.

After leaving Killian, Emma bought the charger and headed to work. Today, they were screening a movie to see how people were going to welcome the film. Her assistant, Mary Margaret, handed out a form for the people to fill out. The movie finished to a disappointing reception. The conclusion after reading the audience's responses was that the character was unlikeable, so they needed to cut a big scene in order for the movie to do well. The director was upset about the change and told them that they were sucking the life out of cinema.

Back at the office, they were now focused on casting for a low-fat margarine commercial. The focus group was not liking the actors that were reading for the part. Yet another dead end. They needed to fill the part soon. “Mary Margaret, we are going to have to do another casting.”

Mary Margaret smiled, “I’m on it. So, I was thinking about what you said.”

Emma looked confusedly at her assistant.

“You said that I should be more proactive and not be caught up in my dreams if I want to be successful. So, in an effort to be more efficient, I was wondering if you wanted me to get some food for your brother’s return. He is set to return tomorrow.” A slight blush on her cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed by Emma.

Emma raised an eyebrow because she had a feeling Mary Margaret had a crush on her brother. The only reason she gave her assistant a speech was because Mary Margaret was always giving her lectures about love and hope. Fairy tales aren’t real; at least when it came to Emma’s life they aren’t.

Mary Margaret continued with the list of things that need to be taken care of. “Oh, and Mr. Oz wants to see you.”

“Mary Margaret, you should have started with that! I didn’t know he was back. Is he in his office?”

“I think so. I can call and check,” Mary Margaret said.

Emma met with Mr. Oz and he told her that they should discuss the possibility of her promotion during dinner the next day. Her boss always seemed to come on a little strong for her taste and because she was an adult, she would suck it up. As soon as she reached her office, Mary Margaret grabbed her attention.

“Emma, Mr. Oz is calling an emergency meeting to discuss the Farmer’s Bounty account,” Mary Margaret shared.

“Oh, well that’s not going as well as we had hoped. I really wish I had better news for him.” Emma sighed. “I hope we find someone in the casting call tomorrow.”

The meeting went by quickly and afterward, all Emma could recall about it was the moment she spilled cocoa all over the front of her shirt. She just hoped it was not a bad omen for the next day’s auditions.

Back inside Jefferson’s apartment, Killian busied himself with some scientific books he had found on the shelf. Although the terminologies inside were difficult for him to understand, he was still able to grasp most of the overall concepts. How much humanity had advanced!

And yet, how much was still the same. The modern New Yorkers’ lives seemed to be fraught with just as many challenges and concerns as his own.

Such as Emma. Though she is clearly a woman of talent and accomplishment - her career would attest to that - she moved and spoke with a strain and pace quite unfamiliar to his own world.

Yet the more he thought of her, the more he realised he was quite interested in trying to keep up.

Killian dropped his book, startled, when he heard a loud ringing pierce the apartment.

The ringing repeated several times, and then a shrill beep squawked before he suddenly heard Jefferson’s voice speak.

“Killian? Hey, Killian, this is Jefferson. I am speaking over a machine, okay? I need you to pick up the telephone so we can talk. It’s the...lift the curved white part of the machine okay? The part that disconnects from the rest.”

Fumbling, Killian followed the instructions, nearly dropping the device. But he could hear Jefferson’s voice, now coming from the holes on one end of the machine he held.

Excited and proud of his accomplishment, Killian began talking back. “Jefferson? Is this Bell's talking telegraph? I saw a prototype at last year’s fair. Can you hear me? I saw the bridge! It still exists!”

“Killian, I know you’re excited, but you have to stay inside the apartment. I should be home tonight. They’re taking me to X-Rays,” Jefferson says before howling in pain and the call disconnecting.

“Hello?” Killian asked and was met with silence. “Bloody hell.”

The sound of the TV alerted him; he was no longer alone. Killian stepped slowly to the living area and found a young boy.

“Hello, lad,” Killian said. “May I be of assistance?”

The boy tilted his head. “You are not Jefferson. I usually come and watch TV with him until my dad picks me up. Do you want some Pirate Booty?” The boy offered the treat.

Killian scratched behind his ear and smiled.

Meanwhile, one floor below arriving early from actor camp, David Nolan entered his shared apartment with his sister. A loud voice coming from Jefferson’s place piqued his curiosity and he went to check it out.

“But one day, he lowered the Jolly Roger and set sail in search of another kind of treasure. Not money, not jewels, not gold… but a bride. Despite his being a ruffian of the brine, fearless in his plunder and merciless with the sword, the Pirate King was also lonely.”

The boy was mesmerized.

“My boy, I was fortunate enough to see the premiere last month.”

“Since when is Penzance showing?” David asks.

Killian quirked an eyebrow. “Since when is it acceptable to enter a domicile without an invitation?”

David laughed and took in the old fashioned wardrobe. “Oh, you’re an actor too? I’m David Nolan, I live downstairs.”

Emma was finally home; what a day. She was so tired that she almost missed noticing a duffle bag on the floor. That meant her brother arrived early. “David!” She was about to go to his room when the phone rang. “Hello, Jeff. Wait, you’re in the hospital? Uhm, yeah I know he got out. I made him walk Cat. What film? No, I’m not going to babysit a full-grown man. One, may I add, that you claim is from 1876.” With that, she hung up.

Once she hung up, she heard someone singing. She noticed the open window, which was the preferred way to go to and from Jefferson’s. She went to see what was going on.

The boisterous voices were singing the lyrics of some old ditty. She cleared her throat in an effort to get their attention and when that failed, she whistled.

Killian stopped playing the piano. Roland’s eyes went wide. David smiled wide.

“Hey, sis,” David said as he walked to hug her. “I missed you. Hey, what’s going on with the elevator?”

“I should have known you’d find your way here. You always do,” she said. “Aren’t you early?”

“I am. Some Tai Chi lady wanted to jab her fingers in my-” David managed to stop himself when he remembered the young boy in the room.

Roland smiled. “Hello, Miss Emma. I’m just waiting for my dad.”

“Hi, Roland.” She smiled back. “Your dad is still working the late shift.”

The boy shrugged. “It won't last. Uncle Will is moving here to work with him.”

“Good. I know you like hanging out with Jeff, but too much TV is bad for you.”

Roland giggled and turned to sit down on the couch to continue his television viewing.

Killian was silently staring at her.

“Oh, Emma, I invited Killian over for dinner since Jefferson isn’t here.”

“What about Roland?”

“Robin called and said he was already on his way.”

“Meet me at home,” Emma said as she simply waved to a silent Killian. “We’ll talk about it at home.”

David turned to Killian. “Hey, dinner is in two hours. Bye, Roland.”

Roland waved to David then leaned towards Killian. “I don’t think she likes you.”

As soon as they enter their shared apartment, David started. “Come on Emma, he’s alone.”

“He thinks he is from 1876, he is clearly crazy,” Emma pointed out.

“He is an actor!” David defended Killian.

Emma had started cooking spaghetti while David made the garlic bread.

“Emma, why are you so rude to Killian?”

“David, what are you talking about? I’m perfectly civil to him. I’m just annoyed at Jefferson, and his craziness. It doesn’t matter, I don’t have time. I might be getting a promotion. A really good one, and I’m just frustrated. This could be really good for us.”

“Oh, that’s great Emma!” David said.

Before he could say anything else, the phone started ringing. “David, can you get that?” Emma asked.

“Ems, just let the machine answer it,” David said as he put the bread in the oven.

Jefferson’s voice was frantic. “Emma, I know you don’t believe me, but just develop the film on my desk. It’s right next to the phone. If Killian doesn’t go back, the elevators will be just the beginning.” The call disconnected.

David whistled. “Jeff is still at it then.”

“David, set up the table since it was your idea to invite Jeff’s friend over.”

“Okay,” David said amiably.

Soon, supper was on the table, and just as they were about to sit, there was a knock on the door.

Emma opened it to see Killian standing there, holding flowers. “Hello. Thank you again for the invitation. I hope I am not late; the flower proprietor refused my coins and insisted they were too old and must be fake. Fake, indeed! Yet he takes the absurd little blue card with Jefferson’s name as real payment?”

Emma lifted a brow as she received the flowers. “Yeah, fancy that. Well, thanks and all, but you didn't have to go to the trouble. Come in, we just finished cooking.”

“Hey, hi Killian!” David called cheerfully.

Digging in a cabinet, Emma found a vase and filled it with water before placing the flowers in it. They did look nice, she begrudgingly admitted to herself. Whoever the weird guy was, he had taste.

They all sat down and, after passing the food around and loading their plates, Killian spoke up.

“You know, before young Roland arrived, I was examining some of Jefferson’s books and research. It is quite impressive! Did either of you ever read it yourself?”

Twirling some spaghetti on her fork, Emma hid a grimace. “Unfortunately.” She wasn’t going to pretend Jefferson wasn’t a brilliant man. But some of his theories were so ludicrous, she couldn’t understand how someone so smart could re-read some of his own work and not realize how impossible it was.

Killian either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her quip. “Specifically, I am referring to the time portals.”

Oh, boy. Here we go, Emma thought.

“The portals work rather like an eclipse, you see. They only occur at specific intervals; in the case of the one I travelled through, once every twenty years.”

As Killian was talking, Emma could see David nodding and grinning excitedly.

It irritated her so much that she gave David a warning glare before he could ask any follow-up questions.

Setting down his silverware beside his now empty plate, Killian lifted his chin and glanced toward the oven. “Well. That was delicious. I am quite ready for the next course.”

The thin cord by which she’d been reining in her temper finally snapped. “There is no next course,” she hissed.

Clearly puzzled, Killian tilted his head. “But I do not understand. Where I come from, a meal is a result of reflection and study. Menus are prepared in advance and timed to perfection. And without the culinary arts, the crudeness of reality would be unbearable.”

YOU are unbearable! she wanted to scream, though she didn’t know at that moment if she was angry with him, or at Jefferson for bringing him to the apartment, or at David for inviting him to dinner. Or at her own lingering fears at what tomorrow and her job would hold.

“You know what?” Emma asked through her teeth. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

“I’m sorry, Killian. Emma had a little too much wine,” David apologized.

“It’s alright. Thank you for the lovely meal. Goodnight,” Killian said with a small smile.

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[shining-red-diamond]

Bells in the Distance (Part 1)

Words: 2.9k

Pairing: Onew x Winnie (OC) (feat. Amber Liu, Monsta X’s Joohoney, and ROMEO’s Minsung)

Raiting: PG

Genre: Fluff, angst

Warnings: intense in some scenes, some peril

Summary: Since being home from the military, Lee Jinki is over the moon to be home with his wife Winnie and son Owen. They grew closer together, but Jinki can’t help but feel as if he failed as a husband and father by being away from his little family for so long and not connecting with his son as he would wish. On Christmas Eve, he’ll take a journey to a place he knew only in legends and maybe learn something from St. Nicholas. Inspired by the film The Polar Express.

Tags: @ezralia-writes​ @queen-of-himbos​ @romeorussia​ @barnesbabee​ @daybreakx​ @fairyofdusk​ Let me know if you want to be tagged.

-

December 24, 2020

“But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— ‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night,’” Winnie finished the story.

“Read it again, Mommy,” the four-year-old boy begged.

“But if I read it again, Santa might not come,” his mother warned in a gentle voice. “All of those cookies we made for him will go to waste, and you decorated them so beautifully.”

“Even the ones with lots of icing?”

“Those are his favorites.”

“Okay, Mommy,” the boy sighed.

Winnie chuckled. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

Jinki watched as the light in his son’s room was switched off, and his wife’s footsteps were heard trudging down the hallway towards his and her bedroom.

Earlier that evening, Jinki and Winnie had gotten into an argument. Ever since he had returned from military service back in July, he felt he had missed out on much of his son’s life. He wasn’t feeling as connected with him as he used to be. Winnie argued that Owen always wanted to be with his dad, and now that he’s home all Owen wants to do is spend time playing with him. The ordeal led them in a heated argument, which led to each of them saying hurtful words to each other. Jinki hated himself for it, so he decided to sleep on the couch in the living room for the night in order for the two of them to cool off until morning. Seeing Winnie cry killed Jinki inside. She was four and a half years younger than him, but he always wanted to be gentle with her feelings, especially now that she was pregnant with number two. He wanted to run up there, snuggle her, and rub and kiss her swollen belly; but the last thing he wanted to do was make his beloved wife upset.

After a glass of water, Jinki tiptoed upstairs to check on his little boy. Peaking into his bedroom, the child was fast asleep while snuggling his fox plushie. The only light in his room was his galaxy projector giving a green light show. Once he shut the door as quietly as possible, his foot carried him towards his and Winnie’s room; but something told him not to go in. Was it guilt? A sixth sense? Was something going to happen? He wasn’t sure, but he listened to his gut and returned to his self-made couch bed.

Jinki then turned off the kitchen light after refilling his cup and headed back to the couch. Gently, he set his drink on the cork coaster and rested his head on his pillow. However, he still had to get up in the morning to set out Owen’s gifts from “Santa,” so he set an alarm for 7:45AM before lying down again.

Silence and darkness engulfed the house, the ticking of the grandfather clock near the TV, its hands reading 10:20, was the only noise that broke the dreary silence. Moonlight shone through the windows as snow fell, the Lee’s Christmas tree illuminated by the silver glow. As Jinki closed his eyes, the ticking seemed to grow louder and louder as he drifted. It was only after a few seconds, the ticking stopped at the sound of sleigh bells in the distance, and it was silent again.

When he opened his eyes again, Jinki looked at the clock.

11:55.

How did the time fly so fast? Jinki wondered. He figured it was only because he was going in and out of sleep.

A ripple in his water cup caught his attention. Then, the family pictures began to rattle, and the Christmas tree began to dance a little. Jinki could feel his whole house begin to shake nearly violently. Earthquake, he thought. As he was about to jump out of bed to get his wife and child to safety an old train whistle blew loudly. Through the living room windows, pale-yellow light illuminated the living room, and Jinki could hear a train chugging by. What was going on?

In a haste, Jinki grabbed his military coat from the coat closet, ripping the garment in the pocket as it got caught on the door handle. He slipped on his black boots and dashed outside into the cold night air. In front of him was an old, black locomotive stopped in front of his home. It wasn’t a subway train that he was used to seeing, but a steam powered train that he had only seen at museums and read about in school. Stretched across two cars, gold lettering read “POLAR EXPRESS.”

Just as he moved to check it out, a man’s voice called out, “All aboard! All aboard!”

Jinki turned around to see the owner of that voice standing by an entrance on one of the train cars. As he marched through snow closer, he noticed the man carried an electric lantern, wore a dark blue suit with a hat that said “CONDUCTOR” on gold lettering, square-framed glasses, and a dark brown mustache sat perched on his top lip.

“Well, you comin’?” the man, now identified as the conductor, spoke after a few seconds of silence.

“Where?” Jinki shrugged.

“Why to the North Pole, of course!” The conductor near-shouted as if he should have known ahead of time. He then motioned to the train. “This is the Polar Express.”

“The North Pole?”

The conductor made a “tsk” sound, and gave a curt nod. “I see. Hold this, please.”

He handed Jinki the lantern to hold before pulling out a clipboard from inside the car. He turned it around and asked, “Is this you?”

It was a profile of Jinki with all of his statuses including marital, parental, and career.

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Well,” the conductor looked at the profile, “it says here that you’ve had doubts this year, are lacking a sort of confidence, and even got into an argument with your wife this evening. Sounds to me like this is your crucial year. If I were you, I would think about climbing on board.”

Jinki couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A train shows up in his neighborhood, no one else seems to notice nor care about the ruckus noise of the whistle, and now he’s told the train is going to the legendary North Pole. It existed, of course, but the aspect of Santa’s North Pole was just a legend. That’s what he knew. It was too much to wrap his head around, so he shook his head and backed away.

“Suit yourself,” the conductor shrugged as he took the lantern back. Once he stepped onto the car, he waved his source of light, and the train whistled in response. The train lurched forward and began to chug away. Jinki’s mind began to race as he thought about why the train showed up in the first place. It must have been a sign for something, and he had that gut feeling earlier telling him to wait down in the living room. This train had to arrive for whatever reason, so with a change of mind, Jinki jumped on before the locomotive could pick up speed.

Looking out into his neighborhood, he passed his house, and he silently promised to return in a while.

Jinki didn’t notice the conductor standing behind him until he cleared his throat. He turned around and saw the conductor holding the compartment door open for him. When he entered, the interior of the car was stunning. Beautiful red moquette covered the seats, the floor carpet was a dark green with a holly print on it, a light colored wood framed the entire compartment, and large windows were wiped crystal clear with the exception of ice leaving their thumbprints on the outside.

