#THIS man read as 'threat threat threat threat' despite it being daylight in a crowded subway.

[pangur-and-grim]

so I was followed back in March, and I think it's so cool & great that the TTC and Toronto Police did jack shit about this despite me contacting them with full documentation of the event :)

since nobody Official™ cares, I'll post the whole thing publically and be done with it. the progression was terrifying, and altogether it lasted 20 minutes.

it took place entirely on the subway. at first I was uncomfortable that a man was choosing to stand in front of me (I was seated) despite the ample space. then I notice he’s sneaking peeks at me. then I notice he’s STARING at me.

whatever, creeps exist. after 8 minutes we reach Yonge/Bloor, and with a LOT of relief I exit the car to change to an east-bound train. except that he follows me down the stairs, and stands beside me on the east-bound platform.

at that point it could still be coincidence, so I shrug and walk down the platform to put some solid distance between us. the next time I look up, he’s beside me.

adrenaline is starting to kick in. the train arrives, and I step into it, wait for him to follow inside, and then dart back out the door and enter a different train car. I’m again feeling a lot of relief, until I sit down, and see him directly in front of me making full eye contact. At this point I’m shaking from the adrenaline, hoping he’s just an old creep who gets off on scaring people and will leave once we reach his stop, except that the minutes are passing, we’re getting very close to my home station, and he’s still staring dead-eyed at me.

this is when I take these photos. in the first one, he doesn’t realize what I’m doing.

in this one, he’s clued in and is turning his face away. IMMEDIATELY after, he walks to the doors (standing with his back to me) and gets off at Broadview station.

I fully expect to see his face in the papers some day. I've lived in Toronto nearly my entire life, have had a man follow me off a bus and into a stairwell, been grabbed, shouted at, cat-called, propositioned, had my arm pulled back to prevent me from leaving an encounter, had people try to get me into cars, had a stranger follow me off an elevator to my apartment door asking for sex, etc, and NEVER have I gotten Bad Vibes as strong as this.

and yeah, I could've asked any number of people around me for help, but what if I hadn't noticed him? what if I'd been reading a book & oblivious to my surroundings, like I am 80% of the time on the TTC?

so anyway, really good that literally nobody I contacted cared or did anything about it. great stuff.

[chromosome23hq]

august 11th, 1997, 6:05 am, silverhouse apartments

One fine morning, with a mug of coffee in one hand and a watering can in the other, Billie Foster was not prepared for the crack of a gun to kick her into a vision. A crowd. A masked figure. Mayor Peter Webber, now with a hole in his forehead. So many lives altered in one fell swoop that the crowd overwhelmed her. A small stampede had Billie stumbling back into her apartment. Coffee in her monstera and water soaking her feet. She didn't get a chance to see anymore details, only a masked figure and an untimely death.

It’s not something Billie can just ignore, especially when it comes to the death of a public figure, much less the mayor. She needed to tell someone, an officer of some sort who can protect the mayor from anything. It’s when she remembers them, the Omegas. It’s a part of their job description to protect the weak and innocent, which includes the mayor. A heavy and deep sigh leaves between her lips. This is not how she wanted to start her morning. 

august 14th, 1997, 11:45 am, somewhere in the city

This has to be the most boring protection assignment in the world. For the past few days, all Yazmín Navarro Montes’ (also known as Siren) done is escort Mayor Peter Weber everywhere to defend him against an assassination threat. He still has his bodyguards, but extra cushion with Yazmín here, as Prism described it. Of course, it’s unspoken that this also works as great publicity. She had wanted nothing to do with it, which meant Prism had to pick her for this. Her luck always worked that way. Today, she’s starting to wonder if this threat was real at all, or a phony stunt to benefit the mayor and the Omegas. There’s been no suspicious figures lingering around his office or home, no attempts, and no threats sent to him. 

Still, Yazmín doesn’t slack on her job. She always has an eye out, ready to push the mayor out of the way or stop a would-be killer. They’re outside for a few minutes when something starts to bother her. There’s water everywhere she can sense, then suddenly there’s a spike. It’s nowhere near winter, but something freezing just entered the vicinity. No one stands out in the crowd, until—

Already running behind schedule after sleeping in late, Ethan Sato pays no heed to his surroundings as he cuts past a gentleman on his journey to class. He’s cursing himself internally, vowing for the umpteenth time to start going to bed earlier, when his internal monologue is drowned out by a wave of terror. Ethan stops in his tracks, his heartbeat thundering, panic squeezing down on his chest. Breathe, he needs to breathe. He takes in one, shuddering breath, knowing that this—whatever this is—isn’t his, then turns around and he sees—

“Oh, my God.” He claps his hand over his mouth. Behind Ethan is the Mayor, haloed by his own blood as he lays on the footpath. It takes Ethan a solid minute to process what he sees, what he feels, before he scrambles backwards, yelling, “Help! Somebody help!”

As soon as his co-worker had walked in, Jaewon Oh had scampered off for his break. An entire hour away from inane questions was exactly what he needed. Deciding to take a stroll to his favorite nearby coffee shop was done automatically, he ate there almost everyday. Unfortunately for him, his hour was coming to an end and so he made his way back with an extra sandwich in his hand. 

He was contemplating whether or not he could get away with leaving the store early when he saw it. Or, rather, them. A person in a mask appeared seemingly out of nowhere and Jaewon, curious, watched as they walked ahead of him with purpose. something about this didn’t feel right, he wasn’t sure exactly what was going on but there was a sinking feeling in his gut. 

Should he do something? No, yes? He was just about to shake off the feeling, not wanting to get involved in business that wasn’t his own, when he saw a man ahead of him go down. It took him a moment to register that it was the mayor and said mayor had just been shot. The masked figure was running and Jaewon watched, frozen to his spot, as they did so. On the sidewalk ahead of him the mayor lay dying, the particles of energy around him turning a meek gray as the life left him. 

Jaewon took several steps back and pressed himself against a storefront, brows furrowed. it couldn’t have been a normal bullet, a gun going off was loud. this had been too quiet. suspicion rose in him, humans could quiet a gun, sure, but not to that extent. could … could it have been a mutant? Jaewon looked back at the scene that was now filled with people, all as terrified as they were shocked, and wondered. It certainly seemed like a possibility. shit, he’d just witnessed the mayor getting shot, the mayor being killed. Soon enough police sirens would echo down the street and detectives would go looking for bystanders. Not wanting to be questioned, he quickly walked in the opposite direction and stewed in his own theories.

