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demons-are-curing-my-depression · 3 years ago

Note

im curious how do people get their total strengths so high😭😭😭

It takes a while. Ya gotta keep leveling up the cards and their devil tree's. URs can get the highest strength scores because their max levels, without devil flowers unlocked, is 100.

In my 71 days of playing (it feels like it's been longer) I've managed to pull these UR/UR+ cards and have since leveled them up as shown below. I've only unlocked two Devil's Flowers and that was the SSR Levi - Levi the Tailor and the UR Luke - Pajama Party Night (both of which I liked the original art)

This is my first UR so it's the highest cause I used it for all lessons 1-20 (before the sin bonuses) and most after.

(it happened to be a UR+ which the + just means there's an animation with it. UR and UR+ are same in terms of stats) I've gotten the Devil Tree all the way to the Devil's Flower but haven't been able to unlock it yet.

However this is my most recent UR pull (and notice it's weaker than some SSRs at the moment - see second photo)

It doesn't matter how many URs you have but which sins. I could have 10 for pride and still not be able to get past some levels if they don't call for pride cards.

I'm currently stuck on Lesson 29-4 which calls for (little hard to see cause they pulsed as I took the screenshot) Envy and Pride.

Now my recommend shows my Highest Envy(a UR+), Highest Pride(an SSR) then Highest in general(UR+). Ideally I would have more Envy or Pride UR cards and it wouldn't have that Wraith card there.

I would also have more good memory cards. I don't actually have any UR memory cards yet.

My suggestions

For leveling up cards

Avoid Quick Clears whenever possible (preferably when you can Skip instead) otherwise your cards don't gain any EXP (and you get less rewards). It may seem like they only get a little but it does add up over time even though it'll seem like it takes forever the higher the level.

When possible level up cards when it'll cost less Grimm. i.e. if a card's EXP bar is 3/4 of the way filled it's cheaper to level them up to that next level now rather than paying for the entire bar.

Keep an eye on card's level max if you haven't reached the Devil's Flower yet. If you reach the max and use the card it's a waste because they gain no EXP. I try to make sure my max is at least 10 higher than the current level.

For Getting URs (/getting Demon Vouchers)

If there's a UR card in an event you really want do your best to work your way through rewards (even though F2P players literally cannot complete all three pages without paying or saving up a lot of Devil Points/Energy) in 6 months the event (unless it's a birthday event) will be on Lonely Devil and you can restart the reward list and get more card pieces. Yes this is a much longer method but it's a free method (besides the 10 Devil Points to take the "trip")

Save up Raven and Devil Points whenever possible. It will take a while but you need to get those demon vouchers. (45 Raven gets you one voucher & 30 DP gets you one voucher at Akuzan.)

Opt for the 10 pulls at once option as you're gaurenteed to get at least one SSR. Instead of using 30DP for a pull in Nightmare, go to Akuzan and get vouchers. Save up the vouchers instead.

When you run out of AP I know that offer for 200AP for 10DP looks tempting but make sure you're aware of your current exp level progress and the amount of DP you'd be left with after that 10 because if you happen to level up you get the 99DP offer which gives you 5 Demon Vouchers (and it'll fill your AP again when you level up anyway).

Getting through events with a lot of rewards - or getting enough AP

Take advantage of Levi's Boot Camp. Those rewards stay for a week after the event ends and usually happen before a big event (the week after the event ends overlaps with the big event start). Don't use the AP rewards until you need them for the big event.

Check your To-Do. A lot of AP comes from using a certain person in battle a lot. See where you're close to getting a reward and try to focus on those.

Don't immediately use AP from your To-Do. They have no expiration date (only things in your mail and event rewards do). Use them only when you really need them.

Remember you can get 120 AP a day from Fridge Missions (I legit have an alarm on my phone so I don't miss those).

When getting reward AP from events make sure you need the AP. Don't get a 100 AP reward if you only have enough battles left in the event for that day for 30 AP. That's 70 you could have used on the next day and 70 that won't auto refill as you wait for the next day. (I phrased that weird but hopefully you understand what I mean by that.)

...

I'm sure you didn't expect this super big answer, sorry ^^" got a little carried away...

#answered ask #went a little overboard with my answer sorry #obey me #obey me tips?#I'm a noob idk why im giving advice im on fricken lesson 29 and there's 60 of them now

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doctordiscord123 · 5 years ago

Text

Just Desserts

Dark wakes up alone in an unfamiliar place, confused and in pain, with no idea of what happened.

Commission Info | Buy me a ko-fi

Tags: @demon-dark-666 @devon-rever-860 @smash-ash26 @bender-of-life @verse2wo @vociferous-chaos @wraiths-home @itsjustkyss @takethepainawaybae @ts-famderartist @rottingmolars @revolutionbastard @toothfairy2298 @sororia04s @sirkawaiipotato @darkest-shade-of-light @bitchbyebibye @posts-random-art @xoskeletonkid If you want to be added to the list, just let me know! :D

Warnings: Kidnapping, Serious Injury Pairings: None Characters: Darkiplier, The Actor Word Count: 1890 words

He didn’t know where he was.

Dark woke with a soft grunt of pain, head throbbing, tongue thick in in his mouth. There was a dull ringing in his ears, but it wasn’t the soft ringing that usually followed him around. This was internal. He felt -- disoriented, confused, his broken body aching, more than usual, and that damned ringing only exacerbated the throbbing in his skull.

With another soft grunt, Dark tried to shift position, tried to lie down, take some of the pressure off his shoulders. It took a minute for those thoughts to fully register in his own head. ...He’d been asleep, right? So...why wasn’t he already lying down? And what pressure would there be on his shoulders, even if he was sitting for whatever reason. There shouldn’t be. And yet there was, his arms hands pulled behind him awkwardly, the position sending jolts of pain prickingling through his shattered and dislocated shoulders with every slight shift.

...What had happened? Where was...

Panic was beginning to build in Dark’s chest, though it was slow, too slow, but stifling nonetheless as he found he had no way to express that panic. His body wasn’t responding, not really, still waking up and lagging behind his mind. Though his rising panic was helping, even as a weight, an unbearable pressure was building in his chest. He needed to move, needed to wake up, needed to do something --

Finally, finally, Dark’s eyelids began fluttering. He struggled to get them open, and it took longer than he was able to stand, but once they were open, he kept them open, ignoring the lethargy in his body that wanted to drag them shut again. Next, he worked on lifting his head, his chin resting against his chest and straining his broken neck. Another slow process, but it went quicker as his body woke further.

Eyes open, head lifted, Dark was finally able to try and piece together whatever the Hell was going on.

