#I’m thinking of getting a massive shelving unit of some kind

[cocourt]

My wild Friday night plans include lots of Rue cuddles, treating myself to pad thai, and watching the latest episode of Severance.

[korasonata]

So, we are fairly convinced that I in fact live in a haunted house. I’ve lived here for almost 10 months now. We moved mid September in the middle of the fall - an OLD old house with big bay windows, white picket fences, french doors, large yard, private garden, porch, basement, and cheap rent. Seemed a relatively good deal at the time.

I remember the day we saw it for the first time. Or more precisely, I remember the drive home where me and my roommate had poked fun about the house probably being haunted, had joked about burning sage and whatnot. You know, joking around as you do. When I tell you, the kind of shit we put up with from day ONE.

Now, I’ll start off by saying that my house has precisely 2 bedrooms, both of which have had their moments, but I will start off with mine. Now, my bedroom is very small. A tiny little shoebox of a room that has an insanely high ceiling and very limited floor space because my house is still heated by radiators and they are freaking huge. There is one small window that doesn’t open. To the left of this window, on the adjacent wall, is a tiny Coraline esk door, the top of which sits at about waist height from the floor up.

It is iterally bolted to the wall.

I’ve never opened this door, because I’m not daft, but I moved my dresser in front of it to block its entrance and I’ve never had any problems.

Although I should clarify, I’ve never had any problems with the door. The rest of my room however…

The first day we moved in was when we had our first incident. I was in my new room, I had no bed, no shelves, but at the time possessed precisely 1 dresser and a suitcase, which I was unpacking. My roommate was sitting in the living room on the couch just outside my door, reading. I was just folding some clothes and putting them in my dresser when I heard a loud THUNK from behind me, where I promptly turned towards the source of the sound. When I turned around I found a long, white candlestick in the middle of my bedroom floor, half used, and very clearly not mine. Now, I cannot stress enough that this room had no ledges, no shelves, there was literally nowhere this thing could have fallen from. My roommate was still reading on the couch, but she had looked up at the sound too, and she was just as confused and weirded out as I was.

This was just the start.

The second incident happened on my third night there, and also coincidentally my first night alone in the house. This incident moves us to the bathroom, where I had consistently been hearing scratching in the walls late at night. Our house is old enough that is doesn’t have a fan in the bathroom, but instead has a really tiny window which you can open to vent out steam. I’d had the window open because I had showered earlier that night. It was about 12-1:00 in the morning and I had gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed when I heard even more obnoxious scratching coming from inside the bathtub. I walked over to investigate, thinking maybe an animal was under the pipes or something when I heard something outside the window. The sound of digging, but not like an animal. Like the sounds of a metal shovel scooping up gravel. I’d checked the next morning and nothing looked disturbed. But this was not the last time I heard that sound. The scratching continued nightly for the next 3 months as well.

By week 3 my roommate had started having this recurring dream about her bedroom. Now her bedroom, unlike mine, is actually quite massive. It has the same high ceilings, but it has enough floor space to fit a king sized bed and full bedroom set, bookshelves, grand piano, possibly some couches and entertainment unit. It’s huge. The floor is also spongy as all hell. Every room except the bathroom and kitchen have the same floor - thin hardwood planks that had to have been over 100 years old. You could tell it was rotted underneath just by the feel, but her particular room was sunk down a full foot into the floor, and not by design. Like the supports had just kind of given out and the whole floor space had gone with it. Her room was also always infested with spiders. She hated spiders.

Her first dream reflected this fear. Her dream consisted of her lying in her bed where she recounts that the floor had started to swell. The wooden floorboards had started to expand out into a big bubble and when it popped she had gone to stare into the pit it had created. 2 large, dead, spiders had been thrown out and hit her in the chest, and she recounts that she had woken up suddenly, feeling like there was a weight against her chest. She had this same dream with different iterations of dead animals being thrown from the pit. Mice, rats, possums. Every night she woke up feeling like there had been a weight against her chest. On the final night she says she had found a man. A homeless man at the bottom of the pit, alive, amidst a sea of dead animals - there was a homeless shelter on the next street over. He asked her to let him stay. Begged and pleaded and grovelled with her to let him stay, to which she apologized profusely, saying over and over again that she was sorry but he couldn’t stay there, but she promised to help him find someplace to stay. 2 dead possums were thrown from the pit of their own accord. She once again woke up with a weight on her chest, but she never had the dream again after that.

About a month after that I was away from home. I had gone up to my cottage for the weekend, so she was by herself. I woke up one morning to 5 missed calls from my roommate panicking because the house had been making noises. She was yelling about something being in the walls. She complained about scratching sounds and really loud banging noises that sounded like knocking.

Some time in December I was woken up one night. I had woken up because I had heard voices. I remember sitting there with my eyes closed and hearing this kind of murmuring of voices from somewhere by my wall. At this point I remember feeling so exhausted that I didn’t even care. I remember squinting my eyes shut tighter and trying to ignore them because I was so tired that I just could not even bring myself to care about disembodied voices in my room. I remember feeling frozen in this sort of stasis for a while before the voices spoke again closer to my head. There were 2 female voices, the first of which I did not grasp what was said, only that the phrase spoken sounded like a question, and then the second voice replied “just one more”. Following this there were 3 swift knocks on my wall, as if someone had struck it with an open palm, and I bolted awake suddenly, startled by the sound, and yet feeling very well rested strangely.

These were isolated incidents, but there were several recurring things that happened far more frequently, like the scratching in the walls that occurred nightly like clockwork, or the knocking or banging sounds that sometimes, but not always, accompanied this. There was a night light in my bathroom that had come with the house that had no switches or buttons, that up until the 3rd week of living there we did not realize was actually motion activated because it had just been on all the time. But there were other things.

For the first 5 months, the lights in my kitchen flickered a lot. There was nothing wrong with them, they just seemed to do this whenever we were in the kitchen and had the lights on. It used to freak out any guests we had over a lot, but we had just gotten used to it. Sometime in the middle of winter it just stopped. We haven’t had any issues with the lights since.

Very occasionally I would be doing the dishes and then suddenly the basement door would pop open on its own - a door that had hinges and a latch and was also very difficult to open. It was very stiff, so you had to really heave on this thing to get it open, and yet it would just pop open on its own if we didn’t have it locked. This happened on several occasions, and you could hear when it did if you were in another room - it made this really loud, deep banging sound because it was so stiff and you had to really force it open.

There’s a unit above us as well. We live in the main floor of a house, and someone else rents upstairs, but the upper unit is actually completely separate from us. It has its own entrance around the back and there is no link between the two. They were selling both units when we moved in, but the upper one sat empty for a while - we had about 3 months of the house to ourselves before another tenant moved in. Now, I’ve never been in the upper unit, I don’t know what it looks like, but every night like clockwork a light would come on in the upper left hand window. We heard footsteps above us all the time. Something we heard very frequently was what sounded like heavy furniture being dragged across the floor - this would go on for about an hour and then stop.

It was an empty unit. Nobody lived there.

This happened several times when the new tenant moved in as well, it was just easier to excuse because there was actually someone living there now. The new tenant was a single woman that lived alone. Often we would be sitting in the living room and be hearing all manner of crashing and dragging of furniture for hours and we would go “wtf is she doing up there” only to discover she wasn’t even home.

The latest incident happened just a couple days ago. I hadn’t been home in 3 days, and so the first night I came home I had gone down into the basement to do some laundry. Now, I feel it’s important to note that this took place in the basement for several reasons, the primary one being that none of the above has ever scared me. Floating candlesticks being thrown at me from across the room? That’s fine. Doors that open on their own? Child’s play. Scratching, banging, scraping, dragging, disembodied voices in the walls? None of it has ever scared me.

The basement scares me.

Or I don’t know if scared is the right word, but it definitely makes me uneasy, and for good reason. See, if you thought the rest of the house was a bit decrepit, it doesn’t even hold a candle to the state of my basement. To get there you have to go down this VERY rickety wooden staircase that’s so steep it’s almost completely vertical. There’s holes going into the side of it, pipes that go right through the steps. As you get to the bottom there is a broken window on the left that is so dirty no amount of scrubbing could ever hope to get it clean. There’s holes and cracks in the walls filled with what looks like a dark sludge. Holes in the ceiling with all manner of hanging and severed wires draping down. Rotted insulation. Rotted wood. Spiders everywhere. Cobwebs cover literally every surface that isn’t the floor or the washing machine. Nothing down there is up to building code.

There is also 2 VERY sketchy side wings of this basement.

There is the main area right at the bottom of the stairs that has my washer and dryer, an old utility sink, and a half collapsed, half rotted set of wooden shelves that I use to store my laundry detergent. The light switch at the top of the stairs connects to this area, however the 2 separate side wings do not. It’s a bit difficult to describe, but if you go down the stairs and turn right and walk all the way to the other wall, you hit a sort of T intersection where you can go left or right and go around the wall on either side. Around the right wall is my circuit breaker that is lit with one of those old clicker light switches on strings. It’s a small space, so that side isn’t as bad. The other side however looks straight out of a horror film.

The other side has a bigger space. There’s a machine in there that takes up almost the whole room that I’m going to assume is a water softener but I’m actually not sure because the water softener I had at the house I grew up in looked nothing like this, but I don’t know what else it could possibly be. The foyer of this wing when we moved in was full of old rotted and broken shelves. There’s all manner of cobwebs everywhere - triple the amount of the main room. The wall is also wood here. I’m going to assume this was once the base of a crawl space that has since been very shoddily blocked off. It looks like they patched it with old pieces of wood fence, not even legitimate boards, also rotted because of course they are. It’s literally falling apart.

Some of the fence pieces have fully collapsed, so there is plenty of cracks and gaps, but behind it is just blackness. It’s like the mouth of some weird cave. If I looked in the gaps for too long I always got this weird lingering feeling like something was watching me. And it was cold. This room was cold unlike the rest of the house - I mean the rest of the house was cold, but nothing like this. The entire room is also dark at all times. There is 1 light switch which is on the opposite side of the room. Meaning you have to walk through this entire maze of machine, cobweb infested, freezing void wall encased room to get to the lights - a single lightbulb on a pull string that only lights up about 2 feet around it, so the majority of the room is still pitch black anyway.

We don’t go in this room.

I digress.

Anyway, I hadn’t been home in 3 days. I went down to do some laundry. 2 steps down I noticed something odd - a trail of wet footprints going down to the basement. Now, I didn’t particularly question this at first. My roommate had been home, so I figured she had simply gone down to do some laundry earlier. Nothing overly suspicious. It wasn’t until I went to go back up again that I started to question them. See as I had noted, the trail of footprints I had seen had gone all the way down the stairs, a clear impression on each step.

Down, but not up.

The main laundry area had been empty. We didn’t go into the side wings. It was then that I had the sudden realization that while I had seen my roommates car in the driveway earlier, I had in fact not seen my roommate once since I had gotten home.

I get to the top of the stairs, a little bit concerned. Afraid she was sitting somewhere in the left side wing murdered or something, I was frankly a little bit afraid to look, and was not about to investigate because this is how people die in horror movies. So I texted her. For peace of mind really, just to make sure she wasn’t, you know, dead. Just a quick “hey, you’re upstairs right?” She replied almost instantly with a yes she was just in her room. Relieved, obviously my first reaction is just “oh good, I just saw the trail of wet footprints going down to the basement and just wanted to be sure.”

Her response?

“I haven’t been down to the basement in 2 days.”

[skarsgard-daydreams]

On the Nature of Daylight

Description: On a cold winter night, you discover Henry’s fear of open spaces.

Notes: This story features a reader who works as a teacher. I started writing this in response to one of the sentence prompts (”Don’t go”) sent in by a kind anon, but it was so long it mandated its own post. The title is from a song by Max Richter. No warnings. Just some angst.

If there was one thing Henry could not get used to at the old farmhouse you had inherited when your uncle passed, it was the sheer size of it all. Your grandfather had built the house by hand with timber logged from the land where it stood. You loved the two-story windows that looked out over the lake, the open floor plan that let the kitchen spill into the living room. You had so many memories of holidays spent in this house, a towering Christmas tree glittering in the window as the entire family filled the space with joyful chatter and the warmth of their affection.

When you moved in, it felt like too much space for just one person. But through a strange turn of fate, you now found yourself sharing the house with another occupant. When you heard that the young man they found in the belly of Shawshank was staying alone in a warehouse, you did what you always did: you stuck your nose where it didn't belong and decided to solve the problem yourself. You brought him home one day in December and set him up in the big guest room at the far end of the hall.

You should have recognized the problem sooner. Henry kept to the corners of a room. He liked to have his back to the wall. You often walked inside and nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw him looming in your periphery, the light from the massive fireplace casting strange shadows in his heterochromatic eyes.

"Henry," you would say, placing a hand over your heart. "You startled me."

You didn't want him to feel bad, so you learned to expect him around corners and gradually became accustomed to his uncanny presence in your home. It seemed like he had no idea what to do with his freedom now that he had it. He was used to spending long stretches with nothing to do but listen to the far off sound of the universe expanding into outer darkness, a low hum that crackled with energy from time to time, like solar flares. He didn't like loud noises, or sitting on furniture, or the way the darkness looked in at him through the big living room windows at night.

A quiet harmony developed between you both. It was winter break, so you usually spent your days in your office, preparing lesson plans for next semester. Sometimes Henry paced in the hall while you worked. You listened as he padded barefoot down the hall, keeping time with a slow, mysterious rhythm. You usually left the door ajar, an unspoken invitation in case he wanted to come inside, but he preferred to keep barriers between him and other people, though you would occasionally catch the glint of his eerie blue eye staring at you through the crack in the door.

You wondered who he had been before he was locked in a cage. If he had any family who might be looking for him, he never tried to seek them out. You thought that maybe the person he was before had long since vacated the space behind his eyes, that what remained behind was like blown glass—beautiful and fragile and empty. It was wrong to think that way, you scolded yourself. But you did.

During the week leading up to Christmas, you tried to think of a way to get out of making the drive south to New Hampshire for dinner with your parents. There was no way you could bring Henry with you. They didn't know you had invited a strange man to share your home, and they would be baffled by your sudden proclamation that you were bringing a guest home for the holidays after your pre-mature descent into spinsterhood. Even if he did come along, Henry would hate their persistent questions and judging gazes. Your father would clap him on the shoulder in a show of dominance that would rattle him for a week, and your grandmother would lean over and loudly ask what was wrong with him. But the family was insistent on your attendance, and you decided you would stay just long enough for turkey and pie and cite concern for the weather when you made an early exit.

Henry sat against the wall in the living room while you explained all of this to him, his long legs stretched out on the hardwood floor and the wide neck of his favorite grey sweatshirt hanging lopsided on his shoulder. He never met your eyes when you talked, but he nodded slowly when you asked him if he heard you. Since his arrival, you had only left the house for a few hours here and there to run errands or pick up groceries, and you were not sure if a prolonged absence would be a welcome respite or a painful separation for him.

"The drive is a few hours each way, but I'll be home later tonight," you explained. "If you need to reach me you can call me, just like I showed you."

It was snowing on the way down and you had to stop on the side of the road and put on your tire chains by yourself. You had half a mind to turn back then, but the sheer volume of guilt that would be volleyed at you for the rest of the year pushed you to keep going. When you finally arrived, you tried calling home, but Henry didn't answer. That wasn't a surprise. He probably assumed it was someone calling for you, and you knew that the thought of picking up a telephone receiver and speaking to a total stranger unnerved him. You found yourself packaging up leftovers to take home before they had even served the pie.

"I'm worried about the roads," you said as you kissed your grandmother on the cheek. They tried to convince you to stay, but everything within you was saying that you never should have left.

There were no lights on in the house when you pulled into the driveway. You felt the dull realization thudding in your chest that you were the one who always flicked them on when the daylight began to wane. You walked inside and flipped the switch, illuminating the cavernous living room with its glittering Christmas tree and moonlit view of the lake. You checked the corner of every room on the main floor, but Henry wasn't there.

"Henry?" you called as you ascended the stairs. A tightness was gathering in your chest—a visceral feeling somewhere between guilt and panic. His bedroom looked the same as the day he arrived, except for the quilt that had been removed from the top layer of bedding and stuffed under the bed. You searched every room, checking under the beds and inside the closets, calling his name over and over, but there was no sign of him.

There was one more place to check. The house had a spacious basement crammed with all your uncle’s things that you couldn’t bring yourself to sort through when you moved in. It also doubled as the laundry room. No matter how many times you insisted it would be okay, you could never get Henry to walk down those stairs so you could show him how the washer and dryer worked. He would simply back away down the hall, keeping one eye on the door until you had returned to the top of the stairs and shut it behind you.

You grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and headed for the basement. It seemed an unlikely place for him to be hiding, but it was possible he had gone down there in search of you and gotten spooked. Maybe he hadn’t been able to find his way back out. The stairs squeaked beneath you as you flipped on the light. The room was riddled with the ephemera of a man’s life packed away in boxes and jammed onto large metal shelving units that jutted out into the space, creating plenty of nooks and crannies where Henry could have lodged himself.

The beam of your flashlight swept across the room. You almost missed him. Tucked away in one of the corners was a dog crate that used to be in the living room. You remembered that your uncle would kennel his Bull Mastiff inside it whenever he went to work in the yard so the dog wouldn’t tear up the back door. Henry had crawled inside and pulled the wire door shut behind him, curling into a ball and falling into a deep sleep. You knelt alongside the crate and laced your fingers through the metal frame, your breath freezing in your chest as you watched him sleep. You wanted to reach in and touch him, to ask him why he would seek out another cage after everything that had happened. Maybe the lofty interior of the house felt too vast, too alien in your absence.

“Henry,” you said softly, afraid of startling him. “Henry, I’m home.”

His hunched frame stirred, and he slowly sat up and peered at you through the wire cage. His gaze seemed sharper now, as though every other time he had looked at you it had been with one eye only, while the other was focused on something unseen by anyone else but him. He reached out and touched your fingertips with his own, looking you in the eyes for the first time.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

You curled your fingers around his delicately, as though he might shatter into pieces if you were not careful. A pulse of energy thrummed through your hand, something strange and magnetic you couldn’t name.

“I’m right here,” you whispered back.

(part of Sound and Color: a series of The Kid/Henry stories/drabbles)

[realityhelixcreates]

Dance of the Spheres Chapter 5: Martian March

Chapters: 5/?

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel),

Additional Tags:  Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:  

I'm going back to Saturn where the rings all glow

Rainbow, moonbeams, and orange snow

On Saturn, people live to be two hundred and five

Going back to Saturn where the people smile.

                                              Saturn-Stevie Wonder

our rooms glittered. They were faced in massive scale pietra dura stone patterns from floor to ceiling. Gray, black, and white dominated, with a surprising amount of green mixed in, as well as startling pops of orange-red, blue, yellow, purple, and bright pink.

The designs were large and geometric, almost a sister style to the classic Art Deco that you saw on the older buildings downtown, mixed in among the flavorless glass towers and Brutalist boxes that defined the 'modern' era.

This main room housed a delicately carved stone couch and chairs, around a low stone table, and several stone shelves and storage boxes. These were all made of a black stone that held numerous yellowish-green crystals in their matrix, all polished so that the crystals shimmered.

This same stone appeared in the patterns on the walls and floor, as very thin panes on a pale backing, highlighting the colors of their crystals. This, along with a similar black stone with reddish-orange crystals, and a dark gray, large-grained stone that sparkled at any angle, was contrasted against the now familiar creamy white and pale orange. Here and there, inlays of silvery wire brought organic shapes to the mix.

The cloudy crystal made a reappearance in a round, well-lit, domed room Loki described as a 'Solar', even though no sun could reach this place. Instead, the clearest of the crystal had been set into the dome, all of it covering the mysterious lights, creating a bright light source that illuminated the room to something close to midday. The walls were covered in the cloudy crystal, which, in the bright light, shone with veils and flashes of iridescent blue.