There were already a few passengers inside. Most of them were people who didn’t know, but there were a few idols he recognized or was familiar with: Yoohyeon from DREAMCATCHER, Moonbin from ASTRO, San from ATEEZ, Red Velvet’s Yeri, and even Yanan of PENTAGON. They were all joking around or speaking with the other passengers, but he wasn’t sure why they were on the train in the first place.

Jinki just took the first seat he saw. The seat was comfy, at least.

“Onew?” a woman’s voice sounded from his left.

Turning his head, he found his former labelmate Amber sitting across the aisle from him. Her hair was still in its iconic short cut but dyed a velvet red, and she was dressed in a sweater and comfortable, heather grey pants. Her tattoo sleeve peaked from beneath the long sleeves every now and then.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

“Did the train just show up at your house?”

“Yep. As it did everyone else here.”

“Do you know what kind of train this is?” another voice chimed in. Joohoney of Monsta X was sitting in front of him.

“A magic train?” Amber replied sarcastically.

“I know it’s a magic train. Actually, it’s a Baldwin 2-8-4 S3-class steam locomotive, but in 1931 at Baldwin Locomotive Works.”

Someone’s been doing a lot of Googling, Jinki thought.

He leaned in towards Amber and asked her, “Are we really going to the North Pole?”

Amber nodded. “I didn’t believe it either, but trust me, the conductor has been telling the truth.”

“Tickets, please!” the conductor announced.

Everyone scrambled back to their seats as he began to check for tickets. Jinki was the first person he came to and asked for his ticket, but he shook his head. He wasn’t informed of any tickets beforehand.

“Try your pocket,” instructed the conductor.

Jinki checked his right pocket, but it was empty with the tear from earlier. It was about two fingers wide, and he would have to fix it soon.

“Try your other pocket.”

When he inspected it, the feeling of something paperlike caught him by surprise. Pulling it out, he was holding a shining, golden ticket that had a picture of the train on the front. The ticket was about the size of a football, and the gold reflected the light at every angle. Jinki had never seen anything like it.

Still stunned, he handed it to the conductor, who snatched it up with a thank you. Using a hole punch, he began making holes in the ticket at such a rapid pace Jinki thought it was automatic at one point.

The conductor gave him back the ticket before thanking him and moving on to the next passenger. Jinki’s ticket had the letters “H” and “R” punched into it. What kind of train was this?

“That guy sure likes to show off with his ticket punch,” Joohoney scoffed as he held up his ticket. “Look what that wise guy punched in my ticket. ‘L’ ‘E.’ What the heck does that mean?”

The conductor made an announcement over a PA system, stating the train would be making another stop at an address.

“We’re heading for the other side of the tracks,” Joohoney whispered to someone.

Jinki rolled down his window to see what was happening. The train had stopped at a beautiful white house that was two stories high. It was decorated for the holidays with a wreath hanging on the door and multicolored lights wrapped around two columns. A small snowman in a purple bonnet seemed to greet the train, and the front porch was covered in snow. Through a large window on the first floor, Jinki could make out a Christmas tree that was illuminated by white lights.

The conductor stepped off the train to greet a tall, young man standing outside and dressed in warm pajamas and a black robe and slippers.

“It’s just another pickup,” Joohoney said before turning to Jinki. “That’s weird. I thought you were supposed to be the last one.”

Jinki was paying attention to the scene outside. The conductor gave him the same speech to the young man about where the train was going and all, but just like Jinki, the young man got cold feet and backed away.

“Suit yourself,” said the conductor. He hopped back onto a car and waved his lantern. The train whistled and began to chug, the center of gravity forcing the passengers back a little.

As the locomotive passed the man, Jinki seemed to recognize who he was as they got closer. He had jet black hair, idol-like features, and was about five feet and eleven inches tall. His dark eyes looked up at Jinki, and the older man gave a small wave.

Minsung, it clicked in his mind. Minsung of ROMEO. Minho had appeared in one of their music videos a few years back, so that’s where he remembered him from. He looked the same, but a tad bit older.

To Jinki’s surprise, the young man began to run after the train. However, despite Minsung’s long legs he was lagging to catch up to the train. The snow was making it difficult for him, and it didn’t help that the train was beginning to pick up speed.

“We have to stop the train,” Jinki concluded as he pulled himself back into the compartment.

“I don’t know how to stop a train,” Amber panicked.

“Pull the emergency break!” Joohoney pointed to a red, stirrup shaped object hanging in a cylindrical cavity in the wall.

Without a second thought, JInki rushed over and ranked on it with both hands. Almost immediately, the train halted to stop, but the force pushed the passengers over. Jinki, Amber, and Joohoney all were thrown to the floor, the wind being knocked out of the older man for a few seconds.

Once he caught his breath, he stood up again. Minsung’s head appeared on the other side of the car door’s round window. He looked in at everyone else, but turned the other way to enter the caboose. Jinki concluded he was just shy. Jinki was about to go invite him to the other car when another door slammed open.

“WHO IN THE BLAZES APPLIED THAT EMERGENCY BREAK?!?!” the conductor screamed.

“He did,” Joohoney tattled as he pointed to Jinki.

“You.” -The conductor furiously marched towards him- “In case you didn’t know, that cord if for emergency purposes only!” -he moved over to the open window to signal to the driver of the train- “And in case you weren’t aware, tonight is Christmas Eve. And in case you hadn’t noticed, this train is on a very tight schedule.”

The train whistled as the conductor got close to Jinki’s face.

“Now, Mr. Lee,” he lowered his voice. “Christmas might not be important to some people, but it is very important to the rest of us!”

Jinki tried to explain, but Amber stepped to defend him. “He was just trying to stop the train so that guy could get on!” she raised her voice.

The conductor looked out to where she was pointing and saw Minsung taking a seat in the caboose. “I see. Mr. Lee, is that what happened?”

Jinki nodded quickly.

Smacking his lips, the conductor calmed down, and told them, “Let me remind you, we are on a very tight schedule” -he checked his golden pocket watch and nearly had a heart attack- “And I’ve never been late before! And I am certainly not going to be late tonight.” He then rushed to the front door of the car and instructed everyone to return to their seats.

The Polar Express began to move again. Picking up the microphone for the PA system, the conductor announced, “Your attention, please. Are there any Polar Express passengers in need of refreshment?”

Everyone who was a passenger shot their hands in the air. The conductor slid the door open, and about eight waiters dressed in black vests and pants with white clothes wrapped around their midsections came tap dancing into the car. Music started to play as every other seat was turned towards the ones behind them, creating a sort of booth with at least three or four passengers sitting together. As the waiters and conductor sang about hot chocolate, the white clothes were tossed into each booth and made a sort of floating table. A few chefs entered on a trolley cart and began to toss out cups and saucers to each waiters’ tray. Jinki was surprised none of the dishes shattered upon impact despite being made of porcelain.

Some more chefs entered with a giant, bronze pot that was steaming with some boiling substance in it. A lever was pulled, and shots of the burning brown liquid landed in each cup. The beverage was then passed to each passenger, and as soon as Jinki tasted his, he couldn’t believe how delectable it was. He wished his son was there to try it as well, but he hoped to try to find something similar to make for him.

As soon as everyone was finished with their first round, they were giving a second cup as the waiters gave a gymnastic type performance. Then, once everything was picked up, the waiters jumped onto the tables, pulled the clothes as they back flipped back into the aisle, and then tap danced back out of the car as the seats were turned back into their original positions.

[kimannhart]

something traumatic happened to me today and i didn't know how to cope so here's a horror/thriller-esque fic that's based off of a short film script i wrote. hope you enjoy this 2.1k fic.

also since this is based off of a film script, the style in this fic is sort of different than how i usually write.

this fic is also on ao3

~~

A thumb presses down on the remote control. The sound of various channels fill the room. 

The channel surfing stops. 

“... no evidence of a body being found, Maria Stark, a local blacksmith, has been legally declared dead after her car was found crashed and burned late last evening. A memorial service is to be held by Stark’s sister.”

The television clicks off.

A WEEK LATER

Shiny, multiple robotics trophies are displayed proudly on the built-in bookshelves. Only a few of the shelves have framed photographs sitting on them. Above the mantle of the fireplace is a framed family painting of a mother and her teenage son.

Tony, a mere eighteen-year-old, has his hair neatly combed and washed. He is dressed to the nines in a black suit. Tony is sitting alone on the tufted sofas. Though, the distant sound of heels clicking on the floor can be heard in the background. 

A glum look paints Tony’s face as he stares up at the painting of his mother. Tears start to fill Tony’s eyes. He clasps his eyes shut, not wanting to let the tears fall. Tony licks his dry lips and lets out a shaky breath.

The clicking of heels gets louder, moving closer to Tony before the sound promptly stops.

A thin, well manicured hand grabs onto Tony’s shoulder.

Tony looks back to see his Aunt Peggy, who is dressed in a conservative style black dress. Peggy’s hair is styled in a simple tight bun. While her face shows minimal makeup, her lips are painted in a daring red. A black birdcage veil is pinned into her hair. 

Peggy gives Tony a sad soft smile. She gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I need to head back to the house soon, darling. I have to go and finish setting up. Do you want to ride with me?”

Tony shakes his head, “No, thanks.” He glances back towards the painting, his eyes lock with the painting version of his mother’s eyes. His gaze was not faltering. “I want to stay a little bit longer. I promise I won’t take too long, Aunt Peggy... I just need a few more moments.” Tony turns to look back at his aunt.

Peggy nods in understanding. She presses a chaste kiss on Tony’s forehead and leaves. 

The moment that Tony hears the front door click shut, he slumps back into the couch. He lets out a sigh, and rubs a tired hand over his face. Tony still can’t process what’s happening. 

He gets up from the couch and walks quietly towards one of the shelves. Tony grabs a gold framed photograph of his mother holding him when he was a baby. Tony’s fingers gently graze the glass. A distant look appears in Tony’s eyes. It’s clear that he is stuck thinking about a particular moment. 

The chiming of a grandfather clock from the nearby hallway snaps Tony back to reality. He sets the photograph back in place. His eyes linger for a few more seconds on the photograph. “Thanks for everything, mamma,” he softly says.

Tony walks out of the living room and out of his home with a soft click of the door.

~~

The moment that Tony steps foot into his aunt’s home, he’s greeted to a blown up photo of his mother near the staircase. A gorgeous wreath stand is placed next to the photo. Tony looks around to see various people scattered downstairs, all of whom are having quiet conversations with one another to pass time as they wait for either Peggy or Tony to give a speech.

Tony mutters his thanks every now and then when people give their condolences.

He walks into the living room and tilts his head in curiosity when he spots a photo album sitting on the coffee table. Tony grabs it, sits on one of the single sofa chairs, and starts to flip through the album. He is surprised to see that the album contains photos of his mother and Aunt Peggy from their childhood. Some photos show the two of them posing in ridiculous outfits. Other photos show the two as teenagers in various candid moments.

Tony was about to close the photo album when he notices that one of the photos is slightly thicker than the others. 

He sets the album down onto his lap. Tony slips the photo out and realizes that one photo is stuck to another. Carefully, he separates them. 

Tony notices that the hidden photo is a family photo. The photo is of his mother, Aunt Peggy, his grandfather, and grandmother. The peculiar thing about this photo, though, is that someone seemed to have scratched out his mother’s face out of the photo. 

The clicking sound of a spoon on glass draws Tony’s attention.

Tony looks up and sees his Aunt Peggy standing in the middle of the living room. He quickly places the photos back in their rightful place, shuts the album, and sets it back onto the coffee table.

Tony focuses his attention to his aunt, curious to know what she is going to say.

Peggy smiles as she patiently waits for everyone to settle down and focus their attention on her. “Hi. Thank you all for coming, it means a lot to me,” she turns her head to look at Tony, “and I’m sure to Tony as well, that you’re all here. Your presence and condolences have been so comforting during this difficult time and have served as a reminder to me just how much impact that my sister had on others.” 

A wave of emotion crashes onto Peggy. She starts to get a bit choked up. Peggy clears her throat. “Maria was honestly one of the happiest people I have ever known. Every time she would walk into a room, it would immediately brighten up. She had an affectionate smile and laugh. She was smart and such a people’s person. Growing up I was always so jealous of her because not only was she kind and able to make friends so easily, she was...”

Tony’s attention dies, and he starts to drown out his Aunt Peggy’s words.

His eyes darted back to the photo album. His hands are itching to grab the album and take out the scratched out photo. Millions of questions about the photo run through Tony’s mind. Tony was so deep in thought that he doesn’t even realize that time has passed and that his Aunt Peggy has been calling his name.

“Tony!”

Finally, Tony snaps back to reality. 

“Huh?” he replies.

Peggy looks at Tony, concern gracing her face. “Are you okay, honey?”

Tony looks back to the photo album, wondering if he should bring up what he found, but decides against it. Tony nods his head. “Yeah, peachy keen, Aunt Peggy.” 

Peggy looks at Tony, her eyes squinting at him slightly, not really believing his words. 

“I promise,” Tony adds.

Peggy sighs and drops it. She wraps an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Come on, I want you to meet some of your mother and I’s childhood friends. I’m sure they have a bunch of embarrassing stories about your mother from when we were about your age.”

At the mention of stories, Tony becomes captivated by the thought. He becomes so interested at the possible stories he could be told that he ends up forgetting about the scratched out photograph.

Peggy guides Tony out into the backyard to a small trio. 

“Your mother and I have been friends with them for ages. I think you’ll like them.”

The two stop in front of the trio.

“Hello,” Peggy greets. “I brought someone for you to meet!” 

The trio give their waves and say their respective hellos. 

Peggy points to a man, who seems to be in his early forties and is holding one of the snacks that Peggy set out. The man looks as if he could never hurt a fly. “This is Edwin.” She points to a woman. “And that’s Edwin’s wife, Ana.” Lastly, Peggy points to the last man in the trio. He is in his early forties as well, and looks harsh looking. He looks like someone you never would want to cross. “And that’s Obadiah, or Obie as we all call him.”

Tony waves shyly. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you all.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Tony... It is Tony, right?” Edwin asks.

Tony nods in confirmation. 

Ana throws him a kind smile. “I wish we met under better circumstances.”

“I do too,” Tony agrees.

An awkward silence falls among the group. All of them a bit unsure of what they should say. 

Peggy clears her throat. “I told Tony we had some stories about Maria.” 

Obie’s eyes light up. Edwin glances over to Obie and immediately knows what’s going to happen.

“Oh no. Are you going to tell him...” Edwin starts to say before getting cut off by Obie.

“Of course I have to tell that story!” Obie looks to Tony. “Say, Tony, did you know your mother was a bit of a wild troublemaker?” 

Tony eyebrows furrow. “Troublemaker? No way.”

Obie nods. “Yes she was!”

“Oh! Tell him about that time she got in trouble with the cops during our senior year of high school!” Ana jumps in. 

Edwin shakes his head and finishes the rest of his snack. “I’m going to need a bit more food if we’re going to be sharing stories for the rest of the night.”

As Edwin walks away, Tony immediately becomes enamored with the story that Obie begins to tell. 

~~

Hours go by and mostly everyone has left. The only people left in the house are Peggy, Edwin, Ana, Obie, and Tony.

Tony is sitting on the sofa, amused by their antics. His eyes land back on the photo album. He suddenly remembers the scratched out photo. Tony goes to grab the album, but Obie beats him to it.

“Oh, God,” Obie mutters. He looks over to Peggy. “Is this your family photo album? I haven’t seen this in years!” Obie starts to flip through the album, a nostalgic look on his face. However, the more photos he goes through, the more Obie’s demeanor changes. 

Obie starts to become irritated and bit angry. He tosses the album back to where it was. Obie chugs a drink from the bottle of tequila he had brought out earlier.

“Uh, are you okay, Obie?” Tony asks.

“I hated your mother.”

Obie’s words shock Tony.

“What?”

“Your mother was a piece of shit, truly.” Obie glances at Tony. “Did you mother ever tell you how she stole my girlfriend?” 

That stuns Tony into silence. 

“I guess that’s why I stopped being friends with her. So, when I heard the news that your mother died, boy was I so fucking joyful.”

Peggy, Ana, and Edwin are all listening carefully to Obie’s words. The three adults glance worriedly at each other.

Ana hesitantly looks back at Obie, afraid to ask what she knows is on everyone’s mind. “Obie? Did you... did you kill Maria?”

Obie’s eyes widen at the question. “What? No!”

