#I was ghosted too many times this year so the double confirmation is NECESSARY

[pransesdp]

W e l p, my DP nostalgia decided to bite me enough to wanna revamp one of my oldest and dearest OCs from back in the day... Morgan Fenton~ 🥺💜 Had alot of fun sprucing some new life back into her once again, so I hope the rest of yall enjoy her too~

More info on this sweetie can be found both below and over on my DA, for those who wanna learn more about her! :3

(Bio): 

As the second-born daughter to Amity Park’s hero, Danny Phantom, Morgan Fenton had alot to live up to from the moment she was born. With her birthplace being within the Ghost Zone itself, along with her natural snow white tufts of hair, almost everyone was quick to assume she'd grow up to have as many ghostly powers as both her father & older sister, Lili. Still, to her folks they did what they could to ensure Morgan would have as normal of a childhood as possible (some clumsy misadventures in her youth aside), counting the years to when her powers would spark to better defend herself…

And they continued to count… and count… and yet by the time Morgan reached puberty, no powers were spotted within her. Further investigation and some trips to Clockwork confirmed that Morgan was in fact, a normal human after all. As much as Danny and Sam (alongside Lili) tried reassuring their daughter that they love her just as she is no matter what… this kind of blow really struck a chord in the girl deep down, as she felt like everyone was counting on her to follow in her Halfa relatives’ footsteps. For the longest time, Morgan began to seclude herself away from everyone in a slump… not feeling the confidence to open up as much to her family anymore. 

Further, Morgan would’ve continued to close herself off… if it weren’t for the efforts of Darryl Foley (son of Tucker and Valerie) reaching out to offer Morgan a chance to prove herself as a ghost huntress, working under Valerie’s very own hunting team established within the town. Though a little intimidated at first if she could really “handle” such a lifestyle, after many months of training, dedication and stern (but necessary) discipline by Valerie’s leadership… Morgan’s confidence began to rise better than ever. 

The thrill of blasting off and wrangling ghosts with just a few gadgets and MMA moves became Morgan’s new calling, and now three years later she’s established herself well as a member of Val’s team (even given the codename “Ultra-Violet”, or “UV” for short). It’s hard to tell where Morgan’s future will grow from here, how many allies/friends she’ll make, what love life she’ll have, or what other kind of ghostly dangers she’ll stumble across next… but one thing’s for sure, its best not to underestimate a snowy cutie like her anytime soon~ 

(Fun Facts): 

-Within her time as a ghost huntress, Morgan’s preferred weapon of choice is a staff bo (which can double as a vaulting pole when she needs to cross over floating Ghost Zone rocks in case her glider-board and/or jet-pack won’t work). 

-Has a deep interest in subjects pertaining to the sci fi and supernatural, often spending many late nights watching documentaries centered around space, urban legends, and so forth. Has a soft spot for anything “oddly” cute like reptiles, aliens, and squishy creatures (such as jellyfish). 

-Tends to feel the closest to her mother Sam the most in her family, as not only can they both relate on being non-powered humans (and sharing an interest in goth subculture, or in Morgan’s case “pastel” goth), but Sam’s more down-to-earth nature tends to help ease Morgan’s anxiety on certain things whenever they spend time together. As for Lili and Danny; Morgan often finds herself a bit “overwhelmed” by her sister’s bubbly energy/naivety (though she knows Lili means well at heart), whereas with Danny it’s… kinda hard for Morgan to always see eye-to-eye with him given his “famous” status in town (and sometimes he just kinda tries too much to be “cool”/relatable with her age-group). When it all comes down to it though, there’s nothing the Fenton family wouldn’t do for eachother as the spookily sweet unit they are~. 

-When she’s not busy ghost hunting, Morgan can often be seen gaming in genres like RPG, racing and fighting tournaments. Recently she maaay or may not be picking up an interest in visual novels on the side (thanks to a certain “perky” school-friend of hers pushing them on her like crazy lol). 

-Her favorite foods includes soft-serve ice cream, french fries, and sour gummies; whereas her favorite drinks includes a classic milkshake, grape soda and matcha lattes (mainly before a big hunting gig with how early her schedule is). 

-Ever since she was a kid, Morgan’s always had a fascination for exploration and what’s “beyond” the normal human and Ghost Zones she’s seen. With the organized map she’s planned out in her room, she wishes to go through as many portals as she can to see what colorful worlds await her. 

-Has a pet gecko by the name of “Zipp”, who was given as a present to her by her folks a couple years back to help lift her spirits. A very squeaky and clingy fella he is, preferring to perch on Morgan’s shoulder whenever she’s relaxing in her room from a hard day’s work. Anyone who tries to go near or “mess with” Morgan in Zipp’s eye will be given a blaring alarm squeak and a swift bite to the fingers.

[kayclau]

Phantom Menace AU idea rewrite

You people remember when Anakin was introduced to the Jedi Council and Yoda said he was too old, but he still was a kid and stuff? And Qui-Gon was all like "he's the chosen one, I swear"? And Yoda, like an absolute asshole, told him "maybe wrong the prophecy is"?

I was thinking, what if they would've doubled down on that? Here's what I mean:

Imagine there Jedi are divided between the ones who believe Yoda, that there's no reason to believe in the prophecy and Anakin is not suited to be a Jedi anyway, and Qui-Gon, who insist that the prophecy is coming to fruition and Anakin is gonna save them.

We, the audience, already know what's this boy's destiny. But whether or not he brought balance to the force (whatever that means) it's really up to interpretation.

Now, in the prequels, the Jedi have the force down to a science, basically. They know its ins and outs and there's nothing they think they can't comprehend; they even know which part of your body is the responsible for your interaction with the force. Then, enters Anakin; a young boy with no Jedi training, huge force capabilities and highly spiritual. His midichlorians levels are higher than even master Yoda, so if anyone is gonna be the chosen one is gotta be him!

But at last, most of them don't believe in the spiritual side of the force. Anakin is simply too old to learn the necessary disciplines to be a proper Jedi, it's science. Sure, he might have tons of midichlorians, but that only means that he could interact with the force, not that he could be a Jedi, they would rather miss on Anakin just like they left other kids behind in the past because they were also too old. But Qui-Gon is not convinced. Unlike the rest of his peers, Qui-Gon connects with the common folk and has studied the spiritual and moral side of the Jedi. He also has seen the seeds of the Sith festering around in his adventures. He hasn't seen any until Darth Maul shows up, but he has seen how their beliefs and attitudes are spreading among the peoples and it really bothers him that the current Jedi sit and do nothing until the senate ask them to do diplomacy on some planet instead of trying to teach everyone the Jedi ways. It also breaks his heart that he couldn't free Anakin's mother and think slavery is awful. Because at least someone should've pointed that out. Qui-Gon Jinn is a bit controversial figure among the Jedi, but he has trained some of the best Jedi of their generations, so the council let's him have Anakin as his new apprentice as soon as Obi-Wan gets knighted. Which is bound to happen very soon.

Then, the story continues as normal until Anakin meets Palpatine. Anakin, being very spiritual, can sense something is off about this person and expresses how he doesn't like Palpatine and that he's scarey and that he's lying and stuff like that. But of course, because he's just a kid with literally two days of Jedi training no one believes him. The Jedi think that, because he's just a former slave kid from Tatuine he's scared of Palpatine because he has never seen anyone dressed like that before or something stupid like that. But Qui-Gon decides to take the words of Anakin and keep an eye on Palpatine. Which ends up getting him killed. However, because Qui-Gon was being quiet to avoid scrutiny and that Obi-Wan killed Maul before they could interrogate him and no one was supposed to know about what role was Palpatine going to play for the senate, the Jedi had no reason to believe there was any sort of connection between Qui-Gon's death and his investigation on Palpatine and attribute it to the fact that he was also escorting Padme and Maul was another of the many attempts against her.

However, this incident brings with itself the confirmation of one of Qui-Gon's warnings, the Sith have return. And they always travel in twos. So, there's at least another Sith menacing in the shadows like a ghost, bringing unbalance to the force. And whoever they are, they're gonna look for an apprentice now. Which means that anyone susceptible to the dark side of the force is a possible candidate. So now the Jedi have no option but to learn the parts of the force they've been ignoring and that Qui-Gon was so well informed. Up until now some Jedi were cautiously siding with Qui-Gon Jinn because they recognized his wisdom and experience, so maybe, if he's saying that something is wrong, maybe he knew what he was talking about. But others were more like Yoda, they believed they knew everything. Thaat, if there truly was something going on, they would be able to forsee it. But Qui-Gon's death proved to them that something was wrong and they needed to move, fast.

They make Anakin Obi-Wan's padawan and send them to a 10 year training mission to make sure Anakin couldn't be tempted by the dark side. At the same time, Yoda goes into a spiritual journey to learn what he had yet to learn about the force and Mace Windu is assigned the mission to track every force sensitive person in the galaxi that isn't a Jedi and set Jedi around them so the Sith couldn't get to them. Or, in case any one of them was a Sith, to strike before it was too late.

And that's how it ends.

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter One): Welcome to Hope County

Notes: Soooo, I’ve been talking about this for a bit and it’s time to just take the jump and start publishing my Far Cry 5 fic. I hope you enjoy. Also, i have like a series warning for this that will be on every chapter cause it needs it. 

Summary: Dahlia Hale is the youngest person working at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Hailing from a small town in Louisiana, it’s going to take her some time to fully acclimate to the new environment and living on her own. Developing friendships takes time even for the most functional of people and for disasters like Dahlia it takes even longer. She gets along with her coworkers and there’s some religious family who’s taken a shine to her, for some reason. It seems like she’s on her way to getting the kind of friends she’s only ever dreamed about, even if it’s going to take some more time. 

Then everything goes to shit. 

Halfway through her six-month probationary hire and that nice religious family has kicked off a holy war with her becoming enemy number one.

To one side she’s a hero. 

To the other she’s a monster. She’s not sure which is right. 

Word Count: 9,290

Series Warning: I usually do not like to spoil endgame pairings in my fics, but this warrants being up front. This series is polyseed and involves heavy, recurrent themes of at times romanticized noncon, dubcon, large age differences, and stockholm syndrome that develops into a romantic relationship. The relationship between my oc and the Seeds is extremely unhealthy, toxic, and should never be replicated or sought out in real life. No matter how things progress or how they are portrayed at different points, this fact remains the same. i am comfortable exploring and enjoying these themes in fiction, not everyone is. If you are uncomfortable with or triggered by any of these things, please skip this and take the precautions you feel necessary to avoid this material. If you are an individual who struggles with separating reality and fiction; please do not read this. Otherwise, if you’re comfortable with and enjoy that kind of content, please enjoy. 

Chapter Warnings: Bliss flowers, hallucinations, threats of violence (really not bad compared to whats to come)

A shiver rolls down Dahlia’s spine, the chill of the Montana night settling into her bones. A sign welcomes her to Hope County, her motorcycle tire spinning dirt at it as she passes. The moon shines bright in the sky, cascading silver light down on everything. It’s beautiful despite the cold, light reflecting off the lakes and streams that pass through the county.  

It’s mostly woods and forests, fields of big white flowers and animals wandering through. The entire county is begging to be put on a postcard, from the animals, to the fields, to the…giant cement statue of a guy with a manbun…

Her tires squeal as she comes to a stop on the thankfully vacant road, she pushes the visor of her helmet up, as if the tint could cause her to see something like this. Sure enough, the white hunk of stone is still there. It’s of a man with his hair pulled back in a small bun, in one hand he holds a book and the other gestures outward. 

Hair raises on the back of her neck and goosebumps collect across her skin, the statue is…eerie. It looms across the entire region, a creeping specter. Unnerving doesn’t even begin to describe it, her body has started to lean towards it, almost drawn to it. 

Maybe it’s a historical figure for the county? People do that right, build monuments to founders or something. The clothes of the figure seem old fashioned, but she’s not sure about how far back the manbun goes.

She shakes her head and slaps her visor back down, she needs sleep. It shouldn’t be much further to her hotel. Dahlia revs her engine and rushes off that way, finally finding the large wooden hotel with its red roof. There’s a large wooden sign welcoming her to the King’s Hot Spring Hotel, the parking lot is decidedly vacant, and she comes to a stop by the smaller stone black sign that sits close to the larger wooden one, easy to overlook if someone wasn’t looking close enough. 

“King’s Hot Spring Hotel

On May 12th, 1902 a 7.6 earthquake struck the mountain south of the hotel. It created a 10 million ton landslide that sliced a deep crevice in the earth and destroyed half the King’s hotel. 16 people were killed in the landslide, their bodies never recovered. To this day, their ghosts are said to haunt the site of the rebuilt hotel. 

Built 1866.”

So, from a dirty cockroach motel to a haunted hotel, certainly a step up. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts, they’re cool as all hell, she loves creepy shit. But she doesn’t think any of it is real and if she’s wrong, maybe the ghosts will be nice enough to kill her. She parks her bike and shuts off the engine, unclipping her storage bag from it and making her way to the door. 

The inside feels warm and welcoming, rustic. A large stone fireplace with a bear skin rug in front of it, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. Her eyes scan the room and she finds a registration desk where a woman sits, reading from a white book. She stands out slightly in the old styled hotel, tattoos covering her arms. The woman’s light, almost milky, green eyes, look up to see Dahlia as she makes her way to the desk. 

“I called ahead and reserved a room for tonight.” 

“Hale, right?” The girl flashes a soft smile as she slides the registration forms across the desk and Dahlia finds herself looking down at the receptionist’s arms, SLOTH and ENVY with strikes through them; half tattooed and half scarred in the woman’s skin. Heavy-handed work. 

“Yeah, that’s me, how’d you know?” 

“Oh, not many folks check in here anymore, between the ghost tales and the new management.” 

“Management?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she finishes scribbling in her info and handing her card over. 

“Here,” the woman hands Dahlia’s card back along with a room key and a map, “I’m sure you’ll find the path.” 

“Uhh…thanks…” 

She shakes her head as she leaves the desk, doing a double take at the worker, who’s now back to reading the large white tome with a soft smile on her face. Dahlia is entirely too tired to deal with weird cryptic people, maybe she’s trying to play up the creepy factor of the supposedly haunted hotel. Probably intrigues the tourists or some shit. She takes her phone from her pocket, ringing Lloyd as she walks to her room. 

“Hey, Stray,” He greets her with the nickname he gave her and she already feels a little better despite the chill and exhaustion. 

“Hey,” Dahlia unlocks her room and strides in, there’s a deer head mounted on the wall and a vase of those white flowers on the bedside drawer, “just wanted to let you know that I am officially in Hope County.” 

She tosses her luggage, along with the gunk the receptionist gave her onto the bed and does a fist bump for no one’s benefit but her own. 

“That’s good, your interview is tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll go well, if not it might be another year of me eating cheese puffs on your couch.” 

“You make it sound like you’re some sort of bum.” 

“I mean…” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m gonna be a mess when you go.” 

“If I go, still gotta get the job.” 

“You’re gonna nail it, I know it, me and Earl were friends way back. He’s not dumb enough to let you go. And if he is, well, I’ll be having some words with him.”

“You can’t fight someone for not wanting to hire me.” 

“I mean, I can, uh, yeah, sweetie it’s stray, I was kinda, oh Caroline wants-“ 

“Stray, did you throw your fucking phone away?” Caroline, Lloyd’s wife, is on the phone in a second, worriedly yelling. 

“I talked to you when I stopped off in Denver.” 

“Yeah, in a dingy nasty motel and then we didn’t hear a word from you for over twelve fucking hours!” 

“I’m pretty sure I could handle myself,” Dahlia laughs and rolls her eyes, the concern is appreciated but unneeded. She’s a cop and despite her short stature, she’s got muscles and knows how to protect her. Maybe it’s cocky and arrogant, but at this point in her life, she’s not afraid of anything hurting her physically, mentally and emotionally is a whole other ballpark. 

“Still, what if you were in an accident. Have you ate? Do you know where you’re eating tonight?” 

She ate back in Denver and her stomach is growling now, but she mostly just wants a shower and sleep. She’d rather just grab room service for breakfast. 

“I’m fine, I’ve ate and I will eat. Stop worrying, now I’m gonna get settled in for the night, I’ll call you after the interview.” 

“Wait, ha-”

“Goodbye, mon cher,” Dahlia ends the call after her casual term of endearment, cher and mon cher as normal to her as bud or pal. Maybe it’s just a Cajun French Louisiana thing, or it’s one of the many things she picked up from her dad. She instinctively plays with the ring that hangs from a chain around her neck, he was always so proud of where he came from, teaching her Cajun French from the moment she could talk. Would he be upset with her leaving the state? 

She shakes the thought from her head, she can’t concern herself with the opinions of people who aren’t here, as much as they’d mean to her. Dahlia finally has the tools to be independent and make her own way in this world, she needs to seize any and every opportunity. She double checks that her door is locked, before stripping out of her clothes. 

Dahlia sets her phone to play music as she takes a shower, singing along to it as hot water eases her aching muscles. Once she’s cleaned, she dries off and starts to make her way to the bed where her luggage is. 

The large white blooms on the table between the bed and window, draw her eye, her suspicion confirmed that they’re the same as the fields of flowers she saw on her way here. They must be a common flower here. She’s not a plant person, but she can appreciate pretty flowers when she sees them. The petals are soft against her finger and she pulls out one of the fresh flowers, sniffing at it. It tickles her nose, the soft scent pleasant, but it makes her want to sneeze. She tucks it back in the vase and scrubs at her nose.

Her vision swims for a moment, suddenly light-headed. She hasn’t slept much and has been driving a lot, her eyes must be tired as well. 

Dahlia digs some comfy sleeping clothes from her bag to change into. Content in her shorts and tee, the hotel much warmer than the outside chill. She pushes her luggage off her bed and takes a look at the Hope County map.  

Her vision is still swimming but she reaffirms where she needs to be tomorrow for her interview. It’s over in Fall’s End at the Sheriff’s Department. Dahlia fishes a marker out of her discarded jacket pocket and then starts to write directions down on her right forearm before tucking the map away. 

