#The killer rabbit sleeps with the bones of it's victims

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝕽𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕮𝖆𝖊𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖌 𝖇𝖞 𝕬𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖈𝖊

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 14

CW: Small amount of blood, Eye dialect AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

The roads are quiet as she rides home. The streetlights catch the gold on Auri's faring, sliding off like a lover's caress. Somewhere a dog barks, and an indistinct voice calls out to quiet it. Some people think the city streets are more like a rabbit's warren, but Elo grew up during the rebuilding, the roads forming like pathways in her brain. So she's on autopilot as she guides the bike along the roads, and it's only when she stops, she is surprised to find she is over the canal at Spit Bridge. No one is working this late. The tape is the only barrier stopping people from tramping on the crime scene. From here, Elo can see it sectioning off the alley where the victim was assaulted. The scene is like a loadstone, drawing her to park up the bike and descend onto the towpath. She's tired. By all rights, she should go home and sleep. But she has pushed herself like this before and no harm has come from it. Besides, she tells herself, it's not like she has to engage her brain tomorrow/ later today. She just has to waffle about the city, something that's as natural as breathing. If worst comes to worst, she can always steal Joahn's on-call room. The night is clear and still, almost eerily so. The smallest zephyr, a breath of wind, brushes against her cheek and skims through her hair. Her footsteps sound loud against the paving slabs, amplified in the way all quiet noises are in the dark of night. Beside her, the slick water of the canal is still, and she can smell the fumes of it mingling with the night's mist – there is the heavy metallic smell of engine grease, the pungent green scent of water weeds, and a cold, ice-like scent.

Elo ducks under the barrier tape, scanning the alley in the sodium-orange glare of the warehouse floods. It's exactly as she saw in the vision.

She steps carefully along the alley's length, picking out where her/ Evelyn's foot dragged, where their hand scraped along the rough brick wall. The déjà vue of familiarity is disconcerting. She stops and looks back towards where the canal shimmers darkly. Leaving her car, passing through the alley… The victim had to be on her way somewhere. The killer followed her? Elo looks towards the landward end of the alley, at the bins and the service exit from the warehouse. No – the victim surprised the killer. A surety grows in her bones then – this was an ambush. But maybe not an intended one… The wrench was a weapon of opportunity, of panic. She knows the type – a cumbersome thing used on the barge engines, too heavy to flee with. It would have been lying around, forgotten by some careless deckhand, ready to be grasped in panic, and swung to… To what? Hide a crime in progress, or to stop the vic from being someplace she shouldn't? Elo turns and walks back towards the canal. It's difficult to figure out exactly where Evelyn/ she was stabbed, but close to the end of the alley floor, barely visible in the darkness, is the iron stain of blood. Elo looks back along the alleyway, head cocked in thought, and notes where the victim was struck in the head. Alleys, by their nature, are long and narrow. There's no way the same person would have been able to get in front to stab her through the chest. Then Elo thinks of the vision, of the thing with red eyes between her and the tree. Realisation thrums in her veins – there were two killers. There had to have been. There's no other way around it. The one, further back, panicking. The one on the tow-path, calmly sealing the deal. Two would more easily move the body. One to hide it, the other to scuttle the barge. Two to murder her friend.