Tony pulls out the scratched photo from the album and holds it up for everyone to see. “Did you do this?”

Obie gulps and his eyes dart back and forth between everyone in the room. “I.. Um...”

~~

The sound of gravel can be heard as someone walks up to a desolate cabin late at night. 

The inside of the cabin is dim, only being lighted up by the moonlight that peaks through the slits of the curtains. There are various pieces of furniture covered with sheets. 

The sound of the door being unlocked is heard. The door creaks open. A dark figure places the keys down onto the counter. The person turns the lights on. Once the lights are on, it reveals that the dark figure is actually Peggy. Her hair is still done in a tight bun, but the veil, dress, and lipstick she had on earlier are gone. Instead, she is wearing a black sweatshirt and leggings with athletic shoes.

Peggy heads over to a door and opens it. She turns the light of the basement and starts to walk down the stairs.  A no nonsense look is on her face. She walks towards something and stops. Peggy looks down. 

Peggy is looking at a thinner and raggedy version of her sister. Maria is tied up and gagged. Her clothing is dirty and torn.

Maria looks up at Peggy, all the fight is gone from her eyes.

“Now, this wouldn’t have happened if you just joined HYDRA like I did.” Peggy walks around Maria. “So, what are we going to do about you? Hmm?”

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Rocking the Boat 14

Supernatural AU 

Link to  chapter 13

Words: 2,713

Pairings: Gabriel x Reader/Dean x Cas

_____

The next morning a light knock on your bedroom door woke you. Sitting up, you glanced at the clock. 6:45...a bit early for someone to come visiting. You got out of bed and walked to the door with a yawn.  

Dean stood on the other side of the door. He was fully dressed and giving you that “please forgive me for being an ass” smile that seemed to only work on Cas and yourself. 

“What are you doing up so early?”

You asked. Dean shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. 

“I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.” 

You moved aside and let Dean into the room. Dean sighed. This was the last conversation that he really wanted to be having with you He looked around the room expecting to see your dollhouse in the corner and toys covered the floor but there wasn’t. You were grown up and he needed to face it. Dean was just having a harder time doing that than he ever expected. 

“Is Gabriel back?”

You asked. Dean shook his head. 

“No, he’ll turn up eventually. He’s probably just off pouting somewhere like a giant child. I’m not here to talk about Gabriel. Well, I guess I kind of am since he did help cause this problem…”

“Dad…”

Dean sat down. 

“Sorry...I’m still a bit touchy on the relationship. Y/n, I am really sorry about yesterday.  I was just shocked. You know I really never expected this. Some weird part of me expected you to be a little girl that would need me forever.”

You held a hand up. Hearing this come out of Dean’s mouth was a bit difficult! He was your father. You would always need him. It didn’t matter if you had Gabriel or not. 

“Dad, I am always going to need you. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my life. It also doesn’t matter if I am with Gabriel or not. You have done really well over the past little bit...getting along with him and all. I know that he can be difficult.” 

Dean nodded wildly. Gabriel was more than difficult. The archangel was a real pain in Dean Winchester’s ass. The last thing that he was about to admit was the fact that he was beginning to like Gabriel. At first, he just hated Gabriel. Now Dean only found him mildly irritating. 

“Well, don’t you think that this kid is going to be calling me grandpa.”

You smiled as Dean stood and pulled you into a hug. 

“Alright.” 

You said with a chuckle. Dean held you a bit longer than he normally did. When he pulled away, Dean glanced over his shoulder at the door. 

“Now that we have all of that out of the way.; I have some more crazy to share with you. When you walk out into the living room ...try not to scream.”

“Oh Christ! Now what?”

You muttered before turning and stormed down the hall. Whatever that was waiting for you was obviously big! What could it be? Some weird long lost family members? 

Walking into the living room, you froze. Sitting on the couch was Lucifer, Raphael, and Michael (who was awkwardly petting a pair of rolled-up socks.) Lucifer gave you a friendly wave while Raphael looked indifferent as always. 

“I thought that you were dead!”

You snapped at Raphael. The archangel looked at you with a matching frown. 

“Surprises happen every day.” 

“I guess…” 

You muttered as Lucifer stood up. 

“It's good to see you too!” 

You carefully glanced at Lucifer as Cas put a hand on your shoulder. 

“Its alright. They aren’t here to mess anything up.” 

You laughed. That was a dumb statement. Put four archangels, well minus one since yours was MIA, in a room and bad stuff happened! 

“What’s with Michael?”

You finally asked. Michael looked up from the socks that he was so engrossed in. Ugh, he was still actively using your grandfather’s body as a vessel. . Lovely.

“Hi, have we met?” 

He asked in a childlike voice. Lucifer even frowned before looking at his older brother with distaste. 

“Michael is no longer with us in the normal Michael-like sense. Apparently, his time in the cage has made him lose his mind.” 

Michael looked back to the socks and started petting them again. You nodded and met Lucifer’s gaze. 

“I see. What’s with the socks?” 

Lucifer shrugged. 

“He found them and no he won’t let him go. He hissed at me the last time I tried to get them away from him.” 

“Lovely, so why are you three here?” 

Raphael looked up. 

“We are here because of the condition that you are in. Thanks to our brother...where is Gabriel?” 

You shrugged.

“Hell if I know. Wait, how the fuck did you three find out about me being pregnant.” 

Michael looked up. 

“I like babies.” 

Whether it be the stupidity of the situation or something else you laughed. If Michael was in the right mind there would be hell to pay. Since he was happy enough with his pair of socks and not trying to kill you...it was best to leave him alone. 

Lucifer motioned you forward. 

“Let’s just say that we had a cozy run-in with that crazy guy known as our father. I don’t know what he told you but his intentions aren’t as cozy as they seem. Dad has this weird idea that he will be able to use your baby and Jack to take over everything and make everyone’s lives hell. And I think that you all owe me an apology for saying that he was bad..any day now. An I’m sorry Luci is just fine!” 

You sighed miserably. As usual, your gut instinct was right. Chuck totally and a motive. Dean’s hand on your shoulder brought you out of your trance. 

“It's going to be okay-” 

Before you could get a word out Gabriel walked into the room. He froze the moment that he saw Lucifer. His mouth dropped seeing Raphael and Michael. Had the situation not been so serious you would have laughed. Gabriel looked so confused and bothered. His confusion deepened the moment that Michael was up and had his arms around him. 

“Gabriel! I missed you!” 

Michael said cheerfully and petted Gabriel’s face. Gabriel awkwardly backed away. 

“Yeah,,, same to you.” 

Gabriel muttered as Michael went back to his socks. He inched over to you without taking his eyes off of his brothers. 

“What the hell is going on here?” 

You shrugged. 

“Fucked up family reunion that you are super late for. Lucifer wants an apology by the way.” 

Gabriel turned to Lucifer with a scowl. 

“What the hell for?”

Lucifer smirked evilly. 

“For the fact that I was right about dad all along. The fact that dad is wanting to use your baby with Ms. Pretty here as a weapon…”

Gabriel held a hand up.

“Excuse me?”

Lucifer pointed to you with a smirk. 

“That girl right there that you can’t keep your hands off of well she’s pregnant.” 

Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“I know that, you idiot!” 

You sighed. This was not going to go anywhere but Gabriel and Lucifer screaming at each other. 

“Gabriel, come on. I need to talk to you without an audience.” 

Gabriel didn’t hesitate to follow you to the bedroom.  You sat down on the bed as Gabriel shut the door. 

“What the hell is all of that in there?” 

You shrugged. 

“You mean that circus of weird? Oh, they came to us.” 

Gabriel rolled his eyes for the millionth time that day. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell Lucifer was talking about?” 

You rubbed your feet on the rug before looking up to Gabriel. 

“You know how we are expecting a miniature version of ourselves that will turn up in the near future?” 

Gabriel put a hand over his face. 

“Yes, Y/n, I know...”

You were silent for a moment. 

“Turns out Lucifer isn’t as big of a quack as we all thought. Chuck is….he plans on using our kid and Jack as a weapon against everyone else. I hate being right but I figured that there was something weird going on. Now we have Lucifer and your two back from the dead brothers offering their services. That is what you missed. Maybe an abortion would be the best thing. Chuck couldn’t hurt anyone and we can just keep an eye on Jack. Besides, what do I know about being a mother?”

Gabriel stood motionless as you looked down at the ground. He automatically felt like the biggest jackass known to man! Maybe he overreacted the day before. Staying gone all night sure didn’t help! 

Looking at the depressed expression on your face made Gabriel feel if possible worse! He quickly walked over and knelt down in front of you. 

“Sugar...I’m really sorry. I have been a dick! You aren’t getting any abortion. My crazy father isn’t going to do jack squat! Between myself and those looney toons out there...we should be able to fight him off...or extremely scare him so he will leave us alone. We’ll take care of the kid and just maybe it won’t be too much like us. We are so in for it!” 

You couldn't help but smile at the worried expression on Gabriel’s face. 

“Yeah, I think we are.” 

You replied with a smile before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Gabriel’s lips. 

“I see that your dad isn’t too mad at me. He didn’t try to stab me when I walked through the door.” 

Gabriel muttered against your lips. 

“I think Dean has made peace with it. Besides it's not like he can really do much about it now.” 

Gabriel had been ready to fight off an angry Dean Winchester. When Dean didn’t go after him Gabriel was slightly disappointed. The disappointment quickly went away when he saw his own brothers sitting on the sofa like it was Sunday dinner. 

“So what the hell is going on with Michael? A better question is what the heck is it with him and the socks?”

You shrugged. 

“I guess being stuck with Lucifer for a small amount of time finally got to him. I kind of like him better this way. Even though him petting that pair of socks is a bit creepy.” 

Gabriel smirked. 

“He’s never hugged me before. I didn’t know what to do for just a moment there.” 

Neither of you said anything for a few moments. The silence was comforting. 

“How are you feeling about all of this?”

You asked softly. Gabriel shrugged. 

“I feel a lot of things. I would be a big fat liar if I didn’t say that I was nervous. I never planned on this happening. Sugar, what if I mess this kid up somehow? What I leave it somewhere and can’t remember where I put it? I was totally good with being Jack’s uncle. I didn’t have to worry about screwing him up. That’s on your dad and Cas! I was just the fun uncle now it's different. If I screw our kid up then that is all my fault! What if I am like my dad?” 

You fought the urge to smile.  The expression of sheer terror was so evident in Gabriel’s honey eyes. Reaching down you stroked Gabriel’s cheek. 

“Hey! It's okay. You are going to be just fine, Gabe.  You aren’t going to leave the baby anywhere and forget it and you sure as hell won’t be like your father.” 

Gabriel didn’t reply. He sat looking around all confused and vulnerable. 

“Come here.” 

You whispered before pulling Gabriel’s against you. He snuggled his face into your chest while wrapping his arms around your body.

“It's going to be okay.”

(meanwhile)

Dean stood in the living room with a cup of coffee in his hands. He was relieved to finally have some coffee in his system. Waking up to three archangels sitting in your living room offering their assistance was a lot to handle. 

“How did all of this happen?”

Raphael’s voice pulled Dean from his thoughts. He turned to see Raphael talking to Cas. The archangel was too close to Cas for his liking! 

“Whoa sparkles, step the fuck back.” 

Raphael held his hands up and backed away slowly. 

“I don’t have time to worry about our past. I am currently wondering how that human girl in there is pregnant.”

Dean considered being an ass. Considered was just a word...he was going with ass…

“Well, Raphael, you see Gabriel can’t keep his hands off of my kid…”

Raphael held a hand up, looking disgusted. 

“I know how human relations work although I don’t understand why Gabriel is remotely interested in her. She is nothing but a lowly human.” 

Dean held a hand up. Cas’ displeased frown intensified. If he could blow Raphael up again for insulting his daughter he would have! 

“I’m going to stop you right there. First off, watch how you talk about my kid. I have no issue in stabbing you and I don’t think Gabriel will mind too much either. Second, this whole happening was no of their choosing so keep your holier than thou opinions to yourself or fuck off.” 

“I would prefer if you didn’t talk to her in general.” 

Cas hissed. Dean looked over his shoulder with a smirk before turning back to Raphael.

“Just a warning, he’s her dad too and he has no issues in kicking your ass. He’s done it once before and I’m damn sure he wouldn’t mind doing it again.” 

Michael looked up from his place on the floor with his socks. 

“You all are so grumpy. Luci, make them be nice.” 

Lucifer, meanwhile, who had been watching the whole thing with an amused smirk rolled his eyes. 

“Raphael, shut up. Dean is right, Gabriel will kick your ass for being mean to Y/n. I talked to you about being paranoid.” 

Raphael scowled at his brother before sitting down in a huff. Lucifer shrugged. 

“Ignore him. He still has a bit of a superiority complex.” 

Dean groaned. 

“When did you become so nice?” 

Lucifer smiled, 

“When it turned out that I was right about everything in the first place. It's a good feeling when the truth comes out and you don’t look like the jackass after all. I would also like to make it up to Gabriel for all of the problems that I have caused him.” 

Sam and Dean both snorted. 

“I hope that you brought something better than yourself and these two because from the look on Gabriel’s face a bit ago ...I don’t think that he is too interested in what you have to offer.”

Lucifer sat down with a scowl that matched Raphael’s. Sam put a hand over his face. 

“Just a heads up, Lucifer but I don’t think that Jack will be too thrilled to see you either.” 

Dean nodded in agreement with his brother. 

“Yeah, leave Jack alone.” 

“Who is Jack?”

Michael asked gleefully. Lucifer rolled his eyes. 

“I have told you four times that Jack is my son.”

Sam and Dean scooted back. They were both ready for Michael to throw a tantrum. When Michael didn’t look up, Dean gave Sam a shrug. Maybe Michael was nuts after all? 

“Sam! Dean! You’ll never guess what I found out.” 

Jack shouted before coming into the room. He froze the moment that he saw Lucifer sitting on the couch. Lucifer smiled. 

“Hello, son.” 

Jack turned to Sam and Dean with a beyond angry frown before turning and walking from the room without another word. 

Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Good job, Satan.” 

Cas turned and walked in the direction that Jack went in.  It was going to be a long day in the bunker and things were only getting started! 

__________

@brokencasbutt67-writer

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[rubecso]

The Insomniacs

I wrote this short story for my fiction writing module at university. Now it’s done and submitted I’d love to hear what people think of it. It was inspired by the real (and surreal) experience I had of being awake in the early hours in a Dusseldorf hotel.

Words: 2178

The Insomniacs

The hotel was like a museum with bedrooms. Every hallway was lined with paintings of misty, continental landscapes or old nobility with jutting chins. Glass display cabinets or sculptures with missing arms or noses lurked in every corner. Thomas’ flight from London to Dusseldorf had been one of the earlier ones, so he’d sat in the lobby and watched a succession of aunts, uncles and cousins gasp in delight as they arrived, before remembering the occasion and reverting to suitably sombre expressions.

He could see why Christoph had picked this place. It was a marvel, in the day at least.

At 4am, it had a different feel. Most places did, in his experience. The succession of dead aristocrats judged him as he passed. The rolling hills and Alpine forests gained a third dimension and beckoned him to fall into them. The sculptures were somehow both more human and less so.

He wandered down to the lobby, the marble tiles cold beneath his socks. Near the entrance was a semi-circle of peculiar chairs. They were red velvet with carved, wooden ornamentations (Baroque or maybe Rococo, he wasn’t sure). Yet they had a strangely modern shape, like something in a university common room. The backrest curved at the sides and overheard, so when he sat down it enveloped him.

He was so blinkered that he didn’t notice the man sitting in the chair next to him until he spoke:

‘Finden Sie auch keinen Schlaf?’

Thomas was startled. He was used to the world being empty at 4am. He looked round to see a pair of dark eyes looking expectantly at him from a wrinkled face.

He blinked, brain digesting the words. He was fairly sure the old man had asked him if he couldn’t sleep.

‘Oh, er, jah,’ he stumbled over the unpractised language, ‘ich bin… um, ich habe…’

He stopped and sighed.

‘Sorry. My German isn’t so good tonight.’

The lines around the old man’s eyes deepened as he smiled kindly.

‘English? English is fine.’

‘Thanks.’ Thomas wore the apologetic smile of the uncomfortably British. ‘I was trying to say I have insomnia.’ He paused, watching for confusion in the old man’s face. ‘You understand?’

He nodded. Then he gestured to himself.

‘Me also.’ He leaned forward in his chair and whispered conspiratorially: ‘I have not slept in three thousand years.’