She rifles a cigarette from her quickly emptying pack, most places don’t like their hotel rooms stinking like nicotine.

Cool air rushes in as she opens the window, she leans against the windowsill, appreciating the view of the moonlight reflecting in the pool of spring water. Montana really is beautiful. 

She lights her cigarette, looking away for a second to ignite it. 

“Ooooh ooooh~” A soft melodic voice drifts in, piercing the quiet, and Dahlia’s head snaps back to the window. 

In the grass, a woman surrounded by green mist spins and dances, singing softly into the night. She’s young, but still older than Dahlia with dirty blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. A white lace dress with flowers across the waist and skirt. Illuminated by moonlight, a heavenly glow, angelic but singing a siren’s song. 

Who would be out there at this time of night?

Dahlia’s the only one in the hotel and she doubts the staff indulges in nightly dance sessions. 

When did Dahlia start leaning further out the window? 

Every fiber of her being screams at her to run to the woman. To jump out the window if she has to, anything to get closer to the hauntingly beautiful woman dancing along the decks before the spring. 

Dahlia slams the window shut, quick and hard enough to rattle it. It’s late, she’s exhausted, she’s ridden her bike almost twenty-eight hours straight. Only stopping for a late night in a shitty hotel in Denver before getting back on the road at eight am this morning. 

Between ghost stories and exhaustion her brain is fucking with her. 

The woman’s singing is still there. 

Softer now but still present, still beckoning. 

Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared to bolt in order to go find that woman. 

She smashes her fist against the side of her head, the impact of her knuckles rattling her skull as she literally tries to knock sense into herself. Her visions seem to clear a bit and she can’t hear the singing anymore, but she also might have concussed herself. 

Her cigarette is stamped out before she’s even halfway through it and she’s setting her phone alarm before jumping into the bed. 

She buries her face in the pillow, no matter what she hears or thinks she’ll see, she’s not going anywhere until the morning. This interview is the most stressful thing she’s dealt with in years, so much rides on it, and she can’t be exhausted tomorrow from chasing fairy ghosts or what the fuck ever. 

Her mind is just playing tricks on her, it’s an asshole, it does that. 

She’s not certain exactly when she fell asleep, but the next thing she knows her alarm is going off. Dahlia groans and forces herself out of bed, she hates waking up. Her interview isn’t even late, but god, fuck waking up. 

Her head is clearer now, no swimming in her vision and no singing or sirens. She forces her way out of bed, groggily trying to go about her day. 

She’s running late, she’s always running late, time isn’t real.

After taking her sweet sleepy time to get herself put together and inhaling a room service breakfast, Dahlia is running down the hotel stairs and scrubbing syrup off her chin. Why does she do this to herself? The receptionist calls out something and she waves her off. 

Helmet slapped on and engine revving, she guns it out of the parking lot and makes her way to towards the Valley. She comes to a bridge and pulls her arm from her jacket to read her scribbled directions, remembering too late that she can’t read her own handwriting. 

She squints trying to decipher what the hell she wrote, her chicken scratch leaving a lot to be desired. It looks like it might say she’s going to Holland Valley or Halland Volley or Hallard, something to that effect by crossing the Honne…Benne…Rover….Dridge… Why does she do this to herself?

She’s probably on the right track, probably. Dahlia readjusts her jacket, confirming that her mess of directions won’t be getting any clearer the longer she stares at it and makes her way over the bridge. More signs hang from the inner framework of the bridge, half of them bearing a cross symbol with what looks like sunbeams coming from the center, the other half states The Power Of YES; Take The Leap.

Heebie jeebies nest in her gut, those goosebumps from earlier coming back. Religion…

Maybe it was too optimistic, but she had hoped further up North she’d see less of…that. She did searches online and was told based on some statistical thing that Montana was less religious than Louisiana. But apparently religion isn’t completely avoidable in the United States. 

The crisp smell of apples manages to break through her helmet as she leaves the bridge. Apple trees as far as the eye can see, bright red fruit gleaming under sunlight, a giant orchard surrounds the road. People mill about the apple trees; couples holding hands and parents hefting their children up on their shoulders to pick the highest apples their little hands can reach. A few people look at her as she rides past, the rev of her engine and the music pounding from her helmet drawing attention. Some looks are judgmental, others unconcerned, a small kid waves at her as she passes by and she waves back, smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. There’s a constructed Apple Statue in the orchard, noting that she’s riding through the Gardenview Orchard.

Over the horizon, built into the hills of the Holland Valley is a giant Hollywood style sign that says ‘YES’. It’s infinitely less creepy than the weird man statue, but far cheesier. Whether that’s better or worse? Who knows, but Hope County is definitely…weirder than she anticipated. 

She passes through the orchard and coming up on the left apple trees are replaced with pumpkins on the ground. Fields growing them, some clearly bigger and further along in the growing process, none fully ripe, however. A house is built among the fields, one fence with a sign that says Rae-Rae’s Pumpkin Farm. 

There’s a couple walking around, holding hands, but more importantly there’s a dog. A mottled coat of black, white, and blue gray with a bandana around their neck. The dog’s head raises at the rev of Dahlia’s motorcycle engine passing by on the road, tail wagging but he doesn’t run out, a well-trained doggo. 

She’s running late. 

She doesn’t have time. 

One pet can’t hurt. 

Dahlia comes to a screeching halt, tires squealing and bracing herself against her handlebars of her bike so she doesn’t fly across the farm. The couple taken aback, staring wide-eyed at her as she kills her music and yanks off her helmet. The doggie is still wagging its tail, eager to meet their new friend. 

“Can I pet your dog?” 

The couple is older, by Dahlia standards, so probably around their thirties…or forties…or twenties…ages confuse her. A woman with short sandy hair and a man with a knit hat over his head, the woman’s dropped jaw becomes a soft smile, her eyes gentle. 

“Of course,” a thick southern accent tints her voice, “Boomer’s doesn’t know a stranger.” 

Dahlia stays outside the wooden fence, not wanting to step on crops or something, but she leans over it. Boomer’s big brown eyes landing on her, so cute, she already loves him. A few coos and he’s already rushing over, standing to put his paws at the top of the fence so he can get some much-deserved love. She pets the top of his head, scratching behind his ears and around his neck. He eagerly leans into scritch and pet, licking her. 

“Awww, such a good boy, yes you are,” she praises and laughs, soaking it in. Even if she’s running late, this is more than worth it. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks. 

“Nah, here for a job interview,” Dahlia answers, hugging around Boomer’s neck as she snuggles him. 

“Where you interviewing at?” 

“Sheriff’s department.” 

“You’re kind of young for a cop, ain’tcha?”

“I’m an adult,” she says, shrugging her shoulders through the hug. She is a young adult and that’s all that needs to be said on that. 

“They finally trying to fill that deputy position?” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Sorry, to brush you off so soon, but we have to go pick up some equipment before noon and we’re already cutting it close.” 

Shit, right, time. She’s running late too, but the dog was worth it. 

“No problem, have a good one, you keep being a good boy, Boomer.” 

She gives a final scratch to his head, then slides her helmet back on, waving off the couple as she hops back on her bike. Her nerves have eased slightly at having gotten some time with a dog and even if she’s late, she doesn’t regret it. 

Her engine revs and she’s back to traveling down the quiet Montana roads. The sheriff’s department is in Fall’s End. A water tower baring the town’s name lets her know she’s arrived in the right area. It’s not a huge town. Along the main road, there’s the sheriff’s department, a general store, a bar, a church. There’s little streets and roadways showing that beyond those there’s houses and an apartment complex. Not huge, but certainly bigger than where she’s from, which…isn’t saying much. 

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the sheriff’s department, all those initially dissipated nerves are bubbling back to the surface. Her stomach in absolute knots and her muscles tense with anxiety. She shuts off her bike and pockets her keys then pulls off her helmet, fiddling with her hair. A deep breath, before she finally steels herself to step into the building.  

There’s a desk to Dahlia’s right when she enters the building, an older woman with a layered bob of red hair. 

“There something I can help you with, darling?” Her southern accented voice asks. 

“I have an interview with the sheriff.”

“Really,” the woman’s eyes scan Dahlia up and down, eyebrows furrowed in judgement, “can I get your name?” 

“Hale,” she murmurs, once again fiddling with her messy strands of dark hair. She knows she doesn’t exactly look the most professional right now. But professional clothes and motorcycles don’t truly mix. The woman, her desk tag says N. McClure, shuffles through some documents and reads over something. 

“Okay, just take a seat and I’ll let Earl know you’re here.”

Dahlia plops down in one of the reception area’s chairs, fiddling with the cat ears on her motorcycle helmet. Her leg bounces up and down, shaking out excess energy as the woman at the desk starts to call back, asking for Whitehorse. It’ll be fine, Dahlia reassures herself, Lloyd and Caroline have been talking her up to their old friend. All she needs to do is be herself, maybe, probably not. She’s kind of a mess. 

The clock hand ticks slowly, Dahlia feeling like she’s about to go crazy waiting for her interview to start. Finally, the woman hangs up the phone she was calling back to Whitehorse on, a soft smile on her face that pulls at the wrinkles around her eyes. 

“Earl’s ready to talk to you, come on back.”

The older woman steps out and helps show Dahlia to the office door, passing through a bullpen style office area to get there, Sheriff Whitehorse is scrawled on a plaque by the door. Dahlia knocks and he tells her to come on in, she slowly opens the door and steps in. There’s a modest sized quaint office with only a few personal touches. She’s only seen old photos Lloyd had of himself and Whitehorse, from way back in police academy. The man before her is much older than he was in those photos, weathered with wrinkled skin. He looks like an old sheriff pulled directly from a movie; green uniform, cowboy hat, scraggly brown hair, and a mustache.

“You’re Lloyd and Caroline’s Stray, right?” He says, standing up from his desk to shake her hand over it. He’s over a foot taller than her, probably close to a foot and a half. His hand swallows her own whole, it’s probably bigger than her face. 

“Holy shit, you’re tall.” 

That’s not a good way to start an interview, but he seems to be laughing and smiling. So, maybe it’s fine. Lloyd once said she has a charm about her despite her lack of tact or decorum. She’s still trying to figure out what that charm is, but still. 

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. She follows suit, leg still bouncing like it was in the waiting room. Whitehorse puts a manilla folder down on the desk, the little tab labeled D. Hale. It’s surprisingly thick for someone who’s never met her in person. 

“Lloyd and Caroline talk highly of you, hell the whole town does.” 

“The whole town…?” She raises an eyebrow, what’s that supposed to mean? Reinette, Louisiana is a small town, it’s police department has about six people in total and everyone knows everyone. But certainly, they wouldn’t call up Whitehorse to talk about her. 

“I swear Lloyd must have handed out the stations number to everyone down there, we’ve been getting two, three calls a day of people who can’t say enough good things about you.” 

“Oh god.” Heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks, god damn it, Lloyd. 

“You’ve left quite an impression on the place.” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Dahlia pushes some hair off her face, fidgeting with the locks.

“And you haven’t been working there long, have you?”

“Not counting training, about a year and a half, I know I don’t have much experience.” 

“Still making such an impact in a short amount of time, says something.” 

“Thanks.” His words soothe her nerves and embarrassment a bit, maybe this will go well.

“But, there’s the issue of your record…”

“My record…?” She shouldn’t have a record, he opens the manilla folder and she feels bile raise in the back of her throat. 

“Between what’s on the books and what everyone was saying, I was starting to wonder if there were two of you, Hale. Runaways, break in, fights, attempted grand theft auto, and petty thefts, the list goes on. Doesn’t exactly scream future cop.” 

“I thought records got expunged at eighteen.”

“If you request it.” 

“Oh…well then…”

“I know this all happened when you were a minor and you’ve been clear for the past two or so years, but…”

“It still looks bad, I know, I know. I’m not going to try to tell you some bullshit excuse or sob story. I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have for a lot of reasons. I regret most of it, not all of it, but most of it. Lloyd and Caroline helped me get my life back on track, I know two years doesn’t seem like a long time, but I’m not the same kid I was when I did that shit.”

That what she tells him, but she’s not sure how much she believes it. It feels more like her situation’s changed than she’s changed, but if she just said that she’s no longer a delinquent because she doesn’t need to be, well, it wouldn’t sound as good or employable. 

“What made you wanna be a cop?”

“Wanted to help people,” she answers with a shrug, it’s not really anything more complicated than that. Whitehorse huffs out what sounds like a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, I gotta ask, why here? Lloyd and the whole town loves you. It’s a hell of a move and the pay raise ain’t much.”

“Look,” she sighs and folds her hands on top of her motorcycle helmet, calming her body down, “I love Reinette, I love Lloyd and I love Caroline. I owe them and the whole town a debt that I’ll never pay back. But, I’m twenty years old. I’m not their kid and even if I was it’d be time for me to go, I’ve taken enough of their time, money, and everything. Reinette, bless the town’s heart, it’s...dying. There’s more cows than people, our station has more cars than officers. It won’t be long before they do away with the town’s department and just do everything through the Parish. And the parish’s department doesn’t need any more officers.”

Her throat constricts as bile raises in the back of it, her stomach churning. After everything that town and its people have done for her, she’s leaving them. A traitor, betrayer. 

“You figure any of those officers will even find work in the parish, at all?” He asks with a knowing, soft look in his eye. If he keeps in contact with Lloyd, he’s already well aware of the trouble in Reinette. 

“I doubt it, town’s a sinking ship. Lloyd…he’s willing to go down with it,” her eyes sting and she clenches her jaw, containing herself, “I can’t do that. As much as they all mean to me, I can’t. Lloyd’s gonna retire when it goes under, I’m twenty, the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m trying to help people; I’m trying to make a difference. But my hands keep getting tied because of money, resources, anything and everything. Lloyd and Caroline gave me the means and the tools to make something of myself, I’m not gonna piss that away because some fucker decided we weren’t worth investing in, I…”

She’s clenching her fists and nearly smacking her helmet, anger and frustration welling up inside of her, a geyser of emotions threatening to break through. This is an interview, she can’t do this, can’t be emotional. She needs to stop this, a deep breath before she starts to speak again. 

“I can do more here, I know no place is perfect, but I can do more here.” 

“Well, no one can say you’re not passionate.” Whitehorse lets out another chuckle, seemingly amused. 

“Sorry, certain shit, just winds me up.” She massages the back of her neck, why is she such a fucking idiot? No one wants to hire a cop who can’t keep their cool and throws a fit. She was supposed to tone down her dumbassery, not ramp it up. 

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah…” She half-heartedly agrees, Whitehorse is trying to make her feel better. Her interview has become him trying to console her, absolutely pathetic. She might as well call Lloyd and Caroline now and tell them she blew it. 

“You got any questions for me?” 

“Uh…”

Did she just fuck this up as bad as she thinks she did?

 “Not really, I just wanna get to work.” That earns her another chuckle from Whitehorse, even if he doesn’t think she’s competent, at least she’s entertaining it seems. 

“Full of piss and vinegar, ain’t ya?” 

“To say the least.” She lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no mirth of joy behind it. Not a shred of happiness as she thinks about what a fucking idiot she is. 

“Well, if that’s all,” Whitehorse stands up from his desk, “I’ll go ahead and show you out.” 

Dahlia stands up, the sheriff places a large hand on her back as they leave his office, finding their way back into the reception area. 

“It was nice to finally meet you, Hale.” 

“Same, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.” She’s sure that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, especially after that beyond trash interview. 

“It’s no problem at all, I-”

The doors to the department open, a man and a woman in green deputy uniforms coming in. Another giant, the man is barely an inch of two shorter than Whitehorse, with shaggy dark hair and hazel eyes. More importantly, the woman while taller doesn’t absolutely tower over Dahlia, her long black hair is braided over her shoulder and her olive skin makes her hunter green eyes stand out all the more. 

Dahlia’s throat feels tight and her heart race is a little faster. So…that’s a thing. 

“We running a daycare, now?” The guy asks, looking down his nose at Dahlia, though that might just be because of the height difference. Either way, she glares at him, he’s been around her a grand total of five seconds and he’s being a dick. 

“Pratt…” The woman, her name tag says J. Hudson, rolls her eyes at him. Her voice is warm and rich; why is Dahlia’s face so hot? Is she sick? Has the Montana weather already kicked her ass, what is this?

“This is one of the interviewees. Hale, these are my deputies.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Hudson flashes a soft smile and what is Dahlia’s heart doing? It’s like someone’s squeezing it and filled her gut with bugs while they were at it. She fucks up an interview and now she needs a doctor, great. 

“Same, I was, uh, just on my way out actually.” She needs to go sleep off whatever the fuck has just hit her. 

“Good luck,” the taller woman gives a friendly tap to Dahlia’s bicep, “hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” 

Dahlia is dying.

That’s the only explanation. She fucked up an interview and now she has the heart plague or some shit, hell of a day. 

“Uh, yeah, I, um, ‘preciate it.” She’s avoiding eye contact and she doesn’t know why she's stumbling over her words and she doesn’t know why.

“Pssh,” Pratt scoffs, “she’s gonna need it.” 

Suddenly, she can talk again. Weird. Hudson and Whitehorse shake their heads, clearly use to his bullshit

“Sorry about Pratt, he’s, well he’s Pratt.” 

“Eh, every station has at least one cop who’s just trying to make up for his tiny dick.” 

“I assure you, I-”

“Enough,” Whitehorse cuts him off, talking like he’s breaking up a child’s squabbling. Doesn’t really help make her look any more mature or competent, way to steer into the skid, Dahlia. 

“For the millionth time, no one wants to hear about your dick, Pratt.” Hudson rolls her eyes, why is that being said for the millionth time?

“Well, that’s certainly my cue to go, have a good one.” 

Dahlia quickly waves off the sheriff and deputies, making her escape. She takes the couple steps to her motorcycle with quick rigid movement, making sure she’s away from windows or the glass door, not wanting any of them to see her. 