Sitting on the stairs of a building that had been ‘under construction’ for five years now (he’d been keeping track of time—the crew seemed to have abandoned it), David Castillo withdrew his flask and took a swig, eyeing the passersby—trying to find who best to focus on. Woman with the dog thinking about how the groomers screwed her poodle’s nail polish up completely? (he didn’t agree, they looked marvelous)—she walked by too fast. Man with the shirt that read ‘D.A.R.E - to keep kids off drugs’ and was already thinking about that sweet weed he would score later? Also too fast. 

That was the only problem with a staircase in the middle of an ‘under construction’ type of place!

Voices swirling around, from those thinking about their affairs to those thinking about their loyal spouses, he shook his head viciously. 

And then a strong voice emerged. 

Strong emotion.

Strong passion.

Strong thought.

‘Got ‘em.’

Followed by screams—real ones.

And a silence. Even amongst the screams... a silence.

It’s too late. 

There’s barely any noise between the mayor standing in front of Yazmin, and dropping to the ground. Blood is everywhere. Some of it’s even on her suit, her hands. She had bent down to hold the wound without thinking, before realizing it’s all too late. 

There’s people running away in the crowd, and that’s how she knows the shooter isn’t far ahead. She’s running before the bodyguards do, head going through anyway she could to slow them down. Every option can lead to civilian injuries or worse. Shit! Yaz speeds up, water rising from her side pouch and striking out toward the assailant’s ankle as they round the corner. It misses by an inch. 

As she enters the alley, she sends a dozen sharp edged droplets at the wall with a yell for them to stop. But no one’s there. The only evidence that remains is a spray painted symbol.

august 17th, 1997, 5:34 pm, ramer cemetery 

Peter Webber is found dead on sight. Upon inspection, they’re unable to find a bullet but water is found. Because of Yazmín’s ability and past criminal record, the suspicion falls onto her. Banks and schools are closed early that day, and remain that way until the funeral. National news channels cover it nearly twenty-four seven, wondering how the mayor of one of the most prominent cities in America was shot in broad daylight and by who. All channels in New York cut into their current programming to broadcast the funeral, from the funeral home to the drive to the cemetery. Crowds line the streets during the procession to show their love for the beloved mayor, as well as grieve his loss and the loss it is to the city. His children and wife thank those for being there with them through this difficult time. The vice mayor, who was sworn in days before, tells the city they’ll get through this together and follow the vision Mayor Peter Webber had.

august 18th, 1997, 9:30 am, new york city hall

This isn’t the first time that Han-Byul Song (also known as Prism) stands surrounded by cameras, microphones, and journalists waiting for what he has to say. But he can say that it’s the first time dealing with them like this. Individuals who once looked at him as if he was like them, now they see him as something else. It doesn’t sit right with him, none of this sits right with him. However, he’s a professional and never the type to let someone see him when he’s at his lowest. With a straightened back and squared shoulders, Han-Byul begins his statement. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the city, my name is Prism and as you all know, I’m the current leader of the Omegas. We are tasked with protecting the lives of the innocent, both mutants and non-mutants. Recently, we were given the mission to watch over and protect Mayor Peter Webber, sending one of our own to act as one of his bodyguards.” His eyes fall on Yazmín, the young mutant standing beside him with a cold stare and a rigid body. “Despite our best efforts to protect the mayor, we—” Failed. The words fall from his tongue but it doesn’t feel like he’s the one saying it. He can see the questions that are ready to leap out of their mouths, the hunger in their eyes, beasts. They were all beasts. “However, this doesn’t mean that our mission ends here. We’re now undergoing an investigation to look for and capture the person behind this. Once we find this individual, we’ll bring justice to all of you but also Mayor Webber.” 

There are questions, lots of them, and he answers, some of them. There isn’t enough or maybe that’s what he tries to tell himself as Yazmín takes his place to read over her apology. He’s listening but also not, he’s mainly just watching her and the crowd. Even though she was there acting as a bodyguard, she’s a suspect. Just because of her ability, just because she’s a mutant, just because they needed a scapegoat. 

OOC INFORMATION:

Mayor Peter Webber died on August 14th, 1997 and his funeral was held on the 17th. Various radio talk shows and news articles report on his death. Your muse can react however they want to this! 

The masked killer is Daichi Kato (played by Admin Kashia). No muse is aware of him killing the mayor, outside of Magneto. Yazmín is under the suspicion of partaking. 

This marks the true beginning of The Brotherhood showing themselves to everyone, which also means they’re recruiting people in. Your muse has the decision to join them but be aware of the true purpose of The Brotherhood! The spots are unlimited. 

If you play a Xavier student or staff member, things will be tense as Charles plans on what to do next.

And that’s the way the pussy crumbles.

[kgraces]

With a Fearful Trill

@badthingshappenbingo

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Captivity

For @sassydefendorflower​

Read it on Ao3 here!

The clouds overhead threaten rain, and Dick is seriously annoyed with himself for forgetting his umbrella that morning. The streets of Blüdhaven are crowded, as usual, and the cracked pavement under his feet makes for an uneven walk. Dick takes a sip of his cold coffee, mind alight with some sort of nervous energy. He can’t place it, but something feels off as he walks home from work. 

Dick stifles a yawn, stepping over a particularly mangled piece of concrete. His shift at work was a tough one; he’s wrapped up in a nasty homicide case as both Officer Grayson and Nightwing, and his brain feels sluggish after hours of wading through evidence. He checks his watch, frowning at the way the numbers seem to blur together. He thinks he’ll have time to get in a quick nap before patrol, at least. 

The foot traffic thins as Dick gets closer to his apartment, so it catches Dick off guard when a man pushes past him, hitting his shoulder roughly. Dick stumbles a bit, and before he can recover his footing, electricity arcs through him. Getting tazed hadn’t been a part of his plans for the day, and Dick only has a moment to mourn for his nap before he crumples to the ground. The sole of a boot enters his line of vision before it connects with his temple. He loses consciousness, sinking into the peaceful dark.

When Dick was a kid, he used to try to joke with Bruce about the stupid ‘Boy Hostage’ nickname. Of course, Bruce was never fond of the ‘X days since our last kidnapping incident’ whiteboard, but Dick thought it was hilarious. He mentally resets the counter back to zero when he wakes up tied to a chair. 

Years of vigilante experience honed into instinct kick in as soon as he regains awareness. He keeps his eyes closed and his body lax, listening hard to determine whether or not he’s alone in the room. He was kidnapped as a civilian, so he can’t fight his way out, but he can use his skills to help himself however he can. 

Still, this is probably going to suck.

Once he figures he’s alone, Dick carefully opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings. A dimly lit basement greets him—underground, if the chill in the room is any indication. A short window close to the ceiling lets in weak sunlight through a heavy layer of grime. He’s mostly uninjured—for now, a voice in the back of his head sings—but restrained at his wrists and ankles. His head aches from getting knocked out, and his muscles feel stiff, but he’s okay. He just needs to tough this out until Bruce can track him down and orchestrate a rescue from Batman...