He was in -- some...house? A tug on his wrists and a glance up revealed he was tied to a pillar, some ornamental structural support. A glance to his right revealed some sort of open living room, with a fireplace and a big TV and visible hallways leading around both sides of that wall the fireplace was embedded in that presumably went to the rest of the house. To his left, there was an equally open kitchen, and a door to what looked like a back porch. It -- looked like a nice place. Dark himself sat on a hardwood floor, feet bare, and -- wearing his pajamas. Why -- what happened?! Why did his head hurt so Goddamn bad, where the fuck was he?!

Dark was breathing hard, hyperventilating, before he truly realized what he was doing. That panic had escalated into fear, as he kicked out and struggled, heels digging into the floor, ignoring the pain as he tugged sharply on his bound wrists, ignoring how the rope grated against his skin. As more of his senses came back to him, he realized he was gagged as well, a thick wad of cloth shoved in his mouth, another strip of cloth tied around his head to keep him from spitting it out. His eyes were blown wide, a desperate, almost animalistic look in them as he tried to break free --

He swallowed hard, breathing heavily but shakily through his nose as he forced himself to calm down. He could break out of this. He had his aura, nothing could hold him long if he just focused. He was fucking Darkiplier. A bit of rope and cloth couldn’t keep him prisoner.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back gently against the pillar.

He flexed his aura, imagining the living shadow coiling around him, imaging it snapping the ropes, tearing through his gag. Imaging it freeing him.

He imagined, but...

Nothing happened.

Dark’s eyes snapped open again, and his head whipped around, his feet scrabbling against the floor as he twisted and tried to catch a glimpse of his ever-present aura swirling behind him. Usually, it was always visible, at least in his peripherals. It was impossible to miss, especially in daylight like it was. Where was it, where was his aura, this was impossible, this couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t just be --

...gone.

Dark couldn’t help it. He made a broken, terrified sound, mostly muffled by the gag, as he slumped against the pillar. He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face between them, and tried not to outright sob as the fearful tears began to slide down his cheeks. His body burned as he fell still, every joint and broken bone alight with agony from his struggling, and Dark could only curse this mangled corpse he called a body as a single sob broke through.

And then a door opened.

Dark’s head shot up, trying desperately to stop his tears, as he heard a door open and slam shut somewhere. There was nothing else, save for the distant sounds of creaking floors that gave away movement. Dark’s breath caught in a lump in his throat, dread and fear and anxiety and panic and terror all settling and pooling solid in his gut. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run. He wanted to breathe, but he couldn’t do any of those things as the creaking grw louder, and footsteps began to reach his ears. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have his aura, his power was gone, what could he do, he was frozen, stiff, trapped --

He saw red.

Red, silken fabric, an all too familiar robe suddenly in his field of vision. A man with bare feet, that Godforsaken robe, and slicked back hair. His back was to Dark, he couldn’t see his face. He didn’t need to.

And then he saw the black.

An aura. Dark’s aura, that beautiful, powerful mass of writhing, swirling, living shadow surrounding his body. Like it was his to control. Dark’s eyes narrowed as he watched the hypnotic swirling, watched him waltz about the kitchen, looking for something, that fucking robe swishing about his ankles. He let his fury overtake everything else. Fury was easy. Rage was easy. Dark knew rage.

Fear he was less sure of.

And as the man turned around, Dark made sure to shove that fear deep, deep down.

“Oh good! You’re awake!” The Actor stepped closer, and crouched down in front of him, grinning wide, and tilting his head. Dark snarled, trying to curl up further, to get away from him, but his attempt only made the Actor laugh and ruffle his hair. “I knew Celine couldn’t have all the fire in the family, hm, Damien? You just need a little more time to light.” His grin grew wider, entering the territory of grotesque. “How did you sleep? Good, I hope? Perhaps not; I did hit you rather hard...” His hand suddenly cupped the back of Dark’s head, pulling a startled, pained cry from Dark as whatever wound was there burned at his touch. The Actor only shrugged. “I tried to get you while you were sleeping naturally, but you woke up as I was dragging you down the hallway. Good thing that friend of yours keeps a bat in his room, hm?” He winked, pulling his hand back away, and Dark scowled.

Dark made some sound through his gag, some attempt at words, but then the Actor’s hand was covering his mouth and pressing his head hard against the back of the pillar, aggravating that wound further. “Shhhh, Damien, there’s no point. That gag’s not coming out. I know how good you are with your words, you’re not sweet talking your way out of this.” He shifted his hand to pat Dark’s cheek twice, and Dark watching as what should be his aura curl around the Actor’s arm loosely, something so familiar to Dark he felt the phantom sensations along his own arm.

The Actor caught him staring, and turned to look over his shoulder, then grinned. “Oh, I bet your wondering how this happened.” His grin turned cold, his eyes colder, dead, empty. “Long and the short of it? That little thing with you? That little power source that helped you keep running? Kept you from falling apart?” He leaned in close, gripping Dark’s jaw, and whispering into his ear. “It’s mine now, Damien. And mine alone.” A deranged, mad little chuckle escaped him. “You’re all alone in there now. Two broken souls, in a broken body, with nothing to help filter their pain. I wonder if I...”

The Actor pulled back, and Dark didn’t have time to even think about the glint in his eyes before he was slamming his fist onto Dark’s left shoulder, the one with the shattered socket, and Dark screamed through his gag, every thought and emotion and feeling in his body overridden by agony. The ringing in his ears only grew stronger, deafening, but he still heard the Actor’s delighted laugh, and he did the same to Dark’s other shoulder, the one dislocated, adn the force of Dark’s screams and sobs hurt his chest. He didn’t dare move, not with his wrists bound as they were, he didn’t wan’t to injure his shoulders any further. The rest of his body felt numb in the wake of the wave of agony, tears pouring down his face. Two hits and already he felt so close to passing out...

“Ah ah ah, wakey wakey, Damien, stay with me.” The Actor was patting his cheek again, a little rougher, and Dark let out a weak sound, trying to turn away. He’d let his head simply dropped back to his chest, but the Actor’s other hand fisted tight in his hair made that impossible. Dark wanted to pass out. He wanted to pass out, he wanted to escape this all, he wanted this to just be some fucked up nightmare...

The distant, red glow in the Actor’s eyes, however, was all too real.

The Actor made a pitying noise, giving Dark a mocking pout as he dropped his hair in favor of holding Dark’s chin, forcing him to keep eye contact. “Aww, no need to look so forlorn, Damien! We’re going to have so much fun! When was the last time it was just the three of us together?”

Dark shot the Actor the strongest glare he could muster, but it fell on blind eyes as the Actor’s grin returned. “So much fun...for me, at least...Finally, I can get my just desserts...”

He slowly pulled a large kitchen knife from a pocket of his robe.

Dark watched in slow motion, helpless, broken, alone.

He didn’t have time to panic before the Actor was shoving the blade through the center of his chest with one, powerful push.