She lets out a low guttural groan muffled by how tightly her jaw is clenched jaw and knocks her knuckles against the back of her head. 

Idiot, she fucked everything up by going on some huge ass fucking rant. 

Despite the distance, this was a phenomenal opportunity the best she’s had. It’s not like she hasn’t looked into place in Louisiana, but something is always wrong. She’s never made it as far as the interview. Either she never gets a call back, maybe they’d seen her records the same way Whitehorse did and didn’t even bother giving her that chance. Or she’d learn the town, parish, city, whatever was no better off than Reinette. One of the sheriffs she talked to on the phone knew her stepfather and recognized her name, nearly making her puke before she hung up. 

This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the best chance she’s had. Whitehorse has the Lloyd seal of approval which is as good as gold. And as much as the distance is guilt inducing…, the fear of betrayal and abandoning people who mean so much to her. But, she needs somewhere far away. 

As many good memories as Lloyd, Caroline, and the people of Reinette have given her. There are still too many bad ones, too many people figuring out where she came from, one too many bad memories trying to be more than just that. As much as it may eat her up to leave, it’ll eat her up even more to stay. Between the impending unemployment and her own past, every good moment there has a shadow looming over it. 

When she gets back to Reinette she’ll start working to get her record taken care of. Once that’s settled, it’s back to job hunting. A bump in the road, a moment of frustration, but she’ll come out the other end. She always does. 

Her stomach growls, burning through a pack of cigarettes and stress binge eating sound like a great way to deal with this. She’ll find some place to stuff her face and call Lloyd once she gets back to the hotel. 

There’s a general store, she doesn’t know if the bar lets minors in, so it’s probably her best place to grab some quick snack. She plops her helmet on and makes the short drive to the store, parking her bike outside and pulling her helmet back off to light a cigarette by the dumpsters. Her stressed brain is desperately craving nicotine. 

She rips open her pack of cigarettes and lights one up, bringing it to her lips. Smoke pools in her lungs, clawing to her insides and easing her nerves if only for a second. Holding it there for a moment before breathing it out into the air. Her eyes are drawn to the neon sign of The Spread Eagle bar, even bright in the daylight. It also seems to have some activity despite the early hour. Well, early for a bar. A white truck pulls up in front of the building, a man with long grungy hair climbing out of the passenger seat. 

Those odd pains in her chest and churns in her stomach fade as she inhales the smoke, looking up at the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blows through, carrying the gray trails away with it. Montana really is beautiful…

“Get back here!” A woman yells out, door to the bar swinging open violent as the man with long hair comes rushing back out, arms piled high with crates of alcohol. 

Dahlia drops her cigarette and helmet, bolting towards the bar, as the thief tries to scramble into the back of the pickup truck. He gets the crates set down, but she’s grabbed the back of his shirt before he can climb in. A harsh yank, pulling the tall man back into her and away from the truck. She encircles her arms under his armpits and locks her hands behind his neck, grappling into a full nelson hold that keeps him from running off. The odd angle of these heights and the way he was yanked from the back of the truck leaves him on his knees in his grasp. 

“Someone call the sheriff’s department!” She yells out, she doesn’t have any jurisdiction here or cuffs to actually arrest the guy. 

He tries to fight back against the hold, attempting to break free, but all he manages to do is writhe and squirm. The door of the truck swings open, the driver jumping out, his feet hitting the ground with a heavy sound. Another man easily a foot or more taller than her. 

“Help me, brother Theodore,” the man in her hold struggles to beg for help. 

“We have strict orders from John Seed to confiscate this liquor.” 

“Don’t know or care who that is, mon cher.” 

“Someone like you doesn’t deserve to know him,” the guy tells her, sneering and she sees his finger twitch, brushing over the gun in his belt holster. She can’t have firearms going off in a residential area. 

“All you’ll do is end up shootin’ your friend, don’t be stupid. Liquor ain’t worth bloodshed.” 

He lets out a sigh and his hand relax, something clicking in his mind. The man, Theodore, chews his lip, eyes flickering as she nearly sees the gears turning in his head. 

“What’s going on here?” A familiar rough voice asks over Dahlia’s shoulder, she doesn’t need to look to know Whitehorse has come to investigate. Even if she did, she wouldn’t dare look away from the man in front of her, not until she’s sure he won’t try to shoot. 

“These pieces of shit peggies were trying to steal my liquor stash,” a woman explains, somewhere behind Dahlia. 

“Liquors still in the back of the truck,” Dahlia tells them, none of it seemed to break, so hopefully it won’t hurt the bar too much. 

“If it wasn’t for her, they would have cost me a month’s worth of sales.” 

“Pratt, Hudson,” Whitehorse calls the names of his deputies. 

“I got it here,” Hudson taps on Dahlia arm, cuffs in hand, and that weird heart thing is happening again. 

“Um, yeah, o-of course.” She maneuvers away from the guy, she’s never stumbled over her words like that before. Hudson cuffs the guy and starts reading his rights off. 

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Pratt barks out at the Theodore guy who's surprisingly obedient as he lets the deputy cuff him. 

Dahlia scratches at her nose, watching the scene unfold. She’s finally gotten a good look at the woman who was being robbed. 

And, not only is everyone here tall, they’re also apparently beautiful. The woman is than both Dahlia and Hudson, with honey blonde hair tucked up into a bun and soft blue eyes. Her features are soft, cherubic almost, with freckles over the bridge of her nose. 

Have women always been this pretty?

When did women start being this pretty?

The fuck is her heart doing?

“Looks like it’s a good thing you were here,” Whitehorse tells her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “you managed to get Mary May’s liquor back and stopped it from escalating.” 

“Oh, yeah, I guess.” 

“Someone you know, sheriff?” The blonde, Mary May  asks. His smile gets wider and he squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a comforting touch. 

“This is my new Junior Deputy.” 

“I am?” 

He’s not serious, there’s no way, he has to be fucking with her. 

“Unless you changed your mind?” 

“Hell no,” she shakes her head, “I am the new Junior Deputy, wait, Junior?”

“You’ll start with a six-month probationary hire, paid of course, manage that and we’ll take you on permanently.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“You’ll start next, c’mon down to the station Mary, we’ll book ‘em and get your report in.” 

“See you around, stranger,” Mary May tells her as she follows after Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt forcing the thieves along. Theodore shooting a glare Dahlia’s way. 

“Look forward to working with you, Rookie.” 

“Pfft, I give her a week, tops.” 

And with that, Dahlia is left alone on the road of Falls End…with a new job. 

She got the job. 

She’s got to get through the probationary hire, but she got the job. Holy shit. Holy shit. And she starts in a week. She needs to call Lloyd and Caroline, she needs to find somewhere to live, there’s so much to do. 

Dahlia is practically skipping back over to her helmet and bike. She’s gotta start getting her ducks in a row. 

She speeds her way back through Hope County, making her way back to the hotel. She has so many fucking calls to make and shit to go through. Before she knows it she’s back in the Kings Spring Hotel parking lot, fumbling to get her phone. As silly as it may be, she’d rather call Lloyd and Caroline in a less populated area. She’s grinning ear to ear, enough to hurt her cheeks, she looks like a dork and that’s not going to get any better. Helmet under her arm, she dials Lloyd as she paces in the isolated parking lot. 

“How’d it go?” Lloyd is asking before she even says hi. 

“Six months, probationary hire, then we’ll go from there.” 

‘So, you got the job?” 

“That was the bummer way of saying I got the job, yeah.” 

“I can hear you smiling!” 

“Shut it!” 

“Caroline! She got the job, yeah!” 

“I,” she rubs a hand down her face, “I thought for sure I blew it.” 

“What changed?” 

“Some bar across the street got robbed right after my interview, I stepped in, next thing I know I’m the Junior Deputy.”

“Holy fuck, do you know what that is, Stray?” 

“Dumb luck?” 

“Fate, Stray, it’s fucking fate! The world telling you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be!” 

“You really are a sap, ain’t ya?” 

“What are you doing now?” 

“I’m staying another night here, but once I hop off I gotta start looking into where I’m gonna stay. I start in a week, so I gotta start moving, I’ll see you all in two or three days once I make the drive. It’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.” 

“Man, you’re really leaving.” 

“No crying.” 

“Seems like yesterday Caroline found you in the barn.” 

“No crying.” 

“You were so thin, just a little bag of bones…” His voice is choking up.

“I’m hanging up, you cry baby!” 

She does just that, smiling up at the sky. It’s happening, it’s really happening. It feels like the start of a new life, a new her. There’s a jump in her step as she makes her way back into the hotel, room service food and she’ll start making phone calls. 

“Miss Hale!” The soft lilted voice of the receptionist calls out when she sees Dahlia. 

“Oh, hey.” Dahlia walks to the desk, head tilted in question, what could she need?

“A heads up, we’re switching the water in the tank for the shower and bath system to water pumped in from the spring.” 

“Oh, that’s cool.” 

“It’s so much more relaxing than regular tap water, be sure to use it tonight.” 

“Uh yeah, thanks, by the way can I order some room service?” 

“Of course.” 

Dahlia goes through her order for room service, being assured the order will be put in and delivered before she knows it. With that she goes back up to her room, she starts digging through the bedside drawer, searching for a phone book for the area. There’s a white book in the top drawer, with that same strange cross like symbol that was on the signs along the bridge. She throws it on the bed, finding a local phone book beneath it, much more important. 

She starts rifling through pages. Hope County is mostly a trailer park town, for people who can’t afford to build or buy an actual home and land. There is an apartment complex in Falls End, but the rent is high for pretty small apartments. The prices probably jacked since housing is so limited. She’d rather get a whole trailer to herself for cheaper and just travel further for work. 

Hours pass by her making phone calls, seeing about housing and stuffing food in her face when she’s not talking. The Silver Lake Trailer Park that’s nearest the station has no vacancy or trailers available for rent, but they refer her to the Moonflower Trailer Park. It’s some distance, but with how fast she rides her bike, it’s doable. It’s the only place with vacancy, she’ll drop by with a down payment and check out the trailer tomorrow before she heads back to Louisiana to get her stuff and everything tidied up there. The world outside the hotel window has gone dark, moon hanging bright in the sky. 

That settled she finishes off her food and collapses back on the bed. She’s still smiling, grinning ear to ear.

“Wooooooo!” She yells out and pumps her fist up at the ceiling, fuck yeah, she’s got this. 

She’ll grab one of those spring water showers and then pass out for the night. She grabs her phone and sets it up to play music in the bathroom while she washes up. Her clothes hit the floor, air conditioner chilling her skin as she waits for the water to heat up. It has a soft floral scent and is tinted slightly green, spring water. 

She steps in under the hot spray of water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Her muscles relax under the water and steam, as she scrubs the hotel soap into her skin. She blinks her eyes open once she’s done washing her hair, finding her vision clouding, her body feeling heavier and heavier. Must be the exhaustion of the day. Dahlia quickly finishes washing, the last thing she needs is to fall asleep in the shower again. 

Her steps are shaky, her body swaying as the world swims around her. Colors distort and shift in prisms before her eyes. It’s like the night before, but times a million. Her movements sluggish as she dries herself and quickly pulls on her sleep clothes. She was feeling ill earlier, maybe it’s catching up to her? But it doesn’t feel the same. Not panicky and nervous. One of her favorite songs starts to play through her phone, though its eerie tones aren’t as welcomed in this moment. 

She grips the sink for leverage, steadying herself as she looks into the mirror

All our times have come.

Her dark brown eyes aren’t dark brown, not quite. She tugs at her eyelids, the iris growing milkier and lighter than she’s ever seen it. What the hell is this? A soft melodic laugh echoes through the room, like it’s near. 

Here but now they're gone.

She stumbles out of the bathroom, finding her empty bedroom. Nothing unusual. 

Seasons don't fear the reaper.

The laugh rings out again, a flash of white passing by her open door. When did it open? She didn’t leave it open. 

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...

She’s walking out her door before she can give it another thought, looking back and forth across the hall, who’s there? 

We can be like they are

Her feet pad down the hallway, steps suddenly sure and confident as she tries to follow the voice. Like her body is being drawn, pulled, following sheer instinct. She needs to find them. 

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

A flash of white, the swish of lace fabric, that laugh again vanishing into one of the rooms. Dahlia is there, trying to wrench open the door. Then it rings out from behind her. 

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

A woman stands at the end of a long hallway, the one from the tight before. Long sandy hair and beautiful green eyes. A blue butterfly perches itself on her fingers, the woman looking at it in awe. Dahlia takes slow steps forward, she wants to speak, ask who she is and what she’s doing here. But her tongue is heavy, her throat tight, vocal cords numb, not a sound escaping. 

Baby I'm your man...

Green eyes flicker from the butterfly to Dahlia, a soft almost mischievous smile tugging at the woman’s lips. She laughs again as Dahlia nears her, then she runs, childish and giggling she runs towards one of the rooms. Dahlia is chasing her even after she vanishes from sight, legs moving without her permission, instinct driving her to reach this woman. She doesn’t know why, but she needs to reach her, touch her. Be closer. 

La la la la la

La la la la la

The laughter turns into soft humming, singing echoing through the halls. Somehow the sound is everywhere, all consuming and right in her ear, but also distant the source too far away for her to find. She walks down the halls, taking turns and climbing up stairs, following her instinct that pulls her in each direction she goes. 

Valentine is done

Flashes of white fabric, doors closing and shutting. It’s a game of tag that she can’t seem to win, the small hotel has somehow become a labyrinth as she tries to find the humming woman. Short hallways and few rooms have been traded for never ending paths with room lining them. 

Here but now they're gone

Sometimes spacious and open, other times claustrophobic, choking, walls scraping the skin of her arms where she has to fear she might become stuck. More halls and more floors than she’s ever seen, winding paths that make her dizzy. But she can’t stop searching for that woman. 

Romeo and Juliet

One more turn, the woman is at the end of a hallway. Standing before a door, softly singing to what is now two butterflies balanced on her fingers. Dahlia starts to walk down the hallway, tight, claustrophobic. She keeps her hands on the walls as if it will give her more space, as if she could force the walls to open wider for her. 

Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet

Her heartbeat races as she walks closer and closer, the walls threatening to crush her between them. She can hardly breathe, every breath ragged and tight. Dying. She feels like she’s dying, air being stolen from her lungs and heart pounding lie it’s trying to escape her chest. It worsens with every step she takes near the woman. 

40,000 men and women everyday... Like Romeo and Juliet

Some part of her brain, the small part that doesn’t have a thick haze of fog clinging to it, tells her to run the other way. That with this feeling only growing with every step towards the siren, with her heart pounding harsher, breathing getting raspier, she’ll die if she keeps going. That this truly is a siren luring her to death, but she can’t listen to that part of her. Her body won’t. She needs to reach her. 

40,000 men and women everyday... Redefine happiness

She’s getting closer and closer; the woman isn’t running this time. Just calming singly, like she doesn’t even notice Dahlia. She tries to reach out for the woman, her fingers nearly brushing the woman’s dress sleeve. 

Another 40,000 coming everyday... We can be like they are

Then the woman walks through the door, Dahlia could curse and cry if her vocal cords would only work. Once again, the woman evading her, being just out of reach. But this hall has no doors along its sides, no turns or twists. The only two options are going back or going through the door after her. It’s not even a choice. 

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

She wrenches the door open and she’s in another world. No more wood walls and floors, her bare feet touching lush grass that tickles her skin. White petals float in the air and scatter across the ground. Trees curl around the area and when she looks out at the horizon, she sees that large statue of that man looming over the area. 

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

When she looks straight ahead at the middle of the field is the woman, she twirls, short white dress fanning out around her hips. She stops, turning to face Dahlia, she smiles softly. Delicate and angel like, she stretches her hand out. An offer, a beckoning. 

We'll be able to fly... don't fear the reaper

The feeling of impending death lifts the very moment she sees the woman. Her heartbeat and her breathing easing, relief and contentment filling her body. She’s smiling and she doesn’t know why she feels alive. Free, like she can do anything. She’s walking closer and closer to the woman, each step making her happier and happier. Her body lighter and lighter. Calm and peace, she’s never known. She’s right where she belongs, she doesn’t need to be anywhere else. 

Dahlia reaches out, finally about to touch her, a touch of their hands is so simple, so minor. But it feels like the only thing she wants. All she’s ever want, like every moment in her entire life has been building up to this, being here with her, whoever she is. 

Before skin can meet skin, the siren fades to mist. 

No, no, no!

She grasps desperately at the air where the woman once was, her heart racing, her lungs stinging like the airs been knocked out of them. The world is crumbling, falling down, everything going out beneath her feet. It’s falling apart and she can’t stop it, she can’t fix it. 

Dahlia takes a heavy gasp, desperately sucking in a heavy breath and she blinks, the world around her has completely shifted. Her vision isn’t blurred, no more prisms of color before her eyes. 

Cold, goosebumps raising up on her skin, shorts and tee doing nothing to save her from the Montana breeze. She’s outside the hotel, in the world she knows. That damn statue looming still in the distance ahead of her. 

Dull. 

The landscaped she was so mesmerized by this day, seems so dull now. She feels dull, after so many emotions, so much intensity both in fear and happiness…she feels so numb. Dahlia rubs her fingers together, her craving for the feeling of another’s hand in her own…there’s an ache. She was so close, but now she’s been plunged back into reality. 

She stands out in the field outside the hotel, staring at that cement statue, it still seems to call her. Her heart telling her to go towards that looming structure, but her head tells her to go back inside the hotel. 

So, she doesn’t move. 

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just staring. 

“Miss Hale!” A voice pulls her further back into reality, the hotel receptionist walking out towards her with a large blanket. 

Dahlia blinks a few times, she no longer feels numb, the very real emotion of shame flooding in. She’s standing out in public, in her pajamas. Did she just wander out of her hotel room in her sleep clothes? She must look ridiculous. 