Dick’s blood runs cold.

Bruce is off-world with the Justice League.

Before he has a chance to really let the panic set in, he hears heavy footsteps and the jingle of a set of keys. The lock turns, light spilling into the room as a burly man steps across the threshold. He smiles, a nasty thing, and shuts the door behind him with a heavy thud. He holds up a cell phone, still smiling, and Dick recognizes his own phone in the man’s hand. 

“Mind explaining why your daddy ain’t answering his phone?” The man says, a sneer creeping onto his face and into his tone. 

“Call the WE number,” Dick says, voice more tremulous than he feels. Judging by the last vestiges of daylight leaking through the window, it’s still dusk, and if he knows his little brother, he’ll still be at work. Dick can only pray Tim will answer. The man dials the number, leaving them both to wait with bated breath.

“What do you need, Dick?” Tim’s smooth voice comes over the line after a few heartstopping moments. “I’m a little bit swamped right now.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Grayson can’t come to the phone at the moment,” the man says, tone oily. Dick hears Tim’s sharp inhale over the line. “If you want him back in one piece, it’ll cost you.”

“I need proof of life, first,” Tim says coolly. The man sighs, as though he’s exasperated already, but he presses the phone against Dick’s ear, regardless.

“Tim?” Dick says, voice breaking just a little—the perfect image of a frightened civilian. His brother hums softly in acknowledgement. “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” He starts to ramble a little, but he’s cut off by a sharp blow to his ribs. He exhales a wheeze as the phone is jerked away from him.

“One million dollars and you get him back. Every hour you delay will cost him.” The man hangs up before Tim can reply, but Dick isn’t worried. Tim’s already tracking him, and the cavalry will be here soon enough. 

He looks up at the man holding him for ransom, disdain etched on his features as he looks into beady eyes. The man scoffs and shakes his head, turning to exit the room again. Dick wants to make a quip, some sort of stupid pun, but he can’t let himself seem too much like Nightwing, not right now. He bites his tongue and sits silently as the door swings shut again.

His headache worsens as the time passes. The light from the small window fades little by little, but it’s hard to track the time. Dick waits patiently, but his limbs itch for movement. He hates being restrained like this—cut off from grounding himself in motion. Nervous energy builds up in him, and he has to tap his fingers against the wooden chair arm to stop himself from losing it. He hopes Tim hurries up.

The next time the door opens, it isn’t to a vigilante, but rather to Dick’s captor. His smile is meaner, somehow, and he’s holding a hammer in his hands. Dick’s breath catches in his throat. Has it already been an hour? He doesn’t know, but judging from the man’s impatient pacing around the room, Tim is late.

The hammer swings, and Dick’s hand shatters under the force of the impact. He stifles a sob, and bitterness flares to life in his chest at the chuckle he hears at his side. He’s definitely got a few broken bones, but it’s not enough. The weapon hits Dick’s fingers next, and he nearly screams as white-hot agony roars through him. The man steps back, admiring his handiwork, before he snaps a photo with Dick’s phone and presumably sends it to Tim. 

Dick glares up at the man, hair matted with sweat as it falls into his eyes. He nearly snarls out a threat, but he has to resign himself to acting as a civilian would—terrified and vulnerable. He hates it, but it’s the role he has to play for now. The man leaves again, and Dick lets out a shaky breath. 

What’s taking his brother so long?

Another hour must pass. The sun has gone down, casting the room in shadow, and when the door to the small cell opens again, the light is blinding for a moment. Dick cringes back when he hears heavy footsteps. He can’t go very far with his limited range of motion, though, and his arms strain against the zip ties lashing his wrists to the chair. He hears a heavy sigh, but it isn’t his captor. 

No, the sound is mechanized, warbled by vocal modulators.

Jason.

His younger brother is at his side in an instant, using a knife to free him from his restraints. Dick hears him curse lowly at the sight of his mangled hand, so he offers Jason a reassuring smile. It probably comes across more as a grimace, but he tries his best. 

“C’mon,” Jason says, helping Dick to his feet and steadying him when he stumbles. “Tim’s going crazy upstairs. Someone needs to stop him before he permanently cripples someone.” 

“You left him alone to deal with them?” Dick asks, raising a brow. “That’s just not fair.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Wait, how many guys are up there? I’ve only seen the one.” 

“Ah,” Jason says, and Dick can hear the cruel smile in his tone. “That guy. There were five others, but last I saw, Tim was going toe-to-toe with that one. Last man standing and all, you know how it is.” 

“He saved him for last on purpose,” Dick says with a sigh. His brothers are ridiculous sometimes. Overprotective over him, even though Dick is the eldest and should be worrying over them, instead. 

They make their way up the stairs, with Jason supporting most of his weight, since his legs are still wobbly from being restrained for hours. Dick can hear the sounds of the fight grow louder as they reach the first floor—sounds of shattering glass and wood splintering reaching him, along with the telltale thwack of Red Robin’s bo staff hitting its target. Dick almost winces in sympathy, but the pain in his hand keeps him from feeling bad for the guy.

“Let’s get out of here, Red!” Jason calls, sounding amused. “I got him, and GCPD is already on their way.” 

“Fine,” Tim replies, tone lilting on a whine. He emerges from one of the rooms branching off from the hall a moment later, looking perfectly put together, despite the fight. “Want the last word, Hood?”

“Don’t I always?” Hood passes Dick over to Red Robin and draws a firearm, heading toward the room Red had just left. Dick sighs, shaking his head as he hears both Hood and his assailant start shouting. He turns his attention to Tim.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he tells his little brother. 

“Like we would just leave you there?” Tim asks, tone sardonic. Dick grins at him. “Let’s get you back home, okay?” Dick nods and lets Tim lead him out into the night. One of the Batmobiles is already waiting at the street corner, and as soon as Tim gets Dick settled in the backseat, Jason joins them, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car. Tim pulls down his cowl and sends an unimpressed look toward Dick.

“What?”

“You’re an idiot for letting yourself get injured like that,” he says. “Also, B’s losing his mind.” 

“You told Bruce?!” Dick practically yelps. 

“Alfie insisted,” Jason says, turning to look at him. Sometime between starting the car and now, he’d tossed his helmet onto the passenger seat, leaving him with just a domino mask obscuring his features. “No one says no to Alfie.”

“Especially once those assholes started hurting you and broke the terms of the deal,” Tim grumbles. “They only waited half an hour.” He glances over at Dick, reaching out to examine the damage done to his hand. “Sorry they had the chance to hurt you, Dick.”