On one wall there was a subtle inlay of  translucent gray stone, in the shape of clouds, that shone in splashes of blue and purple. Cleverly inlaid within them were specific pieces of the same type of stone, in the shape of lightning bolts that sparked yellow when viewed at the right angle, but were invisible from others.

He showed you the antechamber that connected your rooms and his, all in black and green. Even the lights were covered in thin panes of green crystals thickly packed in black matrix, casting a dim, viridian light over the whole chamber.

You decided that room was extremely creepy, and you never wanted to be in it.

The bath room was much better, ridiculously large, with a shower just out in the open, a wide counter with a mirror of polished metal, a huge tub carved right into a semi-finished block of stone, and a strange toilet tucked away in a stall in the corner. It was all big enough for you to move around in easily, though you mentioned that you would need a chair for the shower. Loki vowed to have one brought immediately.

But your bedroom was the obvious jewel. Loki puffed up with pride as he showed it off, as if he were the one who designed it. There were jewels in here, bright, bubblegum pink, golden yellow, and apple green in elaborate platinum settings, affixed to the walls. There was more cloudy gray and white crystal in here, with their blue and purple, pink and yellow flashes. The lights were clustered around the ceiling like stars, and the bed was another of the precious rare wooden objects, a four poster canopy bed, draped with a gauzy veil.

Most surprising of all, the bedroom had a window-or rather, a doorway out to a semi-circular balcony that overlooked what must be the main palace courtyard and entrance. When you stepped out onto it, you could see lines of guards-more people than you'd seen in one place since you'd been here. They framed the long, rectangular space every ten feet or so, in bright, brassy armor and sunny yellow capes.

This was clearly a cape kind of place.

It was very strange. You could have sworn you hadn't climbed any ramps, and you certainly hadn't gone up any stairs, but here you were, at least six stories up, and there were more stories above you.

“You must be clever builders.” you said without thinking about it.

“Our engineering capabilities are the envy of the galaxy, it's true.” Loki boasted. You believed him. All around the courtyard more balconies jutted out. Several dozen feet to the side of yours, the balcony you assumed must belong to Loki was connected to another large balcony on the opposite side by an elegant walkway, supported by slender pillars. There was a round platform in the center, and red curtains obscured the balcony on the other side.

“We can address large crowds from there, or call emergency meetings of the guards, or the other high nobles.” Loki said, following your gaze. “That's who lives on this floor. Myself, my brother, all of the most important Asgardians, and now you.”

But not for long, if you had any opportunity. “Uh, I'm honored.”

“How do you like them, though?” he pressed, “Is the décor to your liking? The size? We've been working on it for months, but we can still change things if you need.”

“Months?” you gasped, shocked. “You guys did all this in just months?”

Asgard had come to Earth a little under two years ago, decimated and begging for assistance. Thor led them, but no one knew Loki had come along. Thor himself served as his own liaison to the United Nations, bringing his case before the leaders of Earth, to secure a place for his people.

Obviously, it had worked. Thor's reputation and high-profile friends, as well as his surprisingly diplomatic and optimistic outlook had both charmed and discombobulated most people who spoke to him. People liked and respected him, but no one expected him to be savvy.

It had worked out very well for him and his people. They had secured some secret land that the entire U.N. had remained tight-lipped about. Then, a few months in, Thor had stopped making appearances, leaving Earth-Asgard relations to his advisors; an abrasive, undiplomatic woman whom you loved to watch, and a stoic and imposing man with unsettling eyes. Rumors flew for a while, but you hadn't paid much attention. There had been so much to fight for at home.

Did anyone even know you were gone? You were supposed to attend a march tonight. Or last night? You didn't know how long you had been asleep. Surely someone noticed you were missing.

But if they did, how would you even know?

“-harness the sun's energy over the long rotation period so that we can build even more efficiently.” Loki was saying. “We've done an admirable job for such a reduced population, but there is so much more to do.”

“And you took them away from that to build this for me?”

“I took them away from this to build special chambers for the princess of Asgard.” Loki corrected, “It was not a waste, nor was it superfluous. It was for someone important.”

“I'm not.” you insisted, “I'm just some rando they snatched up and tossed at you. I'm not princess material.”

“I will find out what is behind this.” he said, “But until I can, I want you to feel comfortable here. This is all yours now, and more.”

You couldn't, you couldn't allow yourself. You weren't supposed to be here. It was only a matter of time before this mix up was discovered, and a swap was arranged. You'd go home, and some other woman would take your place.

How horrible.

“But is everything to your liking? Do you need more light? More space? Is the bed all right for your leg? A good height?”

You were more than a little wary about getting into bed with him here, but as you hobbled over to it, he remained at a distance. You sank onto the plush mattress, with it's silky green sheets and thick comforter. It was very nice, soft and smooth, and warm, despite being placed on solid stone. Hopefully the blanket would ward off the slight chill that followed everywhere you had been so far.

“It's a good height,” you said, “especially if I get a new cane.”

“Excellent. Would you like to see my quarters?' he asked, “You may come and go between them as you please.”

Which meant that he could too. You didn't find that reassuring.

“Uh...isn't that, um, inappropriate?” you asked, casting about for any reason to refuse. “We haven't even, um, there hasn't even been a wedding!”

He paused, then his face broke into a beautiful, glowing smile. “Of course. I understand. You want that big celebration, naturally. Well, it is only fair, isn't it?” He sat down on the floor next to your bed, as if forgetting that he was a prince and a god, a powerful figure, abandoning his dignity to sit on the floor like a child.

“Do you want to plan it, or leave it to the advisors? Asgard is very good at grand weddings, but if you've had some specific plan for it, I'm sure we can accommodate it.”

“Uh...” This would be the perfect opportunity to stall. You could buy so much time with this! “I would like to plan it. There's things I've been wanting to do since I was a little girl. It would be a dream come true, to plan my own wedding.”

Not strictly true. Certainly, as a little girl you had contemplated flowers and a dress. There being a groom was far less important.

“Then begin any time you like.” Loki said warmly. “I'll have notebooks brought to you, and you can plan out whatever you want. Whatever it is, we can do it for you.”

You almost felt bad for what you were going to do, but on the other hand, you didn't trust him and his terrifying adoration, and horrible power over your life and safety. You'd make as many impossible demands and take up as much time as you possibly could. If it kept you safe. If it kept you from the nightmare scenario.

“I will have your bathing chair brought. You seem tired; shall I have dinner brought to you? We can dine in your audience room. We can have you measured for a new prosthetic, and for a new cane as well. The artificers will set to work on them immediately.”

“Um, sure. That sounds fine.” Dinner would be welcome, after only one apple and one cup of water. And a new, higher tech leg and cane might help you escape faster. You should take every opportunity available to you.

Loki helped you out to the largest room, with it's bookshelves and seating, and saw that you were comfortable. Then he bid you stay put and wait for a bit, while he got everything set up. You were in no shape to try for an escape right now; you would just bide your time.

You waited patiently, taking in the details of the beautifully precise stonework that made up your new-temporary-living quarters. What incredible workmanship. Shame it had been wasted on you.

Maybe someone else would have been thrilled. To have wealth and power, security and luxury, a handsome prince just handed to them with no effort on their part at all. That wasn't what you wanted though; you didn't want to join the lucky ones. You didn't want to be lifted out of your hardships and set above your peers, you wanted those hardships to be eliminated for everybody. You didn't want to be a social climber, you wanted a more equitable society. This fantasy was worthless to you. It had all been done without your consent.

A quiet knock on the door grabbed your attention. You didn't answer immediately, and the knock was hesitantly repeated.

“Um, come in?” you called.

The two adolescents you had run off before cracked the door open and peeked their heads in.

“Your highness?” the girl asked.

“May we enter?” the boy finished.

“Yeah, come in. I'm in a better mood now.” you said calmly. No need to be rude to them now that she knew what was going on. If Loki hadn't even known about the kidnapping, there was no way these kids were in on it.

“We were sent here to get measurements?” the boy-Andvarri wasn't it-asked shyly. “For a prosthetic leg, and a cane?”

“Yes, I was told you might be coming. I'm sorry about earlier: I was very disoriented and confused.”

“No harm done, your highness. This won't take long.”

The girl-Bjarkehilde-helped you stand as Andvarri took several measurements and asked about your preferences in weight and materials, flexibility and points of articulation, even colors and decorations.

They were going to put in a lot of effort to help you escape. A fine efficient leg, a sturdy lightweight cane, and Bjarkehilde even asked about what kinds of medication you needed, and for what.

Bjarkehild was surprisingly close to your height and build as well. That stayed in the back of your mind for a while after the two of them left.

As the minutes passed, you began to realize that you were going to need some kind of clock. You had no idea what time it was. There was no visible sunlight, the lights in your rooms hadn't changed at all, and no one had mentioned it at all. How did the Asgardians know? Was some kind of internal timekeeping part of their natural abilities?

Maybe it was the nebulous grasp of time, maybe it was the fading adrenaline and setting in of weariness, maybe it was residual drugs working their way out of your systems, but you began to feel strange as you waited for Loki to return. Either you felt hot, or the slight chill that was prevalent in this place was getting worse. Perhaps you had been staring at the artistic walls for too long, because the colors seemed to be vacillating between painfully saturated, and fuzzy at the edges.

It seemed to take forever for Loki to return, carrying a tray of food and drink. This he set on the lovely stone table before you, and then took a seat in a nearby chair.

“You must be ravenous by now.” he said, and you were. You leaned forward to inspect the offerings. The metal tray was filled with small stone bowls and plates, and two small cups of liquid. Was this how meals were traditionally served in Asgard? A great variety of small portions?

One of the cups turned out to be orange drink, from powder. You recognized that taste from your childhood. The dry air had made your tongue rough, and the acidic flavor was a blast on your tastebuds, as bright as the colors on the walls. The second cup was some kind of brown broth, possibly also from powder, as it got thicker at the bottom of the cup. There were dried apricots, soaked in honey, and dates, a barley porridge with a swirl of honey and a dash of cinnamon. There were common Saltine-type crackers that went with a very strange stew that looked like it was made, not just with re-hydrated vegetables, but re-hydrated meat as well. It tasted fine, but the texture left something to be desired.

You barely noticed. You wolfed it all down as Loki just sat and watched, having brought nothing for himself.

“I see you needed the fuel.” he commented, after every bite was gone. “Yes, I think you will need it. Beloved, I must tell you something about that apple you ate earlier. I can see it's effects are starting to take hold. Like I said earlier, I had thought to feed it to you slowly.”

“The apple? What...what's it doing to me?” Beloved? He was taking things a bit far, wasn't he? But you definitely were feeling weird. Uncomfortable. “I had just woken up and I didn't know where I was, or what was going to happen. I didn't know where my next meal was coming from.”

“And I understand that now, as I did not then, or I would have refrained from putting it out at all. But it's too late now. For several things. We will simply have to adapt and endure.”

“Endure?”

“I will not leave your side, you may count on that.” He promised. “But that was a special apple. Its tree came from a cutting, taken from a remnant grove in Vanir territory, as part of their peace treaty with us. A sacred tree whose fruits provided the Vanir with ageless warriors. For us, they heal terrible wounds and sickness. But for you, they are known as the Apples of Immortality, and they confer a great gift indeed. But it is not without price.”

You doubled over in pain.

[adultswim2021]

Ephemera Week (2002)

I really wonder how effectively I’ll be able to do this in 2003. In 2003, Adult Swim started doing the black and white text bumps, where they give max sass and NO EFFS (fucks), so every week had unique content. I definitely don’t have the resources to catalogue every bumper or even come up with a decent “best of”. Ephemera Corner 2003 may look very different. To quote my good friend Zorak, “Brak, do you ever think about the future?”. To this I say, yes. Yes, Zorak, I do.

BROADCAST ANOMALIES AND SPECIAL NIGHTS!

Adult Swim Action (and other stuff) | February 23, 2002

February 23rd was the first installment of Adult Swim Action. Up to this point, Adult Swim aired a block of mostly comedy capped off with Cowyboy Bebop. This was the first formal separation of Action and Comedy. I remember the bitter rivalry between the two fandoms on various message boards I posted on. It really did seem like a venn diagram with almost no overlap; action fans hated the comedy shows (maybe they liked one or two but hated the rest) and the same went for the comedy fans, except most of the comedy fans I knew were devout anime haters.

At the height of my anime animosity an internet ex-friend of mine started a message board called ANIME SUCKS. It was an experience I’ll always remember fondly. At it’s peak it had over 1000 members. All but about a dozen of those members were actually ANGRY anime fans who just stumbled on the board and were FURIOUS at us for being anti-anime, and we’d just act like obtuse dickheads about it. Like, we’d act stupider than they were and just wind them up.

We developed a few tricks to really set somebody off. For example: they’d write an impassioned defense of anime as an art form, and say something like “it’s not all like Pokemon or Dragonball Z”, to which we’d reply “actually those are the only two animes I like”. This really got them. There was a special thrill to just replying “miyazaki is an idiot” to a guy’s 6-paragraph essay about why anime was “good, actually”, prompting an even longer response. It was really fun! We didn’t have to harass people online, they’d just come to us to get abused. I’ve never seen bait get taken so effortlessly. One day that guy just closed the message board, locked everyone out, and disappeared forever.

That was some aside, huh? Anyway, the arrival of Adult Swim Action meant that Adult Swim stopped airing the Thursday night repeats of Adult Swim Comedy, which was a shame. It Also meant Adult Swim’s Sunday night had an extra hour to fill, which they did with Rocky & Bullwinkle and the Popeye Show. People complained. I didn’t. Vintage animation is just a different take on the “adult” label. Besides, I was used to tuning out by 12AM anyway, so even if I didn’t like those shows (I did!) I wasn’t missing anything, really. But yes, if it were a full hour of Space Ghost repeats I guess that would’ve been better.

The Lewis Lectures | May 19, 2002 - 12:45 AM

A repeat of Lewis Lectures? IT HAPPENED! But what was so different about this broadcast of Lewis Lectures? Well, they accidentally scrambled the SAP audio with the default English audio, causing the Spanish soundtrack to play in tandem with the English one. It was bloody well fucked mate. This is simply no longer England.

I remember becoming an Adult Swim completist and taping this, considering it some kind of void in my collection. Part of me wishes I saved the recording, so I could combine it with the inferior YouTube rip currently up and have a closer-to-pristine copy than the one that’s available. But also, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THIS IS LEWIS LECTURES WE ARE TALKING ABOUT. How much pain can I inflict on myself?

Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law Mini-Marathon | September 15, 2002 - 11:00 PM

On this night they aired a little Harvey Birdman marathon of the 4 episodes. This was kinda baffling, as Birdman had 6 episodes to its name and they’d been repeated into the ground by this point. I guess it goes to show that Adult Swim kinda considered Birdman to be their prestige program. I’m hard-pressed to call any one Adult Swim show “smart” in a way that’s apparent on a shallow level. Birdman is set in a courtroom, animated the most competently out of all their other shows, and involved cultural references in a showy way. Like, Space Ghost having Dave Willis absurdly shout “UP THE CHAIN” in the background of a Space Ghost episode is almost just a weird easter egg. But Birdman? Birdman was name-dropping Hanna Barbera characters the same way Frasier would talk about whatever gay shit Frasier talked about.

They aired The Dabba Don, Shaggy Busted, Shoyu Weenie, Very Personal Injury in that order. I would’ve swapped Shaggy and Shoyu and for Bannon Custody Battle and Death by Chocolate, but that’s just me, I guess.

Adult Swim New Years Bash hosted by Carl and Brak | December 31, 2002 - 11:00 PM

Adult Swim officially ended 2002 with this: a night hosted by Carl and Brak in Times Square, watching the ball drop (which was FREAKING MEATWAD!!!!). I remember this night fondly. Unfortunately I can’t find the whole thing, but here’s a single segment I found on vimeo to give you some idea. I think I had it up at one point and Turner very annoyingly had it taken down.

I used to have this massive physical media collection; stuff on VHS and DVD and DVD-R that was meticulously catalogued. I ditched a lot of it in favor of digitizing stuff like this, eternally keeping it on hard drives that I meant to back up but never did. It seems more convenient, but it isn’t. If this were 2003 and I needed to show you this, I would be able to retrieve it from one of my many shelves. I might still have this, but would have no idea where to look for it and it would probably involve me getting in my car and going out to my storage unit and pulling every single box out. I turned it into ones an zeros and stuck it on a nondescript black box that could very well be dead. And now it’s not even on YouTube. Sad? Sure, it’s sad.

PEAK EPHEMERA

(phrase stolen from Grifthorse podcast)

Hey, here are some videos I found on YouTube in case you wanna go down a wormhole of watching old Adult Swim commercial breaks. May the gods of posterity keep them online forever:

February 4, 2002

Spring 2002

June 16, 2002

June 30, 2002

July 27, 2002

August 2002

November 17, 2002

November/December 2002

MAIL BAG:

This ends EPHEMERA WEEK. We’ll do actual episodes soon!

What's the scariest thing you seen on adult swim?

I don’t know if I have a real answer for this. I don’t think I actually get scared by stuff in movies or TV shows. I can’t even come up with a funny answer. Remember the end of that Metalocalypse episode where the little sick girl is dead and her eyes turn into maggots and you hear that screechy voice was like I’M DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!!! I’ll just go with that even though it made me laugh really hard

Ever watch Limmy's Show

I am content just being vaguely aware of Limmy (no, I never watched his show. Seems good).

Please don't do such a big mailbag. I couldn't believe how many r-words wrote inane bullshit to you. Let keep this blog about the real stars: Master Shake, Space Ghost, Brak, Zorak, Meatwad, Frylock, Debbie, Black Debbie, Carl, Sparks, Stormy, Hesh, Moltar, Harvery Birdman Captain Murphy, Dr. Quinn, Paula, Marco,  Brendon, Jason, Melissa, The Mooninites, the Plutonians, Peanut, Coach Mc Gurk, Mentok the Mindtaker, Virjay, Antoin, Colby, Trotter, Adair WE ARE THE UPRIGHT CITIZENS BRIGADE :)

I can’t believe this IDIOT doesn’t get that by typing such a long message he very IDIOTICALLY contributed to the length of the Maili Bag... LMFAO, what a IDIOT

This is maybe the funniest blog on tumblr. You really think these nasty little cartoons are special, huh?

Hey than-- oh :( Yeah, I guess so :(

would you like master shake if he did the whole thing

I’m sorry what

[soft-sunflower]

Flower of Evil Thoughts: Part 1- Episode 11

OKAY. FIRST OF ALL. WAS I RIGHT OR WAS I RIGHT? ABOUT MANY THINGS. I KNEW we were in for a massive emotional blow from Hyunsoo. I KNEW we were in for getting our hearts utterly wrecked by him and Jiwon. I know mine is. I KNEW who the accomplice was. I just... KNEW. I love that so many of my theories were correct from the get go. Alright, on we go to this week's episode thought post made by yours truly.

Alright so, we begin our episode at the hospital. OMG!!! Our little baby girl Eunha had just been born!!! Jiwon is overcome with all kinds of emotion. One of the things she says is "I'm grateful that she made it." It makes me wonder if there were complications during Eunha being delivered? Hyunsoo is trying to understand the reason for his wife's tears, and expresses to her that he's worried when she asks what's on his mind. I have a pretty good idea of what he's worried about, but obviously he cannot say this to Jiwon.

"What if she doesn't like me?" Translates to

"What if she resents having me for her father? What if she ends up like me, unable to express or understand emotions? What if she ends up like my father? What if she doesn't have your personality? What if I fail her the way I was failed growing up?"

Of course he can't say this because he doesn't even really know nor understand it himself.  Then their baby girl starts to cry. Hyunsoo looks curiously at her and asks Jiwon

"Why did she suddenly burst into tears?"