“Hey…”

“Is everything alright? You just walked out of your hotel, looked like you were sleepwalking.” 

“Uh…yeah, I guess.” 

That makes sense, she must have went to bed and had a weird dream…yeah. 

“Here,” the woman wraps the large blanket around Dahlia, “you must be freezing.” 

“Thanks, sorry, I, just, weird dream.” She murmurs as they walk back to the hotel, Dahlia giving one last glance at the hotel.

“Dreams are nice, aren’t they? Sometimes you just wanna stay there forever.” 

[sparklyjojos]

CARNIVAL DAY recaps [8/13]

Today’s recap: Ghostly investigations, the Ultra Evil Really Bad Guys in an awkward Mexican standoff with Slightly Less Bad Guys, and XX’s thoughts on writing.

--

FORTY-FIVE

14 Jun 1997 — 20 Jun 1997

CONTINENTAL DRIFT

--

The writer detective XX wrote a few stories (including the seppuku detective one) that would be put together in one book. The work would be published under the name “Seiryoin Ryusui” and—on Yasha’s request—called 19box in memory of Juku, whose DOLL nickname was Jukebox. [19box or Juke Box is an actual book by Seiryoin that indeed contains the seppuku detective story.]

On June 6th, Yuiga Dokuson fled JDC leaving a confession about being the Billion Killer. It’s now been three weeks since his escape and still no new confirmed Billion Killer cases have happened. The Crime Olympics still continue, but at least everyone knows they will be over in two months.

--

All stories influence people, for better or for worse, and the story with the biggest, sharpest impact is the news. Then again, even entertainment has a major impact on people. The pen is mightier than the sword; the story is the strongest weapon. [Insert a horrible pun about how kakuheiki, “written weapon”, is as strong as kakuheiki, “nuclear weapon”.]

--

(...when Hikimiya Yuuya had been working with the AI Desert Colosseum in February, he found an unbelievable secret file.

Below is Hikimiya Yuuya’s testimony. [Originally in first person.])

Once Hikimiya got out of shock upon seeing the different numbers of daily deaths, he instantly went to the hospital to talk with Frau D (or at least went there as fast as he could in a wheelchair). Frau D only told him to show the file to DOLL’s leader Madame Alpha to get answers.

Madame said she hadn’t seen this particular file before, but she had known all along that the UN numbers were faked. Good thing Hikimiya didn’t tell anyone else about it—if he did, he’d probably be disappeared on his way back to DOLL. He accidentally got mixed into a matter bigger than just the UN; a shadow organization was at play here, and one misspoken sentence could possibly doom the human race.

Madame then told Hikimiya what her Zero Reasoning actually was. The Japanese word for “zero”, rei, happens to sound exactly like the word for “soul”. Madame’s ability was seeing and talking to ghosts. The difficult part of her reasoning was discerning whether or not the ghosts were telling her the truth.

Other people would find it hard to believe, but Madame knew best that the souls who helped her solve cases were certainly real. She purposefully stayed away from other people, as anyone being too close to her for a long time would also start seeing ghosts, including those who had died in less than pretty manners. Several people even landed in the hospital from shock.

The ability wasn’t perfect. Madame would have a problem talking to souls who spoke different languages. The world of ghosts was also pretty complicated and consisted of more than just nice, well-behaved souls (but it’d take too long to explain everything now). Thanks to her powers, Madame knew better than anyone how drastically the known history changed throughout the ages, true events replaced with fake stories so different from what the souls told her about their times. She was also aware that knowing the truth was not always a good thing.

Using her ability as a sort of a soul information network, Madame was able to learn many things about the Crime Olympics.

They say that Christopher Columbus kept two journals out of fear of being deemed insane by his crewmates: a fake one that everyone else could read freely, and a secret one talking about his true goals. The death count data files similarly used two kinds of information. The true one (what Hikimiya found) allowed the UN to grasp the real situation, and the fake one (the official stats) were displayed to the common man.

To explain why that was necessary, Madame told Hikimiya about the Cosmic Bomb—the Moon. The Bomb was set to fall on August 10th, but it wasn’t impossible that the enemy would drop it earlier if they felt threatened. It was in the world’s best interest to not interfere too much in their plans—to make them think four million people really died each day—before a good way to counter the Cosmic Bomb was established.

As for how Frau D got his hands on secret data, Madame thought the reason was very simple: Frau D was one of RISE’s Dogs, probably responsible for leaking info from DOLL.

Right after this conversation, Hikimiya returned to the hospital for more answers. Frau D stated that Madame was smart enough to understand how to stay alive by keeping quiet. He confirmed that he was a Dog. However, the secret file was not meant for RISE at all, but for Hikimiya. That’s why the password was YUYA, and why the report was addressed to “Desert Colosseum”—once Hikimiya inherited the AI, he would become the next “Desert Colosseum”. The signature D meant Frau D and referred to his identity as a Dog (all of them are designated as D-[numbers], for example Frau is D-159837).

Hikimiya felt like there was something strange about Frau D’s demeanor during that conversation, and only realized a few days later—after the Crystal Nightmare—that the S-detective knew he would be killed soon.

But that wasn’t the last Hikimiya heard from Frau D, as Madame passed him a message from his soul. It was strange hearing Frau D so unusually serious (even if the words came from Madame’s mouth).

Frau D wanted to apologize. The whole “I love you” thing was just another one of his jokes, and he chose Hikimiya solely on the basis of his skills and ability to become the next Desert Colosseum. Thanks to Madame, he was never afraid of death. Aside from RISE, he also belonged to the suicidal sect of DICE, who were the ones to kill him in the end. “Desert Colosseum” was still indispensable to RISE—and that meant they would rely on whatever data Hikimiya would send them in the future.

After relaying the message, Madame commented that Frau D was actually a really serious man; you don’t become an S-detective by acting like a clown. She could speak with him easily so soon after his death, but making contact would get progressively harder with time, so Hikimiya should better become “Desert Colosseum” as soon as possible while he could still get ghostly tips.

It was the first time Hikimiya truly felt respect for Frau D. Though now that he thought about it, maybe even earlier he felt a sort of a strange, begrudging affinity.

On the day Frau D died, news came about Juku, Ronely Queen and Ushiwaka Gigolo. Juku’s death was especially hard on Hikimiya, considering they had worked as partners in the past. Then Firannu Meirunesia died a week later.

Hikimiya of course wanted to talk with the dead detectives, but Madame was so busy with all the cases she had no time to spare, and calling specific souls was hard—her work was mostly just waiting until someone with the right information came to her. Asked about Ryuuguu Jounosuke, she said that she’s sorry, but from what she could see he really was dead. At least she was able to assure Hikimiya that Otohime was still alive, held prisoner by RISE together with Amagi Hyouma and Tsukumo Nemu.

The day Frau D was killed, Hikimiya found a new entry in the database that belonged to a fake F-detective, “Flower Design”. [At least I think that’s the right romanization for that]. Frau must have made that fake detective so Hikimiya could hide behind the identity and obtain information safely. It was hard to work a double job as both “Hikimiya Yuuya” and “Flower Design” behind the scenes, but the exhausting training under Frau turned out to have been a blessing in disguise.

Hikimiya analyzed the death count reports (which by this point reached early March) and found that while in the big picture the number of deaths rose steadily, it actually came in waves. Doing some statistical magic, Hikimiya realized that the death rate usually fell a bit during weekdays, but then rose significantly on each Sunday—right after the Billion Killer cases. Step back, two steps forward… It’s like the Billion Killer served as a periodic impulse that kept the Crime Olympics going. The Crystal Nightmare caused an especially high rise in victims, too.

Hikimiya made some calculations. The numbers were at first much lower than the proclaimed “four million deaths a day”, but if the growth continued, it would lead to a bigger overall number of deaths.

Constant four million a day would give 1,4 billion total deaths in an entire year.

But if the numbers continued to rise, the final figure would instead be 3,7 billion, more than half the world’s population—assuming the Cosmic Bomb wouldn’t kill everyone else.

--

FORTY-SIX

21 Jun 1997 — 27 Jun 1997

MOHENJO-DARO

--

(It was once thought that alchemy could produce homunculi in bottles.

Black Rook is a human obtained through cloning, a three years younger identical twin of Ryuuguu Jounosuke, with whom he shared this name. Yearning for an identity of his own, Black called himself Ryuuou.

RISE had the cloning technology long before his birth, but didn’t see a reason to use it, as getting normal imposters was much easier. They say that everyone has at least three perfect look-alikes in the world—RISE had no problem finding those three with their omnipresent reach.

The truth is that the original Jounosuke was supposed to become Black Rook at first, but RISE made a critical mistake while raising him. In the end, the clone achieved what the original couldn’t and became Black Rook.

Below is Black Rook’s testimony. [Originally in first person. As expected, he might be… biased.])

From what Black heard, his older brother had travelled all over the world with their parents as a young child in order to naturally pick up native accents of many languages. He was successful at this goal, but in the process he became so used to the outside world that he couldn’t stand the dim closed spaces of the Sanctuary (which was back then still under construction), even showing signs of serious childhood claustrophobia. He was constantly upset and kept crying no matter how long RISE tried getting him used to his new life. Childhood claustrophobia sometimes vanished with age, but there was no guarantee it would happen.

In the face of this, the Doctor decided to start anew and cloned the boy, and so Black was born. To avoid past mistakes, RISE made sure he got used to the Sanctuary since birth, the fortress transporting him to all those different countries and essentially becoming his home. Staying in the Sanctuary instead of with foreigners led to him not quite reaching the language mastery of his brother, but the difference was marginal and didn’t really matter.

When RS became the leader of RISE in 1987, Black formally inherited the position of the Sanctuary’s Master from his father Kintarou. Similarly, Endou Naoto became the next Doctor / White Rook after his father Naomasa.

RISE continued to fight their long battle. Black didn’t really understand if there was an objective good or wrong, but he knew for sure that the Beasts wanted to destroy the human race, and RISE’s Gods wanted it to continue in whatever shape. A battle between good and evil.

Their greatest enemy was a secret group called Akutou 666 Rengou (lit. “the 666 villains union”), known in short as Akuren. It was much older than RISE and had been threatening humanity for thousands of years.

Akuren was a worldwide information network created by the 666 most evil people of the world, all their names written down on a secret Luck Black List. Aside from the top 666, there were also two lower “replacement groups”, each also counting 666 members, so 1998 in all. Those who died or were arrested would be erased from the list, though one could always get on it again later. Note that the first group members were too skilled to be eliminated from the list unless they died.

All the historical villains one may have heard of—like Nero, Catherine de’ Medici, Ivan the Terrible, Rasputin, Aleister Crowley, even Hitler—all reached no higher than the second group of Akuren. Those in the first group are all untraceable and take care to erase their pasts, only their horrible impact on the world hinting at their existence, their true nature that of pure evil beyond imagination (Black doesn’t even want to think about the stories he heard).

Akuren categorizes all people on Earth into thirteen tiers of evil, starting from 1 (those unwittingly doing everyday evil), going through those who commit crimes as part of a company policy or “usual” criminals (4-5), through famous organized crime (6), through those with political power (7), through country elites with even more influence (8), through secret organizations ruling those elites (9), through the evil that controls the history of humanity (10), the first group of Akuren (11), the few members of Akuren that have transcended the concept of pure evil (12), and the “ultimate organization of extreme pure evil” (13).

Upstanding citizens are classified as tier 1 (it’s impossible to be lower, as every single human eventually hurts another human, if only by existing). Tier 10 would include Akuren’s first group and half of the second group, together 999 people. Tier 11 would apply only to the first group; they’re so strong that an S-detective could maybe manage one or two of them at once, but not several, and certainly not 666. Tier 12 are those from the first group that aim for even more evil and want to throw the world into darkness. Tier 13 is so secret that even RISE can’t get any information about it, more suspecting their presence than knowing for sure.

The members of every group of Akuren are numbered from 001 to 666, with those numbers moving if someone falls off the list. Number 001 is always the person who stayed in a group the longest, while those from lower groups will enter a higher group starting from 666. Groups two and three have to provide information for the network, but those who already rose to group one are privileged and can simply get data without having to give any in exchange.

Akuren attempted to wipe out the human race many times before, their crimes usually showing as wars on the surface. The Persian Wars, the Peloponnesian War, Alexander the Great’s conquest, the Seven Years’ War, the Hundred Years’ War, various Prussia wars, the Russo-Japanese War, both World Wars, the Cold War…

After WWII, the 12th tier of evil first showed itself, possibly with the 13th one right behind them, and the most serious plan to destroy humanity (including themselves) had been in progress ever since. Their twisted reasoning is basically, “everyone has to die one day, and when I die, the world may as well not exist for me, so why not bring everyone else down with me while we’re at it”.

The current Crime Olympics were conceived as yet another of Akuren’s plans to destroy humanity. RISE was created to gain control over this plan in order to prevent the ultimate tragedy and limit the damage as much as possible. Of course on the surface they still had to act like they’re cooperating with Akuren, and so had to put the Crime Olympics into motion like they were supposed to.

Akuren acted like they didn’t notice their true enemy, but considering the quality of their information network, they had to already know about RISE’s goals. However, RISE was too useful to get rid of it so quickly. Fifty years of preparations passed in a pretend cooperation between the two organizations. RISE has three trump cards in their deck: Alive, the Billion Killer, and the Cosmic Bomb.

RISE’s true goal was purging evil at the root for the sake of humanity’s survival. If they left Akuren alive, it would just lead to another attempt at total destruction in the future. RISE had already succeeded at using the Crime Olympics to kill the lesser ranks of evil in droves, even though it cost a lot of other lives and the true malicious elites were still staying safely hidden. If RISE didn’t kill off those elites before August 10th, the Cosmic Bomb would fall.

Those “worst of the worst” were called Pure Ultimate Beasts. The purest evil often wore the masks of saints; they truly were beasts disguised as humans, creatures that would kill with a smile. The first group of Akuren was too careful to be easily led into a trap, so RISE had to start with eliminating the lower groups and make their way up.

All the above was a very rushed explanation, but the gist of it is that humanity is in a horrible spot. If they don’t do anything, the Cosmic Bomb will fall; if they try to fight openly, perhaps the Bomb will just fall faster. The fate of humanity is in the hands of RISE—of Black Rook.

...but Black feels a bit weird those days, like something is very wrong with him. Perhaps it’s just a lingering symptom of Alive... or perhaps he’d been caught into Akuren’s trap? Something feels wrong. With the Sanctuary, with RISE and with himself. Something is strange. He’s supposed to stop the Cosmic Bomb, and has been for sure making preparations, but now he can’t remember how to do it, as if he simply forgot something so important. He can’t remember… What the hell happened to him? What the hell is going on? It’s like he’s not himself.

Has he also been brainwashed…?

[End of testimony.]

--

Writer detective XX continues to write. He feels a strange compulsion to do it, a sense of mission, almost like someone is forcing him to write. Sometimes he wonders if he hasn’t been brainwashed.

--

FORTY-SEVEN

28 Jun 1997 — 04 Jul 1997

HONG KONG

--

Writing as “Seiryoin Ryusui” is weird to XX, like wearing someone else’s clothes. He’s been feeling like he isn’t truly himself. But if it’s so weird to him, why does he simultaneously have the compulsion to not just continue writing, but to write as “Seiryoin Ryusui” specifically? Nothing else changed. It’s just that whenever he works as “Seiryoin”, he ceases to be himself. Almost like someone else is guiding his hands, like he’s only the first reader instead of the writer.

Inugami Yasha wants XX to write a book about the Crime Olympic as soon as possible. Yasha’s plan is to use the power of stories positively, to light up at least some of the darkness surrounding them.

No one is faster to rise to fame in mass media than the worst criminals caught red-handed. “Seiryoin Ryusui” wasn’t that popular, but his name is still spread around because of the Cosmic Jokers case, so releasing a book under the same name will gather the world’s attention. This will possibly allow them to lure out the actual mysterious “Seiryoin Ryusui”. The book will be technically fiction, just like Cosmic and Joker, but will give readers enough clues that maybe someone solves the still unfinished mysteries, or gets to the actual truth behind something that has been considered solved.

To be honest, XX hates the writing style in Cosmic and Joker. It just seems bad and unbalanced to him. Strong J Outa the editor thinks it’s because XX has a similar writing style, so reading “Seiryoin” feels to him like reading his own old works, which is rarely a good experience for a writer. The important thing is keeping that unbalanced style while writing about the Crime Olympics.

Languages, just like anything else created by people, aren’t perfect. No matter how much one tries, a recording of events will never be perfect specifically because of the nature of words. Even non-fiction is fiction in the end. Words on their own aren’t the truth, but the moment someone encounters someone else’s words, they may read out the truth between the lines—which is what Yasha hopes for by releasing the Crime Olympics book.

(By the way, it’s been a month since Dokuson disappeared, and not a single Billion Killer case has happened in the meanwhile. There were giant cases happening at 1 PM local time on Saturdays, true, but no symbolic skull has been found.)

XX still can’t get rid of his strange feelings. It’s almost like there’s someone else within him, “the true writer”, perhaps even “the true culprit”. Strong J Outa dismisses these worries and says that in a sense, the mystery writer is always the real culprit manipulating the characters. A mystery novel is not as much a showdown between a detective and a murderer, as a showdown between the writer and the reader. The challenge is not just solving a mystery, but also solving the writer’s intent put in his work.

The idea of the writer as the culprit is sort of a taboo that everyone knows about, but that isn’t really relevant inside mystery novels by design. All fiction is real as far as the world within that fiction is concerned. There’s no reason to escape into delusions about a writer making all this happen; instead XX should focus on writing and fighting crime this way.

19box is set to be finally released on July 5th.

--

(And in the latest news...)

On June 14th, the entire island of Tasmania suddenly moves towards mainland Australia and smashes into it, resulting in 100,000 dead or injured and several small islands sinking. Right afterwards Tasmania returns to its proper place. How all this happened is a mystery.