“It’ll heal,” he says easily, brushing off Tim’s concerns. He ruffles his little brother’s hair with his uninjured hand. “Please tell me Bruce didn’t come back to earth over this.”

“Okay then, we won’t tell you,” Tim says, grinning wickedly. Dick groans, letting his forehead rest against Tim’s shoulder. Tim and Jason laugh, but Dick can’t muster up a scowl to send their way. He’s safe, and he’s hurting and exhausted. Tim seems to notice him droop, slumping against his side a little more with each passing moment. “Get some rest, Dick. We’ve got you.”

“Sleep it off, Dickiebird,” Jason says. “You’re in for a hell of a lecture when you wake up.”

“Prolong the inevitable,” Tim agrees, nodding along. “We’re taking bets on whose lecture will be worse: Bruce or Alfred.”

“Nah,” Dick mumbles, smiling a little as Tim carefully wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Dami’s will be the worst of the bunch.” His brothers both snort, and Dick falls asleep to the sound of their laughter.

His brothers have him. He can rest easy.

[tanakavox]

"Rose luck, help me out for once...”

Zwei quietly muttered the words to himself as he played around with the raffle ticket he currently held in his hand. The number read 925, same as his birthday he couldn’t help but note before he let out an exasperated sigh. He had arrived a couple hours before the raffle actually began, hoping that by getting there early he’d increase his chances of winning by being one of the first people to grab a ticket. Unfortunately, that also meant he had to wait till the raffle draw actually began, and thus left the Corgi Faunus waiting on a nearby bench and utterly bored out of his mind.

‘I should have brought Rosie with me,’ he thought with a sigh. Having her around would not only make for better company than empty air, but also because she had far better luck at these kinds of things than he ever seemed to. From rigged carnie games, to crane games, to even contests and giveaways, Rosemary seemed to have been blessed by Lady Luck herself and was always winning something or other all the time. It was one of the very few things of his best friend and now lover that he had always been envious of, though that had mostly stemmed from his own lack of luck and how he always seemed to get the short end of the stick in regards to chance. Zwei’s inner musings were cut off as the raffle hostess, a dark skinned rabbit Faunus, came out to address the crowd, her voice being amplified by the microphone.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and those in between, we will now begin the raffle call! Three of you will be lucky enough to win a brand new Playstation five, so if your name is called please head to the office to collect your prize,” the hostess announced with a smile on her face, before she walked over to a box and pulled out a slip of paper. 

"First number is… 189!" 

Zwei mentally swore, doing his best to ignore the excited whoop that came from the crowd. He kept his calm, knowing that he still had a chance to win. The rabbit faunus smiled at the enthusiasm of the winer, before she pulled out another slip. 

"Second number is...616!" 

Another whoop emerged from the crowd, and the silver eyed Huntsman's heart began to beat loudly in his chest. His fists were clenched so tight that his knuckles had turned white, and a cold sweat had broken out over his neck.

“Please,” Zwei said to himself in a near whisper, his eyes closing as he sent a prayer to literally anyone who would listen, “Just let my luck hold out for once…”

The hostess let out another pleased smile, before she pulled out the final slip of paper, and thus the final winner.

 "And the third and final number is…925!”

Zwei’s eyes snapped open in disbelief, his jaw dropping at his incredible turn of luck. His shock quickly turned to glee, before he fistpumped and let out a loud, “HELL YEAH!” He quickly made a beeline to the office, eagerly awaiting to get his prize. After a short wait, the hostess came into the office to present the prizes to Zwei and the other two winners(Whom Zwei would later learn where both Huntsmen, but that was a story for another time).

Zwei had the biggest grin on his face as he walked out with a brand new Playstation Five, the elusive console that he had been on the hunt for nearly three days straight. It even came bundled with a copy of the new Spider Man and the Demon Souls Remake, which was an absolute steal!

"Rosie is never gonna believe I won this through a raffle,” Zwei chuckled to himself, imagining the look of disbelief on his lady's face, before he found his musing interrupted when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked down in confusion to see who it was, only to look on in annoyance at the women before him. She appeared to be a middle aged woman with an inverted bob cut, expensive winter clothing, and body language that basically screamed “ego.” Zwei knew without doubt that the woman in front of him was a, “Karen,” and that he had a strong inkling as to what she had approached him for.

"Excuse me,” the “Karen,” began, her shrill tone laced with condensation as she addressed the Huntsmen, “Do you think you would be willing to-”

“Nope.”

Zwei’s sudden interruption caught the Karen off guard. She looked shocked at having been so suddenly denied, while Zwei looked down upon her with a bored, almost uninterested look on his face.

“You don’t understand,” She tried again, this time with a more pleading tone, “But my baby-”

"Let me take a wild guess,” Zwei interrupted her in a bored tone, “your baby has some kind of incurable disease? Or maybe they lost a limb in a “tragic,” accident? Or some kind of other inane sob story that you’re trying to use to guilt trip me into giving up my recently acquired Playstation Five in my hands?”

Zwei had appeared to be right on the mark as the Karen’s jaw had practically merged with the floor from her ploy being easily discovered(and just as easily sunk), within a matter of seconds. Zwei couldn't help but scoff at her blatant attempt to try and swindle him out of the console in his hands.

“Yeah, I used to work retail lady, so I’ve heard every single sob story under the sun. So sorry to disappoint your “Baby,” but this thing is going straight under the tree and directly into the hands of my nephew come christmas morning. But uh, nice try though.”

Zwei then brushed past the women, not even bothering to acknowledge her any longer than he needed too as he made his way to the nearest exit. The Karen did not take the dismissive that well, her face flushed and angry red and her mouth contorted into an ugly grimace. She turned around and screamed at the top of her lungs, “IT'S BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU THAT MY SON WON'T BE ABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE JOY OF OPENING A PS5 ON CHRISTMAS DAY!"

"Why don’t you bitch to your whipped husband about it,” Zwei shouted over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop to address screaming women, “he's probably the only one who’s gonna give a shit lady." 

His response had served to antagonize the Karen even more, who began screaming and raving louder till the whole mall was practically echoing with her shrill voice. Zwei simply kept on walking, a smug smile on his face and a feeling of content at having managed to luck out on getting the gift he wanted for his Nephew. He had just exited the mall when he suddenly felt a force impact his head, causing him to stumble forward a little before he managed to keep his balance. He quickly did an about face to see what had caused the impact, before his eyes narrowed upon a relatively large man with an even larger sword on his back who had his hand balled into his fist.

It was obvious that the man sucker punched him, though it did very little to hurt Zwei and was really more of an annoyance. Despite this, Zwei’s training kicked in and he instantly began assessing the threat level of the huntsmen before him. Standing next to the man was the Karen who was screaming at him, who now had a smug smile on her face as if she had pulled out a trump card.