Jiwon explains she probably shares their feelings.

"There's a lot she wants to say, but she can't put it into words yet."

I feel like this is important to pay attention to. A lot she wants to say, but can't put it into words and this is why she's crying. Hmmm...

Alright, so back to Haesoo discovering the green bracelet back when the hospital opened, and she hears a strange sound outside. I have to admit, when she ripped open the curtains, it gave me a jumpscare haha. I thought something BAD was gonna be out there waiting for her! They sure do a good job at keeping the suspense up! I wasn't sure what was going to happen. lol You never can tell in this drama. It's always got me on my toes. Haesoo is getting closer and closer to the accomplice. She can feel it. I can too, but it has me worried.

OKAY so, we finally pick back up at the scene in present-day for Jiwon where last week's episode ended with Detective Choi Jaeseop confronting Jiwon about Do Hyunsoo's identity. I felt a very strong, almost brotherly aspect from Detective Choi here with Jiwon, but he still frustrated me unbelievably. I get it, he's a cop. Just doing his job, but still... please use your brain on this rather than taking a cold case at face value. There's A LOT more going on he does not know. I have to give him props for covering smoothly for Jiwon. I know he isn't doing this to hurt Jiwon. That this is his job, but I don't have to like it. I just hate how he acts on his gut feeling and what he's "heard" or hearsay rather than working with Jiwon to uncover the truth that Do Hyunsoo did not kill the village foreman.

Also excuse me?? I'm sorry, Detective Choi, but her emotions are VERY VERY real. Whether you want to believe that or not. Jiwon knows so much more than you do about this entire ordeal and you should stop riding on your own emotions for a moment and work with your teammate rather than telling her she needs off the case. Such as, finding out the real Heeseong is NOT dead. He's been comatose for 14+ years and now he's wide awake and talking. This is one case she HAS to be on no matter what. Because he is so dearly misinformed. I'm getting a little tired of this "He's deceiving you" crap about Hyunsoo because we all know this isn't the truth. Yes, he kept his real identity secret, but he never faked anything around her. He showed her openly who he really is and can be. He was NEVER Baek Heeseong. He was ALWAYS Do Hyunsoo. A good person.

When Jiwon fell to her knees pleading  (Moon Chaewon's delivery of "Sunbae, please!" and "I'll put my life on the line to prove his innocence!" hurt so much that if I had been standing, I would've went to my knees too *sob* Well done, girl) to him. I do like how he wanted to try and protect her by saying "You don't know anything." I have to give him some credit for that.

"It's obvious how the world will see him. Everyone will throw rocks at him and taunt him indefinently."

Oh Jiwon... he's already been through that. LITERALLY. *glares are freaking Moojin* But we definitely don't want that happening to him again. He's a GOOD man and he deserves for the world to see that he's good and he's innocent. You are going to be the one who can prove who he is to the world. And no, Detective Choi... she won't thank you. Not now or ever for arresting any innocent man that also happens to be her husband. I'm sorry, but no. She won't.

We cut to Hyunsoo and Moojin together in Hyunsoo's car... I knew from the start that this operation was too well put together. There's no way that transaction was gonna flow as smoothly as Hyunsoo hoped it would. Though I'm glad that Moojin did come along for help and I'm glad that Hyunsoo had a plan B if things went south, which they ALWAYS do because hello? This is Kdrama world haha. The bugging device was clever on Hyunsoo's part, and I'm glad he was thinking ahead on that one. This stuff is never bound to go right. And once again, clever clever with turning on the switch AFTER he'd been ran over with the detector. Nice one.

Alright, Detective Choi earned more redemption from me here when he smoothly lied to their fellow teammates about "Eunha being sick and in the hospital." I will give him more credit here. Credit where credit is due, but I am SO proud of Jiwon for not backing down on this, stepping in and taking charge. Girl, GET. IT!! Protect your man!!!I LOVE her fierce determination here. You aren’t gonna stop her, sunbae.

YES!!! Moojin has the address to where the people captured by the human traffickers are waiting! I'm so glad for this honestly. I'm really glad Hyunsoo bugged that bag. Jiwon gets the call from the "informant" (Moojin pretending to be Hyunsoo, which YES she IS needed on this case THANK YOU very much) and now they know where they can rescue those kidnapped people while busting the trafficking ring.

"You want me to just stay in the office and wait!? What would you do in my shoes?"

And it seems Detective Choi has a moment of conscience here because what WOULD he do? He's got a wife too, right? What would HE do if this were HIS wife that he so dearly loves??? That's right. He'd be just like Jiwon. Who wouldn't??

Ahhh, just as Yeom Sangchul is about to hand over the photos of the accomplice to Hyunsoo, his phone rings... and guess what it says on the screen? BAEK. Yep. That's right. Freaking BAEK. And it's the unfather. It's Baek Manwoo calling to not only put a hit out on Hyunsoo but to tell the trafficker that he's working with the police to catch them and offers him TWICE the money he's already giving them if they kill Hyunsoo... I mean REALLY??? WTF you shady bastard! I had a BAD feeling from him since the very first episode and those bad feelings just continue to be confirmed to me. This whole Baek family are nothing but creepy, shady, untrustworthy assholes covering up some major shit such as WORKING WITH HUMAN TRAFFICKERS. Down to the point that Yeom Sangchul called him "Sir." UGH. DISGUSTING.

Heeseong is "scared" of Do Hyunsoo? Oh please... Why I do I feel like a lot of this that he's pulling off is a big act? I dunno. I could be wrong but I do not trust him in the least.

And now Noona!? Girl what are you DOING!? Haven’t you ever heard the term Stranger Danger? Well, these are strangers and this is danger! Watching her go behind those iron gates just gives me this creepy "point of no return" vibe. You know? She is far far too trustworthy... Was it smart to tell them her name?? And that Hyunsoo is her brother?? The look on Heeseong's face SCREAMS guilty when he hears Haesoo speak her name. I'm JUST saying. He's fucked. He KNOWS who Haesoo is after all. 

YESSSS!!!! So gratifying watching the cops BUST that trafficking ring! Thank you, Hyunsoo!! Your tip off just saved A LOT of lives. I really hope the cops so eager to imprison him realize this too on top of his innocence. Jiwon and Jaeseop's chase of the bartender on the bridge was awesome. I loved watching Jiwon switch directions with both her and Jaeseop have him surrounded on that bridge. When I saw Jiwon get stabbed I screamed. I really screamed. Because I thought for sure she was hurt, and thank GOD she had protective gear on. I love how she reemed Jaeseop's ass for not wearing his. HAH! And you didn't want her on this case! My girl is a legit badass.

Then when Jaeseop told her not to butt in in the future, and asked if she knew how scared he was (awww like a big ole brother protecting his sister), Jiwon tells him "I have no future." Oh god... *chokes* Yes you do, baby girl. Yes you do. You just don't know it yet. They capture the guy, are about to head back and she tells him "I still have something to do." YESSSS Queen. Go get your man! He's still wearing his watch. You'll find him so go get him out of that dangerous place!!!

Annnnd now the big moose trafficker guy working with Yeom Sangchul is beating the holy hell out of our Hyunsoo. I knew this was bound to happen. NONE of these things ever go properly or smoothly in Kdrama and of course it's for dramatic affect, but still. It's hard to watch him get tossed around and beaten like a ragdoll. Hyunsoo tries to fight back, but it's almost like no will is there. He's just going through the motions. He throws Hyunsoo into a shelving unit and slams his head off of a glass bottle, shattering it and busting his head open. And then he slams his head through a glass cabinet door. Again... another head injury.  (This poor man seriously needs to get thoroughly checked and evaluated for head injury, fractures, contusions, concussions, etc... because with how much he's hit his head... goodness!!!)

Awww, Moojin... you tried really hard to save Hyunsoo, didn't you with the fire extinguisher act? That's definitely a redeeming quality for you here. I'm grateful you did that, even if it wasn't very effective. He can't get out, Moojin.. he's had the shit beat out of him and now he's tied up. But I so appreciate your efforts in trying to rescue our protagonist. Why does Lee Joongi have to be so incredibly gorgeous, even when he's got bloody head wounds and is all tied up. Gosh. My brain is thinking lots of things. Okay let's FOCUS.

THIS WHOLE BAEK FAMILY IS A SHADY, FAKE, LYING SACK OF SCUM. PLEASE, Noona... PLEASE do not fall for this. HAH. Well, their son isn't comatose anymore. He's wide awake. Also, took pity on Hyunsoo!? No they didn't. Not even CLOSE. They used him to their advantage. They're worried Hyunsoo will get caught up in it? HAHA! BULLSHIT. And you KNOW he isn't a criminal and yet you treat him like one!? Why not just leave the him TF alone. He doesn't want your son's identity anymore. You're putting hits on him with a human trafficker and you're gonna act like he matters? Noona, please... PLEASE don't fall for their act.

Oh she's telling them too much. WAY too much. She's giving them too much vital information, and I'm really afraid that this is going to be somehow used against her... especially in regards to the accomplice... who I believe is also CHEWING HIS NAILS ON HIS LEFT HAND. JUST LIKE I SAID HE WAS DOING IN THE PREVIEW. WHICH IS ANOTHER LEAD TO HIM BEING THE ACCOMPLICE. Those left nails. Chewed off. Nervous habit obviously, but STILL OBVIOUS OKAY. The real Heeseong IS the accomplice. Look at the way the whole Baek family behaves. They're a horrible, scary, shady family trying to cover their murderous son's ass.

Ohhhh CRAP, Moojin!!! He is getting the holy HELL beat out of him and he's getting it on video on his phone too! Like WOW!!! People are seeing this stuff live!!! This is absolutely crazy!!! No good stomping the phone, bro. All of that was just broadcast live. Good luck getting out of your lil trafficker ring hideout on time. You're gonna burn Hyunsoo alive??? Seriously??? That's pretty cruel. At least Hyunsoo tries to be clever by also trying to weasel the name out of the guy that ratted him out. Oh if ONLY Hyunsoo could find out!! That's MORE valuable information to help clear his name! That the shady unfather put a hit out on him. He deserves to know that this man is out for his blood.

YASSSSSSSSSS JIWON!!!! GO QUEEN!!! GO AND SAVE YOUR MAN!!!! GET HIM OUTTA THERE AND BLOW THAT TRAFFICKER'S HEAD OFF!!!! Obviously this isn't going to happen. Jiwon wouldn't kill unless absolutely necessary is what I believe. She is a police officer after all, but there was NOTHING like watching Jiwon have her gun to that piece of garbage excuse for a human being gang punk bastard's head while looking at her husband saying "Sweetie, are you alright?" It's a whole.fucking.ass.mood. I'll reiterate my statement from earlier. JIWON IS A LEGIT BADASS. She is such an amazing lead female. The look on Hyunsoo’s face... It’s like he’s in a state of shock.

YAY!!! The victims are FREE!!! Thank god In Seo is okay!! And yes, sweet precious baby boy. You can go home. You most certainly can go home and don't ever EVER run away from your mother ever again. You stay next to her and both of you need to protect each other and keep each other out of any dangerous situations, y'know, like showing up in shady places that involve a human trafficking ring. No more trying to take on fake jobs that will "make you lots of money." That's the first sign it's a dangerous situation and non-legit. Also, I love how the team leader knows Jaeseop is lying to him, but that he wouldn't do it without good reason. And I'm glad he's still keeping it up. I like that he's still protecting Jiwon. Even if that means lying to their team leader. He's going to make his arrest in the morning, but he's going to let Jiwon and Hyunsoo have the whole night together... oh god, my heart. Please don't imprison an innocent man...

Oh, Hyunsoo... oh honey. You can see emotion beginning to brim the surface here as he stumbles out Jiwon's name saying "You knew...?" Yes, sweetheart. She's known for a little while now, and she was completely unsure of what to do or how to tell you until she got the truth of it all. And here she is. Getting you out of there. Rescuing you and protecting you. Jiwon is your fiercest protector. That much is clear. And OMG DO NOT PUT YOUR GUN AWAY JIWON. GET YOUR CUFFS BUT DO NOT... OH NO!!!!

Gangster piece of SHIT is attacking her!!! And Hyunsoo is LOSING it because he's tied up and he can't get to his wife! So what does he do while he watching this nasty bastard try to kill her? ADRENALINE SURGE! He literally BUSTS the handles off the cabinet with tied up arm strength alone because the idea of his wife being choked to death in front of him has sent him into a frenzy, gets his hands free and beats the ever living deserving SHIT out of Yeom Sangchul, to the point that he's seeing RED and he's going to kill this son of a bitch for daring to lay a hand on his wife. He's in full blown protective husband mode and it's actually pretty hot. I can't help it. It is. Whenever JG fights, he is like fire hot sexy af, and I LOVE every moment of it.

Okay, so Jiwon pulls him off of Sangchul and here we go... she's telling him. He's telling him she knows. She's telling him that Detective Choi has evidence that he's Do Hyunsoo, and the way she tells him he can't go home (omg his FACE at this words...) keeps telling him to go, slaps his chest and shoves him back, tells him to run and never come back to her again, and the look on his face breaks my heart, because I feel like this tells him she knows and doesn't want him anymore. She knows your real identity and this is why she wants you gone. She doesn't love you anymore, she wants you gone. The person Do Hyunsoo is not worth the love of a woman like Cha Jiwon.

“You’re good at running and hiding!” Ohhh ouch, Jiwon... I truly believe that this is how he feels because that's how he's lived all of his life. Believing himself unworthy of love because of all the adults who failed him in his life, the adults who didn't help him, teach him, show him what it's like to be loved, what love feels like, what the emotions that accompany love feel like. He's emotionally shaken. It's written all over his face, his eyes, and his body language. The man who supposedly can't recognize emotion is getting very emotional. He's lost. He doesn't know what to do. Jiwon is just as equally crushed. She doesn't want to lose her husband, but of course Hyunsoo does not know this. He believes Jiwon doesn't want him anymore. So he does as he's told and leaves the room with his head bowed. All Jiwon can do is cry over her retreating husband. That was hard to watch...

Moojin rushes in to find Jiwon on the phone asking for backup and Yeom Sangchul unconscious on the floor...

To be continued in Part 2

[mohdeep237]

I never knew how quickly the world could fall apart, not until today.

“Breaking news, an asteroid bigger than the moon is hurtling towards Earth--”

“Scientist by the name of Andy Stevenson invents first ever human compatible exoskeleton--”

“It is said that the asteroid may contain a certain specimen of bacteria closely resembling the organic structure of a virus--”

“Andy Stevenson has made Earth’s first extraterrestrial defense system comprised of fully automated defense robots--”

“An interview with a local from hometown of famous Andy Stevenson is on now- ‘Them killer bots will end us all! That bastard only wants destruction! Heed my warning! He’s crazy! He’ll kill you and your whole fami-’ Well, that’s, um, not quite what we expected--”

“This just in, the asteroid has hit Earth--First contact in Russi--Earth is on the verge of--How will we surv--”

Chapter 1

It has been five years since the asteroid made contact. We now call that event “The Turn”. The supposed virus that was on the asteroid turned out to be deadly, however, not in a deadly kind of way. Once you get infected, your brain shuts down after a couple days, but you don't die. The virus makes sure you don't die so that it can live inside you. If you happen to come into skin-on-skin contact with one, you’ll be infected immediately, but the effects will still take a couple days to begin. It doesn’t control you or anything, it just makes you stand there in a lifeless state, and those who are infected for long enough start trekking along the land, searching for more bodies to infect. Basically the longer you are infected, the more rabid zombie-like you become. However, if you were to get one’s attention, you’d be attacked on the spot.

As for how the world is doing, I’d say pretty terribly. The UN have decided to make designated “Quarantine Zones”. They’re basically huge cities that are protected by fifty meter concrete walls, and within those walls are defense robots by, you guessed it, the “world famous” Andy Stevenson. Nobody really likes him, in fact, most of us want him dead. There’s concrete evidence of shady dealings and corruption within his company, but they ignore these details and secretly kill anyone who goes against them. How do I know? Because that’s how my parents died three years ago.

My parents had a baby boy when they were in their twenties, which happens to be me. They were really outgoing people and they loved me a lot, as I really loved them. My parents always seemed to be fighting for the right cause wherever they went and I wanted to be just like them. They had been put in life and death situations before and lived to tell the tale, but it seems that their luck had run out this time, and I was there to watch it. Those damn robots, said to be for any “alien activity”, turns out that old man was right, they are for destroying us instead. That madman only cares about his wealth.

As for me, I am now twenty-one years old with semi wavy medium length black hair, dark brown eyes, I am about six feet tall, I have a light beard going on and what young hipsters would call a “killer moustache”. I live alone in a one bedroom apartment in the Vancouver QZ (quarantine zone).

Unfortunately, the only way to make some decent money in this place is to work with the government, either in an office job or on duty as an officer. The job ain’t that bad considering the benefits, but it’s still considered working for that lunatic Stevenson. Most people in the officer position praise Stevenson like he’s their god, but there are a few of us here that really hate his guts. It’s only a matter of time before we make a move.

Chapter 2

I started on my way to check in at work when I was caught off guard by Jimmy, a co-officer of mine. Jimmy has light brown hair that was just about an inch off his head and has bright blue eyes. He’s just a tad bit shorter than me, which I nag him about everytime I start losing an argument to him. “Hey Dean! Over here!” he hollered, as he does every morning at work. I get closer to him, “Would it kill you not to yell every time I get here?”

“Hey man, can’t tell me how to be a friend.”

“Right, whatever you say,” I say, trying to prevent him from being a megaphone any longer. “Hey,” I whisper, “Have you seen Kate by any chance?”

“Man I’m telling you, just give up on her dude. She’s way out of your league.”

“I know, I know, but I can’t help but try. Maybe she’ll give me a chance?”

“That is if you even ask her, chicken”

“Don’t taunt me, it’s not like you’ve got a girlfriend. You’re as much of a loser as I am.”

We begin to enter the check in point which is around fifty feet away. In the slight distance we see a metal fence topped with barbed wire, and within that fence was two gates, one lets vehicles in and out, the other solely for people. We go through the gate and check in to work. As we walk into the waiting area I see, out of the corner of my eye, a stunning woman with silky dark hair, deep brown eyes, and the most gorgeous smile. Kate.

She looks beautiful as always, I think to myself.

Just as we settle in, the general shows up. I would talk to her more often if she didn’t look so scary with that scar across her cheek . “Alright then, let’s make this quick. I haven’t had my coffee and am in the need of some serious rest.” she said firmly, nearly everything she says is said in that “hardcore general” kind of voice, it’s another point that makes her so scary.

The general continued to list names of the people in groups and where they were going out to patrol today. “And finally, Dean Wood, Jim Smith, Kate Williams, you’re patrolling the west in sector A5,” said the general in a gruff voice.

Yes, I get to patrol with Kate! I think to myself.

“Hey, we get to patrol together!” Jimmy says, practically screaming in my ear.

“Yeah, woohoo.” I reply, almost too sarcastically. Kate walks over.

“Looks I’m with you guys,” she says in that sweet angelic voice.

“Yeah, glad to patrol with you again” I say.

Me and Kate have spoken to each other quite often, especially while being in the same patrol group, but there’s never really been anything special between us.

“Well let’s get going,” Jimmy says as he nudges us towards the supply unit.

We each put on light, but highly protective, metal gear and hook up high tech exoskeletons which enhance our every action that are made by, the one and only, Andy Stevenson. As much as I hate to admit it, he does make some quality combat gear, plus he does fund the military so I guess I should expect us to be able to use such powerful technology. We also take a couple weapons and ammo with us to ward off or just eliminate any infected we might see along the way. I grab my usual shotgun, long-range rifle (basically a sniper but they won't count it as one), and my trusty revolver. They don't understand why I take the revolver instead of the regular pistol that can shoot more at a time and more quickly at that, but I've always had a special connection to it. My father used to teach me how to use it and it just seemed so cool to me so maybe that’s why. Once we finish gearing up, we head to one of the jeeps and climb in. Sector A5 is about fifteen minutes away, but with Kate here too it’ll feel like just a few for me.