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t feel the pain. It was a strange feeling, as he felt the blade pierce through the skin of his back. His eyes wide. Breathing halted. It was a pulse in his chest, like the illusion of his long-dead heart still beating out a rhythm. The Actor leaned forward, sliding the blade deeper into Dark’s flesh, his breath a ghost on Dark’s skin, his voice a whisper barely audible through the cacophony of nothing in his skull..

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

#darkiplier #the actor #actor!mark #actor mark #kidnapping #injury #head injury #knives #chronic pain #my writing

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wordsysayswords · 5 years ago

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After picking Wash up on Sidewinder, it's going to take everyone a while to get used to the new living arrangements. Especially Wash, who's a bit directionless now that he's finally free of the Project. Tucker doesn't care for Blue Team's new leader. But he can't help noticing some of the man's odd habits and wondering what caused them.

Part 2: Sleeping Habits

It hits Tucker that violently shaking the sleeping Freelancer out of a nightmare might be an exceptionally stupid idea at the exact same time Washington headbutts him in the nose.

Or, Wash wakes up swinging.

Washington is ten different kinds of weird.

First of all, after he was done being unconscious from blood loss following the shit show on Sidewinder, the man didn’t sleep for three days. Tucker knows because he didn’t sleep for two. At the time, Tucker wasn’t confident Washington wasn’t going to murder them in their beds. But the knowledge that Wash was healing from a fuck load of broken ribs and other injuries—forcing him to move around the base in a distinctly painful-looking shuffle—made Tucker feel a bit safer. That and keeping his sword under his pillow while he slept.

Then there’s the fact that Washington might be the lightest sleeper Tucker’s ever encountered. A few days after Wash starts actually sleeping, Tucker is sitting awake in his room reading. He sneezes, and ten seconds later, Wash is standing in the doorway like the creepy omen of death he is.

Tucker startles so hard he almost falls off the bed.

“Jesus shit!” Tucker hisses, grabbing his chest. “Have you ever heard of knocking? Or, I don’t know, breathing?”

“I heard something,” Wash says dully, not moving from where he stands in the shadows of the hall. Hunched and pale from his injuries, the man looks like a fucking wraith.

“I sneezed,” Tucker tells him. “You come all the way here to say ‘bless you?’” Washington’s room is at the opposite end of the hallway.

“Oh,” Wash says quietly. “Okay.”

With that, the man turns and fades back into the darkness. A few moments later Tucker hears Wash’s door click shut.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Tucker mutters and goes back to reading.

A week into the new sleeping arrangements, Tucker wakes up to a figure standing over his bed.

Tucker lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek, clawing at the blankets. He’s surprised it took Wash a full seven days to want to strangle him with his own bedsheets. For most people, it only takes about twenty-four hours—

“Tucker,” Caboose shushes. “It’s me.”

“Caboose,” Tucker growls, trying to get his heart rate back under control. He heaves a breath. “I swear to god, I’m gonna count to three, and the mustard better be back in the fridge.”

“I am not doing...that thing I did not do that time...this time,” Caboose says. “It’s Church.”

“Church?” Tucker blinks a few times before scowling. “You mean Agent Washington.”

“It’s Agent Washington.” Caboose corrects, deflating slightly. His hands wring the front of his t-shirt. “He is making noises.”

Tucker rolls over, cocooning himself in the blankets. “Then tell him to keep it down.”

Caboose prods at his back. “Nooo, Tucker. They are not good noises.” He pauses. “I think Agent Washington is not very okay.”

Tucker grits his teeth. He doesn’t give a flying fuck how “not very okay” Wash is. But Tucker should at least make sure those noises aren’t the Freelancer loading a pistol to shoot them all.

“Fine,” Tucker grumbles, tossing the covers aside. “Where’s he at?”

“His room.”

That’s unusual. It’s after three in the morning, and Wash is usually up wandering the base by now with a lost look on his face.

“Go back to bed,” Tucker tells Caboose. He stashes his energy sword in the pocket of his pajama pants and heads for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Caboose nods and shuffles off to his own room, while Tucker heads for Washington’s.

Halfway down the hall, Tucker hears it. Whimpering.

The sound stops Tucker in his tracks. He strains his ears because he’s gotta be hearing things but no, there it is again. A dragged out whine followed by a strangled gasp.

Tucker rocks back and forth on his heels. He’s got half a mind to turn around and go back to bed—maybe close Caboose’s door on the way so the noises don’t carry and wake him again.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Tucker mumbles. He eyes the door at the end of the dark hall.

Tucker hadn’t thought this far ahead when he’d agreed to let Wash come home with them. In Tucker’s defense, he’d been really fucking tired at the time. It had been a long, shitty day, and he was sore, and his fingers were numb with cold, and he just wanted Caboose to stop talking (“Can we keep him? Please, Tucker? Can we? Please, please, please?”).

A high keening sound, louder than before, floats down the hall. Tucker winces, eyeing the door at the end of the hall.

Washington isn’t his friend. They’re hardly acquaintances. Wash barely speaks when spoken to, relying mostly on noncommittal shrugs to communicate. Okay, sure, Tucker hasn’t exactly been putting effort into becoming besties with the guy, but he’s a weird, spacey murderer. Who would jump to make friends with him? Well, Caboose, but that’s not the point. The point is, Tucker really doesn’t want to deal with whatever the hell Wash has got going on.

So, why’s he opening the door to Washington’s room?

Wash, Tucker thinks, sleeps like a dead person.

He’s flat on his back, and his arms and legs are pulled in tight like he’s lying in a coffin, one hand tight against his chest while the other snakes under his pillow. Even in the dim light, Tucker can see Washington’s stiff as a board. He’s on top of the covers despite the chill of the room, and every inch of him is tense and trembling so hard Tucker’s muscles ache in sympathy. Wash tosses his head against the pillow, a low whine escaping his throat. Tucker finally remembers how to speak.

“...Hey, uh,” Tucker whispers. He clears his throat and tries again louder, “Washington?”

His face screws up in pain, sweat-damp hair sticking all directions. He lets loose a long, shuddering gasp that echoes off the bare cement walls. No wonder Caboose woke up.

Tucker edged towards the bed. “Dude, are you, like, fucking dying? Cause that’d kind of suck…”

Tucker can hear his teeth grinding as the man clenches his jaw and shudders away from something unseen. His hands claw at the blankets. He’s shaking head to toe. It’s like something out of an exorcism movie—even before Wash throws back his head and screams.

Tucker jumps back. “Holy mother—fuck! ”

But Wash keeps on howling like he’s being burned alive, raising the hair on the back of Tucker’s neck.

“Hey, fuck, Washington—come on!” Tucker shouts. He fumbles for Wash’s shoulder. “You need to cut it—”

It hits Tucker that violently shaking the sleeping Freelancer out of a nightmare might be an exceptionally stupid idea at the exact same time Washington headbutts him in the nose.