Thomas chuckled, but the old man did not (he supposed something had been lost in translation). He searched for something to say, but the man got there first:

‘This is your first time here?’

‘The hotel? Yes. My grandfather stayed here, though.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, years back.’

‘Perhaps I met him.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

He smiled, as if at some joke Thomas had not heard.

‘This is my hotel.’

‘Oh.’ Thomas gestured to their general surroundings. ‘And the artwork — it’s all yours?’

Another nod.

‘Wow.’ He would never have taken this simply-dressed man for a multimillionaire art collector. ‘It’s an amazing collection. Really it is.’

A spark lit in the owner’s deep, dark eyes. ‘You think so?’

‘Well,’ he gestured inarticulately, ‘of course.’

The old man stood up with surprising speed.

‘Let me show you around.’

***

As listened to the hotel owner speak about each of the artworks, Thomas felt like he should be taking notes. The old man spoke instructively. His accent was hard to place; close to German but with a melodic quality that sounded almost Italian. Thomas wondered if he was Swiss.

He seemed to know the provenance of every piece by heart; this was painted by Herr so-and-so, that was sculpted in such-and-such a century. For all Thomas knew about art history he could have been making it up as he went along, but he spoke with such authority that Thomas found it easier to believe he simply had it memorised. But more than these facts, he was full of odd little details about each piece, especially the portraits.

‘The Countess von Schrattenberg,’ he said at one point, pointing to an oil painting of a middle aged woman in an embroidered bodice with tightly curled, powdered hair and a pair of piercing, green eyes, ‘A very intelligent woman.’

He appeared to expect Thomas to reply.

‘You think so?’ he ventured.

‘I know so.’

Before Thomas could ask him to elaborate, he’d set off again. He walked briskly, hands clasped behind his back, a little bent but not overly so. He was certainly an old man, but not a frail one (or at least it seemed that way).

They carried on like this, Thomas following him up and down the hallways of the hotel and trying to take in the steady flow of facts and anecdotes. After a while, he decided the way the old man spoke about the artists and their subjects must simply be an eccentricity, or perhaps another joke that didn’t translate well. Or maybe Thomas was just too tired to get it.

One of the display cabinets stood out to Thomas. Its contents were a jumble of mismatched artefacts: fragments of pottery; metal objects twisted and bubbled with rust; some kind of carved, bone figurine; and a small, glass bottle. The bottle caught Thomas’ eye. It was green and cloudy, with a delicate handle. When he asked about it, the owner told him it dated back to Roman times. He fished out a set of keys and opened the cabinet to let him hold it. Thomas asked him if he was sure, having visions of it slipping through his fingers and shattering on the marble floor, but the owner insisted.

As Thomas turned the fragile flask over in his hands, the old man explained that it had been pulled out of the Rhine, along with everything else in the display cabinet.

‘The Romans had a fort here,’ he explained, ‘They brought in perfumes or oil in bottles like this, to trade with us Germans.’

(He meant the Germanic tribes, presumably.)

They got to talking about how long people had lived on this spot by the Rhine, how there were parts of the city where you could see the old town, and how before the town it was a village that grew up around the Roman fort, and how before that people settled along the river and lived off fish.

‘Ah,’ the old man sighed, ‘but you go back further than that, it becomes hard to remember.’

‘Hard to know, you mean?’ Thomas asked, ‘Because there aren’t written records?’

The owner regarded him silently for a few moments. Thomas wondered if he’d asked a stupid question or if it had been rude to try and correct him.

Then he shrugged. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ A thought appeared to strike him. ‘Have you walked by the river?’

‘No.’

‘You should.’

‘I might not get time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well I’m busy tomorrow and then after that I’m leaving.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘What are you busy with?”’

‘I, er,’ Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his socks, ‘I’ll be at a funeral. For my granddad, Christoph — the one who stayed here? It’s actually why we’re here. It was one of his requests.’

He glanced up at the owner, worried he was over-sharing. The look on the old man’s face was hard to read.

‘You were lucky,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To get the rooms, on such short notice. Most of our guests book months in advance.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Thomas opened his mouth to say something more, but instead it widened into a yawn.

The old man smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘You should try to sleep, I think.’

***

The next night, when he heard the old man speak from the chair beside him, Thomas wasn’t surprised. Somehow he’d known he’d be waiting for him.

He’d tried to sleep. He’d been sure he would the moment he put his head down. He’d struggled to keep his eyes open all through the funeral service and the meal afterwards. Yet despite the exhaustion seeping into his limbs (nothing like insomnia to teach you the meaning of ‘bone-tired’), he still couldn’t sleep. So he let his feet carry him down to the lobby again, the marble floor somehow less solid than before. When he passed the portrait of the green-eyed Countess, he was sure he saw her move out the corner of his eye. When he sat down in the peculiar chair again, he felt like it had swallowed him whole.

Then the voice came again:

‘Did you get time to walk by the river?’

‘No. Sorry.’ He wasn’t sure why he apologised.

‘Perhaps next time.’

They lapsed into silence, deeper and heavier for the thick, velvet upholstery surrounding Thomas on all sides, muffling even the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby. Perhaps the hotel owner was comfortable with quiet, but Thomas found himself grasping for something to say. He came upon something he’d almost said last night, and once it was in his mind it was the only thing he could think of. Finally it bubbled up through his lips:

‘We did book in advance. We knew when Christoph was going to die. He did it in Switzerland. Assisted suicide.’

He turned to look at the old man, expecting him to have shrunk back in surprise or disgust. But instead he had leaned in, his dark eyes gleaming and fixed on Thomas as if he were one of the artworks on the walls.

‘Tell me more about this.’

Thomas didn’t know if it was the calm confidence of the old man’s voice, or if sleep deprivation had stripped him of the usual restrictions he put on his speech, or if it was just that for the whole day no one in his family had brought it up, even though they all knew. He didn’t know why he wanted to tell this stranger about his grandfather, but he did. He told him how intelligent he’d been, how even when Thomas was a child he’d wanted to be smart like him. How he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. How even before he’d lost his speech or his ability to dress himself, he’d planned his death in advance. How certain he’d been that he didn’t want to keep going once his memories began to leave him, how he wanted to die while he was still himself…

‘Still himself?’ the hotel owner cut in, ‘What does this mean?’

Thomas blinked; he’d almost forgotten he was talking to another person.

‘While he still had most of his memories.’

‘Ah, so.’ The old man nodded. His eyes were drifting, seeming to search for something Thomas couldn’t see. ‘This is what makes us who we are? Memories. Ah, but I did not know a person could…’ He trailed off, then gestured to Thomas. ‘Please go on.’

So Thomas told him about the clinic in Switzerland, that strange country between other countries where people went to die. He told him about the garden by the clinic, where he and his mother had walked with Christoph in his wheelchair. How it had seemed like he might change his mind at the last minute, but then he’d just stopped and said ‘Now then’, and that was it. How when he went, it was like he’d just fallen asleep.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

They were quiet again then, and this time Thomas was comfortable in it. He let the hotel owner break it:

‘I have one more item to show you.’

***

It was the bone figurine from the display case, the one Thomas had overlooked in favour of the Roman flask.

‘What do you think that is?’ the old man asked him as Thomas held it, running his thumb over the carved notches.

‘I don’t know.’

He waited for the old man to tell him, but instead he sighed.

‘Neither do I.’ He paused, then seemed to make a decision. ‘But I think it should go back to the river.’

Thomas looked up, frowning.

‘But it looks so old. Isn’t it valuable?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Perhaps. But what good is it if no one remembers what it’s for?’ He caught Thomas’ eye. ‘Even me?’

‘Even…?’ Thomas began, but then the owner reached out and grabbed his arm.

‘Will you do that for me? Give it back to the Rhine?’

‘I don’t…’

‘Please?’ His grip tightened. His dark eyes burned.

Thomas swallowed. Then he nodded.

***

Later, after Thomas returned to the hotel and found the owner was nowhere to be seen, he slept deeply. In his dreams he was by the Rhine again, but the city was gone. A thick, dark forest took its place, thinning out at the marshy ground by the river. The air smelled ancient.

The old man was sat by the water, dressed in animal pelts. He held a knife of flint and was carving something with it. As Thomas approached, he held it up to the light and smiled with understanding. The small, bone figurine.

He looked up at Thomas.

‘Thank you.’

[epicureancaravan]

ushering in 2017

Just as the calendar slips into December and the clocks strikes midnight to usher in the last month of the year, I find myself moving into a joyful and happy zone. The festive spirit filled with cheer has begun to manifest itself all around me: and I have made it my business to usher more friends and family into this mood.

As they say, if you know the power of positive thoughts, you wouldn’t let a single negative thought cross your mind. And likewise, it is like all forces have come together to make it an even more extraordinary month for me and those around. It has been a month of jamming with my closest pals to celebrate life and our knowing each other.

We celebrated Rajesh Bhatia’s birthday over some fine wine and dine with hubby Rahul and my closest pals Radhika, Bala, Anita, Jaya Ashar and my favourite boy Shantanu Ugrankar. My evening with Asha Kulkarni Almeida and Asavari Dubhashi, my two close school buddies  just happened  out of the blue when we connected at 11am and decided to catch up later that evening after work over some retail therapy at the mall followed by gapshap on what we call as ajoba (grandfather) reclining chairs on how our lives were unfolding. Food and I go hand in hand and so we wrapped the evening with some steaming sizzlers and ravioli. . Don’t analyse the combination, but in the right company; all things fall into place.

But not before we planned a date in January to brunch at Olive.  Though each one of us is so different, with one being a research microbiologist and the other an Ayurvedic doctor and me from the corporate domain, our shared bonding over naughtiness and  what we choose to believe as our evolvedness that keeps us together. We have a name for us Trio; but that is for another day.

Can’t let this month pass without mentioning my school bestie Promila Jethwani who is in Dubai, but just a phone call or a chat away for me. I have made this special buddy a December promise to be there for her next birthday so long as it is somewhere in Asia. ‘Prom, I hope you are reading this and not going ahead with Las Vegas; mujhe naukri jo karni hai. Am not going to give up on convincing you that  Koh Samui is so us; all the wine, fish ,sand and sea. Beach party toh banti hai’.

Parsi bhonu(food) is my hot favourite and what more could one ask for when our close pal Jaya  hosted us at her old world charm of a gymkhana PVM at Cooperage on a sunny afternoon over white wine and sas ni macchi, bheja fry, the signature cheese samosas of PVM, Salli boti, prawn cutlets . A parsi meal cannot be complete without having  good old Dukes Raspberry; and that we did have in plenty. They must have run out of bottles that afternoon.

And then my pal Rachana (whom I possibly know for a short while; but we seem connected like from decades from an approach to life perspective; celebrated her 40th birthday along with her hubby Vishal over a rocking evening. Flower themed decoration, khazana wala khana and crooning into what I understand continued to be 'A Party all night'. Meeting with my baby niece Rhea was the highlight of this weekend. She is an epitome of innocence, delight, joy and mastic all bundled into one. Got me to play Hide and seek after decades and insisted she won despite my desperate attempt to find the ultimate hiding space .

 We also celebrated two birthdays in our building Ganpati group at our famous Essbel Khau(Eatables) katta (place of sitting) and homes, It was a Happy Birthday for Rajesh and Avinash and so no dinner at home on those days as ‘Khane walon ko.. Party ka bahana chahiye’.

At work, we hosted some children (girls)from an Orphanage run by nuns and it moved me to see them so happy and carefree as Santa made them merry. May God bless the nuns who love and take care of them like mothers and teachers. This is true selfless service and I do hope all of I for one can make a difference in the lives of those who may not be as privileged.

We are missing our friends Rongsen Anungla(Anu),Gautam  and their sweetie pie daughter Jiah this  month as they are visiting home in Nagaland. Not a year has gone by without one long evening with them during the Xmas week.

So, as December unfolds, I have finally got started with my 2015 resolution to write my blog. My motivator to this blog has been Manisha Talim, Rahuls cousin who has managed to multi task with her profession as a doctor as well as her interests and hobbies.

So much more happening in the last ten days with a Christmas get together with my near and dear gang; followed with some bonding time with them in Mahableshwar. Mahableshwar will not be complete without at least two meals at Dinas where Hormuz has preserved British and continental recipes handed down three generations along with divine Parsi food. Radhika and charted out our day wise plan at 3am last week. That calls for some spirit;, doesn’t it?

This is also my month of heartfelt thanksgiving to God for bringing people in my life who have been with Rahul and me through thick and thin. So Aai(mom), don’t say I missed you on this one.

Adios for now as I sign off with one of my many favourite quotes. ‘Life is short, Buy the Shoes, Drink the Wine, Order the dessert’.

[angelofrainfrogs]

Spend the Night: Ch. 7

~Coauthored by @zeitghest~

Fandom(s): Five Nights At Freddy’s: Security Breach

Description: The familiar melody of Grandfather’s Clock chimes through the echoing halls of the Pizzaplex…

Charlie wakes up in her Puppet’s vessel yet again with one goal in mind: to stop William Afton’s reign of terror for good. She enlists the help of Glamrock Freddy, the emphatic leader of the newest iteration of the Fazbear Band. But there seems to be more to this bear than meets the eye—and the same goes for the mysteriously familiar kid the duo find tinkering with animatronics down in Parts & Service.

With some help from friends new and old, Charlie’s journey into the bowels of the Pizzaplex will unravel mysteries none of them ever expected. 

Rating: T

Read on Ao3

It is just a glitch scattered in the system Tell me that it's wrong, never gonna listen World won't understand till they stand the vision Mayhem, mayhem, three, two, one

~Under Control by Tryhardninja, Ivy Marie~

“We must prepare to move,” Freddy announced, releasing Gregory and snatching the next access card from its little bear-shaped holder on the desk. Now they’d be able to get into higher-level areas than before—including another security office.

As Freddy grabbed for the card, Charlie reached for Gregory. Of course there was always another hurdle to overcome. With it barely even being 2:00 in the morning, they still had a long time before the main doors opened again. God forbid something else went wrong; Gregory could be trapped here with them over the weekend, too...

“Freddy? There's a place around here with unused characters right?” Charlie asked, bouncing Gregory soothingly in her arms and they readied to speed from the security room. “I think I have a solution for you and Michael's problem.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, there is a basement warehouse near Parts & Service; I believe unused characters are stored there as well,” Freddy responded a bit absently, watching the monitor as Vanessa approached the door.

“Freddy?” the guard’s voice soon rang out and she knocked harshly. “I can hear you in there! What the hell are you doing?! I gave you instructions to stay put, and now none of the Glamrocks are in their rooms!”

Vanessa sounded well and truly angry. She’d been running around searching for this phantom kid for nearly two hours, and she was tired.

“Ah, I was… using the cameras to see if I could track the child down!” Freddy replied, refusing to open the door until they absolutely had to. Speaking of cameras—

Another glance revealed yet another threat: Roxy was prowling through the arcade, directly in their path to the exit.

Charlie had half a mind to just press her face up to the double-walled security glass and scare Vanessa away. She didn't exactly deserve to be frightened so badly, yet they couldn't afford her slowing them down anymore. It seemed that right after she showed up so did the other animatronics, and that bunny might not be far behind either...

Roxy looked worse than before. What was she doing? Rolling in the left over oil at the Raceway? She normally held such pride in her appearance, reasonably grooming herself and making sure her model was in perfect, working condition before performances and “bedtime.” Now the cracks were showing—her metal chassis forming hairline fractures at stress points. Dirt and grime matted in the faux fur atop her head, smattering her cheeks and covering the paint-job makeup that the designers spent so long creating for her.

“You like playing games, Gregory?” growled Roxy, her voice heard past Vanessa in the arcade. “I know a game we can play—I'm a pro at hide and seek.”

The wolf was seething; her sharp maw would probably be dripping with drool if it could do such a thing.

Gregory held in his fearful sounds, choosing to close his eyes and bury his face in Charlie's thin shoulder. They knew he was there… but how?

If Michael had a body, he’d be shivering with fright at Roxy. Objectively he’d seen much worse over the years, but something about her tone, the way she was so clearly out for a child’s blood… that was utterly horrifying. Even the Funtime animatronics that were literally designed to capture children for William’s sick research purposes didn’t act like this. They behaved like relatively normal robots until a kid was close enough to grab, then they snapped and it was over in an instant.

But these Glamrock models… these were aware. And that made their actions so much worse.

“Bullshit!” Vanessa snapped as Michael fretted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you guys, but as soon as I get in there you’re going straight back to your room and I’m putting you on extra-lockdown!” She wasn’t entirely sure if they actually had that protocol, but she couldn’t think of a better threat right now.