We arrive at the patrol area in just short of the time we would normally. Maybe it’s because of the complete lack of traffic and road laws during the apocalypse. I’ve been in this area once before, there are plazas filled with stores on all sides of an intersection. Just means more places for the infected to be lurking. We get off the jeep and start the patrol. All three of us walk together making sure that we are covering each other's backs. One usually doesn’t see many infected while on patrol, maybe three or four. The highest I’ve seen on patrol is eight. They aren’t too hard to kill, given that you can shoot quite well and can aim for the head, but the more there are the more dangerous the situation becomes. That’s why we go in groups of three, for complete safety.

We start checking inside buildings to make sure none are hidden.

“Let’s split up, it’ll make this much faster,” Jimmy proposes.

“What about the ‘safety in numbers’ thing?” I ask concerningly.

“Yeah, shouldn’t we just stick together and stay safe?” said Kate.

Yes! Kate agreed with me!

“We haven’t seen one infected this whole time, plus it means we can go home sooner,” Jimmy argued, and to be honest, it was a good argument. I did want to go back. The sooner we got back in the jeep, the sooner I could focus on Kate’s beauty.

“Fine, but don’t take too long. And if something happens shoot a flare into the sky. Make sure the flare is red.” I say. We all agree and go off to patrol alone.

I head to a supermarket because I feel it would take the most time. I head inside and start looking around. It’s solely lit by the sunlight outside which gives it a dark, ominous look inside. Nearly all the shelves are empty.

I guess people were getting desperate to survive huh.

As I walk further in, I start hearing some kind of deep noise. The noise grows louder and louder as I go more and more into the supermarket. I turn the corner into a big open area and I see tens, no, hundreds of infected just standing there.

Where did they all come from?

I instinctively take a step back, but my foot knocks over an empty can. It clangs as it hits the ground. One of the turns and looks up at me. I panic and fire a flare into the glass ceiling and start to run. The infected don’t take long to realize I'm there and start to chase me. I rush for the exit and I see Kate at the entrance.

“Hey, are you done in there?” she asks.

“Run!” I yell, “Go, go! Run for it Kate! Too many infected!”

She didn’t seem to understand until she saw the massive crowd of infected chasing after me. She bolted right away and yelled for Jimmy to start the jeep. Jimmy quickly understood and put the jeep in gear. Kate got in and looked at me.

“Come on Dean! Let’s get out of here!” She yells.

“By the time he gets here we’ll be overrun by infected,” Jimmy says.

“We can’t just leave him there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll start driving just fast enough so he can catch up and we can make it out of here alive.”

“As long as we get Dean.”

They start driving onto the road while I’m running as fast as I can to make it in time.

I have to make it. If I don’t they’ll have to drive off leaving me to…

No, that won’t happen. I will make it.

I desperately try to run and make it to the jeep.

I just need to get close enough for someone to pull me onto the jeep.

The hoard of infected just keeps getting closer and closer, louder and louder.

The jeep is starting to pick up the pace. I need to hurry if I want to make it back alive and well.

“Dean! Grab my hand!” Kate yells as she reaches out to me. “Hurry Dean! There’s a tight corner we have to turn in fifty meters, if you don’t catch up you won’t make it!”

I try to be faster, faster than I’ve ever been. My legs are starting to get tired. My heart is beating rapidly. I’m slowly running out of breath. I run and I run, trying to get just close enough for Kate to reach my hand. I’ve always wanted to hold her hand, but I never considered it to be like this.

I reach out my hand and desperately try to grab Kate’s. I can start to feel the infected trying to grasp me as well, I even hear their hands slipping off of the armor that I’m wearing.

“Jump Dean!” Kate cries. I desperately try to get my tired legs off the ground as one last ditch attempt to save myself now.

Then the jeep turns the corner.

Chapter 3

[pinnithin-writes]

I Realized. Then I Couldn’t Stop Realizing.

Chapter 4: Pleck

Depending on where he looked, it had begun two years ago.

Pleck was folded back in his bedroom-closet, comfortably drunk, fingers tingling subtly. He wasn’t sure if this was a side effect of lingering dust in Bargie’s vents (she had claimed it was safe to go aboard half an hour ago) or his conversation with C-53, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was two in the morning. Pleck tucked himself in the corner, drowsy.

The Allwheat was blessedly quiet tonight, giving him some room to think. That was the first time anyone had asked him about the voice in his head with any sincerity. It had caught him off guard, and it was laughable how easily everything had come rushing out of him. At least C-53 had received Pleck’s turmoil with uncharacteristic gentleness. Maybe it was the dust mellowing him out.

The last time he had spilled his guts to the droid like that, C-53 wasn’t even conscious. Pleck had been curled up in this very room, holding his friend’s life in the palm of his hand. A dangerous thing, in retrospect - Pleck wasn’t exactly graceful in handling breakable objects. But Dar was shuddering with the realization of what they’d done to their colleague and insisted he held onto it. To keep it safe.

Pleck’s eye fluttered shut as he lost himself in the memory.

“Listen, listen, Dar,” Pleck said, holding a hand out toward the security officer like one would to a spooked animal. “He’s not dead. You didn’t kill him.”

“No, I obliterated him,” Dar responded, chest rising and falling heavily.

The wreckage of C-53’s frame lay in a heap just inside Bargie’s loading bay. Pleck could see the remains of a gun poking out of the rubble, torn from his body after he had pointed it at Centurion Tittle. What kind of C unit would be equipped with guns? he wondered. And what kind of person would aim one at a child ?

C-53’s flat voice and the glow in his eyes in that moment had frightened Pleck, and he had froze in the same moment Dar had surged forward to dismember him. He was already awed by his coworker’s strength, but it was still a terrifying sight to see them rip apart raw steel with their bare hands. Doubly so when that raw steel was one of Pleck’s friends.

They were both feeling a little jelly-legged as they stood there in the bay while Bargie lifted them out of Klongdtt. Dar was still shaking slightly, slowly calming themself down as they drew in breath after breath. Pleck had seen them shaking with fury plenty of times (often aimed at himself), but not like this. He tried again to reassure them.

“He told us he lived inside his cube or something, right?” he asked, trying to sound composed despite the strain in his own voice. “Is the cube still there?”

Dar raised a clawed hand to rub at their face. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” they murmured. They dropped their hand and surveyed the twisted heap of metal. “It would be in his torso, right?”

“Yeah, what’s left of it,” Pleck couldn’t help blurting, wincing even as he said it.

Dar shot him a withering look. They circled C-53’s ruined frame, sifting through the machinery they had just torn apart like paper, until they discovered the piece they were looking for with a small, “aha!”

Pleck hurried over to Dar as they knelt to extract a dented chest cavity. They turned it over in their massive hands until they found the panel containing their friend’s consciousness. With a small amount of gentle jimmying, Dar was able to slide it open, revealing the crystalline blue cube inside. Miraculously, it was unharmed. Pleck could see Dar’s shoulder’s visibly slump with relief.

“Oh, thank Rodd,” he exhaled, some of the brittle anxiety in his own lungs breaking up at the sight. “See, Dar? He’s fine. You didn’t kill him. He’s alright. He’s gonna be alright.”

At this point, he was reassuring himself as much as he was the security officer. C-53 looked so fragile and vulnerable in this small, shining state. “Hey C,” he ventured. “Can you hear us, buddy?”

Silence. It was crushing.

Dar took in a deep breath. “I don’t think he’s able to… be…without a frame,” they guessed. They tilted the droid’s torso, dented like a tin can, in Pleck’s direction. “Can you take it out? I’m afraid to touch it.”

“Dar, I don’t think you’re going to hurt him-” he began, but Dar gave him a pleading look that shut him up.

Delicately, he reached out and removed the cube from its slot. He wasn’t expecting it to be warm, and the latent heat on his skin surprised him. It lay in his palm, glowing softly, and Pleck was overcome by a sense that this was transgressive in some way, like he shouldn’t be touching his friend like this. Holding onto him with his bare fingers.

“We should uh,” Dar’s voice pulled him out of his trance. “We should tell Bargie what happened.”

“Oh, right,” Pleck answered, eyes still glued to the cube. “Yeah. How should I…?” He did not want to carry C-53’s life around loose in his hand like this, terrified of dropping it.

Beside him, Dar stood from where they had knelt beside the wrecked droid frame and gazed down at Pleck from their full height. There was still a hint of worry in their eyes. “I don’t know. Does your uniform have pockets?”

The question struck him as odd. “Yeah. Does yours not?”

“My whole body is pockets.”

“Right.”

They made their way to the bridge, and Pleck slipped C-53’s consciousness into the cargo pocket of his shorts, where he hoped it would be jostled the least as he walked. The cube was light, but the importance of it weighed heavily against his leg. To Pleck, this would be like if someone could just take out his heart, or his brain, and keep it close until they found a new place for it. He already knew he was underqualified for this ambassador position. He felt overwhelmingly underqualified to be handling a droid’s soul.

They confessed to Bargie and deflected Nermut with varying levels of success. And that night, Pleck was expected to just sit there, in his cramped little room, like everything was normal. Bargie had offered to let C-53’s consciousness rest on one of her shelves, but Pleck couldn’t bring himself to let the cube out of his sight.

He didn’t know why he felt so protective all of a sudden. It wasn’t like the droid had ever needed him. C-53 had always been so self-assured, powerful in his infinite knowledge, cool and in control. But now he was just… tiny. Vulnerable. It settled uncomfortably in Pleck’s chest.

It was weird that he was just sitting there staring at it, right?

His room was dark, save for the soft blue glow diffusing from the lexicon. Pleck held it delicately in his fingertips, shifting its position every few minutes as he gazed at it. He wouldn’t describe himself as an individual with sweaty hands, but he remembered C-53 saying he couldn't get wet without being critically damaged, and Pleck wanted to be safe. Should he wrap it in a towel, or something? Set it on a pillow? Would that be more comfortable? Could he even feel anything, his consciousness reverted in this way?

“Hey, C-53,” he said quietly. “I know you probably can’t hear me, but uh.” He faltered, wondering if he even had a reason to speak or if he was just scared. “Just wanna say I’m here for you.”

The cube warmed his hands gently, silently.

Pleck went on, filling the unbearable space around him with words. “I may not uh. Y’know, be the best ambassador in the Federated Alliance or anything, but,” he broke off, unable to finish the sentence without laughing a little at himself, “I’m not jucking this one up. We’re gonna bring you back, okay?”

He was definitely talking to himself, he considered. C-53 couldn’t hear him. At least he didn’t think he could. Surely he would have something witty to say in response if they were actually having a conversation. This was just a self-soothing compulsion Pleck was doing to make himself feel better about holding his friend’s soul in his hands. Maybe he should put it away so he wouldn’t think about it.

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you back there,” he sighed. “You kind of went all murder-bot on us all of a sudden. Was that you, or was that some weird thing with the Federated Alliance wiping your memory or whatever?”

C-53 didn’t answer him, as he knew he wouldn’t. Pleck kept talking. It helped him sort himself out.

“Whatever it was, I’m glad you’re okay. So is Dar. They feel terrible about having to uh. Y’know. Wreck you like that.” The security officer’s concerned face surfaced in his mind. He hoped they were alright. “Please don’t blame them for breaking you. Heh, if anything, you can blame me for not knowing what to do. Dar was the one who actually carried you back to the ship.”

Blame me. Blame me. The crew already did it all the time. It would be easy for him to take that on and lift some of the guilt from Dar’s shoulders. He could do that at least, he thought.

Pleck’s face was awash with C-53’s warm blue light. He rotated it in his hands, running his fingertips along the edges, over the corners. So marvelously designed. So elegant. It suited him. Pleck leaned his head back against the wall of his closet and sighed.

“C-53, I know you don’t think of me as a friend, but I really do care about you.” Pleck could not keep the wistful strain out of his words, and was grateful the droid couldn’t hear him like this. It was much easier to hide under a laugh that was always waiting for him at the surface. “I’m gonna keep you safe. We’ll get you a new body. And you can go back to correcting me every time I’m wrong, okay?”

There was no bitterness in his voice when he said that. C-53’s vast knowledge of intergalactic protocol had saved the crew’s skin multiple times in their service to the Federated Alliance. Pleck was beginning to like the sound of the droid’s vocal modulator chiming in mildly to steer him back on the correct course. It was a comforting sound. He missed it.

Yawning, he slumped down and settled onto his side, setting the cube in front of him. “I’ve got you, C,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me. Just like I’m safe with you.”

Pleck had drifted off like that, curled protectively around C-53’s soul.

Now, Pleck didn’t need to keep such a careful eye on his friend. He was housed in a loader frame, large and intimidating, powerful enough to lift even Bargie, probably, if he wanted to. Pleck couldn’t shake his fondness for the droid even now, with a blank face and a cold, unyielding body. When he’d told him on Biktar that he was beautiful in every frame, Pleck had meant it.

C-53 wasn’t the body he lived in. He was the heart inside of it, and as long as he was there to keep Pleck gently grounded, he didn’t care what form he took. He bit back a laugh, remembering that he’d realized his feelings for the droid when his cube was housed in a humidifier. That was so long ago. He hurt with the strain of still keeping it to himself.

A whisper on the edge of his thoughts yanked him violently out of his reverie. The Allwheat was back, with its insults and its unfathomable truths.

“That’s my cue,” he sighed.

Pleck let unconsciousness take him before he could think about anything else.

Chapter 3 <-----> Chapter 5

[itsclydebitches]

Lovely Good Omens fandom! Many of you have asked for/mentioned having a text version of the Yelp reviews, which if I were a better person I would have remembered to include in the first place. Better late than never? So here’s a version below and I also threw this up on AO3 so there are options. For the record, I’m not at all trained in transcribing visual media, so if anyone wants to add to/edit/do whatever to this post, especially to make it more accessible, you have carte blanche to do so 👍

Also I typed this up in a hurry so, as always, apologies for any typos. 

Tagging: @lethargicdolphin, @marithlizard, @pearwaldorf

A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books 

Recommended Reviews 

Lindsay F. 

London, United Kingdom 

71 friends

3000 reviews

9874 photos

So I slipped into this place because I spotted my ex across the street and would have rather chugged a cocktail of bleach, lighter fluid, and a condensed solution of all my middle school years then talk to that asshole. Owner was on me the second I walked through the door and I thought he was gonna be one of those ‘Either buy something or get out’ types. Nah. I spilled the story, said I really wasn’t looking to purchase anything, and he LIT UP like nobody’s business. He gave me tea and promised I’d never run into my ex again. Which is a super sketchy promise on its own and also should have been hilarious coming from a guy a century behind in style.

...Kinda believed him though. 

Marina G. 

London, United Kingdom 

0 friends

33 reviews

48 photos

Pretty sure this guy wants a library, not a bookshop. I mean, he’s nice and all when you first come in, but trying to actually buy a book? Good fucking luck. He’s too busy to see you right now (for the record he’s super bad at pretending to be busy). Or claims that this book has already been put on reserve (then why wasn’t it in the reserve pile...?). Or the price suddenly jumped an obscene amount. Or he just straight up hems and haws until you get fed up and leave. I watched him pull a novel straight out of a woman’s hands once when she claimed that price was no object and she wouldn’t be leaving the store until she’d purchased it. You’d think she was trying to kidnap one of the guy’s kids!

So yeah. Feel like popping in to browse, maybe take pictures for your research, all while making quiet conversation with someone who quite frankly knows his stuff? This is the place for you. Want to actually buy something? Go elsewhere. Pretty sure Fell doesn’t even own a cash register. At least I’ve never seen one. 

He wants a library and I’d honestly tell him as much if he didn’t scare me just a little bit...

Aaron S. 

New York, NY

68 friends

212 reviews 

337 photos

I stayed here for three days once. Found a bathroom off the romance section and a chair hidden away in the back. Way comfier than my mattress at home. Mostly played iPhone games and kept real quiet at night. Experiment ended when I popped out for breakfast and didn’t make it back before a random 10:00am closing. Don’t think the owner ever realized what was up. 

Hana S. 

London, United Kingdom 

112 friends

115 reviews

208 photos

I really love this place. I’ve been coming here since I moved to London, about twelve years ago, and it’s one of the most soothing bookstores I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. Yeah, you hear talk of weird things going on at Fell’s, but really? We could all do with a bit more quirky in our lives. And Fell provides that in spades: Annual plants that never seem to wither, let alone die. The smell of incense mixing with cocoa. Strange books tucked horizontally into the shelves, feeling like they have a touch of magic to them. Nonsensical conversations taking place in dark corners (I’m talking candid chats about the apocalypse and whether angels could actually bless all the rains down in Africa. I swear Fell and his boyfriend are the religion Mythbusters or something.) I’m going to sound like a total nerd here for a moment, but it feels like some sort of liminal space. You know when you were a kid and you were just desperate to receive your Hogwarts letter? Or find your own wardrobe to Narnia? That’s what walking into Fell’s feels like. Like you’ve finally found that portal and can stay as long as you like, provided you don’t try to take anything back with you into the ‘real’ world. Hell, maybe that’s why he won’t let anyone buy his books. 

Robert T. 

Union City, CA

4 friends

26 reviews

3 photos

There’s a snake?? In this shop?? A reALLY MASSIVE SNAKE????? What are y’all doing talkin’ about your meet cutes and shit someone call pest control!

Malini D. 

London, United Kingdom 

0 friends

48 reviews

99 photos

I’m not gonna pretend I have anything to say about whether this is a good bookstore or not, but if you ever want knitting help you should definitely stop by. Mr. Fell knows an absurd amount about crafts for a guy who looks like my grandpa and he’s now replaced Youtube as my go-to for alleviating “Omg please fix this how the hell did I manage to reverse the pattern??” panic. For the record, I didn’t just wander up to a random bookseller one day and demand that he help me salvage the ruins of my first sweater. I’d taken a seat inside to wait out a storm, had my messy sleeve stuffed into my purse, and he’d offered the help. Bit of a bastard about things like gauge and color--not everyone wants to wear tartan, dude--but you get used to that. He means well. Said I should come back to show him the finished piece, which I did. Things just kind of spiraled from there. He’s an absolute treasure trove of knowledge once you get him talking and a muffin to boot. If he were twenty years younger and in any way straight I would have asked him out in a heartbeat. As it is I’m considering setting him up with Grandpa. 

Tiffany L. 

London, United Kingdom 

132 friends

312 reviews

34 photos

I’m not really a book person myself but I followed my wife in with our seventh-month old and was kinda embarrassed when he started making a fuss. Normally I’m full Badass Mom mode while in public--I’ve got a kid to feed, change, sooth, and you all can damn well deal with it--but this place was so quiet Liam seemed extra loud in comparison. I was about to take him back out when a man appeared out of nowhere. The owner I guess, based on how some of these other reviews describe him. Older gentleman with clothes out of some period piece. Anyway, he scoops Liam into his arms like he was born for it and started bouncing. Our fussy, temperamental, drama queen Liam settled in an instant and my wife got to browse to her heart’s content. I don’t know how he did it, but that man is an absolute angel. Full stars for that moment alone. 

Gillian L. 

The Hague, The Netherlands

283 friends

256 reviews

60 photos

Anyone know if the old Bentley parked out front is for sale? 

Update: It’s really, really, really not 

Billy H. 

Austen, TX

40 friends

2073 reviews

774 photos

QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS QUEER BOOKS SO MANY QUEER BOOKS!!!

Gabriela G. 

London, United Kingdom

3 friends

22 reviews

1 photos

Run by this delightfully frumpy guy who sometimes hands out biscuits from a sewing tin like my gran used to. He asked me if I was looking for anything in particular and I told him my name was Jared, I was 19, but sadly I’d never learned how to read. I have NEVER seen a man more confused in my life. 10/10 would meme him again. 