There was a payphone up the street, tucked between the tow-path steps and the wall of a warehouse. She turns and sprints. Maybe Farren has already worked it out – if he has, then great – but maybe he hasn't, and she can't take that chance. There is the scuff of pebbles behind her, but she ignores it. It's probably a stray cat, she thinks and ignores the advice of her gut – nine times in ten, it's nothing, but you check anyway because that tenth time it's something – and runs to the payphone. She dials for an operator. "Hello, how can I help?" "I'd like to place a collect call to Precinct 88, to the line of the electronic secretary. Charges will be borne by TPD, authorization code 1-1, 5-0, 4-2." There is a pause while the operator notes down the authorization code, and looks up the number for the dedicated answer-machine line. "One moment please," she says, "Connecting your call now." There is a click, and a whirr, and Elo fancies she can hear the operator moving the plugs to transfer the call across. "You've reached the electronic secretary for Precinct 88," comes the tinny recording of DIspatch-Sally's voice, calm and soft. "This number is for official, non-emergency use only. Please keep your message succinct. Messages will be recovered by the officer on duty every three hours starting at 0800 hours. Please clearly state your name, rank, and number; the recipient of your message; and the message itself. Proceed." "Elowyn O'Toreguarde," she says, rushing through the procedure requirements. "Detective Sergeant in Special Cases, ID 0-7, 1-1, 4-9. Message is for Constable Farren Breakwood, regarding case number 1-2,1-1, 2-0, 1-7. There are two killers. Maybe you already figured it out, maybe you didn't, too bad, I'm telling you anyhow. Time is–" she glances at her watch "–0330 hours, I'm at the crime scene. There's a scuff mark from where the vic was struck in the head, and there's no way that same attacker could–" That scuff comes again. Only, this time it doesn't sound like pebbles. She is tired, she must be imagining things, but it sounds like the scrape of claws on stone. But it doesn't come again, so she dismisses it once more and continues her message. "The first strike," Elo says, having lost her train of thought, "was done in panic. The second was deliberate, cleaning up his fellow's mess, though it could be–" The scratch of claw on stone sounds again, and it is different from the scrabble of a dog. It sounds sharper. She looks out of the booth, and there is something standing there, in the shadows. "–Premeditated. Gotta go," she finishes quickly and hangs up the receiver.

Elo took a slow step outside the phone booth, not taking her eyes from the thing that hid in the shadow. Her gun is locked in the topbox, back on the dragon. "What are you?" she called out. «Youse was told to beat it, kid,» said the thing. «Youse was warned not to get into our business.» Its voice scratches at her ears, all harsh consonants and short vowels, that sends a chill through her body. "I don't believe I was," she responded, and a distant part of her wonders how she is understanding it, and, for all that her voice sounds like English in her ears, what she is speaking back. "I don't recall any of your kind, whatever you are, knocking on my door and telling me so." «Stupid moss-ear. What're you, blind as well as dumb? The signs was clear as night.» "The hell does that mean?" Elo snapped, almost certain that she has fallen asleep in the phone booth and this is all a twisted nightmare. "I don't even know what you are, let alone read whatever signs you think you've posted." «Not posted,» it sneered. There was a flash of twin red glows, vanishing as quickly as it came. «Actions delt. We didn't think a moss-ear like you would know how to swim.» And then she realised that incident the other night – the one where she thought she dreamt the skittering thing in the shadows as she got dunked in the canal – that was real. "A green-skin," she said, and saying out loud what she has called them in her head for all these years sounds peculiar. It snorted. «'Green skin',» it muttered, offended, and finally moves out of the shadow. «She calls us 'green-skins'. Pah! We's Dvasia, dumb-ass.» Elo can only stare at the thing. In her defence, she decides, it does have green skin. It also has narrow pointed ears, and a narrow pointed nose and needle-like teeth. Well-corded muscles wind around thin limbs and sharp joints. Those hands and those legs terminate in knife-pointed claws, and she thinks that must be what she heard before. The thing is not much shorter than she is, and skinny as it is, she absolutely does not want to try it in a fight. For all that it called itself Dvasia, it bears a striking resemblance to a fairytale goblin. It's not wearing a whole lot either, she notices. Ragged shorts that look like they're made of potato sacks, a red cloth cap, and crude shoes that are akin to sandals. "Aren't you cold?" she asked, mouth bypassing brain. It blinked. «What?» "Um." She blinked back. The thing frowned. «S'pose it is a bit nippy.» Elo considers this for a long moment. "D'you want a coffee?" she asks, even as her mind is screaming that there is a fairytale standing in front of her, a fairytale villain at that, and for the love of all the gods, why is she offering it coffee? Because it's cold and alone and wearing sweet Fanny Adams, argues a different part of her, and she was raised to be polite and considerate of the needs of others. «Uh,» it said, clearly as confused as she was, but carefully considering the offer. «Yeh?»

So she loaded it onto the back of her bike, and drove them to the corner of Penfold and Welch, not far from where the clubs are, and pulled up by a kebab van. She buys them both a coffee, and then she walks them down a block to a park. They sat on a bench under a tree, sheltered from the mizzle, watching empty swings sway in the breeze, and drank their coffee.