“Still think my baby isn’t worth handing over the console kid?”

“Couldn’t swindle it from me, and now you’re trying to take it by force,” Zwei asked, before giving her a look of mock shame, “tsk, tsk, someone is going on Santa’s naughty list.”

“Hand over the console kid, and I promise not to break too many bones in your body,” his attacker threatened in a booming voice, only causing Zwei to roll his eyes at the overused threat.

“I have a better idea: how about instead of getting into a fight you don’t want to start, you use the remaining two brain cells you have left in your tiny little head of yours to grab your snotty wife and get the hell out of my sight, before I end up shoving a lump of coal straight down your “stocking?”

The man did not take kindly to Zwei’s counter proposal, choosing instead to pull out the sword of his back and readying to attack Zwei. Zwei quickly, but gently, tossed the Playstation Five in his hands to the side, before bringing up one half of Red Daylight to block the oncoming blow. Zwei could feel the aura behind the man’s sword as it impacted upon the flat of his hookblade, but he easily deflected the attack to his side in an almost comical manner. 

Zwei blinked, before he looked over the man again as he lunged at Zwei, who merely side stepped his easily telegraphed attack. Upon further investigation, Zwei noticed that the man’s stance was sloppy and his defense was full of so many holes that even the most novice fighter could have taken him down. His sword strikes lacked fluidity to them, coming off more like the man was swinging a baseball bat around than a heavy sword. And while he clearly had his aura unlocked, he wasn’t properly distributing it throughout his body to make efficient use of it. Zwei deduced this in a manner of seconds, before he came to a sudden conclusion.

“...You’re not a huntsmen,” Zwei stated aloud, “you’re just some scrub that had his Aura unlocked and thought you could use it to bully people into submission!”

The “Scrub,” did not take kindly to Zwei’s revelation, his face contorted into an angry sneer before he made to swipe at Zwei again.

“You shut your damn mouth you filthy animal,” the Srub screamed in rage, “and give me that stupid console!”

Zwei once again merely stepped to the side, watching as his attacker overstepped his swing and ended up falling to the ground.

"Are you serious right now man,” Zwei asked in an incredulous tone, “do you even know how many laws you’re breaking right now from having your Aura unlocked? Let alone that you attacked me and started a fight in a public area full of civilians? Hell, what if I was a civilian?!”

The Scrub had managed to pick himself back up, before he sneered at Zwei’s questions.

"Then you would have died to make my son happy, animal,” the Scrub spat out hatefully, before readied himself for another attack. The Scrub barely had time to blink before he saw Zwei disappear and reappear instantly in front of him, not even having the time to react before the Corgi Faunus violently sunk his fist into the man's stomach. The results were instant: the Scrub dropped his sword as he violently began to retch and wheeze, falling to his knees as he desperately tried to keep himself from vomiting on the spot.

“You know,” Zwei began, “I was wrong about you and your wife. You two don’t don’t belong on Santa’s naughty list…”

Zwei then proceeded to grab the Scrub by his hair, before activating his semblance as he delivered a devastating knee strike to the man's face. His nose broke with a sickening crunch, and his face was practically covered with blood that leaked from his nostrils. 

“...YOU TWO BELONG ON HIS SHIT LIST!!!”

Zwei hooked Red Daylight into the Scrubs collar, before he activated his semblance and began spinning around as fast as he could, before unceremoniously pulling hard enough to tear through the Scrubs collar and sending him flying out into unknown parts of Vale, his landing destination unknown.

-At a familiar dumpster-

“Oh man,” groaned a miserable voice, “how… how long was I out for?”

The voice belonged to the would-be thief that Zwei had taken care of the day before, now finally waking up from his coma induced nap on top of his bed of trash. He groggily managed to push himself up, whimpering the whole time from how much pain his body was in from the beating he received before managing to push the dumpster lid open. He hung the top of his body over the side of the dumpster, doing his best to ignore not only the smell of the garbage around him but from the fact that he had garbage in places that were best not mentioned.

“Worked up the courage to steal that stupid thing, and what do I get for my troubles,” the theif whimpered to himself, “my shit kicked in by a Huntsmen, being bathed in garbage, and I didn’t even steal the right thing!” 

The thief let out another groan, before he looked up at the sky as if to mentally ask the Brother’s what he had done wrong.

“Can this get any worse?”

The man’s question was immediately answered by the sound of screaming getting closer and closer to him, before he felt the impact of an incredibly large man with an even larger sword knocking him back into the dumpster. The thief groaned in agony and tried to move, only to realize that he was now pinned under the large man, who was completely out cold and unmoving. The thief couldn’t do anything now, except blankly stare at the overcast sky.

“...Well, at least I have fresh air.”

The dumpster lid crashed down with a loud “THUMP,” once again trapping the Thief inside his rotten prison, muffling his sobs as he cried about what a rotten Christmas this was turning out to be.

-Back with Zwei-

“Brother’s what an asshole,” Zwei muttered to himself as he sheathed his weapon back with its sister blade. Zwei would have to make sure he made mention of the man to the local authorities, who would no doubt be sending a huntsman to apprehend the Scrub due to his illegally unlocked Aura. The thought of illegally unlocked Aura made Zwei briefly think of his brother in law for a moment, before he let it slip out of his mind.

“I wonder what Jaune got me for christmas this year,” he mused aloud, “Oh damn, maybe he got me Cyberpunk!” 

Zwei smiled at the thought, Jaune typically gifted him games for christmas so there was a good chance that he may very well be shooting gangbangers in Night City soon enough. His smile quickly turned into a smirk, before raising his voice and saying:

“And just where do you think you’re going, Karen?”

The Karen in question was currently in the middle of trying to sneak away with his Playstation Five, before she stopped dead in her tracks from being called out. She visibly flinched when Zwei had suddenly materialized in front of her, his smirk plastered on his face as his confident eyes met her terrified ones.

“How kind of you to hang onto my nephew's gift while I beat the hell out of your husband,” he thanked her in a mock cheerful tone, “and here I was thinking that you were just a rotten woman with no sense of manners whatsoever! Guess you have some christmas spirit in you, huh?”

The Karens face got redder and redder as Zwei kept speaking, before she opened her mouth to scream at him…

“Ahem.”

… before her mouth clicked shut, and she looked around to see that she and Zwei were surrounded by a large crowd of people, including the Raffle Hostess who had presented Zwei his prize. The fight must have caused them to all come to investigate, and judging by their angry looks, they must have seen everything that had occurred. The Karen’s face drained of all color, and she began sweating bullets as the Hostess began to address her

“Ma’am,” she calmly began, “I do believe that device in your hand belongs to this young man, whom I should add, rightfully won the device in the raffle and has the legal paperwork to back up the ownership of it as well.”