Colie A.

Enola, PA

201 friends

2778 reviews

10382 photos

I’m setting the record straight here since there are a bunch of reviews claiming it’s just London folklore: there is a snake at A.Z. Fell’s. Must be an exotic pet he usually keeps upstairs because I’ve only ever seen it twice. Is it big? Yes. Scary? Fuck yes, but I’ve never seen it do anything more than give a warning hiss at this drunk who wandered in and started yelling. (Are snakes good guard dogs? This one is.) The other time he was just chilling on top of one of the shelves. Snoozing, I guess. I asked Mr. Fell if I could pet him and he said maybe after he woke up, but then I had to get to class and all. 

Afraid of snakes? Steer clear. Otherwise I’d really recommend popping in and seeing if he’s around. Idk, maybe I’m just a snake fan but he looks super sweet and chill. Life is short. Boop the snake snoot. 

Jeremy W. 

London, United Kingdom 

86 friends

409 reviews

12 photos

I live down the street from A.Z. Fell’s and let me tell you, this place is spooky as fuck. All sorts of weird lights and noises coming from it. At all times of the day and night too. Either this bowtie wearing bookworm has one crazy sex life or the place is haunted. Jury’s out on which. 

Heather Ki. 

London, United Kingdom 

0 friends

3852 reviews

1 photos

This shop smells. Not that old book smell either, oh no, but like something is molding. I took my little Johnny in here to try and get him interested in something other than those damned video games and I walk into what smells like a whole cloud of toxic mold! My boy has a weak constitution as it is and if he comes down with anything I will be pressing charges, you mark my words. 

Jo. W. 

London, United Kingdom 

32 friends

410 reviews

61 photos

Hey, does anyone want to talk about the fact that this place burned down last month? As in, completely up in flames, I saw it happen, nothing but a smoking husk afterwards? Does no one else remember this??

Tiggi N. 

London, United Kingdom 

32 friends

33 reviews

24 photos

Has anyone read this guy’s opening hours? I included a photo above: “I open the shop on most days about 9:30AM perhaps 10:AM. While occasionally I have opened the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1.” Absolutely insane. This guy’s a madman and I love him. If anyone actually manages to get into this place please let me know because I need to shake Fell’s hand. 

Mackenzie J. 

City Centre, Manchester, United Kingdom 

807 friends

2592 reviews

13218 photos

I told my girlfriend this shop’s got a snake named Anthony and she didn’t believe me. Going back for proof next week. 

Update: got the snake selfie!!!!!!!!

Penny O. 

Chicago, IL

87 friends

557 reviews

16 photos

Caught the owner snogging some hot twink behind the cookbooks. Well done, my dude. 

[snowfall-fanfictions]

Beware the Frozen Heart Ch. 15- The Incident

Time to crank out some angst! If you comment, try not to spoil what happens in here pls

“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” Eryn muttered as he and Linaeus made their way to the governor’s residence. The sun began to set over the mountains as twilight soon came. The streets were empty, save for a few guards on their patrols, all of whom gave Linaeus a quick salute.

“Come on, Eryn,” Linaeus whispered, “I’ve heard you’ve done much worse than this.”

“Usually I get the basic information before jobs like these. Guard patrols, entrances, exits, things like that. Going in blind is an easy way to get killed.”

“Not to worry, just stick with me until I’m alone with the governor and you’ll have free reign of the place.”

“What do you need me to find again?”

“I’ve been giving my reports to Governor Haadrikson for the past month. I just need you to either find them or find out what he did with them. Without him knowing, of course.”

“Pretty underhanded, for a man of the law such as yourself.”

“But just the right kind of underhandedness for a cutthroat outlaw, like you.”

Eryn shrugged his arms, “Eh, can’t argue with that.”

“Alright, now that we’ve established that, how and why did you get to be Elsa’s personal guard? Something about a shooting?”

“Long story short, some old bastard tried killing Elsa in broad daylight, I stepped in, took a bullet, and, well, here we are.”

Linaeus leaned closer to Eryn, “If you’re here to kill her, why save her?”

“I forgot what she looked like, okay? Not like I was able to see her before, you know.” “I guess ‘basic information’ doesn’t include appearance, then?”

“I wasn’t expecting to run into her on the street. Monarch’s don’t really do that anywhere else.”

“Elsa’s different like that, if you haven’t noticed. Alright, looks like we’re here.”

The two men stood in front of the large mansion that had greeted Eryn and Elsa when they first arrived. It resembled Arendelle castle, though not anywhere near as large and much duller looking without magical ice accenting the building. A small gate stood between the two of them and the palace itself, manned by a younger looking man, no older than eighteen. He stood at attention as he gripped his poleaxe tightly. Eryn looked over to Linaeus, who seemed to be chewing on his lower lip and clenching his fists.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Lenny.”

“It’s just, I-I’ve never gone behind a government official’s back before. I haven’t been this nervous since-”

“Since we accidentally spilled mead into the horses’ feeding trough when we were recruits?”

“Since you spilled mead in their trough, you mean?”

“How could I forget you grovelling for mercy when the general asked about it? We ended up cleaning the barracks for a month.”

“Because you tried to lie about it,” Linaeus let out a small chuckle, “Said that Valkyries came down and hid it in the troughs-”

“-so that the gods would sober up,” they both said at the same time. The two men let out a hearty chuckle as they reminisced on a better time.

“...Linaeus,” Eryn said once they were done laughing, “Once this is all done, can you check on Rolond and Astrid for me? I doubt I’ll have time before I leave to say my goodbyes.”

“I was planning on checking in on them once I went to verify your claims against Urlaf. But that’s neither here nor there, we have a job to do.”

Eryn nodded as they made their way up to the young man guarding the entrance. He had a feeling that Elsa goaded Linaeus to look into Urlaf’s crime, but he was still thankful nonetheless. Eryn let out a deep sigh, thinking about how he wouldn’t be able to see Malia get the peace and justice she was denied so many years ago. But he knew that it was for the best that he disappeared, for himself and everyone else. The young guard snapped to attention as Linaeus walked up to him, hands clasped behind his back.

“Captain Torvond, sir!” The guard saluted, raising his hand to his head.

“At ease, son,” Linaeus commanded as the young man relaxed his arm, “I’m here to speak with Governor Haadrikson. Is he available?”

“Yes, sir. He’s currently in his office at the moment.”

“Take me to him, then.” As the two soldiers began walking past the gate, Eryn followed suit, only to have the young guard point his poleaxe at him.

“No citizens are allowed in here!” he growled.

“Keep your pants on, soldier. Er- I mean, ‘Derrik,’ is here with me.” The soldier immediately returned his poleaxe to its resting position, fear enveloping his face. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea.”

“It’s fine, cadet. Now, to the governor, if you will.”

The young soldier turned around and led Linaeus and Eryn inside the mansion. Linaeus leaned back to Eryn and whispered, “What’s your alias’s last name?”

“What?” “Just in case Haadrikson needs to know.”

“Ormeister. And the story is I’m from Weselton.” Linaeus simply nodded as they entered the front door into the main hall. It was certainly in Arendellian fashion; crocuses were intricately painted into the walls and carved into the railing of the staircase in front of them, green and purple banners hung from the walls, and various paintings of the kings and queens of old lined the room. At the base of the staircase stood a fat man,lavishly dressed in a suit that barely fit his wide frame, discussing something with a guard. He was balding at the top, with wisps of dark brown hair on the sides of his head and a rather short and thin beard. He turned to view the men that arrived and gave them a somewhat surprised and forced grin.

“Ah, Captain!” he said, his voice heavy and lethargic, “How… unexpected!” “Apologies, Governor Haadrikson,” Linaeus said, “I just needed to discuss a few things about the city’s defenses. The queen has approved a few more soldiers to be transferred to Fjellby.”

Governor Haadrikson beamed at the information, “Yes, yes, wonderful!” He then turned to face Eryn, “And who’s this?”

“Derrik Ormeister, sir. He’s here on behalf of the queen.”

The governor clasped his hands together, “Ah, yes. I’ve heard about you, Mr. Ormeister, and your heroic deed.”

Eryn gave a small bow, “It was nothing, sir. I’m sure anyone else would’ve done the same.”

“A commendable effort, nonetheless. Now, captain, shall we discuss these matters in private?”

“Yes, sir.”  The two of them proceeded up the stairs as the man Haadrikson was talking to returned to his post. Eryn proceeded up the stairs with them, tailing behind ever so slightly as they discussed a few things. The hallways were similar to that of the castle, but instead of portraits of Anna and Elsa, they were filled with portraits of the governor, slightly thinned out and performing various heroic deeds. Eryn rolled his eyes as he continued to follow the governor and Linaeus until they reached a large oak door embroidered with gold trimming. He watched as the two of them entered inside and quickly slammed the door shut, leaving Eryn alone in the hall.

“Pompous cock,” Eryn muttered as he surveyed the immediate area. No guards around, thank God. Made his job a lot easier. “... Now where to start?”

XXXXXX

Kristoff ran his finger across the spines of the library’s books, scanning their titles with determination. True, he had tossed the Arendolk into the fjord, but something still didn’t sit right with him. If the dagger was so important to this region, why would someone from Weselton have it? He remembered hearing something about Aren the Red during the few talks he had with Elsa, but that was a while ago. Anna would most likely know about Aren the Red and the Arendolk’s history, but he didn’t want to interrupt her meeting with the council. He never understood why the council scheduled meetings this late, but he didn’t bother to argue. They’d just brush him off as some uncultured barbarian or something, anyway.

“Ah, this one should work,” he said to himself as he pulled an old looking book off of the shelf, “Histories of the Peoples of Arendelle.” It was a massive book, bound in leather with the book’s title calligraphed along the spine and on the front. Kristoff cracked the book open, searching for any information regarding the knife. After a moment of searching, Kristoff found an entire section on the founding of Arendelle, including a section on the Arendolk. Kristoff read the passage in his head:

THE ARENDOLK: forged around 840, little is known about this mysterious weapon. It was the personal hunting knife of Aren the Red, later Aren I, the founder of the Kingdom of Arendelle. The knife was lost in 890, after Aren’s son, Alen Arenson, killed his father to gain the throne. No record exists on what happened to it after this date, nor if it still exists. Ancient Arendellian legend says that Skyne, bastard son of the moon god Máni in ancient myth, was sealed within the blade by trolls, but this is unfounded.

Kristoff closed the book with a loud groan. It was a step in the right direction, but it was incredibly brief. He returned to the shelves, peering at the books, when he found something peculiar. A miniature old book, barely held together by a few bindings and leather, sat behind where Histories of the Peoples of Arendelle rested. Kristoff pulled the book out and flipped it open. It appeared to be a series of ancient poems and stories, many of them translated from ancient runes. Kristoff read the first one aloud:

Hail to Aren Redbeard,

The Conqueror of men

Who banished wicked Skyne,

The Son of the Blood Moon,

With the help of stone-men,

And united our lands

And people together

For thirty years you reigned,

As a wise and just king

Many years of peace came

Until the back-stabbing

Betrayed by next of kin

Felled by blade of Skyne’s bane

May you drink with Odin

In the Great Hall above

Kristoff scanned through the other passages, trying to track where the knife went as the years went on, but these poems held no more information. All he knew was that Aren’s son killed him, presumably with the dagger, and not much else. He returned to the shelf, scrounging around for any more history books.

It was then when he heard a loud explosion, coming from the direction of the meeting hall

Moments prior…

“That should cover just about everything, Your Highness,” Kai stated. The sun was beginning to set behind the large window behind Anna’s seat as she glanced over the various documents sprawled across the large mahogany desk before organizing them into neat little stacks. The other advisors began gathering their own documents as they shuffled out the door

“Excellent,” Anna stated as she placed her quill back into her inkwell.

“I must say, princess, you managed that incredibly well. The queen would be most proud of your work here.”

“Thank you, Kai, it means a lot to me,” Anna beamed. Rarely did anyone praise Anna on her own work, save for Kristoff and Elsa. Most advisors and diplomats seemed only interested in how Anna stacked up to Elsa (which most of the time she didn’t). Hearing Kai say this filled her with a great deal of confidence.

“Will you be needing anything else this evening, Your Highness?”

Before Anna could say anything, a loud crash from behind distracted her. She rose from her seat and peered around, trying to find the source of the noise. To her right, a large black ball sat on the floor, nestled in a sea of shattered glass while it… hissed? It was then when she noticed a large wick protruding out the top, currently lit and burning down to the base.  She reeled back in horror as she realized what it was

“BOMB!” was all she was able to get out when she was thrown across the room with a deafening explosion. Her vision went white as her entire body screamed out in agony. She couldn’t feel her right leg, only emptiness and pain. It felt like she had been kicked by a horse multiple times. Anna couldn’t hear anything but constant ringing as her eyes readjusted. Kai was laying on the floor, motionless as two guards stood above him. Kristoff stood over her, gingerly propping her torso up. His face was drained of color as his warm brown eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He was shouting something, possibly her name, but all she could hear was constant ringing.

“K...Kristoff…” Anna muttered as her body went limp and her eyes closed softly.

“Anna! Stay with me!” Kristoff pleaded, cupping her head in his hand, “Nononono! Don’t leave me!” He placed an ear over her heart, praying to God for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. Kristoff let out a small sigh of relief.

“Sir Bjorgman, the royal steward is…d-dead,” one of the guards explained, “what are your orders?”

Kristoff hoisted Anna into his arms, “Get any doctors you can find. And send someone to Fjellby to inform the queen.”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier ran out of the room with haste as Kristoff rushed out of the room with Anna in his arms.

“Anna…” Kristoff whispered, “I-I’m sorry…”

XXXXXX

“Hmmm, not this one,” Eryn said as he closed another door. This was about the fourth or fifth room he’s checked and there was nothing of interest in there once again. Those reports had to be somewhere. As Eryn snuck around, his mind wandered to what he would do once he was done with this. Corona was a decent option, as it was the closest country to Arendelle. But its alliance with Arendelle might make things difficult. Maldonia was attractive too because it was distant and slightly isolationist. No, Eryn was too different looking for Maldonia. To hell with it, he’d just be better off finding the nearest cliff and jumping. Less mess, plus no one would know who he was. Dying a nobody, Eryn thought, Like father, like son, as they say.

His mind wandered back to Elsa. No way in hell he would be able to go back to her once this was all over with. Eryn wasn’t sure if he could look her in the eyes anymore. For the first time in his life, Eryn felt disgust in himself and his actions. What in the hell did this woman do to me? He shook off this feeling as he peered into another room.

This room was much more spacious than many of the others. It appeared to be a guest bedroom, with a large king size bed in front of a gothic looking fireplace. On the nightstand just to the bed’s left, Eryn could make out a stack of papers cluttering the top of it.

“Bingo!” Eryn said as he stealthily entered the room. Reaching over to the papers, Eryn grabbed one and began reading it. No doubt, it was one of Linaeus’s reports, discussing how there was no danger in or around the settlement. With no hesitation, Eryn scooped up the letters in his hands, placing them in various pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smaller letter lightly float down to the floor. Eryn scooped it up, unfolded it, and began reading:

Good News,

I’ve managed to hire a killer out of some backwater town to kill the queen. Someone familiar with the region would have a far better chance at assassinating the sorceress than either of our men. And if he were to fail, The Southern Isles and Weselton would appear innocent. Just have Haadrikson continue requesting more and more soldiers for this town so that we can prepare the invasion fleet. I had to pay an exorbitant amount for this “assassin,” so I better be getting a good return on my investment.

Instead of a signature on the bottom, Eryn noticed a wax seal stamped onto the parchment paper. The symbol of the Duchy of Weselton was embossed into the wax. 

“I was hired by-”

“The Duke of Weselton, yes,” A mysterious voice said behind him accompanied by the sound of a gun cocking. Eryn turned around to see who it was that cornered him. A young looking man, about the same age as Eryn, greeted him with a small revolver in his hand. His emerald eyes looked Eryn up and down, surveying Eryn with intrigue, “you’re the assassin he hired? I was expecting someone… older.”

“Wait, I recognize you. You’re-”

“Prince Hans of the Southern Isles,” The man gave an exaggerated hand wave, “or former prince. But that doesn’t matter anyway, since once the queen is dead, I’ll have this country all to myself. She is dead, isn’t she.”

“Well first of all, you can put that thing down. And second of all, I’ve come to tell you that the deal’s off. Now take your gun and-”

“There is no getting out of this one, Mr. Odrikson,” Hans put the gun up to Eryn’s face, “But I can tell you’re not playing this game anymore. Very well.” With that, Hans pulled the trigger. Eryn brought his hands up to protect his face when he felt a slight weight in his hand. As he lifted his head, he saw the dagger, its runes shining brightly, as shadowy tendrils emerged from Eryn’s wrist, suspending the bullet in mid air. The familiar sound of Skyne filled Eryn’s mind, and in a familiar angry tone as well.

You have a lot of explaining to do, boy...

[nitewrighter]

Zen and the Art of Hovercycle Maintenance (Part 2)

Read Part 1 Here

----

“So you lost him,” said Genji, pressing his hands together in front of himself. His image on the collapsible table screen warped slightly and Jack glanced up at Junkrat, holding a makeshift antennae to allow for vidcom communication over his head. 

“Not... lost,” said Jack, “We should know where he is as soon as he comes online.”

“If he comes online,” said Genji. Jack could feel the glare from behind his visor.

“He transcended as soon as the explosion happened,” said Jack, “McCree’s searching the bottom of the gorge right now and we’ll be joining him as soon as Orisa’s patched up. We were just calling you in case...”

“In case...?” Genji tilted his head.

“In...case you might have anything on you that might narrow our search,” Jack said a little sheepishly.

“Jack, I--” Genji started but was cut off by the sound of pulsefire.

“Genji, any time you could join us would be nice!” Tracer could be heard offscreen as more pulsefire sounded in the background.

“Give me another minute!” Genji shouted back before turning his attention back to the vidcom, “To answer your question, no. I don’t have anything. We don’t keep track of each other like that. He’s not a mission partner, Jack, he’s my teacher. You know I had my misgivings about this mission as soon as I heard Torbjörn and Junkrat were on it--”

“We’re spread thin and we needed a medic--” Jack started.

“And I took your word on that,” said Genji, “And now he’s missing.”

“Admittedly, the only reason I brought him along was because Zhou’s performance proved that you didn’t necessarily need military training to keep up with our current strike teams,” said Jack, stiffly.

“You didn’t think he could do it,” said Genji, “...at least not like Angela or Captain Amari could do it.”

“We didn’t anticipate medical assistance would be that needed,” said Jack.

“So you brought him around for what? So he wouldn’t feel left out?” said Genji.

“We still need a medic, it’s protocol!” said Jack.

“Genji!” Tracer could be heard offscreen again.

“30 seconds!” Genji shouted back.

“Did you think he could do it?” Jack fired back, “When you brought him on board with us, when you and he agreed that he could help out on field missions, did you really think he could handle everything Talon or anyone else could throw at us? Or did you just need him around because you weren’t sure of yourself?”

Genji visibly flinched at his words. “I--” he started but was cut off by more pulsefire in the background.

“Genji!” Angela’s voice could be heard this time, “We need you flanking!”

“You don’t have time for this,” said Jack.

“Update me as soon as possible. Shimada out,” said Genji, clicking out of the comms channel.

The vidcom channel blipped to a blue screen and Jack huffed and massaged the bridge of his nose and the migraine that was just starting to bloom there with his thumb and forefinger.

“Do I still need to keep the antennae up?” asked Junkrat.

“No,” said Jack rising to his feet and squinting in the dry desert wind, “Let’s just get back to searching.”