On June 21st, about a hundred tourists visiting Mohenjo-daro in Pakistan are found naked and dead. The cause of death is unknown, but the incident is thought to have been influenced by the Carnival Dice cult.

On June 28th, all the power lines of Hong Kong are suddenly cut, leading to a complete power outage. Massive fires start in the aftermath. Giant playing cards are found around the place, so the group F4C is suspected. The situation becomes so bad it leads to political shifts and Hong Kong being completely returned to China.

--

On July 5th, a mysterious continent surfaces from the depths of the Pacific, so unimaginably huge that it takes half the ocean’s area. The continent’s sudden movement causes kilometer-tall tsunamis to rush towards other lands. It’s only a matter of time until the record waves reach the shores and destroy anything in their path.

Japan has twelve hours to prepare for the wave.

--

[>>>NEXT PART>>>]

[cannibalisticskittles]

an act of kindness, ch. 14

pairing: unknown/reader notes: [14/16?]. part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven., part twelve, part thirteen, ao3 link.

Misun is the first to say what you’re all thinking:

“...there’s nothing here.”

And unfortunately, she seems to be right.

Tracking down Saeran’s coordinates has led you miles past city limits, giving you hours of tense silence and ample time to contemplate all the ways this could go wrong — and now, here you are, seeing at long last the culmination of your searching, the supposed pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, and it is… pine trees as far as the eye can see, broken up only by a poorly-maintained dirt road that forks and winds out of sight behind more trees.

Vanderwood had pulled up an aerial map of the area on the way, in between monitoring Mint Eye’s mass exodus — and sure, it looked unremarkable then, too, but surely there had to be a reason why Saeran sent you here of all places? Surely he would be here?

But he isn’t.

To your left, Misun leans forward to squint out the windshield. “Are we sure we’re in the right place?” she asks.

“This is where the coordinates led,” Vanderwood answers.

Misun worries her lower lip between her teeth before she speaks. “Then — could the coordinates be a little bit… off? They were coded, weren’t they? So could they be meant to lead up the road somewhere, or a few miles away, or… just have been decoded wrong somehow?”

“They’re not wrong.” Vanderwood’s words are firm. “Not on my end, anyway. Maybe you should be asking if your brother-in-law coded them right, or if he even sent them at all, instead of doubting me.”

“I know that’s a possibility, I’m just saying we should double-check things on our end since we can’t do anything about potential problems on his end,” Misun says.

As Misun and Vanderwood continue to bicker, Seven, who has been silent thus far, reaches to the center console for your phone — sort of a communal phone by now, you muse, watching Seven snap a picture through the windshield. He navigates to the messenger app.

“...you have a plan?” you ask.

Seven opens the once-more purged chatlog with Saeran before answering. “A thought,” he says, and sends the picture. “We’re right where he said to be. If he did send those coordinates… if it was him…” Seven hesitates. “...it would be smart to wait until he knows we’re following. To make sure Mint Eye can’t find him first.”

You nod slowly. “So… we’ve got to prove that we’re on the right track?”

Unaware of your discussion, Misun and Vanderwood are still going at it.

“Look, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but can you really say there’s no margin for error here?”

“Not with this there’s not!”

Seven ignores their argument. “If I’m right. I… might not be. But—” And he shrugs helplessly. “It’s what I would do in his shoes.”

“And now we just wait here until he tells us where to go from here? Or… until…” You don’t want to think about the possibility that Saeran won’t reply.

And that, at least, seems to get Vanderwood’s attention.

“How long are we waiting out here in the open?” they ask. You can’t tell if the touch of irritation in their voice is from the idea of waiting or just a lingering side-effect of arguing with Misun.

“As long as it takes,” Seven says. “So keep watching the cameras to see if anything changes there and we’ll keep watch here.”

Vanderwood clicks their tongue. “Sounds like a good way to get ambushed,” they mutter. “We still can’t confirm who sent the message.”

“No,” says Seven, “but even if it is an ambush, we can handle it. This car is bulletproof.”

“Bulletproof,” Vanderwood repeats.

“Uh-huh! So if anyone comes — we stay in the car,” Seven says, “and as long as no one opens the doors, we’ll be fine.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Vanderwood hisses out a breath between their teeth. “You won’t catch me opening doors for cultists,” they mutter. Still, their expression relaxes minutely.

For a moment after, there is silence.

Misun is the first to break it. “So...” She begins, “if Saeran doesn’t reply, or doesn’t show up, then… what do we do, eventually? I mean, obviously, if Mint Eye bursts out of the woods and rushes the car—” Your fingers clench against your thighs at the image. “—then yeah, it’s an ambush, but if nothing happens, then… do we assume they... caught him? And then, if they have — what do we do? Do we go to Mint Eye directly?”

“There’s no guarantee he’d be there,” Vanderwood adds. “Nobody’s seen him on the cameras yet.”

The reminder is sobering. If he’s not here, and if he’s not there… if Mint Eye really is a step ahead of you… where do you go then?

“I think,” you start, and then your phone blips.

You and Seven both scrabble for your phone before you realize that he’ll actually know what to do with whatever message has popped up and you concede it to him. He unlocks it, opens it, and scans the screen.

And then he tosses it to Vanderwood. “—more coordinates.”

Relief washes over you like a wave. You and Misun both lean forward to peer at the screen over Vanderwood’s shoulder, nearly knocking heads in your haste.

It looks like a jumbled mishmash of letters and numbers, same as before, but Vanderwood stares and stares and stares until they finally say, “got it.”

They set the phone aside and switch tabs on Seven’s laptop. Mint Eye’s camera feed disappears, replaced by the aerial map they’d used to navigate to the first coordinates. They begin to type something in, looking back occasionally at the phone.

“Oh, now was it really necessary to fight me on that for so long if decoding it is that quick?” Misun complains. Vanderwood ignores her.

When they finish entering in the decoded coordinates, the view on the screen shifts slightly. “Here,” they say. “North, and… a little west.” They glance through the windshield. “Take the left path.”

And Seven does. The car goes into motion so fast that this time, you really do knock heads with Misun. There’s little time to nurse your wounds; you’re too busy feeling anxious over what’s going to happen next.

‘North and a little west’ turns out to be just a few short minutes up the path, and looks much the same as where you’d been, with the exception of a slightly denser thicket of trees lining the road. Still, Seven takes and sends another picture.

The response comes much quicker this time. Again, Vanderwood scans the mess of a message and then plugs in the resulting coordinates, making sense out of chaos.

“North, then east this time,” they say.

And off you go again.

These coordinates lead you farther away, and you are brought to another branching path — three forks instead of two.

Another picture.

A minute passes in silence, then two, then three.

“I bet the next one will take us up the left path,” Misun says. Though her words are light, her expression is grim.

“...middle,” you guess, and she gives you a thin but genuine smile for indulging in her game, as though for a moment you could pretend the stakes weren’t quite so impossibly high.

It’s not too long before the next message comes in, though of course, worry makes it feel like it takes much longer.

You and Misun were both wrong: “East,” Vanderwood says. “Take the right path.”

As you watch the trees around you grow taller, blocking out more and more sunlight, you wonder how many times one road can possibly fork.

Not many more, it turns out, as the next coordinates take you off-road. You suppose you can see why Saeran chose this area to hide out in. As the trees become denser, and the trail grows thinner, it becomes nigh on impossible to see the road from the aerial map. You’re forced to slow to a crawl, each occupant of the car scanning the path ahead from out of the windows for some break in the trees, some sign of a road that has long fallen into disrepair, obscured by years of leaves and bits of detritus.

Your current location blips away on the map, moving through the canopy of trees. Vanderwood can point out the general area where the coordinates lead, but other than the slight thinning of the forest near the location, it’s unremarkable — and without being able to see the road, there’s no way to know how, exactly, you’re going to get there. Besides, it’s unclear how much longer you can even rely on the map; Seven’s phone is starting to die. Acting as a powerful enough hotspot to keep his laptop connected to Mint Eye’s cameras is really taking a toll on it, and it’s only through a stroke of luck that it’s lasted this long.

And with the difficulties you’re having navigating into the forest, you have to assume you’ll have more or less the same amount of difficulty navigating out of it — which will complicate matters in the event that this turns out to be a trap.

Which it might be. After those first messages, there hasn’t been anything that seems distinctly Saeran. Just coordinates, plain and simple. But then, is there anyone back at Mint Eye who comes even close to Saeran’s level? Anyone who can replicate even a smidgen of his talents? And on the other, other hand, how complicated would it really be to send slightly-coded coordinates and clear out old messages?

You flex your fingers to keep from digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palms, and it’s a relief when Vanderwood finally says, “we’re getting close. Be on the lookout.”

You refocus your attention on your window, watching diligently for a break in the trees.

On and on and on you go until Misun gasps. “Oh! There, there! To the right!”

It’s a sharp turn, and the car struggles over an exposed tree root, but you watch as your blip nears the area Vanderwood marked on the map, you watch as the trees thin out ever so slightly, you watch as the light up ahead grows brighter, and then —

And then.

And then there is a cabin, small and low and nestled tightly amongst the trees that obscure it from above.

The car slows to a stop at the treeline. Within, all is still and silent.

Seven is the first to move, releasing his white-knuckled grip from the steering wheel to raise your phone in a shaky hand, snap a picture, and send it. Then he just… stares. His breath, when he lets it out, shudders.

“...that’s it, right?” Misun asks eventually. You’ll have to thank her for asking, once you remember how to speak.

“Yeah,” says Seven, so soft you have to strain to hear him. “I think so.”

He sets your phone down. Four sets of eyes turn to it. The minutes crawl by, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. You can’t bring yourself to look at the cabin, unable to bear the anticipation.

And then Seven straightens. From the mirror, you catch the look of grim determination that crosses his face.

“I’m going up to the door.”

“You’re going to leave the bulletproof car,” Vanderwood says flatly.

Seven just nods, looking resolute.

“Seven…” Misun reaches out as she exchanges a searching look with him. You miss whatever silent exchange is going on between them, but her expression is rife with unspoken emotion.

He clasps her hand between both of his. “I have to know. I have to try,” he murmurs. And then he releases her hand and leans back. “Keep the car on,” he says. “Just in case.” The rest is implied: in case it’s Mint Eye in there. In case you need to make a break for it.

He steps out of the car.

But he only gets a few steps away before the door to the cabin opens, and there, there, there is Saeran.

Standing in the doorway, unmistakably himself.

He looks not to Seven, but to the car. You freeze, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think. He has you pinned under the weight of his gaze.

“I—” you start, then falter. Instead, you reach for the passenger door.

“Hey—” Misun grabs at your sleeve.

You slip easily from her grasp, clutching your arm to your chest to prevent her from trying again. What could you say to explain it to her, to impress upon her the absolute urgency you feel when you look at him, the need to be there, to know that he’s real?

“Please,” is all you can manage.

Her hand drops. She says nothing, but she doesn’t try to stop you when you reach once more for the door.

You dimly register Seven, still standing right where he was when Saeran opened the door as you stumble out of the car, but then Saeran is looking at you and when he sees you — his expression softens and he smiles.

The emotion you feel at that is indescribable.

You move toward him, steps unsteady at first, then stronger until you’re fairly running to him. He opens his arms somewhere along the way and you crash into him, are swept up in him, feel his arms encircle you as he draws you to him, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“Saeran,” you breathe. He murmurs your name into your hair and you feel tears prick at your eyes.

You throw yourself into him, winding your arms around his waist. He smells like something acrid, something bitter, something… elixir-like. You pull away with some effort so you can look at him closely. Saeran resists this change, but you’re able to pull away enough to place your hands on his face.

His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles, and his posture, never great even the best of times, leaves him slouched against you in a way that conveys absolute exhaustion — but he is steady on his feet, and as he looks at you, there is affection in his gaze, a warmth that makes your breath catch.

“...hey boss,” you say, “good to have you back.” He snorts, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Hey, you,” he whispers.

From behind you comes the crunch of gravel under hesitant feet. “...Saeran.”

Saeran stiffens at the sound of Seven’s voice. “Don’t,” he says softly, grip on you tightening.

Seven enters your peripheral vision. “Saeran, there are so many things I want to ask, to say… I…”

“Don’t. Don’t say that name. I don’t want to hear it from your lying mouth.”

Seven stills. You try to turn to see him better, and Saeran crushes you to his chest. “I’m not — I didn’t lie to you. When we were kids—” You feel more than see the way Saeran’s breath stutters, the way his chest heaves. “—I meant everything I said to you. I meant it when I said I’d protect you, that I’d get us out of there together, I swear. Saeran, I thought—”

“That’s enough.” Saeran’s voice is harsh.

Seven carries on regardless. “I thought you were safe,” he pleads. “I changed my name and became a secret agent to help you. I never wanted to abandon you, but I thought that the only way we could escape our father’s reach was if we separated.”

Their father?

Saeran flinches back at Seven’s words, but then he scoffs. “Who thought of that insane idea…?”

More footsteps. Misun?

“V did,” Seven stresses. “And V promised that he and Rika would take good care of you if I left! I trusted him, but it was still so, so hard to leave you Saeran.” Seven’s voice is soft, his words pleading.

Saeran is unmoved. “That’s fairly convincing… I almost believe you. A lot of people would.” His grip on you tightens. “But I know the truth. And I won’t be fooled again.”

“I never forgot you,” Seven insists. “I never stopped thinking about you. I wasn’t supposed to find out anything about you while I was in the agency, and it was better not to know where you were in case our father… found me in spite of the agency. Or if the agency learned that I was still trying to hear about you. But I couldn’t go on without knowing you were safe, that you were happy, so… I would ask Rika how you were doing.”

Seven takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. “Two years ago, Rika secretly sent me a floppy disk, and inside were pictures of you, of your smile, and a letter she wrote me. When she told me you were doing well, that you were happy, I believed her.”

Saeran scoffs again, but he’s begun to tremble and his grip on you loosens.

“Look, I—” Seven fumbles with his jacket, eventually pulling something out of his pocket. A floppy disk. He holds it out to Saeran. “I know this doesn’t mean anything to you right now, but I swear, it’s all on there, just like I said.”

“...no,” Saeran says. “I don’t believe it.”

Misun — you can tell it’s her now — takes a step forward. “Saeran, it’s true. I’ve seen it.”

Saeran shakes his head tightly. “No. Maybe there’s something on there, but even if there is, you’ve just made it up. You’re only trying to hurt me again.” The trembling is worse now.

There is frustration in Seven’s voice. “Saeran, please, if you would just listen—”

Saeran finally lets you go, and you can see his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists as he works out what to say. He fairly bristles with anger, with indignation, with hurt.

— and then he turns away.

“I’m going inside.”

And in he goes, pushing his way into the cabin. You are left standing there, staring after the spot he occupied.

“That, ah… could have gone better,” Misun murmurs.

“And it could have gone a lot worse,” you say, remembering his occasional fits of rage at the mere mention of Seven back at Mint Eye — and at the motel, and after seeing him at the apartment.

Seven looks downright devastated. “Saeran… what happened to you…?”

You look between him and the cabin.

You can’t wait for Saeran to cool down; Mint Eye may not know where you are now, but the longer you stick around, the more likely it becomes that they’ll figure it out, and who knows how long it’ll take for him to come out on his own? But you can not let Seven keep trying to talk to him when Saeran is this riled up.

...the cabin door is ajar. There’s nothing stopping you from following Saeran.

So… you do.

“Let me try to talk to him,” you murmur, though you don’t check to see if anyone heard you before you step cautiously inside, peering through the dim light afforded through the moth-eaten curtains and the open door behind you.

There’s no need to search; it’s a small cabin, one room, a sitting area with a little kitchenette off to the side. Saeran is leaning against the wall by the far window, fingers tangled in his hair. He does not look up when you enter.

You pad across the room. He remains still, staring blankly down at the floor even when you’re right in front of him. You spend a moment in consideration.

The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence after just a few minutes to cool down is… low. The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence if you talk to him about it is also extremely low, but, well. Maybe you can at least persuade him to make it back to the car with you without any bloodshed.

Never let it be said that you cannot, on occasion, be a halfway-decent optimist.

So you shuffle over until you’re standing beside him, then gently bump your shoulder against him. “Saeran?”

It takes a long, long moment before he reacts, but finally he raises his head and looks at you. “Has he been filling your head with lies, too?”

You’d thought he was handling things rather well, all considering, but the look in his eyes now is… less than tranquil.

Rather than address the explicit question, you lean into him. “Hey,” you say, “nobody’s said anything to change my mind on you, or on anything else. I still think what I thought before, just… stronger, maybe.” Though it helps that you’d never actually held any ill will towards Seven. Perhaps you can simply gloss over that part for now. “I’m still with you. Alright?”

This seems to mollify him, and the feverish look in his eyes cools. Still, you wouldn’t exactly say he’s relaxed. He flexes his fingers at his side, eyes cast down as if he’s thinking of something to say. You bite your tongue to keep from filling the silence, and after a moment, he speaks.

“The floppy disk...” He trails off.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “He never showed me anything like what he says is on it, but I was there for less than a day. Could be real, could be not.” Based on everything you’ve seen, though, you’d put your money on real. If Rika’s running Mint Eye, she’s been around Saeran for however long he’s been there, at least, so why wouldn’t she have been able to send Seven a few pictures?

Saeran shakes his head. “It’s not real. It might look like it, but he’s good at forging believable fake information.”

“And you’d be good at identifying it as fake information,” you point out. “You could look it over anyway.”

His brow furrows.

You hold up your hands, palms up. “Hey, I said could, not should.” Though perhaps it would help. God knows the animosity he holds towards his brother isn’t going to go away without chipping away at it with anything less than a sledgehammer.

Saeran’s gaze sharpens. “Could be bugged. Likely to be bugged. And it’s fake anyway. Humoring him by taking it would just be giving him what he wants.” His hands clench into fists. “Another chance to hurt me,” he mutters.

Oh. His mood is darkening. Deflect.