The Karen went to say something, only to be interrupted by the Hostess, who now had an ominous look on her face.

“I would highly advise handing said device over to its rightful owner, Ma’am,” the Hostess said curtly, “As I’d hate for the police to have to add stolen goods on top of all the other charges you’re more than likely going to face tonight.”

It was at this point That Karen had finally noticed that there were several police officers waiting nearby, more than likely called in due to the fight, all of them giving The Karen an unimpressed look. Knowing that there was no way out of this, The Karen’s shoulder slumped in defeat, before she turned back Zwei, who was watching The Karen getting a dose of Karma with uncontained glee. Gritting her teeth, she slowly, albeit reluctantly, handed the Playstation Five back to Zwei, who happily took his console, before bowing to her in a mock fashion.

“Thank you so much Karen,” Zwei cheerfully stated, “I’m glad to see that we were able to clear up this little misunderstanding. But now, I think it’s time we both go our separate ways, don’t you think?”

Zwei didn’t even bother to let The Karen speak, before he started walking away, stopping only momentarily to give the Hostess a quick appreciative nod, before he kept on walking. Just as he got near the _edge of the crowd, he paused, before he briefly turned around to see The Karenin the middle of being cuffed by the police.

“Oh, and Karen?”

The Karen looked over to Zwei, face flushed red in embarrassment and her eyes burning with rage as she locked eyes with the smug looking Corgi Faunus.

“Hope you and your baby have a Merry Christmas,” he said smugly, “because it looks like it’s going to be a long one for the both of you!”

That was all it took to send The Karen over the edge, before she once again started screaming and raving and wishing all kinds of unpleasant things upon Zwei, who merely hollered with laughter as he activated his semblance and began making his way back to the Bullhead Docks. Despite running into some bumps along the way, he had achieved his goal of getting his nephew the perfect gift, and now all that was left was to go home.

“Just you wait Xing, you’re about to get one HELL of a gift…”

@thatorigamiguy did the edita for this again. Thanks dude!

[january-warlock]

Lightning Strike

This is a commission for nose-nippin-fun, at 2,000 words; it’s a crossover with Varian/Jack, with already established relationship.

Summary: Varian’s still in denial of magic, despite the prescence of Jack and Rapunzel, and Jack shows him that science isn’t the only way and can’t explain everything.

Varian was preoccupied with testing his latest machine, a combination of gears, screws, and metal. A few feet away from him, Jack stood, floating a few inches off the ground. He stared at Varian with his brow furrowed and eyes narrow. “Uh, Varian,” He began. “What are you doing?”

Varian pulled his googles from his face; he had that pout-y, determined look on his face ever since they had gotten into it about Jack’s magic and Varian’s adamant belief that magic didn’t exist. “Science, Jack. I’m showing you science.” He said, pointing to his machine.

They’d gotten into the argument again earlier, and despite Jack easily conjuring and flinging snowballs, Varian refused to budge from his position. They hadn’t actually even formally finished their disagreement; Varian just got up, went to his desk and pulled out paper and pens, and went to work on some schematics, shutting Jack up with an angry glare whenever he tried to ask what he was doing.

Then he pulled out various gears, metal, and other parts out of his junk pile, and actually assembled whatever kind of machine it was.

Varian picked up a jug of water, and poured it into the large spout of his invention, and started the crank. There was enough of its parts visible where they could see the water travel through the various pipes until it vanished near the end, when it spout out a chunk of ice.

“So...you made ice? I can do that, and it’s a lot easier when I do it.” Jack said, ice balling up into his hand. “Much less labor.”

“But this is science, Jack!” Varian shouted. “This is real life, not some fairytale.”

Jack shook his head. “So, between me and Rapunzel, and her mom and that magical-flower-whatever, you can just sit there, and pretend magic isn’t real? You can look me in the eye, and say-with a straight face-that you don’t believe in magic?” He said, exasperated.

Varian was a good few inches shorter than Jack, especially with Jack’s flying (that Varian also seemed determined to not acknowledge), so it was hard to look him in the eye, and standing on his tip-toes didn’t make a fourteen-year old boy any more intimidating. “No, I don’t, because I believe in science.”

Varian found himself with a snowball to the face.

“And that’s magic.” Jack said. He sighed. “Rapunzel’s mom gave birth to a magic baby with magic glowing hair, that could magically heal people, after drinking something from a magical flower. You’re not dumb, or blind, Varian.”

“So you make ice. Something in your staff lets you chill the air around you until it changes back into ice. This, with a compressor, does the same exact thing.”

“My staff is a stick. An enchanted one, but still just a stick.” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not made up of screws or parts or anything.”

“Then how do you freeze the air around you to make ice?” Varian asked.

“With. Magic.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Let’s say that my staff isn’t magic and is actually some super-complicated device that lets me make ice. How do you explain this,” He asked, conjuring another snowball in his hand. “Or the fact that I can fly?”

Varian waved his arms. “Wires! Somewhere! Keeping you suspended on a tree, or branch, or something! And you’re using alchemy!”

“What tree?” Jack waved his arms back, at the clear, open area. “Varian, come on.”

“Sorry Jack, but there’s no such thing as magic.” Varian turned around, and went back to his work, tightening a few bolts with a screw, and evidently trying to ignore Jack.

Jack sighed. Even before they had committed to each other in a relationship, Varian had always been skeptical of magic at best, or complete and total denial at worst. He’d conjured snow, frost, and flew, and Rapunzel’s tears could resurrect people, and control her hair to hold frying pans, but Varian seemed to put his fingers in his ears and tune them out whenever they brought it up.

Jack tapped his staff on the ground, trying to figure out how to put a stop to their fight. And then, it hit him. “Really? Are you sure?” He floated upside down in front of Varian. “Because I think meeting you was pretty magical.” He winked, and Varian’s cheeks heated up.

“Cut it out Jack, I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I mean, really. Love’s a lot like magic. You can’t really explain it, you can’t see it, but you can feel it, and it’s there.”

“‘Love’ is a chemical produced in the brain.” Varian blew his bangs out of his eyes. At Jack’s pout, he said, “...Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment.”

“Well, what was meeting me like?” Jack asked. “Come on. I know you’re not really into literature, but try and think of what would be said in a sappy, romance novel.”

Varian stared at Jack’s silly, stupid face, and thought about when they first met. Jack had accidentally pelted him with a snowball and he rushed to apologize, and when Varian turned to yell at him for disturbing his work, but had stopped once their eyes met, and something in Varian had changed.

“You were like a lightning strike.” Jack’s expression turned to one of surprise, but Varian continued. “You could power me to make my greatest inventions, and light up my inspiration, but you would only strike me once and would never come in my life again.”