Eventually, though, Elo finds she must say something; she can't just sit here, in silence, drinking coffee with a fairy story. "You know the blond girl?" she asked. "She came down to the canal two nights back." «Say I do. What of it?» it rejoined. "Did you kill her?" It paused. «What you gonna do if I say no?» "Keep looking for the ones that did." «What you gonna do if I say yes?» Elo stared at the swings, the way the rain collected along the cracks in the slabs. She hadn't thought that far ahead. "I guess I'll shoot you," she said finally. "Then go looking for the second killer." «Ain't you an officer of the law?» it asked. «Ain't youse supposed to arrest me or something, send me down the river, and take me to the Big House?» "If you were human, yes." «That's racist.» "No, it's practical. I'm struggling to believe that your kind are real, and yet here you are, sitting drinking coffee and holding a conversation with me. I can't find any way to pretend you are just some hideously deformed human speaking some foreign language. You are real and existent, and I still don't quite believe it. Now, if I feel like this, and I've been exposed to more oddity than most, how am I to expect anyone else to react to your presence?" Elo pauses, takes a sip of coffee. "There's no way I can simply arrest you, put you on trial, and 'send you down the river'. Much as I would like to, it's not feasible. So. I would shoot you." «Huh. Fair enough.» "Did you kill her?" «No. Blood as my bond, I did not.» Elo looks down at it then. It's staring at her with a strange intensity, those red orbs steady in their gaze. She knows, without a shadow of a doubt, it is telling her the truth. "What were you doing down there?" she asked. It chuckled lightly. «Waiting for you, moss-ears,» it said. «The one what did the murder sent me down there. He knows you've unsealed the Nerishklis, and he wants it back.» "You were sent to take it from me?" «Yeh.» "Why are you telling me this?" The creature sniffs but doesn't even pause. «Bought me coffee, dintcha.» "Your loyalties are so easily swayed?" «Nah. I'm on your side now.» Elo looked down at it again and it sniffed, yet again. Its gaze has that same, unwavering intensity as before, but this time it raised the paper cup in salute. "Let me guess. Your blood is your bond?" «S'right. You're getting the hang of things, eh?» I'm really not, Elo thought. "But why?" «Because,» it said slower, «Y'bought me coffee.» "I find it hard to believe that I bought your unwavering loyalty for a fifty-cent cup of joe." The creature – the Dvasia – sighed. «S'not about the amount, or what was purchased. Only that the transaction was done. Youse paid for something from your own stash o'gold for me. Which means, I'm duty bound to you for the rest of my probably short and miserable life.» It sniffs at her continuing look of confusion. «Had youse stolen, or otherwise provided said beverage from another's stash, it wouldn't have counted.» "So if I'd taken you back to the station, and given you a cup from the communal supplies, you wouldn't be beholden to me?" «Nope,» it said. «But, had youse done that, I could have lied through my teeth about whatever I fancied, then happily stabbed you in the back, got the Nerishklis, and gone on me merry way.» "So why'd you accept the coffee then?" «Why wouldn't I? Anyone who can unseal the Nerishklis is someone to be reckoned with. I figure I'm better off with you than I am with my old boss.» "Ah."

Elo swirled her coffee in its polystyrene cup. It makes sense, in an odd way. Not that she'd done anything to the artefact on purpose. "What's your name?" she asked. «'S Snotgrut,» "Pleased to meet you, Snotgrut," she said. "I'm Elowyn." «Charmed, I'm sure» Elo gives a little snort of amusement as she looks up at the sky, to see dawn starting to tint the air. Beside her, Snotgrut makes a little strangled noise. «Uh, moss-ears. You think maybe you can give me leave to bugger off? Only, I ain't too fond of the sunlight.» "Ah hell," she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. "Yeah, of course. I need to get to bed myself. How do I get in contact with you?" she asks, as Snotgrut downs the rest of his coffee and starts away. «I'll have my people call your people,» he calls back, slipping behind a bush, and is gone.

Elo shakes her head. She's trying to solve a murder via proxy, babysit a king, look after her grieving surrogate father… And now this creature, this Dvasia, is speaking in riddles about things she's only just grasping the edges of. Elo drains her coffee and gets herself ready to ride on. What the hell else could happen? she wonders, pumping the kickstart before giving it a swift downward thrust. Auri fails to start.