Pain explodes through Tucker’s face, blinding him. Something slams into his chest so hard the air is ripped from his lungs and his feet leave the floor. He crashes to the concrete on his ass. The back of his head hits the floor, rattling his teeth.

Maybe Tucker blacks out for a second or maybe he just blinks, but the next thing he knows Agent Washington his kneeling on his chest with a hand to his throat.

“Fuck—” Tucker gasps but is quickly cut off when Washington presses down on his windpipe.

“Washin...” Tucker chokes, “dude—get off. It’s me…”

Tucker paws at Freelancer’s wrist, but the man doesn’t flinch. Washington’s eyes are unfocused, staring straight through his teammate and sending cold crawling up Tucker’s spine. Washington might be awake, but nobody’s home. His face is expressionless even as his chest heaving with every breath. Wash’s hand grips Tucker’s throat—not enough to cut off his air, just enough to keep him down. Where’s his other hand—oh fuck.

Tucker almost shits himself right then and there because Washington has a fucking knife raised above his head.

Tucker’s hand flies to his pocket, grabbing for his sword. It’s out of reach.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Where’s Wash going to land the blade? His face? His chest? Oh, god, make it quick. Caboose and Junior will be so upset.

One second. Two seconds. Tucker sneaks a peek up at the Freelancer. Wash is frozen in place, knife still raised above his head, but Tucker can see the hand shaking.

“Washing—” Tucker tries, but the hand at his throat twitches, and he shuts up. Tucker’s pulse pounds in his ears. Those hazy eyes aren’t getting any clearer, still panicked and unseeing.

Tucker swallows hard. He’s not stupid enough to think he can win a fight with Wash—especially pinned down without his sword.

Slowly, with shaking hands, he lets go of Washington’s wrist and lays his hands back against the floor. A gesture of surrender.

“Wash,” Tucker breathes. Wash shudders ever so slightly but doesn’t tighten his grip so Tucker keeps going. “Wash. It’s me. Tucker. It’s...okay. You’re okay.”

Washington sucks in a breath. It’s almost impossible to see in the dark room, but Tucker thinks there is a flicker of life in those blank eyes. Tucker keeps perfectly still, stomach-churning. He suddenly becomes aware of the blood oozing from his nose and streaming down either side of his face.

“I need,” Tucker whispers, “you to. Drop. The. Knife.”

Wash is trembling from head to toe now, gaze locked on Tucker’s throat. Tucker can’t breathe, and it has nothing to do with Wash’s grip on his windpipe.

“Wash, wake up.” Tucker’s murmurs turning into pleads. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Tucker? Church?”

Wash’s head shoots up. His eyes fly to the door as Caboose creaks the bedroom door open. Tucker makes his move.

Oh, please don’t kill me, Tucker thinks wildly as he raises a fist and brings it down on the back of Wash’s neck—hard.

It was something that kept coming up when Doc was piecing the Freelancer back together after the fight with the Meta. No one touches the back of Wash’s neck. Doc only made that mistake once, and if Wash hadn’t been suffering from a pretty serious concussion, the Freelancer probably would have snapped the medic’s wrist clean in half. The whole area is a mess of neat surgical scars, jagged scar tissue, and frightening looking metal implants that look a lot more...experimental than the tidy ones the sim troopers are outfitted with. It hurts like hell to look at.

And Tucker’s betting it feels a lot worse to have someone bury their fist in it.

The effect is instant. Wash seizes up and crumples. Tucker kicks his legs, catching the man in the stomach, and hurls him off of him.

Tucker scrambles to his feet and collides with Caboose on his way to the door.

“Fucking Christ,” he wheezes. Tucker clutches at the hulking soldier’s shirt to keep his shaking legs from giving out. “Christ fuck…”

Caboose’s eyes are wide, looking down at Tucker and then across the room.

“...Church?” He asks, voice too small for such a hulking soldier.

Tucker follows his gaze.

Washington is hunched on hands and knees with one white-knuckled hand gripping the back of his neck. His forehead is pressed to the floor as ragged gasps are dragged out of him—like he was the one that almost got fucking choked out.

“What the fuck?” Tucker wheezes, wiping at his nose and smearing blood across his face.

Washington jolts violently and scrambles away from them, pressing his back to the wall. He blinks around the room as if he’s just woken up, his eyes landing on Tucker and Caboose, and his breath catches for a moment. Then his eyes flicker down to the knife on the floor at his feet.

“O-oh, god” he breathes, voice hoarse from screaming. His arms curl around his head, and his knees are pulled to his chest. “W-what-t did I-I-I…”

“What the fuck?” Tucker says again, louder this time, and Wash flinches, pressing back against the wall like he’s trying to disappear.

“G-get…” Washington studders. He sucks in a long breath, and then,

“Get out!” Wash shouts.

“What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy fuck?” Tucker snarls back, happy to replace the fear bubbling in his chest with anger.

“Go away!” Wash screams, curling even tighter into a ball. “Get away from me!”

Tucker grabs Caboose by the arm and drags him from the room. He slams the door shut behind them, sending a tremor rattling through the base.

“Psycho freak!” Tucker yells, and he shoves Caboose down the hall to his room.

Behind them, Wash’s lock clicks into place.

#red vs blue #rvb #agent washington #lavernius tucker #michael j caboose #fanfic #fan fic #fanfiction #fan fiction #angst #hurt/comfort #wordsywriteswords #wordsy writes words

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scapegrace74-blog · 7 years ago

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The Wraith

A/N: To wrap up my 31 days of writing (almost) every day, I thought I’d write my first self-contained story. And given that it’s Hallowe’en, I tried to make it scary. I’m not 100% satisfied with the result, but I’d love to hear your thoughts. And thank you to all of you who’ve liked and commented and followed over the past month. It’s been great encouragement to continue bashing my forehead against the keyboard when I really ought to have been sleeping!

Tagging @fictober and @today-in-fic

It was into the wet-wool depths of medicated slumber that the sounds first intruded. The soft scuff of sock-clad feet. A floorboard’s complaint.

Dana Scully ascended through layers of torpor, a foreign sense of rightness greeting the day’s beginning. It was after 8am, though the light was still dim. The heavy geometrical masses of her furniture seemed cast in monochrome. She’d apparently silenced her alarm and would soon be late for work, but instead of dismay, an ember of contentment burned. Rather than question the feeling, she lay adrift in her derelict bed.

Laughter, soft as ashes falling, came from beyond the hall.

Slowly, she lowered her bare feet to the chilled floor, oddly bereft of apprehension. Her weapon lay idle on the nightstand as she made her way to the living room. Pale grey light suffused the room. Nothing seemed amiss. A dream. The Lorazepam she started taking during her cancer treatment now eased her into oblivion each night, and with it came haphazard images that faded into wakeful fogginess. As a contraindication, loss of memory was something she willingly suffered. There was more that she’d prefer to forget than remember.