Jack stared at him, and tried to form words, but failed. “...Wow, okay. Gimmie a minute to come back from that.”

Varian smirked watching Jack stutter and blush, and put down a tally on his side of the mental chalkboard that was divided by himself and Jack; they were almost tied now.

Varian went back to work at his table, leaving Jack to his thoughts. He only had a few minutes before he’d reach the point where he’d been too quiet for too long, and quickly went to work drawing out ideas in the snow with his staff. He discarded a few of them quickly, until he had an idea on getting the upper hand.

“Hey Varian,” Jack called.

Varian rolled his eyes, and asked, “What, Jack?” But he didn’t look over his shoulder quickly enough to avoid Jack picking him up in his arms and Varian screamed more in surprise than fear as Jack took him high past the tops of the trees.

Varian yelled, “Jack! Jack! Put me down!” Varian tried to wrestle out of his grip, until he saw that there at least twenty feet off the crowd, and if Jack let him go, he’d plummet to his certain death. So, the only thing he could do, was throw his arms around Jack’s neck and hold on for dear life.

“Relax, and hold on, it’ll be fun!” Varian let out another shriek as Jack carried him over his shoulder, high in the air.

The trees were a rushed blur of green, and they were going so fast, they actually seemed to be flying towards more daylight and away from the oncoming evening. Jack took a sharp turn, and Varian tightened his grip around him.

Varian guessed that it was pretty cool-literally. Jack always seemed to have a low body temperature; it was probably one of the reasons he loved to cuddle so much. Whenever they curled up together seemed to be the only time Jack actually felt something close to warm.

Jack took a few more turns, and after Varian settled in Jack’s arms, he had to admit that it wasn’t really so bad. Maybe he’d enjoy it more if he could fly on his own, but whizzing through the air wrapped up in Jack’s arms gave him a special sense of security.

When they landed, Varian’s face was flushed and red and he was out of breath, but Jack looked more relaxed than ever. Flying always calmed him down whenever he got too emotional. “Are you happy with yourself?” Varian asked, dusting off his sleeves.

Jack was still floating a few inches above him. “Honestly? Never been happier.” He smirked, tapping Varian on the nose. “You should’ve seen your face.” Varian huffed, and Jack stood there with an arrogant grin that just made him angrier. “So, are you ready to admit it now?”

“Admit what?” Varian snapped.

“Admit that magic exists.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Varian!”

Varian sighed. “Okay, okay.” He took a deep breath to ready himself. “I am willing to admit that there some...phenomenon out there...that ordinary science can’t explain, and that every once in a blue moon,”

“Or caused by the Man in the Moon.” Jack smiled.

“That every once in a blue moon, something happens that defies normally logic, and that perhaps maybe the idea of magic isn’t so ridiculous.” Varian sighed.

Jack laughed. “If I had known just swooping you up and taking you away on a wondrous flight would get you to believe in magic, I would’ve done it when we first met.”

“I said it was possible, I didn’t say I believed in it.” Varian said, blowing his bangs out of his face. “There’s a lot of experiments to do, hypotheses to write-but maybe, maybe, magic exists, and maybe, I was a little closed-minded to immediately deny its existence.”

Jack shrugged. “Hey, baby steps. We’ll get there.” He said, poking Varian’s back with his staff. “And you look adorable when you’re all flushed.” Jack kissed his the tip of his nose, and Varian’s blush went to his ears.

Varian gently slapped his hands away. “Cut it out.”

“Okay.” Jack kissed Varian on the cheek, then next to his lips, then actually on his mouth.

Varian initially went to protest, but titled his head, and kissed Jack back. He shivered, Jack’s cold mouth chilling his own. Kissing Jack had so far been the most unique experience of his life; he’d read about about kissing being warm, and full of life, while Jack brought on a chill and the threat of frost.

“We’ll make a believer out of you yet,” Jack winked as he pulled away.

“You, maybe,” Varian said. “Not so much the others.”

Jack ran his fingers down the side of Varian’s face. “That’s all I really need.” Even if Varian could always prefer science over magic, eventually, Varian could come to accept the existence of magic. Especially as they got older, which would surely bring more magical artifacts, accidents, and events into their lives.

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The splendor of a great detective story

If we take a look at the detective tale, there are fundamentally two formats to it: the British and the American.

The British faculty of detective tale became massively popularized by Agatha Christie—if not invented by using her together with her first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Patterns, posted in 1916. The hallmark of the British whodunit turned into that it become a “closed system” story. Commonly, there is a mansion, and there are 10 people living in it. One is murdered, and the murderer is one of the different nine.

there may be no opportunity of ingress or egress; it’s far without a doubt one of the residents who has dedicated the murder. A detective is referred to as in—except he’s already there as one of the residents—and he investigates.

The radical ends with the detective calling all of the residing residents for the final denouement—commonly within the mansion’s library—and giving a long speech, inspecting each suspect’s cause; Christie’s genius lay within the truth that almost every resident had a purpose for the murder. Then he appears on the suspects’ get admission to to the murder tool and the sufferer at the night of the homicide, and subsequently identifies the killer. The police, who’ve been ready reverentially outdoor the door, rush in and arrest the wrongdoer.

The typical American detective tale, which located its definitive shape a decade or so after Christie made her successful debut, is “open machine”. there’s no room locked from inner in which a frame is found, there may be no limited set of suspects. there may be no thriller approximately the reason of demise—a unprecedented poison, for example. All victims are either shot or stabbed to loss of life.

The detective starts with a specific crime—a homicide or a disappearance—and is drawn into a bigger plot, commonly encountering extra murders. He—like the reader—has no idea wherein he could be subsequent and who he will come across. He certainly follows the leads and travels anywhere they take him. The testimonies are open-ended until the entirety falls into vicinity within the climax.

Bullets fly, gangsters and organized crime may seem, the detective is regularly overwhelmed to inside an inch of his existence—in essence, stuff that would have horrified Christie.

In The USA, the detective tale was also an adventure tale, with the sleuth regularly going through threat and death. In England, no person ever tried to kill the detective.

The reason why the American detective story deviated from the norms of the British can possibly be attributed to the us of as Prohibition-era enjoy when gangster bootleggers ruled the roost, and there has been extensive corruption within the police pressure. there was nothing genteel about crime, and cynicism seemed to be—rightly or wrongly—the best sane attitude for the not unusual man to have.

it’s miles essential to be aware right here that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who we are able to simply seek advice from as the pioneer of the detective tale in the English language, remains above those classifications. The Sherlock Holmes tales are more or less equally divided among closed gadget and open gadget. Watson regularly includes a gun and every now and then has to apply it, something that would appear quite unseemly to Christie’s Hercule Poirot, and might be impossible for her other detective, the aged spinster Omit Marple.