[rumors-suavium]

The Mouse & The Hare

Prologue Murder Recap

“Well! I’m sure you’re curious to see just how right, or wrong, your theories were: yes? Chuubey, you can do that misty thing yeah?”

The Mayor coos to the Incubator, who has been sitting stock still and silent since Märzhase’s entrance.

“…Of course. One moment.”

With little ceremony, the Moon Rabbit rises up onto their tail and raises their head into the air. Quickly, that iridescent fog that sleeps in the corners of the city begins to flood the floor of the trial room.

In the center of the circle, the mists turn a rich purple before a vision begins to play out to you all.

As the clouded curtains rise on this scene, ”Alice” and the The Killer are having what appears to be a tense conversation. While you know who should be under that mask of shadows, it appears their identity is being obscured at first. Regardless, the two stand in the Trial Room of the Clocktower silently arguing, before “Alice” splits a grin and says a few choice words.

“I know you’re mad now, buuut~! If you play along, I can make it up to you.” “Y-You-! Ugh!” The indistinct voice stutters back, hands on hips, “Fine! But you’re still the worst, Märzie.”

The two enter calmer talks, and shortly after will the vision shift to the two in Chuubucks. Alice sits at the counter, kicking their feet idly as the killer makes an ungodly complicated drink. They seem displeased by the request, but The Mayor’s word wasn’t one they could defy. So, The Killer slides over the drink with crossed arms and watches as Alice takes a hearty sip…

The impish smile on their face grows as they pull the mug from their lips… and throw it with impossible strength and speed into the wall. They stick out their tongue with displeasure.

“This is all wrong! Bleh!” Alice squints at their killer, a sadistic smile decorating their lips. “You’ve gotta do it again-”

And this, rightfully, seems to be the final straw. With little warning, The Killer launches over the counter of Chuubucks effortlessly: knocking Alice to the floor as both hands connect to their shirt. The rest of what comes plays out much like a Looney Toons skit of The Killer tossing Alice through the window and summoning a lantern staff, though not without the small magus catching a fistful of their glittering cloak before being defenestrated.

The Mayor in disguise is smart enough to begin sprinting through the streets, taking paths away from where any potential Magus were relaxing. The culprit follows in close pursuit, snapping their fingers to switch the Chuubucks sign to close as they go.

With little other place to run, Alice takes a desperate break for the stairs: but not before being propelled forward by the force of a grand fireball slamming into the plaza. Their leg and a grazed cheek seems to take most of the blow as they fall forward, but continue scrambling up the stairs while they dodge more arcs of enraged fire.

Finally reaching the Clocktower Balcony, the victim falls winded to their knee. The Killer wastes little time in jumping up to grasp the large hour hand and pull it down to their level.

In one swift movement, you’re forced to watch as Alice is impaled through the stomach and lifted high into the air by their killer’s jump: only to be mounted up on the face of the Clocktower itself. As they let out a dramatic, bone-chilling cry, Haselmaus steps back with a roll of the eyes and a scowl.

He owes her for this! Dispelling any splatters of blood from her cloak, The Deputy disappears in a puff of smoke only shortly before the group emerges at the summit of the stairs: discovering “Alice”s body.

The vision fades…

“…I see.”

Chuubey sounds vaguely displeased as they turn their head to the other hosts.

“I will need to speak to you both later. But, for now-”

The rabbit turns back to the citizens,

“There you have it.”

Haselmaus looks sheepishly between her brother and the Incubator, but nods her head.

[five-rivers]

the Knights and the Dragon

A short original fiction piece that’s been kicking around in my head for a while.

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A good knight climbs the mountain to slay the dragon.  

The road, what little of it there is, is steep and treacherous.  He leaves his beloved horse in the village, not wanting to risk the mare breaking a leg or, if worst should come to pass, being eaten by the dragon.  

The village headsman, a minor noble, landed gentry, if barely, scowls at the knight as he leaves on foot.  His daughter was the last one taken by the beast.  

��Preparing for failure?” he asks, face crumpling into a sneer around bloodshot eyes.  

The knight shrugs.  The man is grieving, and he has no desire to delay his journey. Privately, he thinks he would be fool not to prepare for failure.  