So, you adopt a cavalier tone and say, “eh, it wouldn’t work though, right? You could just buy a hunk of junk computer, haul it out to somewhere remote, put in the floppy disk, and if it’s a virus or whatever, you can leave it and run without caring that the location’s been compromised, no big deal.” He snorts, and you give an exaggerated shrug. “And if the pictures are fake, you’ll figure that out, and then you’ll have the peace of mind of knowing he doesn’t have any ammo against you. You can’t buy that kind of relief. ...but yeah, I see your point.”

You lapse into silence again.

You wonder how much time you have, whether you even really have the luxury of waiting at all. Maybe Mint Eye’s been figuring out where you are all this time and they’re gaining on you. Maybe you should be urging Saeran to rush to the car right now, speeding off into the horizon. Or maybe Seven finally finished tracking Mint Eye and he’s about to come in and say he’s pinpointed the exact evacuation point and he’s already got plans to storm the place and put an end to Mint Eye all drawn up and ready.

Maybe it’s all going to be okay after all.

And then Saeran shifts. “Wait.” He’s looking towards the doorway, where you catch a flicker of movement. “That person…”

You peer closer until you make out what the movement is — Vanderwood, walking towards Seven, where he is standing in front of the cabin. Huh.

“Vanderwood,” you say. “They worked with Seven at the agency. They helped us find you. I wonder what they’re doing…?” Trying to see what’s taking so long, maybe?

For a moment, he simply watches them near, and then he pushes off from the wall and walks closer to the door, remaining just out of sight. You follow after him, curious.

“Not thrilled to be leaving the relative safety of the bulletproof car like the rest of you,” Vanderwood says when they’re within earshot of Seven, “but something’s going on with the agency.”

“What?” Seven’s voice is sharp, alert. “Have they found us?”

“Could be,” they say, somehow managing to not sound panicked. “But… it seems like something else is going on. Hell if I know what. It’s big enough to get everyone worked into a tizzy. Based on the messages—”

“Messages?” Seven asks.

They wave a hand. “Same ones I always get: threats of what will happen if I don’t get you to do your work on time. More than I usually get, though. A lot more. I’d chalk it up to the boss realizing we’re deserters, but these messages are different. The boss seems—” And they pause, as if mulling over how to describe it. “—desperate. Panicked.”

“Shit,” Seven mutters. “Can you access anything currently, other than the messages?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Right. Okay," Seven mutters. “That’s not good, but we don’t know that they’ve managed to track us down. When Saeran — when he’s back with us — you drive, and I’ll send Jumin the coordinates to the evacuation point and hack into the agency’s mainframe, see what’s going on while we put some distance between us and Mint Eye. I don’t like how close we are now.”

You hear Saeran huff beside you, and then he pushes past, stepping into the doorway. “I didn’t leave Mint Eye just to get snatched up by your secret agency,” he snaps.

Seven startles a little, whirling to face Saeran. After another moment, you step out awkwardly behind Saeran.

“If there’s a chance that someone followed you, fix it now,” Saeran says.

“I second that,” Vanderwood says. “It’s not going to be good if the agency catches us.” And then they give Saeran a once-over. “...it’s uncanny how similar you look. I can’t believe that Seven’s had a twin all this time.”

Saeran’s mouth twists. “I knew it. I knew Luciel would never mention me. He just forgot all about me to have those grand parties.”

“Saeran, that’s not—”

Saeran cuts off Seven’s protests. “Shut up. I don’t care about whatever you have to say.” His lip curls into a sneer. “I’ve already been unfortunate enough to need your help, but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me, and it doesn’t mean I’m going to clean up your mess.”

“Saeran, we can't stay here, it’s too visible. We can fix this on the way to somewhere safe,” Seven pleads.

“Then you can fix it here just as easily,” Saeran snaps.

Seven falters. “My phone — I don’t know if there’s enough battery left to learn anything before it dies.”

“All the more reason to stay and finish the job,” Saeran says. “There’s an outlet inside.”

“There’s power here?”

“There’s a generator,” he snaps. “Make use of it, or don’t, just fix this mess you caused.” His posture is stiff, his gaze imperious. But after a moment, he relents. “Then… when it’s safe… then I’ll go with you.”

Relief flashes across Seven’s face, and he opens his mouth to reply.

“But that still doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to talk to me,” Saeran is quick to add.

Seven’s mouth closes. Vanderwood looks between the two of them and quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Now… let’s go.” Saeran looks back at you, then begins to walk.

Seven blinks in surprise and raises a hand as if to reach out to Saeran — and then he lets it drop. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk,” Saeran says without turning back. “Like I said, this is your mess, not mine, and since you can’t seem to shut your damn mouth, I’m moving out of earshot.”

Misun speaks up. “But wouldn’t that make you too visible? If someone’s looking for you...”

“I’ll stick to the woods,” he says. “The trees are dense, and I won’t be seen.” There is, you note, no hint of the irritation that plagued his voice when he spoke to Seven; his response to Misun is entirely polite. Interesting. Then he calls your name, and finally looks behind him. “Come on. I’m not leaving you with him.”

You stare at him, feeling a little like a deer in headlights. Do you… follow him? Just leave Seven and Misun and Vanderwood in the lurch? But then, you can’t just leave Saeran to wander alone. Part of you feels like you ought to call him back, try to get him and Seven to hash out their problems here and now. Like if he goes now, with things left unsaid, he’ll stay gone; slip away and disappear forever, off to somewhere he never has to see Seven again. The rest of you recognizes what a terrible, terrible idea that is, and of course, how can you expect years of hurt to be wiped clean all at once?

And yet there’s still a lingering touch of guilt when you take a hesitant step in Saeran’s direction.

“Um,” you say to the three pairs of eyes currently on you. “...we’ll be back? Good luck with — the agency, and all that.”

You can hear Vanderwood beginning to berate Seven as you scurry after Saeran. “Seven, you’d better tell me what the hell is going on here. This isn’t the reunion I was expecting.” Their voice fades with each step you take.

Saeran’s strides are long and purposeful, and it takes until the group and the cabin have disappeared from view for you to be able to keep pace with him.

You’re not sure if there’s any rhyme or reason to his wandering, but even so, you walk in silence for several minutes, following his lead. There’s no path to guide you — not that you’d really expected there would be, given the state of the ‘road’ leading up to the cabin — so he ducks under branches and steps over tree roots, and you shadow him, waiting for him to run out of steam.

The moment comes eventually.

His strides begin to slow, his steps lose some of that stiff purposefulness, and at last, he sighs, leans against a tree, and tips his head back against the trunk as his eyes slide shut. There’s a weariness to him that your short walk cannot account for. Whatever happened in your absence, he seems to be carrying it with him even now. God, they really did a number on him.

You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, unsure if he’s up for conversation right now or if he intends to just wait out Seven’s investigation of the agency in silence. Even if he does want to talk, he might not want to talk now, and you doubt he’d be thrilled if you immediately launched into an interrogation of what happened to him when he was back in Mint Eye. Not as a starter, anyway.

...off guard. He keeps catching you off guard. In Mint Eye, it was easier. You knew where you stood. You knew where he stood. Now… well, he’s dodging Mint Eye, and he still wants you near, and he still wants Seven to disappear, but beyond that? Hard to say.

Eventually, the silence and the wondering grows too much for you.

“A generator, huh?” You ask. “Got a pretty decent set-up going here.”

It takes him a moment to respond, but respond he does. “Someone used to live here once,” Saeran says, eyes still closed. “Why wouldn’t they make it livable?” His tone is even. Good. That’s a good sign.

“I suppose,” you say. “I guess I was just expecting something a little more rustic. Seems like anyone wanting to live so far out here would want the authentic experience.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. They didn’t build it too off grid. It’s less than a mile off a main road and there’s a campground nearby, too.”

“Huh,” you say. You contemplate this, then ask, “how’d you know there’d be somewhere safe out here, anyway? Can’t imagine you just stumbled upon it.”

“I knew it was here,” he says. “It’s one of Mint Eye’s peripheral properties, gifted by a disciple when they came to Paradise.”

A chill runs down your spine. “So they know where this is?” You ask. “They could find us here?” Oh god, oh god, if they know you’re here, they’re coming—

But he finally looks at you and shakes his head. “The exodus is more important than reclaiming old territory, particular when it couldn’t even fit a third of Mint Eye’s believers. Later down the line, when things are settled, finding a use for it may become a higher priority, but for now, no.”

“But — won’t they come looking for you? I mean, they probably already are looking for you. And wouldn’t they start with places they know about?” You can hear the edge of panic creeping into your voice, but you can’t stop it.

He tilts his head at you. “You didn’t tell anyone about the cabin, did you?”

“We sent those pictures so you’d know when we’d reached your coordinates.” Oh, god, you sent them photo evidence of where you were.

“But in the group chat?” Saeran’s voice is firm, pulling you back to Earth.

You shake your head. “Not a word.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason for them to know.” Noting your puzzled look, he adds, “I didn’t have time to disconnect the main computer from most of the app, but my own, private messages should still be secure.”

“But — how can you know?” You protest. “What if not all their energy is going towards evacuating? What if they managed to get into your messages? What if—”

“Hey,” he says, “come here.” He beckons you to him with a sweeping wave of his arm. Your steps are wooden but you still comply, and when you’re near enough, he slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close. “We’re safe,” he says. “Okay?”

You hesitate, mind swirling with thoughts of Mint Eye bursting out from the bushes.

“Okay?” he presses.

“...okay,” you say at last. “Okay.” Safe. What an odd concept.

“I’m here,” he says. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you. I swear.”

The tenseness doesn’t leave you entirely, but your shoulders relax as he rests his chin on your head. Funny how you always end up here, like this. Entangled. Using touch as an anchor point. Funny how much it comforts you. And it is kind of peaceful out here, when you let yourself soak in your surroundings. The birds chirping, the light filtering through the leaves, Saeran’s arms around you…

The moment is ruined by his phone beeping. Saeran makes a face, but reaches into his pocket anyway.

“I can’t believe you have service out here,” you remark as he scans the screen. He scowls at whatever he sees.

“‘Rescuing me…’” His lip curls.

You glance over his shoulder at the screen and, sure enough, there’s a message from Seven in the main chat, a bare-bones explanation that they are safe at the moment, still in the process of rescuing Saeran, and asking that the RFA refrains from attempting to find them. No mention of the agency.

You can see why Seven would want to update the RFA, reassure them that everything is still okay for now. You can also see how his choice of words might strike a chord with Saeran.

“Hey, c’mon,” you say, trying to avoid the old, familiar ‘Seven is the worst’ spiral. “You don’t think I look dashing enough to stage a daring rescue?” You strike a pose, as ridiculous as you can manage while kept in his embrace.

He snorts, but the look in his eyes is fond. “He isn’t. But you, yes.” And then he tilts his head. “...hmm.”

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Not yet.” Saeran’s smile widens, and then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your neck. You hear the telltale, shutter-like click of a picture being taken, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because in the next moment, he nips at your skin.

“Hey!” You squirm in his arms, but he holds fast. He smiles against you, and draws back just enough to lean his head against yours. There’s another shutter click. He nuzzles against you for a moment — too short, too brief, the warmth of him comforting — and there is yet another click.

“Cute,” he says as he finally loosens his grip and pulls away to look at his phone.

“Oh — well,” you say, feeling your face heat up, “not that I’m not flattered, I guess, but what was that for?” You attempt to peer at his screen but he dodges you, holding his phone to his chest. You huff.

Saeran does not relent. He squints at you, then at his screen. “Hmmm.” He fiddles with his phone, gives you another long look, then fiddles with it again.

“Saeran.” Your impatience is palpable.

Finally, though, he is satisfied with... whatever he was doing. “Here,” he says, and holds out his phone to show you—

...he’s made one of the pictures his lock screen. The pair of you, beaming on his screen, the moment of fondness now immortalized for all to see. There you are, face flushed, mouth half-open in protest, while his eyes are locked on you, obvious affection in his gaze. Your breath hitches to see such naked admiration.

It’s so… mundane, taking a picture of — and you grow bashful despite yourself — someone you care about for your wallpaper, that the last of the tension finally leaves you. Here, here is something free of Mint Eye, a sign that there will be many more Mint Eye-free moments in the coming days, and for a moment, you cannot speak, overwhelmed with relief over such a small and simple thing.

“God, I missed you,” you manage eventually.

And he chuckles. “Did you, now?” The low timbre of his voice draws a shiver from you, but you still make a face at him for the words themselves.

He’s teasing. He, who latches onto you at every opportunity like a barnacle against a ship hull — you’ll ignore the fact that you’re latching onto him just the same — feigns confusion in the face of your emotional vulnerability? The nerve.

Still, your sardonic response dies on your tongue. Why shouldn’t you be honest? There’s no point in pretending you didn’t miss him. Something simple, after all this confusion. Haven’t you earned that? Hasn’t he? And so:

“Yes,” you say. “I really, really did. I was — scared,” you admit. “Scared that maybe we wouldn’t get here in time, or that Mint Eye would find you first. I was scared that maybe it wasn’t even you sending these texts at all, that maybe Mint Eye had gotten ahold of your phone and someone was pretending to be you, or that—” You swallow back the lump in your throat and admit to the thing you had feared the most, the possibility you tried to set aside but that had instead hooked its claws deep into your belly and lingered, hanging heavy on you. “—that maybe you hadn’t wanted to go with me after all and it was you sending those messages, but you were just… luring me back in, I guess. Tying up loose ends.”

He wraps both arms around you. “You’re not a loose end.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Tears threaten to spring forth when you manage to loose it. “Yeah? Well. I’m glad to hear it. I’m — I’m glad you’re here. Part of me just can’t believe you’re here right now. Like you’re going to disappear if I take my eyes off you for too long.”

He gives a soft laugh. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

After all the running and hiding and waiting and hoping… he’s here. Now you’ve just got to take care of the… substantial threats that could change that. You shake your head against him as you remember. “I can’t believe,” you say, more than a little rueful, “that on top of everything else, on top of Mint Eye and Seven’s agency — which would be bad enough on its own — there’s someone else after you that we’ll have to look out for? How could I not worry?”

He pulls away slightly, and when you look at him, his brow is furrowed. “Someone else?”

“Seven said—” you begin, by way of explanation.

Saeran’s eyes darken. “I imagine he said a lot of things.”

“—that there was someone who wanted to hurt you and then you also said — damn it, Saeran, you know—” You hesitate, but… oh, just go for it. “You know, if you want me to hear the truth of everything that happened not through Seven’s framing, you could tell me yourself.”

He draws in a sharp breath.

You try again, as gently as you can. “I’m not trying to dredge up old, bad memories, but… y’know. I’m here and ready to listen, if you wanna talk about it.”

Saeran watches you, considering. “No,” he says. You wince. He pulls you closer, holding you to his chest. “But I do want you to know.” He rubs his thumb idly against your arm as he thinks. “First… tell me what he told you.”

“Oh. Okay,” you say, “simple enough. Let’s see…” You rack your brain. “Well. To start with, he didn’t tell me this, exactly, I figured it out on my own, but… you and Seven are brothers. Twins.” Even now, you speak carefully, hesitant to bring to light their connection when any connection to Seven is something to loathe in Saeran’s eyes. “That’s why you didn’t let me look at any of his pictures, isn’t it?”

A terse nod. That’s as good of a reaction as you could hope for. You keep going.

“So then… Seven said that before the, ah, incident at the apartment, it’d been eight years since he saw you. That you and he had… a less-than-ideal childhood—” Saeran snorts derisively, but lets you continue. “—and that you’ve known V since before you parted. And way back then, V told him that if he joined the agency, that would keep him safe, but they wouldn’t allow him to keep in contact with his family. So V promised Seven that he would keep you safe. Ah, and I guess Rika did too, and she told him you were doing well a few years ago, but you heard that. That was the first I’d heard about any letter or pictures, though he did say he had something he thought might convince you he was telling the truth. He might’ve meant that. Seven also talked about V maybe being involved with Mint Eye—”

“He isn’t,” Saeran says.

“Well, Seven figured he was, based on finding Mint Eye blueprints in Rika’s apartment,” you say. “Though, then I saw a picture of her and recognized her as the Savior, so… that could explain it. Still seems like V knew something about Mint Eye, given how insistent he was that no one look at anything in the drawers, so… maybe he just knows Mint Eye exists and Rika was involved somehow and he’s covering that up? I wonder if Rika supposedly being dead has anything to do with that…”

“He’s always been a liar,” Saeran says mildly, though the frown is back. “Does anyone else know?”

“Besides me, Seven, and Misun? Ah, and Vanderwood, who doesn’t really care. The rest of the RFA knows we found something to do with Mint Eye, so they know V was trying to hide that, but… not about Rika. No one else knows about her yet. We thought… Seven thought… it would be too much for them right now.”

Saeran nods. “That may be the case.” He casts his eyes upward. “Betrayal is not easy to recover from.”

You peer at him closely as you mull over your next question, then ask, “So… it really is Rika, right? The same Rika who looked after you as a kid decided that keeping you safe meant dragging you to Mint Eye…?” Was that why he looked up to her so much? He’d already thought of her as someone who cared for him when she — proposed Mint Eye to him, or brought him there, or however it happened?

But Saeran just shakes his head. “Tell me what else Seven said.”

“Ah. Right. Okay.” Much as it pains you to leave the subject unexplored. “...safety. Seven told me that being safe, and taking drastic measures to make sure that was the case, mattered because someone wanted you dead. Guessing that’s… your dad, based on what you said at the cabin.” He nods. “According to Seven, that may be an ongoing problem. Seven thinks he’s still looking for you. Said we’d have to be careful, whatever else we did, because if word about you got out, it would… end badly.”

“...he is,” Saeran says. “He’s still looking for me. For us.” The disgusted curl of his lip does nothing to quell the way your stomach lurches with sympathetic horror.

You suck in a breath through your teeth. “I—” What can you say? You can’t even imagine what that would be like. “I…” You look down and he pets your hair reassuringly. How in the world did he end up comforting you?