“Charlie, you must focus on getting Gregory out,” Freddy murmured. “Find somewhere safe—I will keep the others occupied as long as possible, then come and find you.”

“Are you talking to someone?!” Vanessa chimed in, and it was at that moment the door power failed. The distinctive sound of electronics shutting down could be heard as the lights in the security office went out. The door soon raised, revealing Vanessa standing there with hands on her hips. She let out a gasp, eyes widening at the sight of Gregory and the Puppet.

“What the—what the fuck are you?!” She shook her head with an annoyed growl, starting forward. “Whatever; hand over the brat. He’s caused enough trouble tonight.”

Charlie was aware that Vanessa had been in the dark about everything just like them. Really, the woman didn’t deserve most of the frustrations of tonight. Even so Charlie’s arms coiled around Gregory, almost constricting him as she let out an inhuman hiss.

“He didn’t do anything wrong! Leave him alone!” she warned, backing slowly away. She attempted to match Vanessa’s pace, planning to run out the opposite door. The goal would be to hightail it out of the arcade without Roxy catching either of them, but with the speed demon hounding for their blood she’d have to time it perfectly.

Gregory looked up to Vanessa, the fear in his face knotting into anger. “Hey! Who are you calling a brat, dumbass?!”

“Clearly you, kid.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Ugh, why do I have to find the one with the biggest attitude? Look, I just need to take you to a safe area so we can call the police and get in contact with your parents. You can even take your weird, clingy robot with you... What are you, anyway?” The guard paused, staring at the Puppet with a pinched expression of confusion. “Some knockoff Daycare attendant model? Or—oh my god, Freddy, get out of my way!”

The bear had placed himself directly in Vanessa's path, holding his arms out ready to physically restrain her if need be.

“I am sorry,” he said with a shake of the head. “But my child safety protocols indicate that, at this moment, Gregory is safest with me and Charlie.”

“What?!” Vanessa shrieked, clenching her fists so hard her knuckles went white. “There is absolutely no way your protocol would tell you that a kid is safer with a robot than a human! You're so malfunctioning right now; we’ve got to—ouch!”

Suddenly, Vanessa's face twisted into an expression of extreme pain and she doubled over, clutching her head.

“Officer Vanessa?! Are you alright?” Freddy asked, instinctively reaching out to help.

“Mmph, y-yeah... just... just a migraine...”

And major amnesia to follow, Vanessa thought, but there was no need to tell the robot about her chronic health issues. She remained hunched over, temporarily blocking out everything around her as she tried to get over this sudden attack. She couldn't afford to lose the kid again...

Gregory was ready to push Puppet aside just to fight Vanessa for her rude nature towards his friends, though Charlie held fast to the squirming child with her arms laced around his small frame. There was no room for arguing between them. With Freddy intervening and trying to talk some sense into Vanessa, Charlie put more space between the humans.

“Freddy—” she said, calm and collected as she watched Vanessa curl at the pressure building in her skull. “—Vanessa needs first aid. She doesn't look too good...”

“Who cares about her?!” Gregory snapped, eyes narrowed at the night guard. His sympathy was clearly thin for her right now, having been tracked down by her for over twenty-four hours by this point. “She's the weirdo who's been trying to kidnap me, remember?!”

“Gregory, please have some empathy. She's hurting...” Charlie remarked. All the while, they were completely unaware what was really happening inside of Vanessa's head.

Ẅ̴̛̪͍̽̑̈́͌͌̄͛̏̏̃̅͝h̵̻̉a̸̺͆t̶̬̿'̴̡́s̴̱͛ ̵̮̅ẃ̸̨r̴͔̐ō̷̖n̷̠͝g̵̦̑,̷̼̔ ̷̳̿f̷̰̽u̷͔̿n̶̝̿n̷̠͒y̷̺͂ ̸̲͋b̴̟͆ǘ̷͇n̵̺͝ṅ̸̪y̴͓̒?̴̡͝[1]

Ä̵͉́r̵̼͑e̶̟͐ ̸͉̓t̵͉͊h̴̜̓ë̶͎́y̷̞͊ ̷͎̒b̶̯̊ẻ̷̟į̶͑ǹ̶̜g̸̤̎ ̵̯̿m̸̝͝è̴͚ȃ̴̠n̶̳̂ ̴͚͒t̴͉̚o̷͉̽ ̶͎̔y̴͓̕o̸͇͌u̶̼̔?̸̻̈

Ș̵̢̡͉̘̊̆̈̎͆ḩ̵̓o̵͎̍w̸̨͒ ̵̮̽t̶͔͋h̵͉̆e̷̪̓m̴̙͊ ̴̻͝w̶̖̚h̴̯̕a̶̰̒t̵̝̂ ̵̼͑h̷̨̒a̴̩͘p̷͚̀p̷̥͌e̴̡͐ṅ̸̺s̴̛ͅ ̶͖̈́w̸͕̔h̸̛̜e̴̤͋n̶̠͒ ̵͖̋ţ̷̀h̶̞̓e̴̼̎ỳ̸̡ ̴͉̓ḏ̷͂o̶̫̚n̴̻͛'̶̤̓t̶͍̄ ̶̫̄p̷̥͐l̵͈͌a̶͈͌y̵̪͌ ̴͕̇n̶̯̓ỉ̵̲c̴̯̓ė̷ͅ.̸̣̊.̶̼̉.̵̨̇ ̵͖̓

The playful voice inside the guard’s mind tried to soothe her, pain increasing the longer she denied it.

“N-No, I... I don't... What...?” Vanessa was mumbling to herself, a nonsensical string of words for the nonsensical voice. The ache was so intense all she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep for days. She resisted as long as she could… but as was the case nowadays, that wasn't more than a few seconds.

“Oh?” All of a sudden Vanessa perked up, releasing her head to stare at the little group in the office. An eerie smile stretched her mouth wide, and her gaze was somehow both vacant yet very sharp. She glanced down at her body, tugging at the crisp, white uniform shirt.

“Oh no, no, this won't do; these clothes are so stiff! She keeps misplacing that thing...” She let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head for a moment before abruptly snapping her gaze to Freddy's. “I'll be riiiiight back~ But while I'm gone, you can play with a friend!”

Without warning she whipped around to dash away through the arcade, her goal known only to herself. For just a second, it seemed like Freddy and his friends' prayers had been answered. That is, until they heard Vanessa shout at the top of her lungs:

“Oh Roooooxyyyyyyy~ Gregory's in the security office, and the power's out! Better go find him before Monty does—you want to make sure you're the best, don't you?”

The mumbling had only raised more questions at Vanessa's strange behavior. But when her whole demeanor changed from agonizing in pain to practically frolicking away to alert the others, Charlie recognized what was happening. Scampering towards Freddy, she raised Gregory up to the bear.

“Put him inside your chest, now!” she begged. “It's her! I recognize the voice now—it's the bunny lady!”

The sound of stampeding, metal feet began to tear straight for them.

“What?!” An incredulous tone could be heard, Roxy flabbergasted that Vanessa would even imply that Monty was better than her. She was the best. An obvious fan favorite! 

And she was going to make sure the others knew it. She barreled for the office, feral and growling even as she skidded and slid painfully into the walls.

“Gregory!” Roxy snarled, “Get over here, you snot-nosed punk!”

Freddy knew there was no time for questions, and Michael realized the same. The ghost resisted the urge to argue with Charlie’s instructions, sucking up his personal correlation with shoving a kid into an animatronic’s chest cavity to let the bear do what he needed to. Freddy was safe, and that meant Gregory would be safe, too. Without hesitation Freddy helped Gregory scramble into his surprise compartment, closing the hatch just in time for Roxy to slam into the wall outside the open doorway.

“Roxanne!” Freddy exclaimed, eyes wide at the sight of her in person. Along with the dirt she had a plethora of tiny dents and scratches, presumably from running into things during her frantic search. “What happened to you?!”

“Not the time, Freddy!” Michael reminded with an edge of panic to his voice. “Get Gregory out of here before she figures out where you hid him!”

Freddy stared at Roxy for a moment longer, his face twisted in an expression of genuine hurt and confusion. He hated to see his friends like this—it scared him. Until tonight, Freddy thought it was impossible for him to feel such things as fear…

But that existential crisis was for another time. Michael was right: they had a mission.

Slowly, Freddy began shifting around the wolf, trying not to make any sudden moves that would startle her or give any indication that the child was nearby. Roxy huffed, a simulated sniffing coming from her nose as she glanced around the room in a jittery nature.

“He was here! I just heard him…,” she said, pushing past the Puppet as she inspected the room, practically ignoring Freddy until all hope of finding Gregory had been lost to her.

“Freddy... Buddy, amigo...” She looked to the bear, clasping her paws together as she approached. “You've seen the kid, right? You have to by now. C'mon, help a girl out...”

Charlie already stood in the doorway, making sure the coast was all clear as she motioned just outside Roxanne's line of sight for Freddy to follow her. The wolf’s unsettling appearance, both out of character and alarming, became more apparent the closer she drew.

“Ditch the creepy Puppet! Come hang out with me and help me find that brat!” Roxy begged, yellow eyes desperate for help.

“I... I cannot do that, Roxy,” Freddy replied with a shake of his head. He’d been inching away successfully until the wolf stepped up to him—now she was a bit too close for comfort. Freddy knew she was much faster than him, especially in this virus-induced state, and the last thing he wanted was for her to somehow finagle his stomach hatch open in a frenzy. He just needed to move her a bit and then he could make a break for it.

“You likely will not accept this, but there is something wrong with you,” Freddy continued, gently putting his hands on the wolf’s shoulders. As he spoke he shifted her sideways, ever-so-slowly moving her out of his path. “Something is wrong with all of you—Monty, Chica, even Moon and Officer Vanessa. I am trying to figure it out and return you all to normal, and it would be a great help to me if you would stop trying to pursue the child.”

Freddy’s grip tightened on Roxy’s shoulders. He moved her a little more forcefully, tapping into his animatronic strength just enough to match her resistance. Just a few inches more, and the path would be free.

Roxy's expression turned from one of mild annoyance to complete offense. Her eye's flicked over Freddy's face as if looking for a sign that he was joking.

“What?! There’s nothing wrong with me! I-I'm... I-I—” She stuttered, not for lack of anything to defend herself with verbally, but literally shorting out as she was made to think about her and the rest of the Glamrocks’ actions.

She resisted Freddy’s shifting, trying to push back. But as she glitched, her strength faltered. She was pushed into the desk, a few loose bolts clattering as they toppled to the ground. Before she could explain herself, Freddy and the Puppet were already speeding away.

“W-Wait! Freddy, I'm sorry!” Roxy attempted to call after them. With the child momentarily out of sight and mind, she was granted a minute of lucidity and couldn’t help but feel disgust.

But this quickly faded, as everything did thanks to the malware infecting her very core.

She listened to the voice inside her head that told her to get the child. Her goal was to bring him to the basement without maiming him too much. The rest of the plan was so genius Roxy couldn't even comprehend why they were doing it in the first place.

***

Freddy gritted his teeth as he ran, trying to forget that look in Roxy’s eyes. For just a moment she’d been herself again, trying to break through whatever was controlling her. Her apology echoed heavily in Freddy’s mind, and he suddenly had the strange urge to yell out in frustration. He resisted of course, not wanting to alert anyone to their position more than his heavy footsteps already would. Instead he pressed on, thinking of the best path to their next destination.

“The stage!” Freddy exclaimed, falling into step with Charlie. “It will take us directly to Parts & Service. But we need to activate the sound booth first—hopefully there is a showtime disk already in place, but if not we will have to locate one.”

“How hard could that be?” Gregory asked, relieved when he heard a plan coming from the outside of his little enclosure.

Freddy then took the lead, guiding Charlie back through the arcade and El Chips. Soon enough they’d re-emerged in the main atrium and made a beeline for the sound booth. Thankfully it was also on the third floor, not far from their current position.

“Is a showtime disk like a record?” Charlie felt the need to ask, her voice not above a whisper as they curtailed themselves into the booth. Overlooking the stage and all that sat before the concert area, they sat relatively in the open. With the strange sounds emanating from the third floor backrooms, Puppet wanted to get the show started and leave as soon as possible.

“Yes, it is a CD—like a smaller version of a record,” Freddy explained as he rapidly scanned the area. To his great frustration, there was no such item anywhere in sight. “It is not here—we must take the long way around, back through Rockstar Row. Follow me.”

Not wanting to waste time Freddy urged the Puppet to trail after him, adding in a hushed voice as they moved: “We can use Roxy’s service elevator for the time being, although once we return from Parts & Service we can rest in the security office near Rockstar Row—it is accessible with our new clearance level. From my recollection the showtime disks are often stored there as well, so hopefully we can pick one up in case we need to activate the stage lift later.”

Freddy was hesitant to jinx anything, but in a way it seemed like things might be turning in their favor, if only for a moment. Hopefully Charlie was onto something with regards to Michael’s predicament, and this task wouldn’t be fruitless. Although even if it was, at least it would keep Gregory moving. Freddy dreaded the thought of getting cornered again. If Roxy was already this bad, he didn’t want to know what the others were like.

Having watched the head of security change right before their eyes into someone so completely different than before only told Puppet one thing: this virus didn’t just affect robots. It’d been spreading through people as well.

It just went to show how they needed to work together to keep Gregory separated from whatever the hell was going on around the Pizzaplex. This virus, whatever it was, must have something to do with William's return. Should they make it to Parts & Service in one piece, Michael's experience with dealing in his father's villainy would help them immeasurably.

Again they moved, all too scared for now to let Gregory leave Freddy's chest. It would be bad enough if the robots were seen out and about—though to their benefit Freddy's bandmates only seemed interested in human blood and flesh, not metal and oil.

With Rockstar Row in sight and all its residents currently looking high and low in more complex places for their little gang, they snuck in undetected. Through Roxy's more inexplicably damaged backstage room they crept, right as Gregory broke the silence.

“Freddy? Is it safe to come out yet? My legs are cramping!”

Don't think about the meat pretzel..., Gregory mentally noted as a means of staying calm in the tight closed in space for so long.

Freddy winced as a barrage of images suddenly flashed through his mind in response to Gregory's innocent comment. Most flew by too fast to catch, but three kept repeating themselves over and over again:

A smiling little girl with long, red hair, green eyes, and a red bow in her hair...

A clown-themed animatronic Freddy recognized a Circus Baby...

The same animatronic standing exactly as before, though there was a distinct trail of dark, red liquid leaking from her chest cavity.

“Michael, stop!” Freddy exclaimed, jerking his head in an effort to quell the ghost's memories. Whatever those images represented were so painful even Freddy was starting to feel an ache deep in his core.

“O-Oh god, I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to—is Gregory okay?! I don't like the thought of him being uncomfortable in there w-with... with the cramps, and all,” Michael managed to say, reigning in his wayward thoughts. Clearly this wasn't the only issue at hand, but he didn't want to freak Freddy out and somehow cause exactly what he was afraid of happening.

“Yes, he is fine—Gregory, please come out.” Freddy heaved a sigh of relief as they entered Roxy's service elevator and closed the door. He opened his chest cavity and freed the kid while checking his power meter. “I must charge before we progress—there is a station just outside the main area of Parts & Service. We can stop there before going to the warehouse.”

Helping Gregory down from his spot inside of Freddy's torso, Charlie suggested he sit and stretch his legs before they left the lift. Safe Mode may not be the best way for Freddy to be traveling throughout the night in regards to the draining battery power, but it also still might be one of the only things keeping him safe from the virus spreading around.

“Don't worry you guys,” Charlie tried to comfort. “Gregory's a tough kid, right?”

Gregory plopped to the ground, stretching out his legs and reaching halfheartedly towards his toes.

“More like a kid who's about to have a charley-horse...,” he griped in reply.

He was still having a tough time moving past Vanessa's odd behavior from earlier. He knew she was weird, but that smile... It didn't even look like it belonged to her. It was uncanny—as if someone had copied an eerie grin and pasted it over Vanessa's mouth. Not to mention her words, and the way she said them.

It’d begun to hit Gregory too that something was controlling the minds of people along with the animatronics. That wasn't something he could fathom—the idea of losing his mind inside this nightmare was already becoming too real for him to feel comfortable.

Eventually the lift brought them to the hallway leading towards Parts & Service. If one were to peer into the actual workshop and the safety cylinder, the Map Bot Gregory attempted to reprogram was notably gone...