Christie set her novels in various locations that were perfect surrogates for her mansion with 10 citizens—demise on the Nile on a cruise deliver on the Nile river, Evil Under the Sun in a summer time motel, dying inside the Clouds on an aeroplane.

of her most famous novels are After which There had been None and murder at the Orient Express. Both are wildly incredible memories, however regardless of that—or much more likely, due to that—they sell in big numbers even these days, and maintain to confound first-time readers.

Christie loved playing cat-and-mouse together with her readers, serving them red herrings at each possibility and joyfully main them up useless-give up lanes. In And then There have been None and homicide on the Orient Express, she is at her sadistic pleasant—she does not even ought to deceive readers, because the answers to the crimes are so outrageous that no reader, however alert and however shrewd, can ever guess them. these novels represent the top of closed-machine detective testimonies.

And then There were None is set on an island in which 10 human beings locate themselves as guests or recruits of a mysterious—and absent—proprietor, and one after the other, they begin getting murdered. It quickly dawns on absolutely everyone that certainly one of them is the killer. however who?

The activities of homicide at the Orient Specific take location in a single instruct of the legendary luxury train that plied among Istanbul and Paris. A wealthy American is murdered, the teach is stalled in a snowdrift, and none of the opposite passengers inside the teach seem to have a reason to kill him. Hercule Poirot takes place to traveling in the same educate, and solves the case, presenting the most improbable denouement in the records of mystery.

In 1945, the exceptional writer William Faulkner, then a screenplay writer in a Hollywood studio, turned into operating on a script for the inimitable American crime creator Raymond Chandler’s The Large Sleep, a unique that has numerous murders. In a few puzzlement, he known as up Chandler and requested, “but who killed the chauffeur?” Chandler stated that he couldn’t take into account, and that he would study The radical once more and get again. A few days later, he phoned Faulkner and admitted that even he had no concept who killed the chauffeur. So what is the factor here, if the writer himself can’t determine out what he had written? I’ve read The Huge Sleep several instances and that i need to additionally say that the chauffeur’s murder remains unexplained. But the point is that it has by no means decreased my leisure of studying the book. due to the fact it is literature. however we can come lower back to that later. the Yankee personal eye works in a corrupt world. He receives scant admire from policemen, lots of whom are thugs in uniform—in reality, they’re adverse to him. They seek advice from him derogatorily as a “shamus” or a “gumshoe”, and are happy to position him in a police lock-up at the slightest provocation. That is a scenario that a Holmes or a Poirot by no means had to face.

The detective is frequently employed via wealthy families, and via the cease of the story, the reader receives to realize what sordid foundations that wealth has been constructed on. In a Raymond Chandler novel (and i paraphrase from reminiscence), someone tells the hero Philip Marlowe: “That’s the dirty facet of the dollar.” Marlowe replies: “I didn’t recognize there was every other facet.”

As Chandler wrote in his conventional essay The Simple Art Of murder: “The realist in murder writes of a world in which gangsters can rule international locations and nearly rule cities, in which accommodations and apartment homes and celebrated eating places are owned by means of men who made their cash out of brothels, in which a display screen megastar can be the Fingerman for a mob, and the nice guy down the corridor is a boss of the numbers racket; a global in which a decide with a cellar complete of bootleg liquor can ship a person to jail for having a pint in his pocket, wherein the mayor of your city may also have condoned murder as an instrument of profitable, in which no guy can stroll down a darkish avenue in safety due to the fact law and order are things we talk approximately however chorus from training; a international wherein you may witness a maintain up in wide daylight and notice who did it, but you may fade fast lower back into the crowd instead of tell all people, due to the fact the hold-up guys can also have buddies with long weapons, or the police might not like your testimony, and anyways the shyster for the defense may be allowed to abuse and vilify you in open court docket, before a jury of decided on morons, without any But the maximum perfunctory interference from a political choose.

“It is not a very aromatic global, but it is the sector you stay in, and certain writers with tough minds and a groovy spirit of detachment can make very exciting and even fun styles out of it. It is not funny that a man have to be killed, however it’s miles sometimes humorous that he ought to be killed for so little, and that his demise should be the coin of what we call civilisation.”

The conventional British novel is set in a solid and typically honest environment in which every night, the gong is rung for dinner. Despite the fact that there could be a blunder or two many of the solid of characters, people know what the proper etiquette is. We not often meet any hardened criminals. To cite Chandler over again:

“Personally I like the English fashion better. It is not quite so brittle, and the humans customarily, just wear garments and drink liquids. there’s more feel of heritage, as if Cheesecake Manor in reality existed all round and no longer simply the element the digicam sees; there are greater long walks over the Downs and the characters don’t all try to behave as though that they had simply been tested through MGM. The English may not usually be the first-rate writers within the global, however they’re incomparably the satisfactory stupid writers.”

In truth, if one takes a step again, the manors in which many of Christie’s Poirot novels are set resemble P.G. Wodehouse’s Blandings Fortress. The only difference is that a number of the residents in Christie’s Fort are murderers, whilst in Blandings, the best concerns are whether or not the Empress of Blandings will win the Fat Pig contest this yr, and whether or not Sir Galahad Threepwood can be stopped from publishing his tell-all memoirs. it’s far extraordinarily thrilling that Chandler changed into educated in England, and he went to the identical school as Wodehouse did—Dulwich College. There cannot be two outstanding writers who’re extra unlike each other.

Chandler defined his best American detective hence:

“however down these suggest streets a man ought to pass who isn’t always himself suggest, who’s neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this sort of tale need to be any such guy. he’s the hero, he is the whole lot. He should be a entire man and a commonplace guy and but an unusual guy. He must be, to use a rather weathered word, a person of honor, by way of intuition, with the aid of inevitability, with out notion of it, and truly without pronouncing it. He need to be the first-class guy in his world and an amazing enough man for any global. I do now not care lots about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I suppose he may seduce a duchess and I am quite certain he could now not destroy a virgin; if he is a man of honor in a single thing, he’s that in all things. he’s a relatively terrible guy, or he would no longer be a detective at all. he is a common guy or he could not go among commonplace people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. he will take no man’s money dishonestly and no guy’s insolence with out a due and dispassionate revenge. he’s a lonely man and his satisfaction is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever noticed him. He talks as the man of his age talks, this is, with impolite wit, a active sense of the ugly, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The tale is his adventure in search of a hidden fact, and it’d be no adventure if it did not occur to a person fit for adventure. He has quite a number focus that startles you, but it belongs to him by means of right, because it belongs to the world he lives in.