Resigning herself to plodding heavy-footed through the motions of her workday, she walked to the kitchen. Even if her spirit was missing, her body could still go through the motions of making coffee. Halfway into the room, she froze. Sitting at her table was a little girl.

“May I have Cornflakes for breakfast, Dana?”

The FBI bullpen was not conducive to heavy thinking. By mid-morning, Mulder had fled its mayhem for an empty interrogation room. Once there, feet propped up on a second chair under the tonal hum of the overheads, he untethered his thoughts and allowed them to flow freely through whatever channels tempted. It had been his experience that insights were best grasped when approached obliquely. There was no point in asking “what’s wrong with Scully, and how do I fix it?” Like Scully, those questions resisted his direct inquiry like a stone wall resists a beam of light. Like water, he would have to seep if he wanted to loosen her mortar.

It was understandable and even desirable that Scully mourn her many losses: father, sister, her vigourous health to cancer (although thankfully that was in remission), a biological daughter she had barely known, her fertility. Christ, just reciting the list was enough to make him weep. The issue wasn’t that she was now dressing like a Hutterite with a good tailor, either; or that she ate barely enough to nourish a small bird and approached their new assignment without her usual dogged sense of duty. No, what was bothering him about Scully is that she seemed … rudderless. As though she no longer saw a path forward in her heretofore stalwart march through life. And a Scully without direction was a Scully that scared him shitless.

If he was scared, how must Scully feel? Scully, who sought order and meaning in all things. Scully, whose need to categorize and compartmentalize her emotions was legend. Scully, who hadn’t unpacked her small box of personal effects after moving it upstairs from their former X-Files office. Scully, who still hadn’t made an appearance this morning, despite never being late for work, even when she was dying…

He leapt to his feet and made for the parking garage. In the hallway, Agent Coleman accosted him:

“Hey, Spooks. Where’s the missus? Don’t tell me she finally left you.”

Ignoring Coleman entirely, except for the curdling in his gut, he trotted the rest of the way to his car and made haste for Georgetown. His windshield wipers beat a rhythm to his litany: pleasebethere, pleasebethere, pleasebethere.

It was still October, but a windstorm had prematurely stripped most of the foliage, leaving bare arthritic branches, sap still pumping uselessly through the wood. He parked lawlessly a few blocks from her building and stalked, jacketless shoulders hunched against the cold mist, down the graphite sidewalk. A startled motion drew his gaze skyward just as a murmuration of starlings alit from a row of barren streetside maples, rising like a liquid Mobius strip of wings. A portent, the Romans would say. An omen. He quickened his pace.

At her door, he deliberated on whether to knock first, or simply let himself in. Barely able to abide the extra thirty seconds of unknowing, he rapped quickly, and felt his adrenaline-bound muscles start to accordion when her answering footsteps approached.

“Scully.” She was still in her pajamas and bore telltale kohl-like smudges beneath her eyes, but she appeared well. She was even smiling.

“Mulder, hi. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you. I’m having a … well, it’s a good thing you’re here.”

“I’m just relieved you’re alright. When you still weren’t there after Kersh’s morning rounds, well … I just needed to know you were okay.”

“I’m fine. Good, in fact. Mulder, the weirdest thing happened this morning, and if you come in, I’ll tell you about it. Or rather, I’ll show you.”

“You know me, Scully. Weird is my specialty.” He was feeling better, having seen her. Able to joke with her again. Maybe she just needed to take the day off. He could hardly begrudge her that.

“Well, this is pretty weird, even by your standards. Come into the kitchen – I want you to meet someone.”

Perplexed and perhaps a bit put off by the fact that Scully was entertaining a guest in her pajamas with no make-up, he made his way cautiously to the kitchen. An empty cereal bowl and a half-drunk glass of orange juice were laid out on the table, but there was no other sign of occupation.

Scully stood by the doorway, her bloodshot eyes shining brightly, and gestured toward the empty kitchen chair.

“Mulder, I’d like you to meet Lily.”

Her breath was sticking beneath her ribs, as though frozen. A whir of shock like startled birds beat in her ears.

“I don’t understand, Mulder. She’s right here. Sweetie, say hello to Mulder.”

“Hello, Mr. Mulder,” Lily replied in her whispery voice.

He shook his head. “Scully…” He was using his hostage negotiation voice. The one pitched just right, so that children, battered women and psychopaths could hear his vulnerable sincerity. God, which one did he think she was?

“Mulder! Mulder, she’s right here. Lily…” her mind scrambled to think of how to prove the existence of something… someone… that Mulder could not see. “Lily, lift up the glass on the table. Lift it up in the air.”

“No. I don’t like him. He makes you upset. I don’t like it when you’re upset, Dana.” The child’s voice was sing-songy, yet chilly with resentment.

“He doesn’t usually… I’m only upset because I need him to believe me, Lily.”

“Scully, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning? When did you start to see Lily?” He tried to divert her rising hysteria.

She was indignant. After all the things he’d expected her to believe without tangible proof, why couldn’t he believe her now? She had to make him see. This little girl needed her. “I woke up late. I must have slept through my alarm. I heard noises in the apartment, and when I came out to investigate, I found Lily sitting in my kitchen. She asked me for Cornflakes.” Here her voice broke. It had felt so good to be needed, to not be the needy one anymore.

“How did she get into your apartment?”

“I… I don’t know. I… Lily, how did you get into my apartment?” Why couldn’t she remember?

“You let me in.”

“No. No, I didn’t. I was asleep and when I woke up you were in my kitchen.” Oh, god. What was going on? What was wrong with her?

“Dana, you let me in. I knocked on your door after I escaped from the bad doctors, and you opened it. You were wearing your pajamas. You said you were tired, so you went back to sleep.”

Sleepwalking? She must have been so heavily medicated from the Lorazepam that she let Lily into her apartment without fully waking. Of course!

“Mulder, Lily says I let her into my apartment last night. I must have been so out of it, I didn’t remember doing it.” There. That was an irrefutable explanation for Lily’s presence.

“What does she call you, Scully?”

“What?”

“You heard me. What does she call you?”

“She calls me Dana. Why is that important?”

“Did you introduce yourself to her as Dana?”

A shattering wind chime noise, and she and Mulder both jumped. Orange juice spread across the linoleum tile, pooling around the knife-edged fragments of glass.

He had thought slowly losing Scully to cancer had been his darkest nightmare. This was ten times worse. He knew these cases – hell, he had a doctorate in these cases - and they seldom turned out well. Post-traumatic stress disorder, enantiodromia, a psychotic break: call it what you will, the end result was seeing Scully during weekend visiting hours and making certain he didn’t buy her anything serrated for Christmas.