---

Zen’s gyroscopics were completely out of whack as his vision flickered back on. Immediately he realized he was no longer under the baking sun of the southwest, but rather, in a large, somewhat grubby but well-kept workshop—maybe a garage? A bunker? A massive mechanical hand passed in front of his face and he nearly flinched but then realized his body wasn’t responding enough to him to flinch.Two omnics were stooped over him, one a hulking yet polished multi-use unit donning a fur-collared leather vest and derby hat, and the other a basic laborer unit that had clearly heavily self-modified with yellow and blue visual receptors and a green hood.

Zen’s vision cut out again.

“Oh whoop,” said one, he couldn’t tell which with his orientation still malfunctioning and his vision off, then it flickered back.

“Sorry about that,” said the Omnic with yellow and blue eyes, tweaking at something below Zen’s neck.

“I-I-I-I” Zenyatta’s voice was caught in a loop.

“Hang in there, I got this,” said the skinnier omnic. Zen felt the pressure and brief shock of wires connecting and then being wrapped up in insulating tape, then his voice seemed to return to him.

“Where am I?” he said, trying to move his head but finding even his neck unresponsive.

“Somewhere safe,” said the skinny omnic, “We found you at the bottom of the gorge… y’know, most units with your make would be bricked by that kind of fall.”

“I am not like most units,” said Zenyatta. He tried to move again. The larger Omnic, who was working on Zen’s shoulder, glanced up and made a hand waving motion while shaking his head.

“Don’t try to move just yet. We had to shut down most motor functions to make most of the repairs,” said the skinny Omnic.

“And you know what you’re doing?” Zen tried to ask the question as respectfully as he could.

“More than most,” said the skinny omnic.

“Who are you?” asked Zenyatta.

“I’m Bars. He’s Bob,” said the skinny omnic.

“…Bob hasn’t said anything,” said Zen.

“Bob doesn’t say anything,” said Bars, “He gets his points across fine though.”

Bob started motioning with his hands then. ASL, Zen recognized it but hadn’t downloaded the language into his memory banks from the Iris. Most cochlear implant technology of their day had rendered the language pretty rare, but still Zen resolved to learn it. There were plenty of Omnics who opted for binary over organic languages as a point of pride and distinction, but the Shambali had prided themselves on being ambassadors, and thus had equipped themselves with countless organic languages. ASL was… an interesting choice, all things considered, but there was a gentleness in Bob’s motions as he signed, a strong sense of dignity and purpose of speech.

“Bob says the Boss will want to talk to you about how you got to the bottom of the gorge.”

Bob signed something a little more insistently and Bars moved his head in an exaggerated movement that imitated a human rolling his eyes. “You know I ain’t calling her that. She’s the Boss. Only you get to call her ‘Miss Ashe.’”

“Ashe!?” Zenyatta said the name in alarm. Bob turned around to grab a small screwdriver off of a nearby counter and Zenyatta saw the decal on the back of his vest: the words, ‘DEADLOCK REBELS, EST. 1978’ arching over a winged skull biting down on a padlock and chains.

“Yep!” Bars answered, apparently mistaking the shock in Zenyatta’s voice for excitement, “The Calamity herself! You’re real lucky we found you! You’re in the safest place in the Sonora!”

Oh I very much doubt that, thought Zen.

“You almost done, Bob?” said Bars.

Bob held up one finger in a ‘wait’ gesture, tightened a screw, then gave a thumbs-up.

“All right,” said Bars, “Restoring motor functions.”

Zen felt sensation flood back into his limbs and he pushed himself up off of the table he was splayed on. He circled his wrists and worked his fingers, finding them in suitable working order. He swung his legs over the side of the table.

“Take it slow,” said Bars, “Gyroscopics might not be 100%--”

Zen stumbled off the table and was caught by Bob.

“...calibrated,” said Bars.

“I---My thanks,” Zenyatta managed as Bob helped him up to his feet. Zenyatta glanced down at his feet, clanking awkwardly against the concrete of the workshop’s floor. The nine lights on Zenyatta’s forehead glowed brightly for a few moments before he perked up. “I cannot seem to access most holo-networks,” he said with conern.

“Oh yeah. Security measure. You need clearance for that,” said Bars.

“...may I have clearance?” asked Zenyatta.

“That’s up to the Boss,” said Bars.

Almost on cue the door swung open and an intimidating woman, all black and white and red and gold, stepped in. She gave a sharp look to both Bob and Bars and instantly they shuffled off to the side, practically fading into the background as she stepped toward Zen. She stared down Zen on that worktable, her winged-eyeliner framed eyes narrowing and her lips pursing, before her expression immediately softened (practically collapsed) and she suddenly seized Zen’s hand in her own. 

“My friend, I cannot fathom what kinda hell you just went through for us to find you at the bottom of that gorge, but all I can say is thank God Almighty we did. How are you feelin’?”

Zenyatta was caught completely off-guard by the hospitality of the woman who, up to this point, Jesse McCree had described as ‘The most terrifying force of nature this side of the Rio Grande.’ 

“I... am well,” Zenyatta managed.

She released his hand, “Good to hear,” she said tilting the brim of her hat back with her thumb, “Well, sir--Can I call you sir?”

Sir??? Zenyatta was still trying to figure out how to adjust to the fact that this woman wouldn’t tear him apart and sell him for scrap with one look.  “’There is no need for such formality. ‘Zen’ is fine,” said Zen.

“Well Zen,” said Ashe with a slight smile, “I don’t mean to intimidate ya, but I’m basically the law out in these parts, so I’m gonna need you to tell me how you ended up at the bottom of the gorge. It’s for security reasons, you understand. From what I gathered at the scene of the explosion, some punks calling themselves the ‘Sidewinders’ showed up and blew your convoy straight to hell-- but I’m gonna need you to tell your side of the story so we can... piece the whole picture together, as it were.”

“The whole picture?” said Zen.

“Yes, indeed,” said Ashe, leaning against the worktable next to him. She gave a low sharp whistle and Bars picked up an Orb of Destruction from the shelving behind him and tossed it to her. “Care telling me what this is? We found them scattered along the bottom of the gorge along with you. Figured they might belong to you,” she put the orb in Zen’s hand and that still-half-panicked part of him briefly considered using it, causing enough of a disruption to get out of there, but he knew he was outnumbered here and even if he transcended he wouldn’t get far. He realized he had taken too long to respond because Ashe spoke again.

“You’re still a bit shaken, I take it?” said Ashe.

“Y-yes,” Zen said, desperate to buy time while he came up with any possible excuse for what he was other than ‘I’m with Overwatch.’

“Probably a sensitive type,” Bars spoke up behind her, “Artsy-type omnics might take longer to process than Omnics like me or Bob, boss.”

Artsy? Zenyatta thought, and then he blurted out, “Yes! Art! Yes! The orb is.... art. It represents duality. Destruction and Harmony. We omnics exist at the cusp of that. The parts of a machine clicking together to form a greater whole as well as... destroying... things...” 

“Guess the triplets were right, for once in their goddamn lives,” said Bars.

“Mm,” Ashe gave a nod before turning back to Zenyatta, “The scene showed signs of a scuffle. Pulsefire indents in the road.”

“Yes, the uhhh, the gang, the...”

“Sidewinders.”

“The Sidewinders were shooting. A lot.” 

“Some indents show they came from your rig too,” said Ashe, folding her arms, “Now, ain’t no law against protecting yourself. If you have some ‘pacifist artsy’ reputation to maintain, ain’t no one’s gonna blame you for not letting yourself be a sitting duck on Route 66.”

She really does keep a close eye on these roads, doesn’t she? Zenyatta thought, almost panicking. “Yes. The rig was... equipped with...” Zenyatta’s mind was racing, “Hard-light drones. Of course, those dematerialize completely when they are destroyed, thus having no wreckage alongside the road.”

“Hard-light drones...” Ashe strolled around the room thoughtfully, “Pricey stuff, that Vishkar tech. You must be big stuff in the art world, huh?”

“Yes! Yes, I am... very famous,” said Zenyatta.

Bob seemed to perk up and started signing very eagerly, prompting a laugh from Ashe. 

“Slow down, slow down, big guy!” said Ashe, knocking the side of her fist against Bob’s arm. She looked at Zenyatta. “Sorry, he’s excited. Bob’s a little starved for culture out here. I tell him he always was the classier one between us.”

Bob made an ‘Oh you,’ gesture with his hand before signing again.

“He says your work is beautiful,” said Ashe, picking up an orb of destruction.

“Oh... thank you,” said Zenyatta.

Bob continued signing.

“You can’t expect me to say all that--” Ashe started but Bob signed a gesture that was probably ‘Please?’ and Ashe huffed. “He says the intersection of---” she looked back at Bob who signed some more, “The intersection of contours and spherical symmetry evoke the astronomical, but the etchings seem almost religious--likely non-Western. Tibetan?”

“Oh--yes--that... that is what I was going for,” said Zenyatta, “It’s Nepali, actually. You have an excellent eye for art, my friend.”

Bob seemed to swell with pride.

“A famous artist.... I used to keep better track of all that,” Ashe was tossing the orb of destruction up and down in her hand with a sigh, “My folks were always throwin’ these galas and whatnot. More of an oil tycoon crowd than the avant-garde, though. Maybe if I went along with that life, we might have met under better circumstances,” she caught the orb, “But that’s the price of makin’ your own life, and choosing your own family.”

“I... still think the circumstances we’ve met under are fortunate,” said Zenyatta, “Your uh...Bob and his compatriot have done excellent repairs to me.”

“He’s really somethin’ ain’t he?” said Ashe, smiling at Bob.

“Yes, well,” Zenyatta tented his fingers a bit nervously, “If you have any more questions...”

“Not particularly,” said Ashe, “You’re welcome to stay and re-orient yourself as long as you need here, Bob can fix you up a glass of Glenwales--”

“I really must be going,” said Zenyatta, stumbling toward the door, “I still need to connect to your holonet to arrange my transportation.”

“The gang and I can drop you off,” said Ashe, “It’s the least we can do--”

“Thank you, but the... art gallery I was heading towards will probably be very concerned as to my whereabouts.”

“All right, suit yourself,” Ashe shrugged.

“I’ll... still need to connect to your holonet to get in contact with my friends,” said Zenyatta.

“Clearance code is Caledonia-9,” said Ashe.

Zenyatta focused briefly and made a chiming sound. 

“My thanks--” He started but suddenly winced from loud feedback of this comm.

“Oh--sorry--Must be some residual damage from the fall--” Bars started but was cut off by the sound of McCree’s voice over the comm.

“It’s connected! He’s got a signal! Zen! Zen are you there? Tekharta Zenyatta are you alive?! It’s McCree! Zen, just ping me if you’re alive!”

“McCree?” Ashe’s face twisted and her red eyes flicked to Zen with fury.

“I--I can explain---” Zenyatta started.

“Bars,” Ashe said the name in command, her voice flat. 

Zen barely managed to turn his head in Bars’ direction when felt something jam itself into his neck and suddenly electrical currents were running all over him. His limbs spasmed, and he saw Bars looking at him with that steady bicolored look before his vision cut out. The pain itself was only a brief burning metallic throb before unconsciousness swept over him once more.

---

Zenyatta wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he came to once more. Only this time he could tell all functions below his neck had been shut off. He glanced down to see that, as what was apparently an additional precaution, he was bolted into his seat by several semi-modified industrial clamps, like a vehicle held in place by a parking boot.

“Right,” Ashe’s voice was the first thing he heard when he came to, “Let’s start this again. And I think I should establish that I really, really do not appreciate being lied to.”

[imjustthemechanic]

Glockenspiel

Part 1/? - Transmission Part 2/? - The Sandhill Hotel Part 3/? - Piccadilly Part 4/? - The Future Part 5/? - Too Late Part 6/? - The Mystery of the Missing Time Machine Part 7/? - Underway Part 8/? - The Sierra Bunker Part 9/? - Cross-Country

The room was an office, albeit a rather spartan one: the floor was tile rather than carpet, and the furniture a very basic desk and chair, and a couple of shelves of books and documents on one wall.  It was entirely dominated by the one decorative item in it, a massive painting hanging opposite the door.

That was Klimt’s Dido, a massive gilded portrait of a dark-haired woman wrapped in flames, and it caught Peggy’s attention not only because it overwhelmed a room not nearly big enough for something so ostentatious, but because she recognized it.  During the war, Steve and the Commandos had been given a set of photographs of paintings stolen by the Nazis which they were to watch out for – one of them was the Dido, which they had never managed to find.  She wondered now how many other missing paintings were hanging on the walls of HYDRA operatives’ offices in the future.

If the picture were too much for the room, it also completely overshadowed its occupant.  The man sitting at the desk, who must have been Mr. Smith, was a perfectly ordinary-looking fellow in his mid-to-late thirties.  He had brown hair that was just starting to recede, and a pair of rimless glasses on his nose.  He wore a light green shirt and a tie with diagonal stripes, and he’d been working on a laptop computer much the same as Toulouse’s Sandhill’s.  By the time Peggy managed to tear her eyes from the Dido and look at him, he was on his feet, his mouth hanging open.

“Look who just knocked on the door,” said the man from Yorkshire.

Smith was still gaping in disbelief.  “They just… they just walked in?”

“Sure did,” Yorkshire nodded.

It took a moment more for Smith to recover and sit down again, and then he gestured to a stack of plastic chairs against one wall.  “Sit down,” he said.

A man brought chairs over for Peggy and Howard. The man from Yorkshire forced them to sit down in them.

Smith licked his lips.  He clearly had no idea how he was going to deal with this.  “How did you get here?” he asked.

Peggy opened her mouth to tell him that was none of his business, but Howard spoke first.  “We have connections,” he said.

She gave him a kick.  “Howard, don’t talk,” she ordered.  Saying things like that would lead these people to Toulouse, and Toulouse did not deserve that.

“Shit,” groaned Smith.  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and had to think for a moment before he could come up with his next question.  “All right.  Do you, or do you not, have the Glocke crystal?”

Peggy frowned.  “What’s it worth to you if we do?” she asked, not because she expected an answer but to buy herself time to think.  What did he mean by the Glocke crystal?  Was he talking about those pieces of quartz they’d found in the crate with the time machine?  Could it be that one of those, rather than some bell-shaped superweapon, was die Glocke?

“I’m not here to make deals,” said Smith.  He was starting to recover his composure now, and had gotten to his feet again with his hands on his hips.  “Either you have it or you don’t.”

“Whether we do or not, I see no reason we should tell you unless you can give us what we want,” Peggy replied.  Smith would surely be able to guess what they wanted, but he was doubtless also smart enough to realize that sending them back to the 1940s was not in his best interests.  For all he knew, they had already found out exactly who he was and were planning to prevent him being born.

“They told Zola they didn’t have it,” said the man from Yorkshire.  “He didn’t think they knew what he was talking about.  He thought they might know other things we could use, though.”

Smith frowned, then shook his head.  “No, they’re a liability,” he decided.  “We can’t go leaving bodies nobody can identify.  Better drop them in the Pit.”

Howard looked at Peggy with panic in his face. She had nothing to say in reply. She had no idea what that would entail, and could not reassure him.  Behind them, one of the men took out a phone and made a call.

Some forty-five minutes later, Peggy and Howard were dragged back out front and loaded into the back of a brown and gold UPS delivery truck.  Peggy didn’t know what the back of such a vehicle was supposed to look like, but she doubted it was supposed to have an area set off by bars with wire mesh in between them, just a little over arm’s length from the back doors.  Peggy and Howard were loaded into that, and both the bars and the actual back of the truck were closed on them, leaving them imprisoned in the stuffy heat.  Sweat was already rolling down the small of Peggy’s back as they drove away.

Once they were on the road and presumably no longer surrounded by armed men, Peggy wriggled out of her handcuffs and got Howard out of his, then took a look at the doors.  The cage bars had a lock, but there was no way to get a hairpin into it with the mesh in the way.  When she felt along the ceiling, she found the mesh welded into the join between the bars and the roof.  The back doors had windows in them, although there was a dark film over them to keep anyone from seeing in.  By the light from that, Peggy could see that there’d once been an internal latch, but that had been removed and a plate of metal welded over the hole.

“It’s too bad they took our phones,” said Howard. “We could have called Toulouse.”

Peggy shook her head and sat down on the floor to take her stockings off and inspect the damage to her feet.  “She wouldn’t be able to do anything to help us now.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” sighed Howard.  “They’re probably already coming for her, anyway.”

“I’m sure they would have figured it out eventually,” Peggy said with a sigh.  Toulouse had been the only other person win the Piccadilly Sandhill, and she’d left it at the same time they had.  Sutcliffe may even have been able to see her in the Uber, though he might equally have been focused on Howard waving at him.  So much for not getting her friends into trouble anymore.

“She’s a sweet kid,” Howard said wistfully.

Peggy managed not to roll her eyes.  “Yes, I’m sure she’ll look very fetching in a diamond bracelet.  You can leave a message with the jewelers to save one for her, assuming they’re still in business in 2015!”

This suggestion popped out sounding rather meaner than the light sarcasm Peggy had intended, but Howard didn’t seem to notice.  He looked thoughtful.

“Apparently I’m gonna give a girl a diamond ring eventually,” he said.  “I wonder what she’ll be like.  I wonder what her name is.”

Peggy was about to tell him that he’d just have to wait and see, but in their current situation, that wasn’t true.  “When we get out of this, you can ‘google’ it,” she said.

Howard hadn’t thought of that, either.  He mulled it over a minute and then shook his head.  “Nah. I’d rather be surprised.

That was more character than Peggy would have credited Howard with, and she was actually kind of proud of him, although she wasn’t going to tell him so.  “And I’m going to have two husbands,” she mused.  “I suspect Daniel will be the first one, but I haven’t any guess about the second.  I probably haven’t met him yet.”  She did wonder what would lead her and Daniel to split up.  Or perhaps… Toulouse had said Peggy outlived both her husbands.  Maybe it would be until death did them part.  She shivered.

“You think anything’s gonna be different now that we know this stuff?” Howard asked.  “What if I propose to the wrong girl, just because I know I’m gonna get married someday?”

“I don’t know,” said Peggy.  What if she decided not to marry Daniel, out of fear that she would be the death of him? Given her track record it wasn’t all that improbable.  What if she decided not to have children now that she knew at least one of them would predecease her?  If she didn’t have children, what would happen if one of them were destined to be a doctor who saved lives, or an influential scholar, or President of the United States?  Now that they knew even hints about the future, were they prisoners of it?

“Time travel really is a terrible idea, isn’t it?” asked Peggy.

“Yeah,” said Howard.  “It is.  Yeah.”

Peggy had assumed that this Pit would be somewhere nearby, but apparently she was wrong.  The truck continued to rumble along, its insides getting hotter and closer by the hour.  Through the back windows Peggy could see that they passed through the Sierras and came down into the Nevada desert, where they began heading north.  A second vehicle, a dark red van, followed them the entire afternoon, as flat scrubland rolled by under a slightly hazy sky.

Towards the evening they stopped briefly in a town for petrol – a sign near the station identified their location as Wells, Nevada. Peggy stood up and stretched, thinking this might be an opportunity to make some noise and summon help.  When she looked out the window, though, she found a man leaning on the back of the truck.  He was wearing a brown uniform, to match the vehicle, but when he straightened up to wave at somebody she could see the handgun under his jacket.  If she made a sound, he would do something about it, or at least make excuses to whoever heard.

The red van was at the next set of pumps behind them, also filling up.  Even if somebody heard her, there were allies nearby to prevent an escape.

A few minutes later the driver returned, and they set off again.  Evidently they were planning to drive through the night.

“I bet the drivers got to eat,” Howard grumbled.

“We’re not going to live very long,” said Peggy. “Why bother feeding us?”  She hoped he would warn her if he needed to pee again.  Now that they were locked up somewhere they could see, she definitely planned to turn her back.