“The entrance to the warehouse is just around the corner from the charging station,” Freddy informed the group as he led the way out of the elevator. He frowned slightly upon seeing the empty cylinder, wondering who exactly moved the defunct robot. “However, I suggest that you—”

“Ehehehe...” A distinct cackle filled the air, and Freddy whipped his head to find a glowing set of red eyes peering out from a dark corner. Moon crouched low to the ground, swaying slightly as he slowly reached one hand up towards a nearby light switch. Before anyone had time to react, the room was plunged into almost complete darkness. “Nighty-niiiiight~”

“Go!” Freddy exclaimed, thankful that Charlie had already scooped Gregory up at the first sign of danger. As the others moved towards safety, Freddy hung back to distract Moon. However, when he turned back the Daycare attendant was already gone from the corner.

“Why the fuck can he crawl on the CEILING?!” Michael screeched as Freddy's eyes roamed up to find Moon literally scuttling upside-down over their heads like some sort of weird, lanky bug.

The bear simply shook his head at Michael's comment, calling out to the Daycare attendant in an attempt to distract him: “Moon! I... I know where to find another child! Come down here and let me tell you!”

Charlie hand to clamp her wiry hand over Gregory's mouth. The last time she tangled with Moon, she ended up in an unconscious heap on the ground with no way to protect anyone. Vanessa had followed them before, and if last time was forewarning then maybe she wasn't far behind.

As they rushed to tuck themselves safely in the recharge station, Charlie and Gregory could only watch in horror at the way Moon moved, lurching and crawling like something from a horror film. If he was made like this, how could any kid sleep with him around?

“Oh, Freddy, Freddy...” Moon paused to stare down at the bear, his static grin impossibly wider than usual. “Don't you know it's naughty to lie? And naughty ones must be punished...”

“What the hell is he—oh no, Freddy, MOVE!” Michael yelled as Moon suddenly released his grip on the ceiling. The animatronic dropped, twisting his body like a cat to land on top of the cylinder with eyes locked on to the bear.

Freddy, however, was starting to struggle.

“I am almost out of battery power,” he murmured as the LOW POWER alert flashed red and ominous across his vision. Apparently, carrying Gregory inside his chest cavity drained him more than he'd initially thought. He spared a glance to the charging pod, then back to Moon. Thankfully, the Daycare attendant didn't seem interested in Gregory at that moment—he was solely focused on Freddy. “Michael... I think he wants me. For what, I do not know, but... are you able to get out?”

"What?! Freddy, I'm not just gonna bail—”

“GET OUT!” Freddy shouted, stumbling backwards as Moon slunk closer. His vision was fading fast, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he shut down. As darkness closed in around him, the bear intoned in a sluggish whisper: “Please... You have to... help them... please...”

And then Freddy collapsed in a heap, Moon cackling all the while.

With both fists, Gregory hit the inside of the charging pod in an attempt to open it. He was quickly snatched backwards by Charlie, and they could only listen helplessly as Moon encroached upon Freddy. Charlie had to remind herself that, even if he got out of this in one piece, until the bear was recharged and with Michael attached to him, she'd be the only one to watch Gregory.

Trembling and forced to be silent inside Puppet's arms, Gregory strained to get out and help. Rationally though, he knew there was nothing he could do—and Moon may just in fact tear his new best friend apart.

[1] What’s wrong, funny bunny?

Are they being mean to you?

Show them what happens when they don’t place nice…

***

Previous Chapter ~~ Next Chapter

Looking for more? Check out the Chapter Masterlist on Tumblr!

Or check out the entire Wires that Bind Us Series on ao3!

[demeteroh]

Conflicting Loyalties (Part 2)

Based on a dream I had a while ago + some prompting from my friend Anna. Tell me if you think it should be a love story, and who with.

Mero meets her first dwarf!! Things will get more interesting I promise. This chapter is double the length of the last one, more the length the rest will be.

Warnings: abandonment, stereotypes (bias, fantasy racism?? I suppose that is what it is), mild gore and battle scenes. More will be added as the story progresses.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. If you see mistakes please let me know, but if you are rude I will ignore.

Conflicting Loyalties Masterlist

It wasn’t until the next day that Mero thought to tell Bilbo of the guest that would be joining them. It took a moment for the information to process, but once it did Bilbo all but yelled. “You invited him to tea?”

The invitation had entirely slipped Mero’s mind (as things so often did) until she saw Bilbo preparing two fish teas. She had, quite offhandedly she liked to think, mentioned that they would need more food than that to feed their guest. As expected, Bilbo was less than pleased to hear the news. 

“Why - oh goodness I think I need to sit down, I’m feeling quite faint.”

”I shan’t suppose it’s out of excitement?” Mero said hopefully, guiding her cousin over to his chair in the sitting room. He was shaking beneath her hands. “By the hair on my toes, the way you are acting makes it seem as if that dear old wizard had done something unspeakable - he didn’t take your smokepipe, did he?”

”No, no, thankfully,” Bilbo said, leaning back on his chair and fanning his face. He seemed even more flustered now than he had the previous day, which was no small feat. Mero, concerned for the hobbit’s health, pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Bilbo waved her away. 

“Are you quite well, Bilbo?” Asked Mero, a frown on her face. Bilbo leant back in his chair with closed eyes, attempting to collect himself before he worried Mero. It was too late on his part, for Mero was already regretting extending the dinner invitation. “Did I make a mistake in inviting Gandalf around?”

Sighing, Bilbo rose from his chair and put his hand on Mero’s shoulder. He had to reach up because the girl was substantially taller than him (as many Tooks were), but it comforted her nevertheless. “Of course not, Meroderada. I should have done so myself, yet my manners completely escaped me. All of the talk about ad - well, never you mind what Gandalf was babbling on about. I am happy to say I managed to avoid quite a bit of tomfoolery yesterday. I can’t imagine that he should bring it up again, certainly not in your company.”

A burst of curiosity spiked inside Mero along with a childish wish to object. As much as she tried to tell herself that she wasn’t interested in knowing what had made Bilbo so unsettled, she couldn’t deny that she was slightly curious. Slightly more than curious, one might say, had they seen what she fantasized Gandalf was speaking of - elven lords, terrifying monsters, and heroic acts, to name but a few. Before she could let slip that she desperately wanted to know, she herded Bilbo back into the kitchen, noting that the time was nearing four.

“Set the table, dear Bilbo, I will quickly scrap something together for myself, and Gandalf can have my fish dinner,” Mero said, talking quickly. “I do hope he likes fish, though I can’t see why he wouldn’t, being as well travelled as he is. Though, Old Took said he once met a traveller who wouldn’t eat anything that was once living. Curious, don’t you think?”

Before Bilbo could reply, a harsh knock sounded from the hallway. Mero paused in her food preparation, turning towards the door with anticipation. Perhaps she could manage to get Gandalf to talk of his travels without Bilbo intervening to say it all sounded dangerous. A good cake ought to distract the hobbit enough. 

“I’ll get it, you continue,” Bilbo said, scurrying out of the kitchen and towards the door. Mero, too distracted now to continue preparing food, quickly put an extra plate and some bread on the table. Wiping her hands on her dress, she glanced at the clock to see that Gandalf had arrived at exactly four o'clock, which ought to have please Bilbo. Several moments passed and Gandalf had yet to join her in the dining room, so she went to investigate. 

In the hallway, she saw Bilbo standing stock still. She couldn't see Gandalf behind the coat rack blocking her view of the outside, save for the night sky. This should have been the first indication to her that it was not the wizard at the door, indeed that it was someone quite dissimilar. 

"Why do you stand here so, Bilbo Baggins, as if a spell has befallen you?" Mero said, walking up to stand next to her beloved cousin, still not noticing that their guest was not at all the one they had been expecting. It was Mero's way to notice everything and yet nothing if her mind was sufficiently occupied, as it happened to be at that very moment. "What on Middle-earth is that in your arms? A sword? I can't imagine what our guest must be thinking seeing you carrying around a - why you're not Gandalf."

The man (Mero thought it must be a man, yet he looked like no male she had ever seen before) chuckled or made a noise that resembled a chuckle. It could well have been a hairball, but Mero was inclined to think better of people. Most of his hair seemed to be concentrated around his chin area, stretching up to his ears but not much farther, leaving a clean bald spot with a tattoo on it. Although she had never met one, it was clear that this man with his tattoos and beard was most certainly not a hobbit, but a dwarf.

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the fair, you're a dwarf, aren't you?" Mero couldn't help but stare as she pulled Bilbo out of the way. The dwarf seemed quite content to walk into their home though she had not invited him to, yet she was too shocked to comment on it. Bilbo was in a similar state as her, but at the dwarves words, he snapped out of it.

"Aye, I am, lassie," the dwarf said, in an accent entirely new to the young hobbit girl. "You're husband here had much the same reaction."

"Excuse me," Bilbo said, pilling what Mero now assumed to be the dwarves belongings by the front door. "Firstly, this is not my wife-"

"A pleasure, Mister Dwarf. I am called Mero-"

"-derada. My cousin Meroderada,' Bilbo said, a hint of protectiveness in his voice. The courage that Bilbo had managed to build up to speak strongly to the dwarf suddenly disappeared when he started ravenously eating one of the fish dinners. "Oh, oh my."

That was how Mero would have described it as well, the way the dwarf was using his hands to tear apart the fish and stuff it into his mouth. With wide eyes, Mero watched, until the dwarf noticed her staring. Bilbo had long since moved to sit at the table, most likely feeling faint for the second time that afternoon. It was rare times like these that Mero's Took side shone much brighter than the Baggins side she had partially been brought up with.

"Dwalin," the dwarf mumbled through a mouthful of bread. It took Mero a moment to realise he was saying something, and only a moment later did she come to the conclusion that she had no idea what he was saying. She wagered she wouldn't have had much more luck without food in his mouth.

"I'm sorry?" she said, looking for him to repeat himself. He paused with another chunk of bread just in front of his mouth to fix her with his gaze again.

"My name. Dwalin, after my grandfather, Farin," Dwalin said, his gruff voice making Mero have to pay extra attention. "Your cousin said your name was Merida?"

"Meroderada," Mero corrected, before quickly adding, "though most call me Mero. Bilbo just tries to - well, I'm not entirely sure why he uses my full name. He is the only one. You are welcome to call me either."

"There was no mention made of a young lady hobbit." Dwalin raised a tankard to his lips, Mero following his every move.

"Who would have mentioned it?" She asked, although by now she was beginning to suspect that Gandalf, that sneaky old wizard, had something to do with it. He had said he was going to inform the others. 

Dwalin regarded her with what could only be described as suspicion. He seemingly didn't find what he had been looking for, because he grunted and chewed quickly in order to answer her. "The same old man who told us about this place, and your cousin Bilbo -"

"The door!" Bilbo squeaked loudly, having heard the knock quite clearly. "Excuse me."

Mero suspected it to be Gandalf this time, ready to explain exactly what was going on. However, Dwalin seemed to think differently.

"That should be one of the others," he said. "My money's on Balin."

And he was correct, and Mero would have lost her money if they had actually put a bet on it, because a white-haired dwarf walked into the dining room, talking over his shoulder to Bilbo. Dwalin greeted Balin (his brother, perhaps, both of them named after grandfather Farin) in a peculiar way that made Mero jump - they smashed their heads together violently. Shocked, Mero decided it was best not to ask for if that was how they treated friends she was wary to see how they treated those they disliked. 

"Balin this is Merida, Merida this is my brother, Balin," Dwalin introduced you both as Bilbo reappeared with another tray of cakes. 

"Its Mero, actually," Mero corrected again, yet she had a feeling Dwalin was not going to remember. "A pleasure, Mister Balin."

"At your service, Miss Mero," Balin said, bowing to her. "They didn't tell us that one of our burglars was a lady."

"Burglar?" Mero questioned with interest, at the same time Bilbo said the word with horror. The doorbell rang again before either Balin or Dwalin could explain anything to the hobbits. This time, Mero made sure Bilbo was safely in a seat and answered the door herself because she was certain it was not Gandalf like he was expecting.

Opening the door she was met with the smiling faces of two more dwarves, around her height. One had golden hair that blended into his golden beard, the other dark hair and a little beard, that he made up for with a large grin.

"Mr Boggins," he exclaimed, bowing with the other dwarf. 

"Fili, at your service," the blonde one said, followed by the dark-haired one saying "and Kili."

"You aren't Mr Boggins," Kili said upon hopping inside the home. "You're a woman."

"Mero Took, at your service, dear dwarves," Mero said, remembering her manners, even if she was panicking slightly on the inside. Watching Fili and Kili join Dwalin and Balin in the dining room, she whispered to herself, "We should have made tea for more than three. Now I fear we shall have no food left."

[thejokersenigma]

Christmas Fan Fiction 2017 - Day 11 - Robin(Dick Grayson) x Reader - Two Lives Part 1

So, I’ve never really written these characters before, so I apologise if they aren’t very accurate! Also, this was only going to be a oneshot, but I think I might write 2 parts for this now as I think I can write more it, but I was running out of time tonight!

Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

“I’ll see you tonight?” Y/N asked from her bundle of blankets on the sofa where they had been watching TV together.

“Yeah.” Dick Grayson nodded, as he gathered up his things for work.

“You mean it this time?” Y/N asked, grabbing at his arm as he went to move towards the door, “You’re not going to cancel at the last minute again?”

“What’s this about, [Y/N]?” Asked Dick, taking her hand from his arm and cupping it in his own hands, perching back on the sofa next to her.

She hesitated from a moment, suddenly embarrassed by her persistence. “It’s just that, for the last two years we’ve been together, you’ve never been free over Christmas, valentine’s day or my birthday - let alone all the date nights you’ve missed. I mean, I don’t want to be an overbearing girlfriend, but, just for once, I want you around tonight. Please.” She begged at her hands, unable to look him in the eye. She was embarrassed for demanding so much from him.

Dick watched [Y/N], reading the emotions on her face, despite her attempt to hide. He didn’t know what was worse – the fact that everything she said was true about him never being around was true, or the fact that she thought she was being overbearing. She had put up with so much of his shit over the years. And he felt bad. Felt bad because every day he had missed any date with had bruised his own heart, let alone hers. He knew he let her down. And he knew he’d been warned against relationships from the moment he’d started staring at girls on the street. His future wasn’t made for a normal life, a wife and family. His destiny was different from other peoples, ever since Bruce showed him the Batcave.

“I promise. We’ll spend this Christmas together.” Dick said, kissing her hand cupped in his. She looked up at him and was blushing which just swelled his own heart. “But right now, I’ve to go. I’ll see you tonight. Promise.” He said again.

[Y/N] nodded, “Tonight.” She agreed, and they exchanged a short, but passionate kiss behind, and Dick left.

 “I’m sorry again about the change.” Apologised Dick for the tenth time as he pulled his motorbike up outside the imposing Wayne mansion.

“It’s fine Dick, honestly.” Y/N insisted, “As long as we’re together, I don’t mind where we spend Christmas.”

Dick gave her a small smile. He had rung her mid-afternoon to tell her that his adopted parent Bruce Wayne had wanted him to visit for Christmas and Dick had insisted [Y/N] accompany him so they could still spend the holiday together – repeatedly promising her that the billionaire really wouldn’t mind her being there.

The truth was something Dick couldn’t tell her. That Bruce was in fact the masked vigilante Batman, and Dick his sidekick Robin, and that Bruce had not asked him to Christmas, but instead required his services as Robin.

But Dick wasn’t about to cancel yet another plan with [Y/N]. Not after he promised her that morning. But you couldn’t exactly say no to Bruce either. So, he had to compromise.

The couple walked up to the large double front door of the mansion, Dick pulling on the archaic pull string doorbell, hearing the heavy antique bell ringing out throughout the house. They waited a few moment before the aged butler answered the door.

“Ah, Master Dick and – [Y/N]!” He exclaimed, pleasantly surprised.

“Merry Christmas Alfred!” [Y/N] greeted, “You sound surprised to see me! Did Dick not tell you I was coming as well?”

“Why not, he didn’t.” Muttered Alfred with an unimpressed look at Dick who was looking rather sheepish next to [Y/N].

“Sorry.” He muttered, “Guess I forgot…”

Alfred kept his steely gaze on Dick for a few moments longer, “Never mind,” He eventually dismissed, “If there is anything this house isn’t lacking – it’s space.” He declared and ushered them inside.  

Alfred took them to one of the main drawing rooms where a large fire was already lit in the hearth. The couple settled themselves down in the thick, plushie armchairs that surrounded the fireplace as Alfred made promises of hot chocolate and hurried to the kitchen.

Dick reached for [Y/N]’s hand, taking it in his own, “I’m so-“

“If you apologise one my time, I’ll slap you.” [Y/N] told him firmly, but wasn’t able to hold her scowl long before she burst into laughter at his expression. Dick couldn’t help but smile at her innocent laughter.