It was difficult applying his clinical training to a situation that threatened to upend what little stability his life afforded. But he knew he had to keep Scully from getting agitated, and that she needed professional care, which first meant coaxing her away from her apartment.

Scully was on her knees, carefully picking up the shards of tumbler and placing them in newspaper for safe disposal. It was such a deliberate, Scully-like gesture that it seemed almost normal, were it not for the fact that she continued to carry on a one-sided conversation with the non-existent Lily.

“Scully, what does Lily look like? Does she remind you of anyone?” He needed her to trust him, to see that he was on her side.

She stood and arched her back, buttons straining “She’s maybe six or seven years old, a little bit small for her age, with a very serious expression. Her skin is … it’s like it’s glowing. Hyaline. And her eyes are … before I thought her eyes ressembled Emily’s, but now I see they’re more like Melissa’s. So innocent and all-seeing. And her hair looks like fire. It’s rippling like flame.”

“She sounds beautiful. I wish I could see her. Can you think of why I can’t?” Maybe he could appeal to her with a problem statement requiring diagnosis.

“Oh, Mulder, that’s more your area of expertise. Aren’t there… spirits, that make themselves known only to certain people. People who are meant to see them? Listen to me! I’m advocating for the presence of a ghost in my own apartment, and you probably think I’m insane.”

“I don’t think you’re insane, Scully. I’m just worried about you. The Lily you just described to me – she sounds like a fetch, or maybe a tulpa. An apparition that signifies a kind of supernatural upheaval or ferment for the person who sees them. If that’s the case, it’s not safe for you to stay here in your apartment. Once you’re someplace safe, I can have the Gunman…”

“LILY! Oh my God, honey, what have you done?” She was staring at the floor in horror. As she rushed from the room, Mulder noticed there were drops of blood on the newspaper. Scully must have cut her hand on the glass.

“I’m cold, Dana. I really want a bath.” Lily was whimpering, the deep cut across her palm from the broken glass now carefully bandaged.

“Lily, I’m not sure that’s …”

“Cold. I’m so cold.” For a moment, she heard her own voice, echoing across time. Shaking her head as though to clear the fogginess, she relented and started to run the bath.

Calling out to Mulder, who loomed beyond the bathroom’s threshold, “Mulder, I’m just going to give Lily a bath. Then we can talk some more, okay?”

“Make him go away, Dana. I don’t like him. He’s not a nice man. Everyone he cares about gets hurt.” Lily’s voice was whisper soft, reedy like a tune played in a minor key.

“Lily, Mulder is my friend. He’s here because he wants to help m.. us. I’m not going to ask him to leave. I’ll close the door. Would that make you feel better?”

Inside the sealed vault of the bathroom, the running water echoed, and a mist began to rise and obscure the air. Lily lay prone in the large tub, her hair curling like firelight underwater.

When Scully was a girl, her father had told her the Greek myth of the daughters of Danaus, the first shipbuilder. Fiercely loyal to their father, the Danaides murdered their unwanted bridegrooms on their wedding night rather than sacrifice their virginity. Banished to Tartarus for their crimes, they were condemned to try to fill a punctured vessel with water for all eternity. That was her lot – doomed to fight a never-ending battle as punishment for doing what she was told. Too loyal to quit. Too stoic to complain. Too principled to find an easier path.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Dana.” Lily’s odd, phrenite eyes glowed like beacons. A heavy lethargy pulled Scully forward towards the water. The noise of the tap grew louder and louder, the sound of boulders crashing downhill.

“Come back with me, and we can all be together again.” Across the water’s surface, a kaleidoscope of images glistened like oil: Ahab, Melissa, Emily, her younger, carefree self. An oceanic rumble filled every corner of space. It would be so easy to fall into its tearful embrace…

Pacing between the front door and sofa, Mulder searched desperately for a solution that didn’t involve dragging Scully, kicking and screaming, to the nearest psychiatric facility. He’d never seen such an intense delusional state come on so quickly, without an outside trigger like drugs or a cataclysmic psychological event.

From beyond the bathroom door, the water ran and ran. It seemed like Scully had been in there forever. He approached the door and was about to knock when a gnathal, grinding noise emerged from within.

“Scully!” He tried the door, but it was locked. Slapping the wood repeatedly with an open palm, he bellowed, “Scully, answer me!” Taking a step backwards, he kicked the lock loose from the mortice and barreled into the cloudy room.

At first he saw nothing but brume, the mist lit with an eerie subterranean light. Making his way by sound to where the bathtub continued its liquid dirge, he almost fell over Scully’s kneeling form. Her face hovered just above the water’s turbid surface, the wet lashes of her hair swirling like arterial blood. He grabbed her shoulders and tried to pull her to safety, but an immense weight called her back down.

A frustrated wail rose from his throat, pulling along all his sorrow and guilt as it ascended. He hauled against Scully’s birdlike collar bones so hard she would wear traces of his fingers like a necklace. A sound like tearing sheet metal filled the room, and Scully’s body and whatever was pulling her downward separated with a fissile snap. Water exploded into the heavy air, then rained down like tears over their collapsed bodies. They lay folded into one another like origami on the flooded floor, rocking like anchored boats in a gale. Scully’s muscles twitched spasmodically, as Mulder cooed in her ear. “I won’t let you go, Scully. I won’t let you go.”

#fictober #my writing #x-files

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empressofnothing · 8 years ago