Peggy slept fitfully on the vibrating metal floor, waking up every time the truck went over a bump and missing the soft pillows and lavender-scented sheets of the Sandhill hotel.  Even the foldaway bed she’d once shared with Colleen would have been an immense improvement.  This was like trying to sleep in a cargo plane while a dogfight went on all around her, and when their destination was a ‘pit’, it was probably just as likely to end in a hard collision with the ground.

She woke up in the morning with half her bones aching, and desperately needing to pee, herself, but having no place to do so. Peggy sat up and stretched, grimacing as her neck refused to straighten, then turned around and checked on Howard.

“Are you awake?” she asked softly.

He’d been sleeping curled on his side, facing away from her.  When he heard her voice, he groaned.  “We’re still in the back of a truck in the future, aren’t we?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” said Peggy.  “How does it feel to wake up and not be hung over?”

“Terrible,” Howard replied.  “I need the hangover to keep me balanced.”

Peggy shook her head and got stiffly to her feet to look outside.  The air was chilly now, and smelled damp – they were definitely no longer in the desert. The view out the window showed that they were driving slightly uphill, along a two-lane road through open pine forest. The van rumbled over a little bridge with metal guard rails to keep anyone from accidentally driving into the narrow, fast-flowing stream below.  Behind on them on the horizon, under towering grey clouds, were the silhouettes of mountains.

The red van was gone.  That was interesting.  Had it only been a coincidence, or had somebody decided that backup wasn’t necessary after all?

“No signs,” Peggy said, sitting back down. They were probably somewhere in the Rockies, but it was impossible to say exactly where.  Certainly a very long way from people.  The wilderness was a great place to hide bodies.

The truck made a left turn, and the sound under the wheels changed – they were on a gravel road now.  Trees closed in behind them, and they slowed to a stop.

Though her knees complained, Peggy grabbed the bars and hauled herself to her feet again, and helped Howard to do the same. As when they’d thought Mr. Smith was coming for them in the walk-in safe, they wanted to meet their fate head-on. It was probably too much to hope for that it would be help instead of harm this time, too.

“Keep your hands behind your back and hold on to the handcuffs,” Peggy whispered.  Howard nodded.

The door opened.  The wind was cold and it was starting to rain a little, just a mist that didn’t really wet anything but could be felt on the face.  Outside were two men in brown uniforms, with guns in their hands.  One of them unlocked the inner cage and let Howard and Peggy down onto the ground.  He gripped Peggy roughly by the arm as she made the long step, and she nearly lose her hold on the handcuffs.

“I suppose you’re going to shoot us now,” she said.  “Could we at least have permission to die with some dignity?”

Her captor frowned in confusion.  “What do you mean?” he asked.  Another Brit, Peggy noted, this one probably Suffolk.  Had British members of HYDRA escaped arrest by fleeing to America?  Toulouse had said America had rounded them up, too, but then, America was a much bigger country, with proportionately more places to hide.

Peggy looked at Howard, who understood totally. “She means that we both really, really need a bathroom, pal.  Can we find some bushes or something so we don’t die pissing ourselves?”

The two men exchanged a look.  The one holding on to Howard almost laughed, but saw the serious expression on his colleague’s face, and controlled himself.  “Maybe once there are more…” he began.

He never got to finish.  Peggy drove her knee into his bollocks and he doubled over in pain.  Howard pushed him over and took his gun away from him, and snapped the handcuffs around his legs so he couldn’t get up again.  Peggy used her own cuffs to hit her guard in the temple, then pushed him into the back of the truck and slammed the door.  Howard kicked the second guard in the face as he tried to get up, then turned to Peggy and smiled.

“High five!” he said, holding up a hand.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I saw it on the television – you slap your hand on mine.”

Peggy shook her head.  “We’re not finished escaping yet.”

[bustedcranium]

Here’s a silly little writing project I’ve been putting together, it’s a coming of age story and maybe if I post it here, I’ll be inspired to update it more. Enjoy!

Pigeonholed

Chapter 1

Nights were always quiet in the small town of Bentley, Illinois. But this night was different; in the corner of Luka Downey’s window, a cyan light started out as a low glow. The high school senior groggily shifted awake as the low pulse got brighter and brighter. A shrill humming filled the air as his entire bedroom filled with unnatural light. Luka shot to the window and looked for the source, but the glare blinded him and he had to squint away. The noise filled his room and for a brief, dread-filled moment, he thought he was dying. And just then it stopped. The humming cut off and the darkness of the small town resumed, only the echoes of the light burnt into eyes to prove it happened.

It’s worth mentioning now that everyone in Bentley has human bodies and pigeon heads. That’s how it is, that’s how it’s always been.

Luka shot a glance at the clock before heading back to bed. 3:01. Thinking all of this but a dream, he tried to drift away, but something tugging on the edge of his brain kept him up for at least an hour. Somewhere, at the edge of town, a silent convoy of white vans with shaded windows swarmed in through the corners of Bentley.

The sun rose as it usually did on small town Illinois. Dawn struck the lived-in suburbs of Bentley, illuminating the strange beauty of the American exurb.

An empty homemade bird feeder, save for a book shoved awkwardly inside. A beer can tucked covertly into shrub near a curb. A tacky lawn gnome, it’s pigeon face unreadable due to years of sun bleaching. An American flag unable to fly, snarled in it’s own flagpole.

It’s a captivating aroma, and it seems strongest in the morning, before people start their routines. Before this picture perfect, lived-in scene can continue to be lived in.

Timeless in its averageness. Some say these pristine, tended to lawns are tar traps, somewhere to hide out from the sands of time, catalog pictures to jump into to forget your worries. And some say it’s just a small town in the United States. And they’re both right, in a sense.

Luka was late. Usually he’d always make sure to bike to school at 7:35 so he could arrive at 7:40 so he’d have plenty of time to converse with everyone before school started at 8:00. Luka was incredibly conscious of the time, he had been since middle school.

“Package came for you!”

“What?”

Luka’s Mom glanced at him all the way from the kitchen. She hollered again, “Package! Something about a 1960s Rotary Model?”

Luka’s sister made some kind of anguished grunt. “Oh my God, get cooler hobbies!” She cried out exasperatedly.

“Vintage telephone collecting is cool, you’re just too young to understand! Thanks Mom, I can take it!”

A half dressed Luka hobbled out of the hallway to grab his delivery. “Thank you!”

His Mom moved the package up out of reach, “Upbup, you having breakfast today?”

“I’m late Mom! I’ll get something at school.”

She continued to hold the parcel high up, giving him a disapproving glare. Luka sighed.

“I promise!”

“Mmkay. Home for supper?”

“Maybe not, we’re thinking of going to Marie’s…if that’s okay?”

She lowered the package and Luka graciously snatched it.

“Be safe out there.”

Luka returned back to his room. There was laundry scattered around the floor that he could never seem to get rid of. Tacky plastic soccer trophies spray-painted in gold sat in a cluster on his dresser, another antiquity of his room he couldn’t bring himself to tidy up. A pan flag hung unceremoniously over his closet, the fold marks still visible. The real jewel of his room were three massive shelves full of retro, multicoloured telephones. Each one kept in pristine condition, each one deliberately placed with pride. One of his most shameful secrets is he can’t remember which one was his first, but he’s tried to push that out of his mind. Luka set the package on his bed.

Before he rushed out he grabbed his signature jean jacket, which had the elbows completely frayed out and little pins and patches tacked on at odd places. Whatever happened last night messed with him so much that he forgot to check the time as left. Luka hopped on his old bike and set out, the cold air of late November stinging his face.

[comicbookuniversity]

What Is a Single Issue Comic?

by Bunnypwn Gold

There are a lot of problems in the current comics industry, and it’s pretty hard to know where things are going. Right now, with DC partnered with Lunar for distribution and Marvel jumping to Penguin for distribution by the end of the year, it’s hard to imagine how Diamond Distributors, the former monopoly of single issue distribution in the industry for the past few decades, will survive, and how losing a monopoly like them will affect smaller publishers. Penguin and Lunar could and likely would be interested in picking up new clients, but that doesn’t guarantee the survival of all publishers or a stable future for retailers. All of this, of course, is about the ability of publishers to get their single issue comic magazines to specialty store shelves, the only place they’re sold, with the financial health of everyone involved almost entirely dependent on the sale of these units. And that brings me to a question I’ve been wondering for a long time: What is a single issue comic? Because as a product they are fundamentally unsuited for their apparent purpose, which affects the entire structure of the industry.

First off, let’s give the literal and straightforward answer to my question: A single issue comic is a magazine-style book containing a single chapter of a serialized comic narrative, or one or more episodes in an episodic comic narrative. They are also literally $4 on average for a single floppy. That’s a lot of money to spend on a single chapter of a series, and a comics reader will be following multiple series a week. There are a lot of reasons for this cost, and I’m not going to quibble with making sure creators and such are compensated appropriately. One of the costs, though, is the premium low-pulp, high-heat paper used for printing a single. It’s glossy and smooth, holding onto high-quality ink (another cost) for glorious colors and inks, contributing to the aesthetic improvements in comics in recent times. Though there are benefits to this, it raises the monetary and environmental cost of making comics quite a bit. The modern single issue is still relatively floppy, as a magazine, and clearly not meant for long term storage, but it’s also more likely to keep over the long term than past singles and is much more durable than, say, a newspaper, as an example of something clearly meant to be temporary. The average readers is reading multiple series a week, each series is looking to last tens or hundreds of issues, and each series will also be collected into a trade paperback or a hardback edition. Trades are far more suited to long term storage and rereading than a single, mostly as it relates to quantity of narrative and binding methods, since the single issue uses the same paper as trades and other collections.

That gets into the main problem I have with single issue comics. What purpose are they meant to serve the narrative? If they are a temporary format to facilitate serialized storytelling and are meant to be resold or recycled in some fashion once a collected volume comes out, then they serve that purpose very poorly. They’re so expensive that buying all the issues that will be collected in the next trade would cost more than that trade; not only would buying the trade be paying more money for something you already have, but you also actually pay less money to get it in the format you wanted in the first place. That is, if your goal is to read comics as a hobby and you want to collect the stories you like on a bookshelf, like I do. If you’re just reading them as they come and don’t want to shelve them, then it’s worth noting that $4 a pop is far more than “reading them as they come” money. It doesn’t seem like the industry is all that concerned with selling trades, at least not to the extent they logically should be, and the format of singles isn’t one you’d associate with a temporary unit. While some people do resell their singles to comic shops, not every reader can do that, and they’re such an upfront investment that recycling them would be throwing away a massive amount of money. Not everyone wants a ton of boxes holding all the singles they’ve bought over the decades or has children to give them to; not that most comics these days are actually appropriate to give to children, which is actually another issue with the cost. Children should be a bigger part of the comics readership, to ensure that there are new readers for the future. Children can’t afford $4 an issue, and it’s hard to imagine most parents buying their kid multiple series a week, on top of other kid costs (I hear they’re pretty expensive). For adults, it’s also a very expensive hobby in general; it’s like $1040/year if you’re buying five issues a week (a small number for serious readers), without considering any trades, OGNs, or manga you want to buy, too.

Singles are also literally at the center of the comics business model. The success of a series is almost entirely dependent on the sale of its singles, with most publishers unable (and in Marvel and DC’s case, unwilling) to step in and support a critically well-received book until sales pick up. If too few people decide they want to try the first issue or to stick with it the next week, which adds to the burden on their wallets, then the book will fail. There’s no waiting for trades to come out and buoy the financial footing of a series. This puts readers in the position of either (maybe guiltily) buying singles they don’t necessarily want to own to support a series they love, or trade wait, essentially abdicating an arbitrary consumer responsibility in the hopes that enough others don’t for a good series to make it to trades. Of course, publishers don’t succeed unless a majority of their books succeed, so they are also almost entirely dependent on singles. Publishers probably get more benefit than creators from trade sales, but their business model isn’t set up to get much benefit from it. This subsequently trickles down to retailers, who can’t make enough of their money on trades if their publishers aren’t focused on selling them. Singles are incentivized and centralized at every level, meaning that this overpriced product that fails to serve its seeming narrative and commercial purpose holds all the weight of a dying industry.

The first single issue that ever came out was, famously, a collection of newspaper comic strips, a collected format. After seeing how well it sold, people quickly began making original stories for this format, first as anthology comics that contained multiple stories in the same genre per issue. The success of Superman and Batman pushed publishers to put out individual stories as an entire single issue, and for a long time that was fine; the single issue was the only format comics came in, and being printed on newsprint with four-color printing, it was cheap. Then people started publishing trades and collections of single issues. Instead of the industry evolving over time around the trade paperback as the primary unit of comics, as it did before around singles, they stuck with singles, and changed single issues into a higher-prestige product, like a miniature trade paperback, leaving collected editions as a secondary concern. This was a huge and pretty obvious mistake, and is directly connected to several problems in the industry, most obviously the fact that the Diamond monopoly formed in the first place and how its collapse could spell doom for most publishers. Since everyone is so tied up in the success of singles, and Diamond is the only one delivering them to comics shops for most publishers, most can’t exist without Diamond.

Another effect, perhaps less obviously, is the shift in the focus of publishers away from publishing good books and towards IP farming for movies and TV shows. Though, so far, people have still been buying enough singles to keep the industry alive, the fact that publishers’ entire business models aren’t very well focused on selling books means that they have to find something else to stabilize their finances, in light of the fickle spending decisions of consumers faced with overpriced choices. So instead of selling comics as a way to sell a good story, they sell comics as a way to attain the licensing rights to that story to sell to a TV or film studio, basically treating the amazing and unique creative industry they are a part of as a fancy elevator pitch for movie, TV, and streaming executives. I’m not arguing that adaptation from comics into other mediums is bad; I actually think it’s pretty cool that movies and TV shows want to use comics stories, as a kind of recognition that comics have and have always had some amazing stories, and film, a sister medium to comics, is a natural place to adapt comics stories. But it’s unhealthy to publish stories in one medium primarily as a pitch to another, especially since it’s meant to enrich publishers at the expense of creators and is a huge disservice to fans and, ultimately, retailers.

And like, how can you have any pride as a publisher if one of your major goals isn’t to publish good stories in the medium you (presumably) love and deeply care for, but to sell the idea of that story to someone else who will make a different thing based on that pitch? Like, have some integrity. Let the studios come to you after you amass a huge and enviable catalog, and form deals that put you and your creators’ needs first, instead of becoming a subservient IP farm for a “dominant” industry. Comics should be the dominant industry! Maybe I’m just too passionate about this, but if you don’t believe that comics should be equal to or dominant over movies and TV in our pop culture landscape, then why are you publishing comics? There’s no money in it at the moment, and an IP farming mindset actually means there won’t be in the future, either.

Now that we’ve talked about their failures from a narrative standpoint and how that affects the industry, we get into another argument about what singles are: Collectibles. So, is the single issue good at being a collectible? Maybe? It’s certainly true that a collector would want their collectible to stay in good condition for as long as possible to improve its value, so there’s something to a higher quality collectible item, like the single has become. At the same time, however, a major factor in the high price tag for old issues of comics is their fragility and scarcity. Old comics printed on newsprint before comics were seen as collectibles are more likely to be damaged, lost, thrown away, etc., making any surviving issue of worthwhile quality that much more valuable. If everyone is keeping their copy of the big twist issue of Spider-Man, printed on comparatively durable paper to its forbearers, sealed carefully in a safe for decades, then scarcity and fragility won’t drive up the value. Making collection a widespread practice only hurts the future value that anything you do collect could accrue. It’s not like paintings, where there’s only the one painting; comics are printed en masse. Collection as a monetary investment is tricky, is my main point.

With the collectibles argument, though, I have to ask a follow-up question: Is that what a single issue should be? No, obviously not. In theory, a book publisher’s job is to sell as many books as possible, publish the best books they can, and push for the success of all the books they publish. They’re not in the business of selling collectible items. Marvel, DC, and Image aren’t Funko Pops; they’re not selling cutesy plastic crap meant only to look good and potentially see value in trade or collection. Comics publishers sell stories, and their business model should reflect that. Instead of commissioning hundreds of variant covers over the course of a year and “accidentally” leaking the amazing, collection-worthy exploits of a book so that people preorder, they should spend money on recruiting new creators and advertising in media outside the comics bubble to pull in new readers. The Big Two are especially guilty of this, pumping out dozens of variant covers for their biggest issues, to increase the need for collectors to buy dozens of copies of a single issue in case only one variant cover is actually valuable in the future. It looks a lot like a grift and a sugar high of sales that distorts spending choices for consumers and negatively impacts the sale of other comics, just to feel like they’re selling enough of something.

We’ve seen how collection as a financial investment has impacted other fields negatively, like the fine arts. I recently watched a Wisecrack video that talked about how the rise of NFTs highlights a growing problem in the art world. Over the course of the last few decades, collectors and buyers went from curating aesthetically pleasing collections for rich patrons’ homes and museums to storing pricey artwork in warehouses to protect their monetary investments. Which, I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain too much, is counter to the point of making art. Painters paint stuff so people will look at and appreciate it, not so some newly rich tech guy who doesn’t understand portraiture can stow it in a crate and brag about how much their old-timey selfie is worth. The video discussed how art collectors mainly interested in money and their advisors who choose what to buy end up chasing trends and going after the same hot items, homogenizing their apparent tastes and distorting an already highly subjective creative field.

The market dominance of the Big Two, who exclusively sell superhero comics, has had a similar effect on the comics market; on top of that, selling comics as collectibles has primarily benefitted the Big Two, who seem to be pushing it as part of a strategy to maintain their dominance, since it’s mostly their comics that anyone expects to have collectible value. If you look in comics shops, you’ll find that most of the non-superhero comics on the shelves are either action-adventure or sci-fi/fantasy, i.e., the kinds of stories that appeal to superhero comics readers. All the issues that are considered most collectible are also very similar: New number ones, the death or birth of a character, super hyped up twists, and finales. The collectible mindset helps entrench a homogenous mindset among publishers and, by extension, creators to appeal to a small and shrinking fan base. Comics are a storytelling medium, and publishers should be focused on telling all kinds of stories for everyone, not selling collectibles with, at best, questionable value to progressively fewer buyers. Comics are meant to be read, any marketing strategy for them should be based on that fact, and the collectible item strategy runs directly counter to that fact, since the collectible comic will drop in value if you actually read it. If you want to collect your single issues and some of them end up becoming significantly more valuable, that should be an organic side effect of publishers doing their proper jobs to put out good stories, not the primary goal and purpose of comics publishing or buying.

So, what is the single issue comic? It’s too flimsy for long term shelving and reading, but too durable and expensive to be a temporary and disposable format. It’s potentially decent quality as a collectible item, but an inappropriate item for a business to sell as a collectible (not that it stops them). It’s literally just one chapter of one series on a shelf full of series chapters demanding your attention and wallet. It’s a product that acts as the backbone of the entire comics industry that poorly serves its intended function and shouldn’t even be this central to the industry. And because it is, it helps drive smaller publishers that can barely stay afloat on singles to become IP farms in an attempt to gain relevance. The answer, then, is the single issue comic is outdated and performing a disservice to everyone at every level.

Of course, this all begs the question: What should the single issue be replaced by? I don’t want to be like, “Manga has all the answers,” but like, they do, in this case. And a few others, actually. In Japan, whose comics industry is far stronger and more financially viable than the US’s despite having half the population, they serialize in anthology magazines containing several series and make decisions about which books to move forward with based on a combination of reader polls and, if the book lasts long enough, tankoban sales. Instead of publishing each series as its own magazine and then letting it sink or swim based on its individual sales, leading to higher prices and fractured attention from readers, they bundle chapters together to reduce cost and ensure that everyone who’s series is published in that magazine gets compensated for their work with that magazine at a similar level. They also center their business model on selling lots of all their books, not just the anthologies, meaning that both publishers and creators do better when they sell more tankoban volumes. You know, because they’re book publishers, who want to sell as many books as possible, like our comics publishers should.