“Well,” you say eventually. “There’s… not much else, actually. That’s about all he said. I still don’t know why your dad wants to kill you, or what we’re going to do about that, or how you or Seven know V, or why V knew about the agency, or why he thought that would help, or why Seven went through with it if he thought V could keep you safe without it, although obviously V failed at that, the lying bastard—” Your breath escapes you in a shaky burst. Focus. Calm yourself. “But, um, that’s what I know, little though it is.”

When you finish, he is silent. You want to prompt him, remind him of what he said, but… if he’s going to talk, it shouldn’t be because he feels like he needs to. Your curiosity shouldn’t take precedence when it comes to his trauma.

“The truth,” Saeran whispers at last, “is so much more than that. Seven... Luciel… only sounds sympathetic because he leaves out what he did. The rest of the truth.”

Saeran takes a deep breath. “The word wrong doesn’t even begin to describe what he did. He abandoned his little brother who absolutely trusted him and ran away to save himself.” And then his eyes go slightly hazy as a smile creeps up his face. “Oh, no, I said it wrong. It’d be more exact to say that he comfortably used his brother who absolutely trusted him to run away on his own.”

The things he’s said before ring in your ears, full of words like betrayal and shithole and nowhere else I belong.

“He said he left me with V, to be safe…?” Saeran scoffs. “He didn’t care whether or not V took care of me. He didn’t care if anyone did. He never bothered to check. And he has said... so many things he didn’t mean. Back then, he told me—” He cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “He told me his plan was to work and work and work until he had enough money to escape with me. And I…” Saeran’s voice grows quiet. “When I was young... I thought that I would probably die before I become an adult. In that hellish house… I couldn’t imagine any other end for me. But when he said that… I started to believe in hope. I started to believe that maybe I wouldn’t die before that day after all, and I would escape that place with him.”

And though you know how this story must go, you feel a stubborn, senseless flicker of hope. As though the tale will suddenly change, and he’ll tell you that he was right and they got out and he was safe and he was happy, or — that there was some bright spot in his dismal past, something better than the nightmare he’s lived. Nonsensical as the thought is, it makes his next words hurt all the more.

“But I was naïve. It was all lies. The whole time, I know exactly what he was thinking.” Saeran adopts a singsong voice. “‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘I can use weak Saeran as bait and escape that monster of a mother!’” You jolt. Monster of a mother? “‘For now, I’ll take care of him because I feel bad for him... and when I see him suffer because of how weak he is, I feel like I’m living a better life. But one day I’ll leave this place, team up with V to create the RFA, have parties, chat online, and have fun! Saeran is just a burden… Yeah! I’ll feel much better if I just disappear without a word~!”

You wince at the excited flourish in his voice as he ends his imagining.

“And one day, he went out… and he didn’t come back. At first, I looked for him… the sun came up and morning came in that hell, but he wasn’t there. I was so worried. I worried that he might be dead, that our father got to him… I cried for days. No matter how many times that woman strangled me—” You stiffen in shock. “—hit me, threatened me for being noisy, that weak, naïve me cried for days missing him. And all the while, I asked myself, ‘did he leave because he was sick of me? Was he mad at me? Still, he’ll come back. Yes, he’s got to come back, he’s my brother… my brother… my brother…!’”

His hands clench into fists. “I thought he was dead. But… once I found out that he was alive, the shock…” A breathy laugh. “I can’t put it into words. I thought he was hurt. Dead. That he would never abandon me, knowing what it would do to me. But he did. He used his own brother to escape that hellish house, he left me there to be—” His hand flutters up to his neck. Your heart aches for him. “Without the Savior...” He hesitates. “Without Rika, I would have lived a miserable life with that woman and starved to death with shackles on my ankles.”

“That woman… your mother…” Your voice shakes. “Your mother was the cause of so much of your pain? Not your father…?”

“Oh, he wants me dead. I’m a stain on his reputation, and it would be better for him if I never existed at all. And since that’s not true, the next best thing is to make sure I stop existing.” So easily he says it, as though it’s just a simple fact of life. And… for him, it must be. “But it was that woman that made life a living hell. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. She…” He looks down. “I couldn’t bear it. But I had to bear it. Each and every day. So there,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Now you know. Now you know the truth.”

The truth…

Truth is a funny thing. You believe Seven when he says he left because he wanted to protect Saeran. In fact, you’re inclined to believe Seven in most everything he says; he may not have been entirely upfront with you, given that he didn’t tell you it was his father that was pursuing the both of them, but he was honest about not being able to tell you that.

But you also believe Saeran when he speaks of the pain he’s endured, that Seven has caused him. And regardless of Seven’s intent, or anyone else’s… that pain is there. It exists.

And to have so many sources of pain… his father, his mother, his brother, a cult …

“Saeran…” Tears spring to your eyes. Once again, you are speechless. You can do nothing to soothe the old wounds, nothing but wrap your arms around him and try not to sob into his chest.

“I’m… glad you know now.” He’s getting teary now. He sniffles, then says, “I’m not that weak little Saeran he used to know. I’m not.” His voice cracks on the last syllable.

You cup his face. “No,” you say, “no, you’re not weak.” You tremble. “I don’t think you ever were.”

A noise escapes him, soft and wounded but somehow grateful. He presses his forehead to yours.

And so you stand, trembling against each other, both nearly weeping and awash with the terrible and wonderful sensation of understanding.

“Please,” you say when the tears have dried and you are able to find your voice once more. “Let’s go. Let go together. I’m ready to close out this chapter of running and looking over my shoulder. I want to leave that behind and just… be safe. And I am,” you say, “so ready for you to be happy.” He is so, so close to being free from the first of his tormentors, and your heart thrills to think of it.

Still red-eyed, he takes your hand in his and just holds it for a moment. “...alright,” he says. “Together.”

And you begin the journey back.

As you wind through the trees hand-in-hand, hoping you remember the way back, you speak. “Hey…are you going to be okay? We’ve still gotta… work together. We’re not out of the woods yet.” And then you realize yourself. “I mean—”

“Obviously.” But there’s a faint smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, smart aleck.” It’s said with the utmost affection, glad that he’s of a mind to tease after… everything. “I just mean, are you going to be okay? With having Seven near?”

His face twists and he grunts in response. “No other option. I don’t want anything to do with him,” Saeran mutters. “But you… I’ll endure it. For you. As long as he doesn’t try to talk to me again.”

“Mmh.” He probably will. Well, he definitely will at some point; there is no future you can imagine in which Seven is at all okay with just letting Saeran slip through his fingers now that he’s found him again. But maybe he won’t try until after you’ve gotten somewhere safe.

“...we’ll have Misun as a barrier,” you say at last. If Seven is tempted to repeat his earlier attempts at conversation, Misun may be able to dissuade him, or at least redirect the flow of it. “Ah, and you’re… fine around her, right?”

“Misun?” He tilts his head at you. “Besides her terrible taste in partners, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Nothing to say about the bite?” There are still faint pink marks on his skin from the mostly-healed bite gained during their last encounter. You run your thumb along these, feeling the slightly-puckered skin.

“Her reaction was… understandable.” He flexes the fingers of his previously-bitten hand against yours as if remembering. “If not unfortunate.”

“You’re very forgiving.”

“I try to be,” he says. “To those who deserve it.”

Charitable.

You walk in silence for a while longer until you notice his pace slow. When you glance at him, he’s checking his phone. “Any word?”

There’s a moment before he responds, distracted by whatever he’s looking at. “...no. Not yet.”

“Huh,” you say. “Well, hopefully it’s all taken care of and they just haven’t wanted to bother you.”

He shrugs and slides his phone back into his jacket pocket. Before it disappears, you catch sight of his lockscreen again.

“...I wanna see those other pictures you took later,” you say.

“They were blurry.” He gives you a look, pointed but amused. “Someone wouldn’t stop squirming.”

“Hey, that is not my fault,” you complain. “You try staying still when someone’s biting your neck.”

His eyes light up and a wicked grin grows on his face.

“Not an invitation,” you groan. “They’ll come looking for us if we stay out too long, and I have no desire to be caught in flagrante delicto.” But all it takes is the barest hint of a pout to get you to relent. “...next time, maybe. When we take a pic for my phone.”

He hums a contented note and swings your linked hands. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah, I bet you will.” But you can’t help the fondness in your voice.

As you get closer to the cabin, you come to be aware of something else, something past the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. There is noise up ahead. A car engine? They must be waiting for you. You hope they haven’t been waiting too long. If they’re already back in the car, though, that’s a good sign that they’ve figured out whatever’s happening with the agency.

“Sounds like they’re ready to go,” you say. “Good. I’d hate to wait out here in the open. I’ll feel better once we’re somewhere I know no one can... follow…”

You think, at first, that you’re imagining it, your worst fears realized before your eyes, and so your feet carry you forward numbly while your voice stalls out, noise without meaning.

Cars, black and shiny and not supposed to be here. Disciples in robes.

Found, found, found.

“Saeran.” His name comes out strained, strangled. You begin to regain control of your body, coming off autopilot and digging in your heels. “We have to go,” you whisper. “We have to run, now, before they see—”

But his hand, still in yours, pulls you forward.

You can hear voices now, stern commands amidst shouts of protest. Vanderwood is being led out of the cabin, arms held behind their back by two disciples guiding them to one of the cars. From the voices coming from inside the cabin, you can assume that there are yet more of Mint Eye’s believers within.

Surrounded. You are surrounded.

“S-Saeran...?”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “you’re okay. You’re with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Saeran…” Your throat is dry. Your feet are lead. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening. “Why...?”

“Why would you be safe? Why would I ever not want you to be safe?” There’s a touch of amusement in the way he smiles. It fades when you do not play along and remain aghast. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be honest with you from the start, but I knew you’d never listen if I did. This was the only way to fix everything. But you are safe with me. I would never lie to you about that. I’ll never lie to you again.”

“You—”

A disciple turns, hearing your approach, maybe, and makes as if to move toward you — but despite your heart leaping into your throat, they do naught but bow their head in deference to Saeran.

And that’s what really clinches it — that of course, of course, of course they wouldn’t see him as a threat, of course they wouldn’t restrain him like the others. That though your stomach hollows out, you are not surprised. That this is only confirmation of what you’d already suspected — maybe already known on some level.

And if you have been promised honesty, then you may as well take it.

“You called them.” Your voice leaves you in a breathless whisper. “And back at the motel, you called them then, too. You were never going to leave Mint Eye behind.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. There is grief in his eyes, in the set of his brow, the twist of his lip. “I know this must be hard for you.” He does not dispute it. It is as a dagger in your heart.

He stops walking now, paused at the edge of the clearing, bidding you to wait with him as well. To observe? To give you time to absorb this information? As though it helps. Watching more disciples lead a struggling Misun from the cabin only makes the sting of this betrayal — because that’s what it is, isn’t it? — even keener.

“You c-c-called them.” You stutter out the words with effort, bitter as they are in your mouth. “You brought them here.” All those things you feared back at the motel, when you saw Mint Eye there, turning out to be true. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you blink them furiously back.

“I thought—” And a laugh escapes you because it’s so absurd now. Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you see? “I thought I — I — got through to you, I thought—” That he wanted to be with you enough to forsake Mint Eye. That you managed to undo their programming all at once.

“You did,” he assures you. You have to bite back another laugh. Clearly, you didn’t. “You showed me how much you care, how far you were willing to go for me.” His eyes shine with emotion. “You just didn’t see how good Magenta could be. And that’s my fault. You came at such a momentous time, and I was so focused on preparing for the endless party... it had to be done, of course, but to you, unfamiliar with Magenta, I understand how such devotion could seem… a burden.”

“A burden—?” As if that’s all it was. As if months, years, of sequestering himself to better invite others into a drug-happy cult warranted nothing more than a footnote, merely a minor inconvenience, easily overlooked.

“I know, I know,” Saeran soothes. “I know how it could seem that way. The long hours spent in service to paradise, the isolation that provided focus for the many tasks to complete that left so little time to bask in the Savior’s presence and learn from her sermons, having to watch over those who hurt me…" His jaw clenches momentarily, but then he relaxes and chuckles softly, reaching up to cup your cheek again. “You thought that was all it was. You thought the Savior was using me.” He makes it sound as though the idea is absurd, and not the absolute truth you know it is. “I understood the necessity. I knew the rewards that such diligence would bring us all, the peace that awaited those meant to join us at the endless party. But you… how could you know, when you were so new, so uninformed? How could you know without ever being shown?”

You feel numb. Or, no — you feel sick. Would he cut his explanation short if you vomited on his shoes? You think you understand the gist of it anyway.

“You have not yet seen the bliss that Paradise brings to those who were lost, the relief they feel to finally cast aside their painful lives and belong somewhere, to feel the endless love of the Savior. But you will. And once you see that we only want what’s best for everyone, then you’ll understand that it is safe there, and you’ll be happy. I’ll be with you, we’ll be together, and everything will be fine. Nothing will ever come between us again. And the savior—”

“Rika,” you say. A dead woman pulling the strings of a cult.

“The savior —” he persists.

“But that is who she is.” You can be just as stubborn. And if you’re going to be facing hell again, you can face it with answers. “The founder of the RFA. She knew you years ago, she looked after you, and she dragged you there with her. And because she made the RFA, now she has you targeting them, too.”

A sigh, and then he says, “She knows their pain better than anyone. She knows they need to be saved. And she knew I needed to be saved.”

“So why not just extend the invitation personally? She knows them, they know her, what’s stopping her from just asking them to join herself without all the secrecy?” Besides the greatly-exaggerated rumors of her death.

“Seven.” His lip curls. “He would pull them away with his lies.” And then he shakes his head, his anger fading. “Regardless of what you call her, she will understand your lapse of faith. She knows that you just needed more time to allow Mint Eye into your heart. And we’ll have all the time in the world now. She will forgive you for your mistake and welcome you back into Paradise.” And then he frowns. “She should be here by now… perhaps inside…?” He starts forward, toward the cabin.

While he’s distracted you could — make a break for it. Tear your hand from his grasp and run back into the woods. Sure, you’d be lost, but you could outrun them for a while. A good long while, most likely. He’d never catch you with those string bean legs of his, though one of the disciples might be able to. But… you do not.

You just trail behind him.

And then Seven emerges from the cabin, flanked by a pair of disciples, defeated. Saeran stops in his tracks, eyes alight with satisfaction.

“At last,” he murmurs. He sounds almost awed.

Seven is stiff in their grasp, but he resists still, in a way, scanning the area around him desperately — and when he catches sight of Saeran, his eyes go wide with surprise, then dismay, then outright panic. “Saeran!” he cries.

Saeran bristles, and he grimaces when Seven lurches toward him.

“Saeran, V—”

One of the disciples escorting him hisses a command to be silent and jerks Seven’s arm, pulling him away from Saeran.

Saeran is no longer delighted. “Shut up,” he hisses. And then his eyes narrow. “Did you say—” He follow Seven’s gaze, now directed at the other, silent disciple, and stiffens. “...you. Remove your hood.” His voice is low. Wary. Dangerous.

A moment of hesitation, and then the disciple complies, revealing—

Mint hair. Mint eyes.

V.

“—you.” Surprised. Stunned. Then enraged. “Where is the Savior? Why are you here?!”

V is silent. Whether he has nothing to say or just cannot find the words doesn’t really matter, you suppose, because, either way, Saeran doesn’t give him much time before he speaks again, demanding answers.

“What did you do to the Savior?!” Saeran takes a step towards V, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“...the Savior sent me to lead them to Magenta.” V’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I’ve received orders to bring you all to Mint Eye.”

“Orders—?!”

“Saeran, you didn’t know?” Seven sounds plaintive.

“Shut up!” Saeran snarls, then jabs a finger at V. “And you shut up, too! Why are you here instead of the Savior?” He doesn’t seem to see the contradiction in his commands.

V is uncowed in the face of Saeran’s aggression. “Because the savior chose me… she said I had to be the one to send the message.” That last part is almost whispered.

Saeran seems to be processing this statement.

“I don’t like this,” he mumbles at last. There’s a ragged edge to the words. “But we’ll return to Magenta first.” He straightens, and it’s like he’s shrugged on that aura of authority again. “…disciples.” With that one little word, the robed disciples stand at attention. “They’ve been checked? All of them?” He very pointedly directs his question beyond V.

The disciple at Seven’s left nods. “We have checked them for weapons and any contraband that could be used against Magenta.”

“Their phones?”

Another nod. “Yes, we’ve cleared them of anything they could use to communicate. He was trying to send out coordinates.”

You feel a slight spark of hope at those words, but this is dashed when Seven shakes his head. No success. No help coming.

“Give his to me.”

The disciple complies, pulling it from the folds of his robes.

Saeran looks at it in his hands, turning it over. He squeezes it tightly, still staring. And then he drops it to the ground and crushes it underfoot. It makes a final-sounding crunch. He looks back up. “Take him,” he says. “Prepare to depart.”

You jolt as a hand closes around your arm from behind. You didn’t even know there was someone behind you.

But Saeran pulls you to him protectively, tucking you into his side. “No,” he says. “Not them. I will escort them. But the others — ensure they are prepared for the journey.”

When V starts to move, making as though he’s going to continue escorting Seven, Saeran stops him. “Don’t think of doing anything else, V.” His voice is sharp.

“He does not trust you,” says the disciple behind you. “We will take care of the nonbelievers without you.”

And V bows his head, conceding. Only then do the believers force Seven forward, into the car.

Saeran mutters as he pulls you along, away from Seven, away from V. “I don’t care what orders he has. V is in charge of nothing. V is worth nothing. A traitor has no place in the Savior’s eyes. He’ll know that soon.”

He speaks of betrayal when he has done this to you. When he has lied to you, given you hope only to snatch it away. Numbness stills your tongue, prevents you from giving voice to this irony. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

You toss one last look over your shoulder at V as Saeran pulls you away. What do you feel as you look at this man? A man who knew Saeran — and Seven — as children, a man who proclaimed the death of a still-living woman, a man who is standing before you in cult colors now, sending a message to those he’d once sworn to protect?