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A Wraith's Work

This is something I wrote for a contest. It is the final draft but if any one you have constructive criticism I'd be happy to hear it! I guess a trigger warning can apply as there is a semi violent scene so take caution! Hope you all enjoy! -- According to Millie, fall in Virginia was the most whimsical time and place in the world. She believed in the impossible, and if you asked the young woman, in what season would the impossible be made possible, she would say autumn. She knew the impossible could be made possible with a dream and maybe some pliers. She just wasn’t expecting the impossible to find her that day. She breathed in air that smelled of dreams and decaying leaves. An array of red, yellow, and brown made nonsensical paintings on the ground. She stepped on the leaves, feeling a childish satisfaction when the plants gave way in a song of crinkles under her feet. She grinned, ready to run like the wind when she tripped on her untied shoelaces. She toppled to the dirt. “Aw, man!” she growled. It was difficult to tie her shoes alone. She tucked the unraveling shoelaces into the sides of the shoe. She was rising to her feet, knees on the ground and her hand in the dirt, when she saw the hound. Her body reacted to the horrifyingly familiar sight in a split second. Her chest constricted. Her heart pumped so fast she felt it was ready to burst forth from her flesh. In her mind, she heard malign growls ripping from a muscular black and brown chest and saw disgusting strands of saliva dripping from a wicked maw. While her mind was muddled with the violent memory, she could not tear her eyes off the hulking black dog. It was larger than any dog she’d ever seen—bigger even than the taxidermied wolves she’d seen. Its long legs rippled with muscles. The black fur was horribly matted and long. She kept still, praying to God that the hound would move on without seeing her. God was not with her on this day. The hound, agonizingly slow, turned its head. Millie sucked in a painful breath when she was met with its face. The hound’s eyes were red. They weren’t bright, they didn’t glow—they were the color of drying blood. Her mind cried out. Demon, it said. Run. She gained control of her body and scrambled back, scraping the skin on her hand to the point where she felt blood. The dog began to take steps toward her, watching her with his impossible eyes. Her back hit a tree stump. She opened her mouth in a soundless plea and shut her eyes. She felt the hound draw close—so close she could smell its breath; breath that smelled of rot and nightmares. Millie shielded her face with a trembling hand and waited. “You’re not supposed to be here.” • Millie burst into the garage, almost stumbling over one of her Dad’s model airplanes. She slammed the button and the garage door began to close. She stood there, regretting her decision to skip school for the first time in her life in order to hike and enjoy the day---escape the world she hated. But it had all gone wrong. She glanced at the clock. It was 4:15. Under it was a calendar for 1991. Her Dad hadn’t gotten one for the New Year yet, even with it being October already. She walked into the house, hoping her father wasn’t home. The smell of chili wafted from the kitchen. He was home. Thoughts of the hound buried but not forgotten, she tried to sneak past the kitchen. “Millicent?” Her father appeared from the kitchen doorway. He was an older man, shown by his whitening beard. His hands, large, black, and weathered, carried a bowl. An apron was tied around his bulky middle. He was a muscular man, but Millie knew he was a fragile soul. Loud sounds made him dizzy and harsh words made him sullen. Her father, gentle giant that he was, cried over worship music and gleefully played with the toddlers at the daycare he worked at. Millie knew his rage was nothing to fear as it was nonexistent. But she knew he loved her more than anything, and his worry was hard to look at. “Your school called,” he began. “They said you weren’t counted present for the eighth hour.” “Yeah…I, uh, went to the woods.” “Why would you do that?” He paused, looking grave. “You aren’t doing anything… bad--are you?” He seemed to struggle for words. “No! Of course not Dad!” “Good. I know no one here would hurt you, but you’ve never done this.” “And I won’t do it again. Skipping school wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Kind of boring,” she said, thinking of the hound’s red eyes. “Good, good. Would you like some dinner?” he offered, stretching out the bowl towards her, childish hope on his face. “Sure Dad.” • The hound did not appear again until two nights later. Millie had been punished by the school for ditching, but it was held in the library, where Millie searched for answers. All she found was a Sherlock Holmes story. Stereotypically---like out of a horror film---the night was foggy to the point of blindness. Millie was dressed in her pajamas, and was finishing up feeding her tarantula, a gargantuan creature by the name of “Big Joe.” She liked creepy crawly things. Maybe they could bite her, poison her, but they couldn’t maul her arm to the point of necessary amputation. Millie didn’t like dogs. They were big, loud, smelly, and some were mean. She had a dog once, a little beagle named Toby, but he was long gone. Nor was he there to protect her when the rabid Rottweiler latched his teeth into the flesh of her arm. Race car posters covered the walls of her room, and she was headed to reposition one of a blue Formula One when she heard it—the howl. She scrambled out of bed. Out the window, nothing could be seen but gray, and the black of the moonless sky. She didn’t know what compelled her to force open the window and climb out. She just did. She also didn’t know why she ended up behind the graveyard. If wasn’t so deep in her trance, she would have scoffed at how typical the night was turning out. There was more to this graveyard however. It was not what it seemed from the outside. In front, was the regular cemetery where those recently passed were buried. Behind, was a burial ground of the past. And not just a burial ground, an execution sight. Slaves who were unlucky enough to be caught in escape attempts were hung at this location and buried without markers or a funeral or any thought to the fate of their poor souls. She’d never been here. Her father had. A descendant of slaves, he believed it was important to know their people’s history and honor them. The fog was thick, almost blinding her to the tall trees around her, but not to those red eyes. “You,” she stammered. The hound watched her. They stood there, staring at the other for what seemed an eternity, before Millie felt she had the wits to speak once more. “Who are you?” she asked. The hound answered. “I’ve been called many things. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. I’ve been called the Devil himself.” “Are you? The Devil, I mean.” “I could be, girl.” “My name is Millie.” “Your name is Millicent Abigail Green. You wish to race cars, and believe you someday will, despite your missing arm.” She grabbed the end of her right arm bashfully. “How do you know that?” “I know everything about everyone. And you were not supposed to see me in the woods.” “I…” “You are not marked. I do not understand why you saw me. And I, girl, understand everything.” For the first time, the dog’s voice betrayed a hint of emotion. Confused, and bordering on angered. Millie stood enraptured, fear flowing like blood throughout her body. “You’re not supposed to die,” the hound went on. “What?” she exclaimed. The hound slumped its shoulders and let out a faint breath that billowed white in the freezing air. When he spoke again, he sounded irritated. “I am here to claim a soul. You are not that soul.” Millie could not speak. “And I have no idea of what to do with you. I suppose I could leave you be, to wonder whether you have gone insane, no one believing your story—you scarcely believing it yourself.” He suddenly fell silent. “Then what will you do?” she asked. “I am bound by divine law to never harm a soul that is not marked for violent death.” “You’re a demon…” Millie whispered. “You could be right, you could be wrong. I could be a demon as well as I could be an angel.” “Well, what are you? I mean, what do you think you are?” The hound’s eyes flashed with something unintelligible. “I am everything, but I am nothing.” The hound, furrowing its brow as if confused at its own declare, turned and bounded into the woods, leaving Millie alone with the ghosts of violent histories and the encompassing fog. • Two days later, Millie sat on a colorful rug at the Rose Petal Daycare, watching her father play with a toddler girl. She was sketching in her notebook, a book filled with cars and spiders, a grim portrait of a black dog. “You be the mommy and I’ll be the daddy!” she heard the baby girl cry. “But I am a daddy,” her father said, laughing. “Well then, Ms. Madison can be the mommy!” Her