He regrettably rose from his chair next to her, letting her hand go, “I’m just going to go try and find Bruce.” He said. [Y/N] nodded in understanding and turned her gaze on the fire as Dick left the room.

Dick headed to Bruce’s study, but wasn’t surprised to find it empty, immediately turning to the old grandfather clock that stood against the wall opposite the large oak desk. He hit a hidden switch and the clock swung aside, leaving a gaping dark passageway with steps that ran downwards.

Without hesitation, he headed down the passageway, knowing each step off by heart and descending quickly despite the poor lighting.

The passage finally opened up into a large cavern with metal platforms at different heights connected my metal steps. On the first platform, directly opposite the stairs, sat a large monitor which Dick now strode up to, immediately switching it on and connecting the communicator on the Batcomputer to that on the Batmobile.

��Batman?” He called into the screen.

“Robin.” Came the response and the screen flickered into life showing the profile of batman as he drove through the Gotham night. “Where have you been?” Came the gruff voice.

“Nice to see you too.” Sassed Dick.

“I need you to run a search on a name.” Said Bruce, completely ignoring Dick’s attitude.

“Hit me.”

Dick dashed back up the stairs and back to the fireplace where [Y/N] now sat with a cup of hot chocolate.

“You look out of breath.” She observed, slightly surprised, as he entered the room.

“What? Oh – uh,” He searched his mind quickly for an excuse when he saw her questioning face. “Bruce had me running a few errands, that’s all.”

“So, he invited you to Christmas as a guest, and now he has you doing his chores for him?” She asked, shocked. Robin shrugged indifferently. The truth was, he had been running up and down the Batcave setting several systems searching for a criminal that Bruce was trying to track down.

“Why don’t you have a seat for a while, I’m sure Bruce can spare you.”

Robin looked uncertain, knowing he couldn’t stay too long away from the Batcomputer in case Bruce tried to contact him, or the system got a hit on this criminal, but [Y/N]’s face made him take a seat anyway. [Y/N] smiled happily and handed him a mug of hot chocolate topped with mini marshmallows and whipped cream that Alfred had brought for the couple.

“So, what exactly is he making you do?”

“What?” Robin shook himself out of his thoughts that were on the criminal tracker below them.

“Bruce.” [Y/N] prompted. “What is he making you run around doing?”

“Uh – um – “ Robin scrambled, “Presents. He’s crap at wrapping them. Use to get Alfred to do them, but his arthritis is acting up.”

“So why were you out of breath?” She frowned.

“Uh – dashing up the stairs – needed to move the presents before anyone saw them.”

“So, are you even wrapping your own?”

“Uh – yeah – Bruce has never been one for secrets...” Muttered Robin, trying not to smirk at the lie. “I don’t mind…” He shrugged.

[Y/N] nodded, “So where is Bruce whilst you are running around for him?”

“Uh – he’s at meeting.”

“On Christmas eve?” she asked in disbelief, “Then why’d he invite you round?”

“Uh – it was an emergency meeting – I don’t really know what about, I stopped listening to the old man years ago.” He joked painfully, wishing she’d drop the subject.

[Y/N] still looked concerned, but she seemed to buy it.

“You know, I’m just going to go catch up with Alfred.” Said Robin, putting his mug down and pushing himself to his feet. “See how he’s doing with those mince pies – I’m starving!” he added, placing a hand over his stomach.

[Y/N] smirked, knowing his appetite well, “Ok, sure.” Y/N nodded, watching him as he headed out of the room.

As soon as Dick was out of [Y/N]’s sight, he raced down the hallway, dashing past Alfred heading towards the drawing room with a plate of mince pies. He skidded to halt. “Alfred!” He cried, skidding to a halt and back tracking to where the butler had paused. “Alfred!” He repeated out of breath, sticking an arm out to keep the butler where he was. “I need you to stay in the kitchen for a bit!”

Alfred frowned at the young man, “Whatever for, Master Dick?”

“I told Y/N I was coming to chat with you in the kitchen, but I need to check the analyser!”

Alfred considered the situation for a moment before relenting. “Very well, Master Dick.” Alfred muttered, though he didn’t seem impressed - he personally thought Y/N deserved better than all these lies.

Dick could read the disapproval on his face, but he couldn’t do anything about it right now - he was wasting time. “Thanks Alfred!” He cried, dashing past the old man and into Bruce’s office and through the secret clock passage way once more.

The batcomputer was flashing with a hit on a set of possible coordinates. Dick contacted the Batmobile again. “What took you so long?” Came Bruce’s gruff voice again.

“Nice to see you Robin, thanks for taking time out of your day to help, Robin.” Dick muttered as he punched in the coordinates to send to the batmobile. “There’s been a hit close to the South Bridge, near the library, I’m sending the coordinates over now.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that all you need of me tonight?”

The Bruce on the monitor raised his eyebrow under the batman mask. “You brought [Y/N].” It wasn’t a question.

“How do you know?” Dick asked, surprised.

Bruce said nothing. His knowing face was enough, and Dick sighed. The cat was out of the bag. “I couldn’t leave her alone at Christmas again, Bruce! Why do the criminals always choose the major holidays to plan their heists?”

“[Y/N]’s feelings are the least of our problems, Dick. You don’t have to send her home, but I need all of your concentration on this.”

Dick sighed heavily again, knowing there was no way he was going to convince Bruce to give him the night off. “What do you need me to do?” He drawled.

“Focus down on these coordinates,” Bruce instructed glancing on the map next his communicator, “and get me all the information on that building – any signs of activity over the last month.”

Dick sulked for a moment. “Fine.” He muttered sullenly before shutting off the communicator.

He quickly started a search on the systems for any data on the abandoned buildings surrounding the old library, and then dashed back up the stairs to the kitchen, gesturing for Alfred.

“And how long, sir, do you plan to keep this up?” Alfred asked with a raised brow as he followed Dick towards the drawing room. “All night?”

“If I have to Alfred. Bruce isn’t letting up on the work and I don’t think he’ll let me change shifts.” Robin tried to joke, but there was no humour in his voice. He was starting to feel tired.

They entered the large living room, finding [Y/N] still sat in the armchair having finished her hot chocolate. “Wow, you guys must gossip like house wives.” She laughed, helping herself to a mince pie that Alfred offered off the tray. Robin gave an uneasy laugh as Alfred shot him a look.

“Oh yes…” Muttered Alfred, watching Dick, “We’ve been nattering for so long, that these mince pies have become quite cool.” Pointed out Alfred, with another unimpressed look at Robin.

[Y/N] noticed this, “Oh, no its fine! Mince pies are good hot or cold – and these are lovely Alfred, thank you!” She beamed at the old man, who couldn’t help but smile back at her.

“Aren’t you going to have one, Dick?” She asked gesturing to the tray that Alfred had now place on the coffee table next to her.

“Oh no, I’m not hungry.” Dismissed Dick with a small wave of his hand, not in the mood for food, the stress of his situation starting to take its toll on him.

“But I swear you said you were starving a minute ago.” Y/N pointed out with a frown.

“Oh – yeah – I uh, I may have nicked a few whilst we were ‘nattering’” He muttered, doing his best sheepish impression, the heat on his cheeks genuine.

“Oh.” Said Y/N, in understanding.

“I will leave you two to it then.” Alfred said, bowing out of the scene. “I shall tidy up and then turn in.” He bid them goodnight which then returned and watched the elderly man leave the room.

Dick collapsed into the chair next to [Y/N] closing his eyes briefly.

“You look exhausted.” [Y/N] said, concern in her voice.

Dick opened his eyes, and sitting up and looking across at her, trying his best to look alert. “No, no – I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Come on, we’re calling it a night.” [Y/N] said firmly, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing Dick’s hand, helping to haul him to his feet. “Now. Lead the way, as I have no idea where I am going.” [Y/N] grinned at him.

Dick couldn’t help but smile back, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Come on then.” He grinned, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

He took her to his old room and went through their usual evening routine. Once they were both in bed, however, Dick lay wide awake, watching [Y/N] fall asleep. As soon as he was certain that she was deeply enough asleep, he slipped out of the bed and down to the study, disappearing once more down the secret passageway.

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘SARABAND’ “I’ve never thought along these lines….”

© 2020 by James Clark

    Saraband (2003), carries much of the charges of a long filmic disputation; and it carries much of the charges of the very unique.

To enter this gigantic, swift and subtle construct, I’ve chosen the film’s moment which avoids direct presentation, while being at the core of its revelatory bloodletting, figurative and literal. That being the discipline of art.

The watchword of two of the major players here, reaching back thirty years, to the film, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), was, “We speak the same language,” that is to say, the language of advantage, which  is to say, the language of pedantry. Marianne and Johan elect to follow two similar skills, she being a lawyer, while he being a medical researcher. They and their ilk live and die for information. They are typical in having a long family history of being committed to each of those disciplines. Their work requires heavy doses of pedantry, from which to earn large amounts of prestige and money. Soldiers of Fortune. The volatility of that action, that maximum of being masterly, had, in our players today, especially in the case of Johan, a pronounced leaning to promiscuity. Their divorce, in the face of that upheaval, brought about two changes: Marianne becoming far more cynical in subsequent couplings; and Johan, after several marriages, being involved with a woman (never given so much as a name in this story), having given birth to a son opting for music, instead of conclusions—someone not speaking his language! (“I never did like him. He looked so ridiculous. Overweight and meek. He surrounded me with a sickly kind of love. I admit I ignored that love. He was as devoted as a dog. I wanted to kick him. Figurately, of course.”)

As if Johan were ever uncomfortably situated, he comes into a fortune from “an ancient Danish aunt,” who—compounding the irony— had once been a world-famous opera singer. “When he became financially independent, he left the university. He bought his grandparents’ summer house… a ramshackle turn of the century villa in the wilderness near Orsa.” The speaker was Marianne, who, after many decades of silence between them, decides—in her own way—“I’ve been thinking that I ought to visit Johan.” Her invitation secured, she tip-toes into the quasi-bank like a cat-burglar, Johan, having fallen asleep on the veranda. (Here we receive one of the long-standing settings of those triads which Bergman scatters about in hopes of very rare aliveness: the rich forest outside the window; a row of potted plants along a ledge by that window; and Marianne, in nearly complete darkness. In quick succession, another gem being ignored: a clock on the wall, its face bathed in sunlight; Marianne in the dark; and a piano, her random touch meaning very little.) She whispers to her meaninglessness. “Maybe I should have ignored this completely irrational impulse… Actually, I’m not the impulsive type at all. Of course I could stand here a little while longer and let my confusion run riot…” Confusion running riot, being the heart of the matter of sensibility here, a heart which her upbringing has totally failed to touch. (But others in this catchment will show us, at least a trace, of something truly blessed.)

That the interaction of Marianne and Johan is stillborn becomes very clear; but lazy, sentimental resorts blur the prospect.  His being wakened by her is unequivocal. “Typical you, sneaking up on me… I said no. I still say no. I didn’t want this. No, but you didn’t give a damn.” She quotes from the Psalms. “Where such beauty is itself revealing/ In all life, in all creation stealing/ What must the source be the giver?” That surprises him. But it shouldn’t, actually. “Grandma taught me,” she explains. He, too, would have hopped to the bastardized sublime. “I didn’t know you knew the Psalms. Granddad rewarded me with tin soldiers.” Such nostalgia moves them to holding hands. “You certainly have a beautiful view.” Within that view, Marianne has noticed, coming in, that an outbuilding had been occupied. This, once again, unites them in the same language. There the hated son, Henrik, and his adolescent daughter, Karin, had settled in, where they work upon performing classical music. This mention of the invasion affords the multimillionaire to sneer, “My dear son, the associate professor. He took an early retirement. I’ve heard they we happy to get rid of him… He felt mistreated.” (Marianne, with a wry smile, similarly savoring this field of endeavor for an intrinsic frivolity, immaturity and lack of balls.)

On that trajectory, she needles Johan, “Like you, when you were that age.”/ “Me? No! But sometimes I look at my solitary isolation and think I’m in hell. [More of the Bible.] That I’m already dead, though I don’t know it. I’ve ransacked my past to have the answer sheet…” (Soon he’ll use the flourish, “My answer sheet says my life has been shit!”) What they don’t touch is how similar Henrik and Karin subscribe to academic pedantry, Karin being in a regime, driven by Henrik, to have the girl enrolled in a conservatory program by which to be a kick-ass cello soloist. Advantage run wild! Where’s the difference? The difference lies—over and above the very rare instance of anyone making impressive money in music—deep in the heart of artistic performance, its real and hard adversarial creativity.

Karin comes by the Big House when only Marianne is at the villa, and their tete-a-tete introduces something new. Soon she pours out an ardent complaint that the blue-chip repertoire Henrik has in mind is beyond her capacity, not only now, but forever. Karin had had a nightmarish day, exchanging blows with the idealist and racing in her nightgown into the forest. Such an account, however, requires another form of coverage, a coverage penetrating to the emotions of the crisis. (All the while here, she paces back and forth. Bergman’s first film, Crisis [1944], initiates the matter of do or die.) “He said that I was lazy! Then I got up and carefully put the cello aside…because I was shaking…  I said I was done for the day and I was going for a walk by myself.” Freed from the sterile advantage, she screams into the natural balance. “He turned pale…I’ve never seen him like that. And he said, ‘You’re not leaving this room.’ I just put on  my boots and headed for the door. I didn’t hear him coming after me, and he grabbed my shoulders.” (Shocks, to rip into a realm capable of fresh equilibrium. The actions of the fight produces a monstrous dance, a fiery kinetic. Her storm of hair and grabbed-upon jacket. A flailing of hands and fists. He cries out. She bites his face. Their grunting and gasping being another language. Then its Karin racing through the forest. The speed of her run combining power, depth, beauty and a dark, far from controlled love. She trips and tumbles, into a swamp. A bird calls out, happily. She screams in an unearthly outburst.)

Now back in the setting of the kitchen, she sits down and cries. “Never again, never again, never again…”  Her chronicling,  “I kept on crying until I was empty… I’ll beg Grandfather to help me get away from that lunatic. Now that old man can take care of his crazy son, and send him to the funny farm, or report him to the cops.”

Those last phrasings constitute her slipping into the ordinary. She rallies a bit by way of, “Then I realized that from now on I know nothing… I know nothing about my life. What I’m going to do or be.” In the midst of this chaos she thinks of Anna, her mother, now two years dead. “I can’t ask her about anything, anymore.” Had this rudder ever owned a clue? “Capsizing, she blurts out, I don’t know my papa very well. I just know that deep down he’s, well, nice…” All the while, there’s Marianne, a lost cause as if ever there were.

As such, after vague remarks that, “I guess I was a little shut out of that love [so wise?]… Mama was never much of a talker. Why can’t I express a love like my mama’s?” we get the lawyer’s talk, for what it’s worth: “Were you afraid your papa would kill himself after her death?” More arrested gambits: “One of her last days when I was sitting with her and her being half-asleep on morphine, she looked at me. She said very clearly, ‘I love you, Karin…My mama never used that kind of language… Papa once said jokingly, Anna never says I love you [she may have had a reason, relating to a profound ambiguity], but she continuously preforms acts of love…”

A quick cut finds the ponderings to be giddy on Marianne’s wine. (Candles but no light.) Whereas in Scenes from a Marriage, Marianne (long after her divorce from Johan) had credited one of her subsequent spouses with eliciting far more body language than she had ever understood, here she trashes the memory as to that husband’s death. “I remarried a boring glider pilot. One day he quietly flew away. He was never found.” (Big laughs all round.) Whereas the previous film discloses a series of gentle rendezvous when their spouses were out of town, the advantage maven leaves the matter with, “Then I found out he [Johan] was servicing another lady, a real slut! Moreover, he wrote poems. A collection was published but was never successful. Even love poems to me… I didn’t keep them.”

Later, back at the troubled cabin, Karin resumes her real education. Henrik feels nothing amiss, but Karin vows, “I can never, never be like this again… Never, never…” In their communal bed, Henrik (not as sanguine as he pretends) attempts to reveal the family resilience. Before Henrik was married to her, Anna had a night of realization that the musician would have to be watched closely. He comes home drunk in tandem with complaining about his academic duties. She says nothing for a long while. And then she remarks, “That’s not the man I plan to marry.” The fascination, here, is that she does in fact marry the stiff, while realizing his very minor strengths. That fateful night, Anna’s gambit is to put on her coat and announce, “I’m leaving. I’m leaving you.” As with Karin, many years later, he had threatened, “Nobody leaves me…” [the advantage swine, galloping through the centuries]. He, in fact, does prevail, with Anna turning around and preparing the coffee. “Maybe she wanted to sober me up. She didn’t say anything for the rest of the evening. Just sat sewing.” Incorrigible. But manageable. She didn’t say anything. And love was not in the cards. She had embarked upon the lion’s share of the iceberg. (Henrik would babble about “a miracle.”) “I know it sounds pompous but there’s no better word… If you leave me I’ll be destitute..”