There is — sorrow on his face, but from what? He’s one of Mint Eye’s believers. And how long has he believed? All this time? Was this his plan? Their plan, his and Rika’s? Why does he look sad, then? And what right does he have to feel like that when he’s here, dragging you all to paradise?

What right when Saeran’s voice wavers so and his hand trembles in yours?

The second car starts. The door lies open. Your turn now.

A believer bids Saeran take his place at the front, and you prepare to climb into the cage-like back of the car alone. As you do, though, he slides in beside you, and there he stays as the car begins its journey to bring you back into the belly of the beast — by your side, hand gripping yours so tight it’s painful.

Despite everything, you don’t pull away.

[lavenderthebook-blog]

Chapter 1: Just me and old ghosts.

On the 3rd on June, my feet landed in the wilds of Ireland. 

I shall not share with you exactly where, because I don’t wish for people to go there seeking what I found. Just know that, on that day, the clouds gave way to light, and it was bright. I looked about at where I’d come to summer this year. The old, worn cobbled courtyard paved the way between 3 structures. First was the small 20-meter-long cottage that I’d been told to not enter. It’s door crumbled to the whims of the wind, and as I tried to gaze in through the window, which was held in place by cobwebs, I only saw old furniture, baskets of nick knacks, and the occasional thing that glimmered in the light, but which I could not make out from outside. My hand touched the wall of the cottage as I attempted to perch myself upward for a better look, the warmth of the day was sucked away from me, and I was left cold. And that was the end of that. I did not fancy being murdered in a haunted cottage. Whilst that would make a great little book, be thankful it’s not this one. I certainly am. Second, the garage. One quick peek around the corner showed me that it was not simply used as a resting place for unfinished projects and lost things. It was full of every conceivable item a farmer might use, from any conceivable time. I will defend to my deathbed that I saw the world very first scythe mounted on a mantle in the back. No lights existed in this place bar that which crept in through cracks and nooks from outside. Not haunted, so, comparatively, better than the cottage. Thirdly, lastly, and grandest, was the main house. It was as beautiful brute, with no finesse or grace to it. It had been built to weather the coldest of winters, and it did so proudly. It’s hanging baskets of flowers, small rusted windows, mouldy dark guttering, and faded cream paint was nothing special, but a welcome dose of rural life. No thatched roof. A shame, as I always wanted to see what they were like. Instead, just plain black tiles. I reached under the mat and found the key, unlocked the lock, and stepped in.

 Who doesn’t like seeing an agga when they walk into a home? It’s the heart of a house, and whilst time may have forgotten them, my heart never will. Fond memories of my youth came back to me. Flipping the toast whist it was in its weird rigid net. The shovelling of sausages into one of its many doors only to then shovel them into myself. The time-honoured tradition of resting sock covered feet on it when winter came to try fend off frostbite. It made me think of my Mum and my Dad. They won’t be mentioned again in this book, but if they read this, know that whenever I see an agga, I think of you both. The agga, acting as a sort of all-in-one cooking device dubbed this room the kitchen. The plain wooden cupboards adorning the bare brick walls, large steel sink, and varnished wooden island that doubled as both food prepping area and food consumption area confirmed this further. I dropped my bags on the wooden floor and headed further into the heart of the beast.

The only way onwards from the kitchen was the deep darkness of the hallway. With only one painted glass window as a light source, as well as any that happened to spill out of the kitchen, the hallway was likely as bright at midday as it was at midnight. Luckily, the small radiator, white stairs, and the cheerful nature of the painted glass did give it a more friendly feel rather than fiendish. The white stairs lay to my left, whilst further on to my right was a closed door.

The door led to a small, but cosy room, painted a now faded zinc, hosted a tv wearing its AV cable input as if a row of medals in the far-right corner, and a surprisingly new and likely Swedish bookshelf on the left, which was newer than any of the books and things that lay on its shelves. Betwixt them lay the large, ornate fireplace, its steel cold to the touch, but clearly having been used a lot as it had been blackened by soot. I’d imagine it grew a shade darker each year, as it would be necessary come winter. The sofa across from all of these was comfy. It filled the room with dust when I let myself fall into it, but its faded emerald colour and the sheer depth it let me fall into told me I’d be spending many a morning sat in it, happily munching at toast whilst guessing at the tv’s static charades in an effort to watch something.

Now up the stairs, which creaked a bit, but who doesn’t like a minorly creaky step? It gives such boring a thing some character. Upstairs were 4 rooms. Two were almost identical bedrooms, with only a small table, a single bed on a steel bedframe, and a chair in them. The only difference was that one was painted periwinkle blue and faced north, the other fuschia and south.

The next room was a grand bathroom and was above the kitchen, and was painted almost completely clinical, pure white. An old standalone bath, held upright by four feet moulded into the shape of lion paws, stood proudly cantered on the left wall, with the largest windows yet just next to it, ensuring that an unfortunate passing robin would be sure to catch a fright. The (thankfully) modern toilet was built into the far wall, and was next to the sink, which was a big clunky thing, and reminded me of why the saying used to be actually somewhat funny. On the right was a small dressing room, filled with now empty shelves, and a smell of very slight mildew and fabric softener. Hidden behind the bathroom’s door was a rather clinical 5 by 5 by 8 upright cut into the wall that had an almost watering can like nozzle fixed at the top, and a garden hose like tap on one of the ‘’walls’’. This was the ‘’’’shower’’’’. I saw no temperature nozzle, and realised there was no choice here, only pain. All of a sudden, I began to miss the city a little more.

I finally came to what I was to be my bedroom, which was decorated in a delicious shade of blonde (though, it may have been so appealing due to my own like for women who wore it). It was a large room, with a fittingly large queen sized bed centred along the wall, bedside tables on either side, with a large old hickory leather travel trunk at the foot of the bed.  3 differently styled wardrobes were dotted around the rooms walls. One was Japanese in appearance, with a beautiful mural painted across the two doors, and then otherwise raven. One a simple, but large oak thing, which seemed to lean slightly to the left. The last had once clearly been its twin, but was now covered in glitter, little drawings in crayon, and was marked on its side with 2 of the same names repeated upward as the age next to them grew too. It was a wardrobe that had been loved, and so I was pleased to have it here with me. ‘‘But the back blurb of the book promised me a romance story. What does a soggy description of a house have to do with that?’’ I hear you moan.

Not much really, if I’m honest. Though You’re quite the impatient bitch aren’t you? But if this book is to mean anything to you, as it does me, you have to come with me on this journey. You see, Ireland has a magic too it. Its raw and old. It lets life creep into every little thing that will hold it, and so all these pieces of furniture and appliances are just that, furniture and appliances. But for my three months there, they each took on a little life of their own and became dear friends to me. This is how you must see when reading this book. The best way to understand it is to go and hold something of yours that you’ve had for an age and feel yourself give it life. Ireland is a place where even a fence can take on such a life. And does so rather well. So yes, at times this will be a little pretentious, a little overly dramatic and poetic, and a little strange, but I will try my best to put not only my thoughts, but what I was feeling into words for you, dear reader. All I ask is that you try your hand at reading them as if you were there with me, and not simply an observer. Don’t read the moment, live it like you live the memory of your first kiss: with vivacity and a passion that you can’t escape.

 But you were promised ghosts in the chapter title, and you shall have them. Unfortunately, no white sheets came to life and booed at me that night. But as I sat falling into the sofa, the fading light of day painting the bookshelf, tv, and fireplace in fantastic hues of blush and tangerine, I thought on why I’d come here. I’d come with more than just physical baggage. You thought a person ventures out into the Irish wilderness to live in a farm for 3 months on a whim? I’d like to hope my whims would land me in some place sunnier, and with more obvious ways to escape or drown my sorrows like Ibiza, or New York. Unfortunately, I came here for a reason. I am Irish, but I’d never lived there. I’d not grown up there. I’d missed out on the unique zest for life that Ireland gifted its people, and I was in dire need for it now. Why? Because I was broken hearted, broke, and hopeless. My heart had been broken, as it often is, but a love turned sour. We’d been together for one amazing year, three good months, one odd month, then one great month, and then three months where I’d watched them fall in love with someone else. Now it had been one year without them, and without hope in the idea of love. It was not a pleasant feeling. I wanted them, but at the same time knew it would be like drinking poison. Even as I write this, my hand squeezes the pen as I’m forced to remembered fond memories that I wish forgotten.   I was broke because, for the last few months, I’d not written anything. Well, I’d written things. Small articles for a paper. A short story that lost an armature writing competition to a tale called ‘’Me and Rum: Fun Fun Fun’’. A children’s book that only proved to me that it was harder to write a children’s book than I’d previously thought. Turns out not every animal is cute when it can talk. Because of this, I’d lost all hope in myself as a writer, and the roaring blazes that had once fuelled me as I wrote now grew dimmer by the day.

And so, I’d returned to where my ancestors had been born, and grown, and bled, and cried, and loved, and fought,  and danced, and lost, and died in the hope that they might lend me their strength, or that the zest I’d missed out on would be paid to me with a bundle of interests attached. This, oddly, would turn out to be true.

But for now, simply imagine eyes closing as a laptop slowly slides off the side of a lap and into the sofa. A head falling into a chest. And the sound of snoring filling the house. I’d fallen asleep not knowing that beyond these walls she lay in wait for me, as much as I had, in a way, been waiting for her. I wonder if she’d spotted me as I’d come into the house, and watched through those rusty windows as I met each room, cooked with the agga, and mastered a duet with the tv where I held its antenna out the window and it, in turn, played the news. I hope she’d not seen me dance around under the showers cold water though. If she did, I hope it at least made her laugh.

[idkanythingblog-blog]

A Song of Ice and FIRE CONSUMES

In many instances where the description of fire consuming is used, it is in comparison to or compatible with the preservation qualities of ice.

Fire is often describes as “consuming” whatever happens to be on fire in a given scene, and sometimes it is more pronounced than others, (especially if mentioned in the same few sentences as ice), but this passage from Arya VIII in A Storm of Swords with Beric and Thoros always stood out to me the most, just because Beric’s behavior is so alarming and he just comes out of nowhere and starts rambling like a madman.

"Fire consumes." Lord Beric stood behind them, and there was something in his voice that silenced Thoros at once. "It consumes, and when it is done there is nothing left. Nothing." "Beric. Sweet friend." The priest touched the lightning lord on the forearm. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing I have not said before. Six times, Thoros? Six times is too many." He turned away abruptly.

- Arya VIII, A Storm of Swords

Then when I read this line from Bran’s second chapter in ADWD, it made me think back to Beric. It also reminded me of the way that wights very clearly are destroyed by fire, as is evidenced by Sam and Jon at the very least. Anyway, all these instances are using fire’s properties of consumption to destroy the wights, not reanimate a corpse. 

Meera nodded at the girl. "It was her who saved us, though. The torch...fire kills them." "Fire burns them. Fire is always hungry."

- Bran II, A Dance With Dragons

From Samwell III, A Storm of Swords:

Small Paul was big and powerful, but Sam still outweighed him, and the wights were clumsy, he had seen that on the Fist. The sudden shift sent Paul staggering back a step, and the living man and the dead one went crashing down together. The impact knocked one hand from Sam's throat, and he was able to suck in a quick breath of air before the icy black fingers returned. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He twisted his neck around, looking for his knife, and saw a dull orange glow. The fire! Only ember and ashes remained, but still...he could not breathe, or think...Sam wrenched himself sideways, pulling Paul with him...his arms flailed against the dirt floor, groping, reaching, scattering the ashes, until at last they found something hot...a chunk of charred wood, smouldering red and orange within the black...his fingers closed around it, and he smashed it into Paul's mouth, so hard he felt teeth shatter. Yet even so the wight's grip did not loosen. Sam's last thoughts were for the mother who had loved him and the father he had failed. The longhall was spinning around him when he saw the wisp of smoke rising from between Paul's broken teeth. Then the dead man's face burst into flame, and the hands were gone.

And of course the first instance, back in A Game of Thrones, Jon VIII:

Truly, the gods had heard Jon's prayer that night; the fire had caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. Jon had only to close his eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at the flames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw, the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath.

Interesting he references the gods answering his prayers, as he is surely referencing his own gods, the old gods of the North, which apparently right now is mostly Bloodraven living as a tree, and in this scene he, communicating as a god, quorks "fire!" via Mormont's bird to remind Jon to act.

Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed.

- Davos IV, A Storm of Swords

R’hollor uses fire to combat the Great Other who is too evil to be named but is probably Bloodraven and/or Brandon Stark. But most of it is just glamours and tricks, such as the whole deal with Lightbringer. If it needed to draw strength from the Seven “false” gods to make the sword truly Lightbringer, then it would probably have all the properties of Lightbringer - you know, the fact that it is actually HOT like fire instead of just bright like the sun (which is noted by Maester Aemon, and passed along to Jon Snow via a passage in The Jade Compendium). Speaking of Aemon saying interesting things...

Aemon chuckled softly. "Or I am an old man, feverish and dying." He closed his white eyes wearily, then forced them open once again. "I should not have left the Wall. Lord Snow could not have known, but I should have seen it. Fire consumes, but cold preserves.

- Samwell III, A Feast for Crows

The “fire” he is referring to here is simply his fever which he got from getting pneumonia while sitting out on the deck of the ship en route to Braavos in a downpour (and then being over 100 years old). The fever is consuming him and killing him quickly, although this is also as he is learning from first hand witnesses about Daenerys’s dragons and confirming, in his mind, that Dany is the Prince That Was Promised - you know, the guy that Stannis supposedly is. Back in the day, Aemon and his uh...great grandnephew?...Rhaegar Targaryen thought TPTWP was Rhaegar, then changed their minds to Rhaegar’s son Aegon, then Aemon remembers that dragons do not have gender, so Dany can be THE Prince that was promised, despite being a princess queen.

Back to R’hollor and the use of fire - in regards to Beric and Thoros and LS, this ability to bring people back to life with some sort of flaming kiss seems to be only around that particular flame passed from Thoros to Beric (six times) then from Beric to LS once. That is unique to R’hollorism and their fire obsession. Their literal bloodlust for fire is usually used to kill, so that they can have more fire to scare off the darkness. Burning people alive is common sacrifice, and despite the fact that it is basically confirmed Melisandre set Varamyr Eagleskin on fire from a great distance, just HOW she did it is never explained, except for Melisandre’s elusive comment about R’hollor empowering her. 

Mostly this passage stuck out because it not just emphasized the outstanding pain of burning alive, but it’s in direct comparison to freezing to death. From A Dance With Dragon’s Prologue:

Varamyr Sixskins would know the truth of that soon enough. He could taste his true death in the smoke that hung acrid in the air, feel it in the heat beneath his fingers when he slipped a hand under his clothes to touch his wound. The chill was in him too, though, deep down in his bones. This time it would be cold that killed him. His last death had been by fire. I burned. At first, in his confusion, he thought some archer on the Wall had pierced him with a flaming arrow...but the fire had been inside him, consuming him...

- Prologue, A Dance With Dragons. I wonder if she can make human spontaneously burst into flames from within and if she can, she probably wouldn’t prefer that way because it does not involve the big ceremony, or something. I don’t know. Anyway, we know Stark = ice and Targaryen = fire and we know that R + L = J so we know that Jon has to be some part of the answer to this balance between the jealous, greedy pyromaniac R’hollor and his supposed nemesis, the Great Other, and whatever role these “gods” have in the existence of the Others, who are immune to fire but NOT immune to “frozen fire” aka dragonglass/obsidian. 

I just had to double check that was actually said in the text, and it was, in Samwell V from A Storm of Swords:

“Dragonglass.” The red woman's laugh was music. “Frozen fire, in the tongue of old Valyria. Small wonder it is anathema to these cold children of the Other.”

So I guess R + L = dragonglass. 

As cold winds hammered the city, King Aerys II turned to his pyromancers, charging them to drive the winter off with their magics[...]With the coming of the new year, the crown prince had taken to the road with half a dozen of his closest friends and confidants, on a journey that would ultimately lead him back to the riverlands. Not ten leagues from Harrenhal, Rhaegar fell upon Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, and carried her off, lighting a fire that would consume his house and kin and all those he loved—and half the realm besides.

- The World of Ice and Fire

Perhaps, after Jon is killed at the end of ADWD, he is kept in an ice cell for a very long time. Long enough that his second life inside Ghost has changed the nature of his consciousness when somehow returned to his body, which we will assume will be resurrected by Melisandre. I’m guessing she won’t go the kiss of fire route like Thoros did, because that doesn’t appear to bring them back fully. It could be that her knowledge that he is a warg is what will enable her to do whatever necessary to bring him back to life the “right” way?

Coldhands is essentially a wight controlled by Bloodraven, not an Other in control of Bloodraven or anyone else, because the Others look so spectacularly different from the corpses they can reanimate. They don’t have black hands of a dead body, they have like, beautiful icy armor and super awesome weapons. Although the language they speak (referenced in the Prologue of A Game of Thrones) is the same unknown language that Coldhands speaks before slaying the elk.

Compare from Bran’s POV in ADWD:

It had been twelve days since the elk had collapsed for the third and final time, since Coldhands had knelt beside it in the snowbank and murmured a blessing in some strange tongue as he slit its throat.

To the Prologue of AGOT:

The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking.

When Bran later hears the “Children of the Forest”/The Singers speaking in their language, the True Tongue, the one that ravens also speak, I don’t recall if he makes any connection to the words spoken by Coldhands. I don’t think so. Language aside, the ice-blue eyes seem to be the only thing they have in common with the wights, I think.

After much pondering about nothing, I suppose the question I am left with, for some reason, is: if dragons are “fire made flesh”, then are the Others “ice made flesh”? No, that’s not the question. Did any of this rambling spark any interest for anyone?