father froze. “Sara…Ms. Madison left, remember?” he got out. “Oh...ok,” the girl said, faltering. Millie closed her sketchbook and walked to the bathroom, ignoring her father’s cry for her. She splashed water from the sink on her face and sucked in a heavy breath. Once she looked up, deep red eyes were staring at her. She screamed for a split second before throwing her hand over her mouth. The dog was closer to her than ever before and it took its toll on Millie, flashbacks to the rabid animal that took her arm running through her mind. “Your mother left you,” the hound said. Millie replied, trying not to sound pained, “Yes, she did. A year ago.” “Do you know why?” “No. Guess she got tired of us.” “I know. Would you like to?” “No.” “She seemed kind. She loved you, until she didn’t,” the hound observed, sounding confused. Millie asked why he sounded that way. “I understand the physical circumstance. I will never grasp fickle human emotions.” “And you never told me who was going to die,” Millie realized out loud. The dog sat back against the brick wall. “I cannot tell you. It is unnatural.” “Unnatural how?” “A human knowing the future can only bring about turmoil in your world.” “My world? Where are you from?” The hound answered. “Heaven. Hell. Purgatory, perhaps.” The hound’s face showed no emotion. He almost looked like a normal hound in that moment, despite his size and girth. He suddenly stood and began to walk towards her. Millie jerked and jumped back, slipping on water on the floor. She fell back and curled down on the floor, tears pricking at her eyes and her lips curling. The hound closed in and Millie buried her face in her knees. “I am sorry.” When she summoned the bravery to open her eyes, the hound was gone. • 1979 was the worst year of Millie’s life. Toby had been a good dog. When he was hit, Millie had been watching. She recalled the screech of the tires, a sudden agonized yelp, and most of all, her mother’s arms wrapping around her. They buried the poor mangled animal on her grandparent’s property. Though her memories of the happy little dog were fading, Millie still visited the grave from time to time. It was only two months later that the rabid dog took her arm. Though her father claimed responsibility, she knew that it was her fault. She shouldn’t have left Grandma and Grandpa’s house. She had wanted to go home; she was tired and bored. When she saw the dog, she was ecstatic (memories of Toby were still fresh then) and approached him. Her young naïve mind did not take heed of the feral look in his eyes. She went to pet him and the dog opened its dripping mouth and sunk its teeth into the lower part of her right arm and thrashed its head from side to side, ripping open her flesh. She screamed. She cried. Her anguished sounds were what alerted her father. She did not remember much after that, but she knew that somehow, someway, the dog had let go and her father had shot it. Her flesh was mangled and torn and she was losing blood in copious amounts. As she sank into unconsciousness in her grandfather’s arms, who had picked her up and was rushing her to his truck, she caught sight of red eyes in the trees. The doctors had apparently decided that the best course of action was to remove the mauled arm. Her wound was mostly near her wrist and the doctors took her right hand and a little bit of her arm. It would have been useless anyway, with its dead nerves and ripped tendons. Since that day, her heart leapt in terror at a lone bark, the hint of a sharp tooth, or even her neighbors walking their yellow lab puppy. She hated dogs. • Four days later, she asked her father why her mother had left. Madison Green had been kind, beautiful, and intelligent. When she left in the middle of the night, it had shocked the small community. Her father had chased after the car, yelling for her. Since that night, Jerome Green had been more vulnerable then he ever was before. “I don’t know, baby…it’s not worth thinking about. I don’t want you thinking about it, okay?” She had said yes, still thinking about it, and her father bid her goodbye and kissed her forehead, explaining that he had to grab milk from the corner store and that he would be back within twenty minutes. It had been a normal night enough. She watched television, fed Big Joe, and ate popcorn, hiding the evidence of her snack in the bottom of the trash can. She didn’t think much of the doorbell ringing. When she opened it, Officer David stood there. Upon hearing his words, Millie screamed. • The day of her father’s funeral came swiftly. Her grandparents hovered around her, as if they were terrified she would be taken from them the way their son had. It had been a robbery. Her father had tried to console the desperate man, only to be met with death. It was a horrible service. The music was too sad, the air was too cold, and the people were too sympathetic. And it lacked the presence of her mother, who hadn’t been found, despite the town’s attempts to find her and tell her that her husband had been murdered. After, Millie wandered into the forest, and sat down on the mulch. Twigs snapped and somebody sat next to her. She turned, and saw the hound’s dull red eyes. “You,” she said. “Millicent.” She and the dog stared at each other. “Why’d you have to do this?” Millie whispered. “It is my work.” Millie was silent, until she asked him the question she asked her father. “What happened to my mother?” The hound sighed. “Madison Green was contacted by an old lover, one from her school days. She was tired of her mundane life and went to him at his insistence. They are currently expecting their first child.” Millie pursed her lips and looked at the ground. “I thought she loved me,” she said quietly. “She does…but she does not.” Millie let out a nearly silent sob and then let herself go. She cried, she screamed, and she beat the ground with her fist. Sometime during this, the hound had moved closer, and when she came to, she was nuzzled into his muscular shoulder. “I think I know what you are,” she said to the hound. “And what do you think I am?” he asked softly. “You’re a wraith,” she told him. He was quiet. “I wish I was not.” Millie asked him another question which she knew the answer to. “I’m never going to be a racer, am I?” “No.” Millie rubbed her dripping nose on her black dress. “I think I’ve known that.” “But you will be something else, Millicent.” “What?” “I can’t tell you.” “Racing cars was my dream. I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Just because your dream is impossible, doesn’t mean you stop dreaming altogether,” the hound said quietly. Millie looked at him. He was looking at her with a strange look in his eyes. Wind blew through the trees. The cold burned her chapped nose and lips. Looking around, she realized they were at the slave graveyard, where they had their first conversation. “Do you have a name?” she asked him, as they sat on the graves of the dishonored men and women whose names were unremembered. “I was never given one.” Millie, her hands still wrapped in his fur, said, “How about Toby?” “You wish to name me after your annoying insect of a dog?” “Yes,” Millie answered without a second to spare. “I suppose if you wish,” Toby said, a glint of true happiness flashing through his face before he smothered it. “It is not a name fit for a wraith---for a monster.” Millie smiled. “I’ve always been fond of monsters.” She swore till the day she died that the hound smiled at this "I think I saw you. On the day I was mauled.” "I was there,” Toby confirmed. “You nearly died. I have…watched you since, though I never thought you would see me.” "Maybe God wanted me to see you.” "God. The gods. Perhaps the devil.” Millie laughed. His riddles bothered her no more. “Well, whoever’s out there wanted this,” she said to him. "I do not know who is out there,” he confessed. “But whoever they are, they are in possession of a nonsensical mind.” "Obviously, did you know that the light hitting us right now is thousands of years old? I mean, who even thinks of that?" They both looked up at the canopy of trees, where light was beginning to shine through the bare branches down onto their graveyard. "It does not make sense,” Toby said. "Maybe it’s not supposed to.” THE END -- This is a much more convoluted story than the word limit allowed, honestly. I wasn't given enough haha. In the end, I was trying to convey that the graveyard turned from a place of turmoil and grief to a place of happiness for Millie and the hound. I wasn't able to do all that I wanted to do in this, like delving into Madison's and Jerome's characters and relationships, and Millie's phobia of dogs, and the hound's character in general. The hound and Millie have a deeper relationship than what I was able to convey in this. And the town itself is a lot more supernatural in my head than in this. So this is just the bones of the story. It'll be a lot deeper if I revisit it someday. Thanks for reading!

#in which empress writes

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