The manga industry also prints in black and white as an industry standard, meaning they can get away with cheaper papers, further reducing costs; since color is so central to the American comics aesthetic, I’m not sure if we can copy everything about the manga anthology magazine or wider business model. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find success borrowing from the model. Like, it just makes sense that Marvel and DC could publish monthly anthologies containing all of a particular franchise, like Monthly Spider-Gang, the X-Verse, Gotham Nights, or People of Tomorrow; Image could publish a Shadowline anthology; etc. By bundling them up together, readers are more likely to try out books they ordinarily wouldn’t read and publishers can sell you five or so books for, say, $10 instead of the $20 they’d cost you as singles. This format would also phase out variant covers and dramatically tamp down the collectible mindset, meaning that Marvel and DC can’t sell a ton of variants of a single issue to individual collectors to boost the sales of an already popular franchise over others of their own books and indie comics. Or maybe they’d do variant covers of trades, but since a trade is better suited for that sort of thing, I don’t see that as an immediate problem. This transition away from singles is a natural and obvious step away from an outdated and unhealthy business model and towards one that serves the primary goal of a publisher and the needs of readers, retailers, and creators.

What is a single issue comic? It’s the source of or a notable element in a surprisingly large number of problems in the comics industry that needs to be done away with. It’s an outdated format of sale and distribution that no longer serves the industry, creators, retailers, or readers the way it used to, and it’s being propped up because it serves the interests of the Big Two and their market dominance in the current landscape. It’s something that needs to be gotten rid of so that it can be replaced by other, obviously superior methods of delivering serialized stories to readers, so that the industry can reprioritize around selling books, the things they ostensibly make. It’s a poorly designed product that, unfortunately, sits at the center of a dying industry that’s trying to reclaim relevance by becoming IP farms for more financially and culturally influential media. It’s bad.

[avaalons]

Chris Evans Fic: Library Day (NSFW)

Can I request an imagine? Reader meets Chris in a library while he is researching for a new role. The reader and him lock eyes through the stacks and it goes from there. It can be fluffy or smutty. :) Thank you!

***

It was a disgusting day. Grey cloud, grey rain falling in sheets across the city, grey puddles, grey buildings like the copious amounts of water had washed away all the colour. Everything just seemed… dirty and it made Chris itch like he wanted to get out of his skin. Granted, he wasn’t a huge fan of soaring heat but this was the weather he hated the most. It made him feel grey inside and out as he darted across the road, trying to avoid traffic and rain. He lightly jogged up a few marble steps, pushed open the aged wooden door and then he was in.

He’d always found libraries to be comforting and cosy, and exactly where he wanted to be on a grim day like this. The whispered hush, the smell of the books, the corners where you could just tuck yourself away and hide… it was perfect. Plus, he did actually have some research he needed to do for his next role so this gave him the perfect opportunity to hide from the weather and get some work done.

He headed to the biography section. His next film was based on World War II code breakers and he knew of some pretty high profile figures from that era that had since had biographies written about them. He knew exactly where they were and exactly which chair he was going to sit in. He pictured the worn leather Chesterfield armchair with the rolling arms and quilted back as he rounded the corner into the stacks. It was in the perfect place too, completed hidden away, partly under a staircase, at the back of the library behind all the rows upon rows of shelving. It was so dark in that corner, a floor lamp had been placed next to it with a dim bulb, just bright enough to be able to read if you were sat right under it but not much more.

He made quick work of plucking the biography he needed from the shelf and headed to his favourite spot, only to stop short when he rounded the final shelving unit. The chair, his chair, had already been claimed by a long limbed young woman. He could tell you were long limbed because you sat sideways across the chair, your lengthy legs draped over one arm from under a skirt, your body slightly angled to lean against the wing on one side. You were absorbed in the book propped against your thighs, absentmindedly chewing on a strand of hair that had escaped from your haphazard ponytail.

His first instinct was to dart back into the stacks until he figured out what to do. He needed that chair, it was what he had come here for today. Unfortunately, his quick movement had been picked up in the your peripheral vision and your gaze darted up. He tried to subtly get another look at you through the stacks but his eyes immediately locked on yours. The ruse was up.

‘Hello?’ You called out quizzically, 'Who’s there?’

He closed his eyes in annoyance before stepping out. It’d be more weird to not acknowledge that he was there now. He didn’t want to seem like stalker or something. So he stepped out from his hiding place into your direct line of sight.

'Hi,’ he gave an awkward wave as a sheepish smile graced his features. 'Sorry to startle you, I just… uh… wasn’t expecting to see anyone here.’

You stared at him steadily, waiting for him to realise how stupid he sounded.

'You didn’t expect to see anyone? In a public library?’ You deadpanned.

He rubbed the back of his head with one hand, embarrassed. You used his discomfort in the silence to give him a once over. In his loose fitting sweat pants and hoodie, he looked every inch the typical frat boy. But older. The backwards cap was just the icing on the cake and you had to bite back a laugh. Was he going straight to a game from here or something? You wondered idly how rude it would be to make a snarky comment about how you were surprised to learn that he could actually read.

'I just… this is kind of my corner, you know?’ he winced, realising he probably wasn’t doing himself any favours.

'Again, public library,’ you emphasised the 'public’ sarcastically.

'Yeah, yeah, I got it. Well, I hope you get done what you need to in the magic corner,’ he couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped from his words as he turned on his heel and made walk back into the stacks.

You watched him walk, his delectable ass catching your eye, his strong and defined muscles shaping through his clothes, despite the thick sweater material and your mouth watered slightly. He might dress like a nineteen year old, but his body and his demeanour betrayed his older, more experienced masculinity and suddenly you desperately wanted to know what was under all that sweatshirt cloth.

'Wait!’ you called out as quietly as you were able while still getting his attention.

He had already disappeared behind the stacks and you were worried you’d missed him. You jumped up quickly just as his head appeared from behind the shelving.

'Yes?’ he was intrigued.

'I was thinking maybe… there’s enough room in this corner for the two of us?’ The tone of your voice had shifted slightly, more needy, more gravelly, and you hoped he could pick up on it.

'Oh? And where exactly do you propose I sit while I read my book? There’s only one chair.’ He was fully out of the stacks now, taking slow steps towards you. Predatory. Yep, he’d heard your voice change.

'I wouldn’t be adverse to sharing. Or not even sitting at all,’ your body began to subtly quiver under his gaze and suddenly you didn’t feel massively brave anymore. But you’d started this and you intended to finish. Maybe more than once.

'Huh. And reading?’ He was right in front of you now, voice no more than a whisper, managing to exude sex despite the ridiculous choice of head wear.

You held his gaze steadily, trying to maintain your confidence, 'I’m about done for the day. I’ve been sat in that chair for hours and could do with stretching out.’

He was silent and unmoving and it unnerved you. Your hand reached out of its own accord, perhaps sensing there would be a sudden movement, and your fingertips pushed against his hoodie to feel the solid wall of muscle underneath.

The connection sent him into action and all at once he wound one arm around your lower back, hoisting you against his body, the other hand flying to your face to cup your jaw and bring your lips to his roughly, desperately. His strength kept you barely on your tip toes and when he began walking backwards, you were powerless to stop him. In no time at all, you were sandwiched tightly between his body and the wall behind the chair, just tucked away under the rarely-used staircase, pinned there while you ravaged each other’s mouth, hips beginning to undulate instinctively even at this early stage. He pulled away to let your breathe but moved on to your neck, kissing and sucking and biting his way across your heated flesh.

He nudged your legs apart to place his knee between them, bracing his shin against the wall, letting you rest your weight against his thigh as he pulled your hands far above your head. You ground down against him, already needed to feel the delicious friction and to ease some pressure. He was everywhere and you were totally at his mercy. The fire had ignited within you and you were almost keening with neediness.

'Shhh,’ he whispered in your ear, the vibrations going straight to your most sensitive places, 'You’ll be in trouble if we get caught.’

His whole body pressed into yours and you were growing wetter by the second.

'Please,’ you begged, trying to grind against his thigh. There were too many layers between you and it wasn’t enough.

'Do you need me to touch you? Not getting very far by yourself I think.’

You moaned in reply, head thrown back against the wall, chest heaving.

He gathered both your wrists in one hand, keeping your arms stretched as high as they would go, the now free hand travelling the side of your body, skimming the skin of your neck, your ribs, your hips and your thigh until he got to the hem of your skirt. His hand travelled underneath, performing a u turn and going back the way it came before veering off towards where you needed him the most.

'We’re going to have to move fast baby, don’t want anyone to find us like this,’ he reminded you as his fingers inched between where your bodies were joined.

The reference to the very public setting for your tryst only served to heighten the tension, the danger and anticipation tightening your chest.

You felt him stroke your clit through the now soaked material of your underwear a couple of times before delving underneath, pushing the lace to one side and circling his fingers through your slick folds. The relief was intense and when he inserted two fingers without warning, you were sure you gasp was loud enough to be audible through the building.

'Told you we were moving fast,’ he grinned.

He was pumping and scissoring his fingers while sucking at the skin of your neck. You could tell he wasn’t trying to make you come on his hand, he was simply preparing you for the next stage.

He withdrew as quickly as he had entered and pulled you off the wall with him, turning you around and bending you over the back of the chair. Your knees nearly gave way then, realising exactly how it was going to be, and looking out over the stacks, you knew that if anyone decided to wander down here, all they would see was you bracing yourself against the chair and being slammed into from behind.

You felt him pull your skirt up over your ass and he stroked you a few times, gliding over your smooth skin. He hooked a finger under your panties and swiftly pulled them to your knees. Then there was nothing but the rustle of material and you looked over your shoulder to see him releasing his dick from his sweatpants. It stood bold and proud over the waistband as he pumped himself a few times, one hand still smooth on your ass.

'Hold on,’ he warned you and you braced yourself, breasts pressed against the chair.

He slid his tip through your slick wetness once, twice, teasing your clit before nestling at your hot entrance. You felt him hook an arm under your body for leverage and then he moved. As he slammed in to you in one swift movement, he pulled you by the hips towards him and he was as deep as he could go from the first thrust. He wasted no time before setting a punishing pace and you could do nothing but hold on and try to stay silent. He filled you completely, relentlessly, over and over again and you could hear his grunts as he leaned over you, animalistic, grinding his dick against your top wall, seeking out your g spot as quickly as possible, desperation, danger and urgency taking over.

He would pull almost the whole way out before plunging back in and each thrust shunted you roughly into the chair. It took all your strength to brace yourself and not let you, and the chair, be driven forwards by the sheer power of him.

He was winding you up and the coil was about ready to be released. You could tell from the faltering rhythm that he was almost there too. You made to reach down with one hand, practically sobbing with need, fingers seeking out your clit but he smacked your hand away when he realised, circling an arm under you and pressing his own fingers against that particular sensitive spot. You closed your eyes and let him take over, manipulating your body to orgasm with ease. The pounding from behind and the circling at the front was all you needed and you came apart spectacularly, swallowing your moans down, knees shaking, legs jelly, being held up purely by his own hands as he thrust sharply a few more times and stilled, coming hard as you involuntarily clenched and unclenched around him.

He gave it a few seconds, milking the aftershocks with shallow thrusts, before pulling out, dragging your panties back up your legs and pulling your skirt down over your ass. You stood up experimentally, seeing how much your legs could take and you turned around just as he was tucking himself back into his sweatpants.

'Thanks for that, I feel much more loosened up now,’ you told him, collecting your bag from the floor where you had left it earlier.

'My pleasure,’ he grinned, 'Any time. Sharing my corner turned out to not be so bad after all.’

You walked away slowly, letting your hips sway just enough, knowing that he’d be watching you retreat.

'Hey!’ You heard his deep voice behind you.

'Yes?’ You answered, but didn’t turn around or stop walking.

'You didn’t tell me your name.’

You glanced back over your shoulder to see him still stood behind the chair, hands tucked in his sweatpants pockets.

'You don’t need it,’ you told him with a wink before disappearing into the stacks.

***

Chris sighed as he put his key into the front door of his home, already hearing Dodger’s paws rattling against the hard wood of the hallway floor.

'Hey boy, have you been good?’

'He’s been an angel, as always,’ an unmistakeable feminine voice filtered through from the sitting room.

Chris paused, ruffling Dodger’s fur, 'I didn’t think you’d be home yet.’

'I finished up earlier than I thought.’

Chris stood, walking through into the sitting room and seeing a pair of long legs dangling from under a skirt over the arm of one of the plush armchairs.

He leaned over the top of the chair to so he could see your face looking up at him.

'Oh yeah?’ Chris asked, grinning, 'And how was your trip to the library?’

'Extremely… satisfying,’ you returned his grin as his leaned down to press his lips to yours. Gentle, this time, reverent, 'What about you? Did you find what you needed?’

'A very fulfilling experience, I found,’ he spoke lowly against your mouth, 'I’ll tell you all about it later.’

[street-saint]

Giant Diaries, pt. 19

I take a few agitated breaths, trying to keep myself calm. I haven’t even gotten inside the warehouse and I’m already debating whether or not I’ve made a terrible mistake.

This is crazy! What was I thinking coming here alone?!

I try to shake these thoughts from my head and stay focused. I press myself up against the stone wall and peer around the next corner. Just beyond my position I see two large trucks. They appear to be designed for transporting large shipments. I assume this is what the truck Annielly and I were thrown into looked like. A chilling shiver rushes from my toes to my fingertips.

This has to be the place. Annielly is inside, I know it.

I didn’t expect it to be so easy to get this close. In my mind, I imagined armed guards, barbed wire, and steel doors. What I found instead was a rickety chain linked fence with a break that I had no trouble squeezing through. Teddy would have never been able to fit, so I feel better about telling her to stay behind.

Stay focused!

I take another peek around at the trucks. Behind them are two massive loading doors, one of which is wide open.

No way I’m walking in through the front door, so this is my best bet.

At that moment, I detect movement behind the truck. I crouch down even lower as I see a rugged looking Giant step into view. In the gap underneath the truck I can also see a second pair of legs. I’m glad I hesitated before rushing up closer.

I could maybe sneak around them by ducking behind the other truck, but they are too close to the loading door for me to climb up unnoticed.

How do I get past them?

Just then, I spot something on the ground next to the closest truck. It looks to be some kind of stone or debris, and I figure it’s my best chance.

I glance over at the Giant I can see. She’s circling around to the passenger side of the far truck and stepping up to the door. While her back is turned, I dart over to the other truck, keeping my head low. I scoop up the piece of debris without breaking stride, and duck behind the front-most tire.

I sit there and breathe for a moment, keeping my ears open for any sign that they might have seen me. But all I hear is the click of the truck’s door open and the sounds of rummaging inside. I carefully stand enough to steal another glance at the vehicle. I can see both Giants now, but the second one just stands below the first, seemingly waiting for her to finish getting whatever she’s searching for.

I take this opportunity to inspect the thing I picked up. It actually looks to be a shard of stone that was chipped off the side of the outside wall. I guess that maybe the truck drove in a bit too close as it was docking. However it got there, it has a good amount of weight to it, so I figure it will do the job just fine.

One last look at the two Giants shows them having a quiet conversation amongst themselves.

It’s now or never.

I take a sharp, determined breath and hope for the best. I then toss the stone shard as hard as I can straight up in the air, and dart towards the rear end of my truck.

The stone lands with an echoing bang on the truck’s hood, and I am just in time to peek around the side to get a look at the reaction.

Both Giants jump up in surprise and start to jog over toward my truck. As they do, I zip over to the back of theirs, staying as low as I can.

“What the hell was that?” I hear one of them ask as they begin their examination of the scene.

I don’t bother looking over my shoulder, immediately leaping up to the lip of the docking ledge and climbing my way up onto the platform. Rushing into the building, I dart around the nearest corner, to find whatever cover I can.

I realize now that my heart has not slowed it’s pace since I got through the fence and onto the Gridlock property. It still thunders in my chest as I try to take in my new surroundings.

From what I can immediately see, it is a large, open warehouse. There are a series of industrial size shelving units in the distance, as well as what looks to be some kind of office several yards ahead of me.

Luckily for me, I see no one else around. Unfortunately, there is also nothing to hide behind anywhere near me. I feel completely exposed.

I quickly scan the area for the nearest source of cover. I see a stack of crates on the other side of the garage doors that seem to be my best option. And before I run the risk of the Giants outside coming back, I make my break over towards them.

I come in a bit hotter than expected, and use the crates to brace my stop. I bump them and the contents rattle inside a bit. I can see several rows of glass vials stored carefully inside the topmost crate. They look a bit different from the ones I have seen in the past, but the glinting blue color of the vials leave me no doubt that this is essence.

The sound of what seems like a heavy door slamming in the distance makes me jump, and I instinctively crouch lower behind the crate. I gaze out in front of me, scanning for any signs of life. I can’t see any movement, but I know I’m not alone here.

I don’t have much cover here. Best to keep moving.

I take another look deeper into the warehouse. To the north are the rows and rows of industrial shelves. Each one seems to be stocked with more of these crates filled with essence. It makes me a little sick to see the sheer scale of them. Essence does lose its potency over time, which either means Gridlock’s operation is highly inefficient, or that all of these vials are likely to be sold out in the next month or so.

This thought makes me even more sick, but I endeavor to push through it.

To the west of these shelves are what appear to be large metal silos of some kind. It’s difficult to tell their purpose from here, but right now they seem to be my best bet in terms of avoiding detection.

I take a final look around me. The coast still seems clear, so I hurry over to the metal silos. I keep my head down, and try to soften my footfalls as much as possible.

When I reach my destination, I quickly duck behind one of the massive metal tubes. Now that I am so close, I am able to get a good look at them. Each tube towers over my head and has various wires and other connection points blooming out of the top and sides. I crane my head around to get a look at the front of one of them, which is made up of a sheer pane of thick glass.

My heart sinks as my mind fills in the blanks of what this metal pod is actually for. I can’t help myself from leaning in for a closer look beyond the glass of the tube. Just as I feared, what I find on the inside is a humanoid figure with a small frame. Its arms are restrained above its head, and covering its face is a respirator-like mask with tubes that snake their way from it to various other points within the tube-like prison.

Teddy was not able to give much detail about the essence-collection devices, but it doesn’t take much more than a quick glance to recognize that that is exactly what each of these pods are for.

Without another thought, I rush over to the tube in front of me. The Sprite inside of it is alive, best I can tell, but she is unconscious.

I tap on the glass, calling out to her. “Hey! Hey! Can you hear me?” She does not move or respond.

I tap again. Nothing.

Completely comatose.

I’m not getting anywhere here.

I look around for any way to open the case, but there is no obvious latch or lock. I take a look at some of the mechanisms that attach to the pod. There are an intricate set of wires and tubes that connect to it, some of them pulsate with energy. I decide against tampering with any of these for fear of harming the Sprite inside.

I hang my head, defeated.

What if these things are connected to their breathing somehow? What if shutting it down kills the person inside?

Even if I knew how to get them out, how would I possibly find Annielly in one of these things? It will take me forever to search each one.

As I helplessly look up at the face of this Sprite, trapped inside this essence-sucking chamber, I can’t help but see Annielly. I am so close to finding her, but it still seems like an impossible task.

I suddenly feel a hand grasp my shoulder.

I want to jump in terror, but I can’t bring my body to move. Instead it feels as if it is just my soul that has leaped up and left my physical body behind.

I am frozen in fear as a voice behind me speaks, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

But the voice is not forceful or aggressive. Instead it speaks to me in a loud whisper; one that is somehow still soft and familiar.

I turn around. I see the face of a stern, yet concerned looking Sprite gazing down at me. “Did you just sneak in here? Are you insane?”

Without thinking, I reach my arms up to clutch the Sprite’s shoulders. “Can you help me? I’m looking for my friend.”

The Sprite is certainly shocked, but actually seems more panicked than anything else. She looks right, then left, searching for any other signs of life.

“Damnit,” she spits out. “Shut up and follow me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…