The needy softie needn’t take much of our time, as to his seeking an advance on his fat inheritance in order to provide a great cello for Karin, supposedly thrilled about going to the best of conservatories to bring her to fame and fortune, the same track his weakling of a father had run into the ground. Nevertheless, during his entreaty, Johan’s library itself becomes a revelation of sorts. The moneybags, after routine pouring out of insult—“I wonder how Anna put up with you”—does relent on the basis of family advantage. “I don’t give a damn if you hate me. You barely exist. If you didn’t have Karin, who, thank God, takes after her mother, you wouldn’t exist for me at all.” Although the gauntlet of contempt closed the transaction with Henrik smashing the reading lamp, all that angst had its bright moment, in the form of the multimillionaire’s having been interrupted in the course of his study of the works of Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard, he of the concern, “Purify Your Hearts, choose physical toil, over facile appetite.” Quite an excursion for the land of pussies.

On to Marianne visiting an empty, ancient church where Henrik is practicing on the organ for the Sunday service. Once again, it’s a race to the bottom, though interesting touches give us pause to see that surety of cogency has not disappeared entirely. The old church is a mystery, in being so old and fine in a wilderness. (In The Touch [1971], the protagonists fail to appreciate that the wonderfully crafted wooden sculpture Madonna in a crypt within a remote church is a startling singularity, a key to life itself.) Here Marianne gushes about the Bach trio sonata she heard, which garners a dinner at the cabin. “Karin is all that gives my life meaning. There wouldn’t be much meaning without her.” (Johnny Mathis had a song like that.) He goes on to imagine Anna coming to him in a reverie. “Anna is walking toward me.” (Roy Orbison.) “We spend our whole lives wondering about death and what comes after. And then it’s this easy…” But her hesitation infuriates him… “I see the old man would be upset. Why did you really come here?”/ “I don’t know.”/ “Can you tell me if I can take him to court? Are you here to squeeze out a little money?” (These mood swings derive from an elusive source. The two onscreen have barely a hope. “So long, Marianne.” (Leonard Cohen.) What does that mean for an athletic Karin? More pop sentimentality? The scene: Henrik and his musical score; a silver door; little lights. Doors shut. Marianne stands up from the pew. She walks slowly toward us on the way out. Then the sun blazes through the stained-glassed windows, with rays of energy awaiting an appreciation. Marianne beholding a volatile treasure. She returns to the altar, bathed in sunlight. Cut to a frieze of The Last Supper—clogged, freighted, escapist. Close-up to Jesus, and his fear. She clasps her hands, in fear. Her hands cover her face.

Cut to Johan, and his pounding, militant musical self-involvement. Karin makes a visit where the fury pours down the stairs. “Anna and you sometimes came by when you were at the Lake Cottage.” Karin recalls, “You used to smoke cigars.” (Advantage apparatus.)/ “I gave it up after reading a biography of Freud. He had 33 operations for mouth cancer. And still, he couldn’t give up cigars.” Then they pay homage to Anna in gazing at her photo, being enlarged by Johan. Speaking the same language, the language of Kierkegaard? They go on to annoying degrees—Karin needing a talisman; Johan out of sorts that he never managed to bed her. “I can tell you,” Johan declares, “that I miss her… painfully… We didn’t see each other very often because of Henrik and me.” He goes on—a (too) little lamp on the table between two dubious players—to account his concern for Karin’s career (the reason she had been invited to visit). Like the cigars, he can’t avoid bragging that he is a friend of the head conductor in St. Petersburg. “I happen to know him from my years in Leningrad.” The influential musician had heard a performance of Karin’s while on a tour (a tour that Johan had no doubt enjoyed seeing bringing to an end, an end of Henrik’s influence). Johan’s better way was Karin entering the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki, “one of the best schools in Europe.” (Henrik had already rudely refused to take that opportunity.) Johan’s friend, in bringing up this countermeasure, had also grasped a danger for Karin. “The young person’s partly deficient technique had drifted into risky habits which, in the future, could come to catastrophic consequences. Please reply as soon as possible.” Sure that he had handed her an offer she couldn’t refuse, she pretty much refused it. (He had also mentioned, “Perhaps I ought to add that I will, of course, take care of your expenses as long as you need. I’ve talked to the person with the cello and made a good offer, better than he asked.” Her, “I don’t know what to say. It’s all so overwhelming,” quietly infuriates him. “I’ll write and tell him that you are overwhelmed. I need my rest. Good-bye, Karin.”) Johan, his rest a sham, adds, “Marianne used to say I was a miserable judge of people… That I didn’t understand emotions. But even I understand this… that your mother lived on this earth to make it less unbearable…”(which is to say, from his myopic perspective, to claw to a pinnacle). The war music returns as soon as she leaves.

The “emotions expert” (seen in the midst of a crossword puzzle) becomes enlisted by Karin to get to the nub of a letter from Anna to Henrik, which fell from a book that was stuffed away to be never seen again. It had been hidden, by Henrik, because Anna, for all her aplomb, could see Karin becoming a prey to incest, as her mother’s cancer took over. “She writes about me and papa.” Papa has his plusses. But his plusses are swamped by his minuses. Anna writes, “I was always there. Then I got ill, and I wasn’t there anymore…I knew that Karin loves you… You mustn’t take advantage [that manic battle call] of your affinities…You must be aware of the danger surrounding Karin with the love that will be homeless once I’m gone.” (Karin interrupts that flow of self-control—“If I abandon him, he’ll die… Sometimes I’m so goddamn tired of him…” Marianne disagrees with Karin’s logic. The latter has cobbled a mad mix of disinterestedness and arrogance. The things we can easily do, and the things, like Freud’s deadly arrogance, that take guts. She goes so far, to her drinking buddy, to promise that only “for now” she’ll stay that stupid. (Bergman’s mastery of theatrical drama being a thing of beauty. And also a painful uprising transcending art.) Marianne declares, “This letter is what love is, isn’t it?” Yes, but more than that confronts our principle protagonist.

The term, saraband, covers a stately dance. Karin had been pushed into a far more flashy presence. Here was her moment to be truly herself, and truly comprehensive. Back from one painful declaration, she is made to perform, with papa helping, a Bach cello piece she knows she won’t do justice to. (She had, on coming away from  Johan’s proposal, pulled away from a French kiss from Henrik.)  “You’re crazy! This is too hard for me!” His view is, “It’ll be fantastic!” (Karin at left; Henrik at right; and between, the forest out the window that doesn’t insist, “It’ll be fantastic!”) Karin notes that to do the piece, a Bach Saraband, “takes a lifetime to master.” (A lifetime to show off, but another lifetime to live it.) She winds down like a clock. He slaps down his glasses. (He had called her Carrie. The rigors of Brian De Palma’s Carrie [1976] join the pop musical moments. “Hey Little Carrie, Sweety!” Henrik’s hope to put others in the shade amounting to cheap thrills. Hollywood!) He puts away the music stand with some pique. “I understand you’ve spoken to your grandfather… And with the bitch…” Karin manages to put into motion, “I have to make up my mind. I haven’t bothered to think. I thought, ‘Papa knows what’s best for me…’” (“Father Knows Best”) The ever-present cigars. The ever-present advantage. Henrik’s reign beginning to topple. “Maybe you’ve already come to some kind of decision,” he probes. “Are you going to take grandfather’s offer?” She puts on her coat and shows Anna’s letter. He, far from, “Father Knows Best,” tasks her for reading a letter addressed to him. Aggravation by the minute, Karin accelerates the inevitable. “Papa, it’s going to be painful… I’ve made up my mind. For the first time in my life, it’s my decision. I’m going to Hamburg next week with Emma (another virtual facilitator like Henrik’s mother). She and I are going to a school for young orchestra musicians…” Henrik appalled that advantage to Karin had evaporated, while he had become never so ironically close to his father. (The annoying arts never lucid per se.) Emma, the anonymous, had found the school of their dreams waiting for them a keyword away. “We were playing a video of Brahms. We sent it to the address for fun. Emma and I got a letter saying we were accepted to that school. That we’re welcome.” (Karin’s scream of joy. Tears down her cheeks. Body language.) “That’s exactly what I want to do. And that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do. And then there’s a paid internship [during the three-year course] and a German or Austrian orchestra…” (An orchestra in a small venue. Henrik exclaims, “Oh, God!”) “I don’t believe in myself as a soloist. I want to play in an orchestra. To be part of that common effort. Not sit on a stage, alone and exposed. I don’t want other people to tell me I’m not good enough. I want to decide over my own future. I want to live a simple life. I want to be at home. I want to live an ordinary life. Not as a surrogate for Mama. It has to stop. And now it’s over.” They play a familiar Bach Saraband, for old times’ sake. The deep, melancholy therein presages that saraband is, in fact, never “ordinary.” The flow of inclusion has, as the girls deep-down anticipated, its huge, dangerous adventure. Karin and her Crucifix.

Marianne receives the news that Henrik has attempted a particularly ugly suicide. His father meets the occasion by noting that his son would of course mess up the attempt. These final moments bring to us the long-ago quicksand so preferred by the protagonists in Scenes from a Marriage. (Another bungled suicide.) Etiquette to the fore, Marianne, the correct, scolds the rich man for “contempt.” “Sometimes you act like a forgotten character from some stupid old film. You’re just not quite real.” To this, he (in fact, well aware of his penchant to slanging) rudely posits, “I’ve never thought along those lines…” Which  opens the door to, “I’ve never thought.” He nails the ex, along lines of speaking to Karin about the mishap: “Money is no object.” Then they fatuously revive the memory of Anna. He growls, “It’s inconceivable that Henrik was given the privilege of loving Anna.” Her mystique of disinterestedness becoming a touch of the real which phonies like Marianne and Johan cannot digest. He tells her, “You have nothing to cry about.”/ “I do,” she argues. “But I won’t explain it.”

The end of the abortive rendezvous is shackled by a nocturnal facsimile of the insomniacs in Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf (1968). Rich and conventional haters of passionate art, kicking around the unfit and the sleezy. Johan comes to Marianne’s bedroom. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry to wake you…” She, perhaps sensing,  a moment of profit, assures him, “That’s alright. I’ll fall back asleep.” Back to the “not quite real”: “I’m not sad… It’s worse It’s a hellish anxiety. It’s bigger than I am. I’m too small for my anxiety.”/ “Come lie next to me…” she invites. Unlike Karin’s ripping up the firmament in the cause of a pristine freedom, the joining of Marianne and Johan that night goes nowhere.

Back home in Stockholm, Marianne, as if taking up the spotlight of the celebrity magazine interview that opened, Scenes from a Marriage, treats the viewers with familiar hokum. “Our time together was pleasantly relaxing. We rarely spoke of more sensitive issues. The last night we celebrated. Nothing grand, but enough. We promised to keep in touch. I think we even fantasized about a trip to Florence next spring. The trip never happened, of course. Then phone calls ended. I wrote, but didn’t get an answer. Sometimes I think about Anna. I wonder how she dealt with her life. How she spoke, how she moved… Anna’s feelings.”

One last touch, from out of the farce and out of the mirage. “When I got back, I visited my (hitherto ignored) daughter, Martha, at the home” (a grey cell with bars). Martha ignores the visitor. Marianne touches Martha’s forehead—this apparently being a new departure, a gift of an Anna very hard to read on such sketchy evidence. She goes on to touch Martha’s cheek, and down to her mouth. Marianne takes off the unresponsive daughter’s glasses. Martha seen in close-up, being slightly responsive, slightly in a spotlight of touch never felt until now. The cello motif, given a care (a distant force, akin to Karin’s dash in the forest). Marianne, close-up, saddened for many reasons. Cut to Martha, seemingly attentive to a dovetail with her disabled mother. A field of patience, in and out the music world. Marianne closes her eyes. She opens them to state a mixed message, to somewhat return to the day when she was granted to be an example of genius in the eyes of those who supposedly can recognize such things. “But I thought about the enigmatic fact that, for the first time in our life together I realized… I felt… I was touching my daughter… my child.” (Close-up, Marianne covers her face. Does Martha matter now? Does Marianne matter now?)

At this end point of this saga, and this end point of Bergman’s career, there are still many struggles needing illumination. We’ll pour over the remainder of the films not yet engaged, in hopes that what was there can produce fruit, like the factor of “acrobatics,” in the early film, Brink of Life [1958]. The way he leaves actions in ambiguity comprises one of his touches of brilliance, acknowledging contemporary problematics few have ever noticed.. No one else in cinema can come close to this challenge. However, when such rigors of body language as strongly encountered and strongly being overwhelmed, there remains a dimension impossibly opaque, strangely and annoyingly tipping the scales toward a stringent melodrama. No satisfaction from courage nor deep reflection. The nuances of these works derive their forces by way of a root system which our helmsman had never seen fit to illuminate, perhaps because it transcends the bounds of theatrical and filmic drama. Being a consummate dramatist, his last hurrah, his last drama, would be to leave in mystery where his powers were based. But the sensibility of his logic affords a very wider and deeper domain.

However stunning the ironic crises of his would be, there would be those fertile hands and triads, in one sense, servicing the need for innovation. But by the same token, they were involved in a disservice. The output of hands and fingers (along with the syntheses of dialectic) sustain a simultaneous force of survival action of mortals and the embrace of being ushered into the creative dynamic itself—in the capacity of completing the powers of nature. A dialectic therewith, by which to plunge into the infinite ways of a loving cosmos. That far reaching hand of ours (when having the right knack), both embarks upon infinite industry and infinite sailing—both linked to a network wherein portions can be given or taken at will. The presence of the motions of the saraband is ideal in its steadiness and peril. Anna’s way, poles apart from the fascistic Anna in The Passion of Anna. That distemper finds us surrounded, means that our resources are both benign and contentious, not to mention the patience for striving even the slightest dovetail. Once again, I wonder why Bergman spurned the opportunity of knowledge? Perhaps he felt no one would ever care, since no one did care to take the time and effort to engage his deepest work. But yet, increasingly, millions strive to reach that acrobatic cogency along sightlines of art, athletics, construction—and   philosophy, of a renegade form (the standard form rapidly becoming obsolete. Unfortunately, the jackboots that have for millennia cheapened the planet, will never relent.)

On the cusp of such an adventure, there would be no home and native land to speak of. But when did planet earth become everything? The endeavors, which I am sure Bergman was very alert to, could have repercussions fated to completely disappear, just as we all will disappear. But being blessed to have lived.

(As if the well-known perversity of Bergman’s hubris were embarrassing enough, for a fount of wisdom, there is also his tumble into incest, at California-burning levels. [A preamble of this mess in Saraband, consists of tinctures of that bad faith to be found in Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf [1968], particularly dabbling in artsy atheism and a have-to hotty, named Veronica.] But the sophistication, of our film today, has benefited from the evil genius of Bergman’s advanced reflective powers, whereby an Anna being a genius of ontological control and disinterestedness is making the best of a roster almost entirely lost. When Marianne tasks Johan for cheapness about Henrik’s suicide bid, and nails him for behaving like an instance of Hollywood adolescence, she in fact was touching upon Bergman himself. With all the magnificent depths and crafts being offered to us from him, he, like so many “beautiful people,” lived the personal hell of Freud and his 33 operations, proof positive that all but a very few would eschew making an ass of themselves for the sake of advantage. One of his many liaisons was an on again, off again, named Ingrid von Rosen. Eventually they married, and produced a baby girl. Strangely enough, Bergman, with the concordance of Ingrid, took 22 years to enlighten the girl that she was his daughter, in the course of which, much incest would have occurred, along sightlines telling her that she was one of a large contingent whom he had sired, in the course of paradoxical and ironical action.  That would be the basis of the mystique of  Anna, who, perhaps like so many other women, would countenance his experiment of testing the waters of an only too human junky. [In the film, After the Rehearsal (1984)—coming up—we have a protagonist looking very closely like Fidel Castro, the humanist wild lover.]  Ingrid and Ingmar would come to rest in the same grave, for what it’s worth. But the best of Bergman is a very live matter.)

[aaaamovingstorageblog]

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