He has seen many men and women die.  Some left him with inheritance, with curses, with benedictions, with pleas.  Some left him with nothing but the wetness on his blade.  

The knight wonders if, should he fail to slay the dragon, he will leave the beast with anything but a full stomach.  A storyteller he once heard claimed that dragons were the equal of any man when it came to wit, and more than equal in magic. But he’d heard otherwise, as well. Perhaps they varied.  Perhaps they were like dogs, where one breed may seem like another animal entirely in comparison to another.  

On the ragged, rock-strewn path, he has no way of telling.  All he knows is that the creature has carried off two women, each the day before their respective weddings.  All he knows is that there is a threat to the people of the king he has sworn to serve. All he knows is that his sword is straight, his armor sound, and he has faced things much worse than a dragon.  

(Do not ask him what things those are if you are wise.)

Halfway up the mountain there is a smoking cave. Around the mouth of that cave is the detritus of life and fresh washing.  The knight spends several long moments staring at it, at a loss for why a dragon might need laundry, of all things.  Laundry made up of petticoats, at that.  

Then a woman walks from around the next bend in the path, carrying a basket of herbs.  She stops when she catches sight of him and calls out. Soon, seven more women emerge from various hiding spots.  

Their clothes are simple, and they wear their hair in long braids.  Two of them are from the village the knight had come through, and the knight wonders at the fact that they are alive at all.

At length, at a hand-carved table in the cave, only a few yards from the dragon’s hoard, it is explained to him that the dragon iss away and would most likely return with a new young lady in tow in a few.  The dragon, the women say, did not eat them all at once, but keeps them as servants until one of them should displease it.  

Their words paint a picture that make the knight’s heart stir with horror.  

“You should leave,” he says.  “While the dragon is away.  Then, even should I fail to slay it, you shall be safe.”  He finds his eyes on the woman he first saw, the herb-gatherer.  She is no beauty, but her eyes are a green that captivates.  

“Sir Knight,” she says, voice deep and sad, “would that we could.  But should we leave while the dragon yet lives, he will go back to our homes and gobble up our families.  We cannot go.”

“You are the one who should leave,” says the eldest woman, who is of an age with the knight’s eldest sister.  Her eyes, too, are green.  “This dragon has eaten many knights.  Look.” She points at the dragon’s hoard.

There is more iron and steel in it than gold, all of it brightly polished.  The knight recognizes some of the sigils, and although none of them belong to men he counts as friends, he could acknowledge that they are strong. Were strong.  

The sight sends a chill down his spine.  He turns away.  

“I will not run,” he says.  “Surely, you want your freedom.”

“That is all any of us have ever wanted,” says the first woman.  “One we would pay for, gladly.  But, as you will not flee, neither shall we.”

The knight is silent at that.  To refuse to flee from such a creature, and none of them with any weapon, any defense beside their wit…  The knight must say they are braver than he.  

He would, he thinks, be a fool not to use that.

“Then,” he said, “for your freedom, help me slay this dragon.”

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Her name is Roxanne, he learns as the week passes.  She is, he thinks, someone he could come to love.  But she is promised to another, he learns.  All the women are.

The knight keeps his distance, even as the nine of them plot and plan, even as he aids them in their daily chores, even as he learns their names and lives and little habits.

He is not, perhaps, keeping his distance very well.  

As they climb into the mountain meadow above the cave to harvest what plants they may, he and Roxanne discuss the dragon.  Its claws. Its fangs.  Its head.  Its eyes. Its tail.  Its wings.  Its belly. Its heart.  She speaks most of its heart, and how the knight might pierce it, his sword sliding through the weaker armor of its belly as she and the other women pick clean its scales.  

She shows him a rabbit trap she had set the other day.  She dresses the kill with a fine bone-handled knife.  

The knight thinks he may be in love.  

He has been saving a sachet of foreign spices for himself as a treat.  They go very well with the rabbit.  The ladies applaud him.  

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Two more weeks pass, and the knight wonders if, perhaps, the dragon fell afoul of some misfortune. Misfortune for it, that is.  

“It has been gone for longer before,” said Roxanne.  “Two months, once, before it brought Anor.”  She nods at one of the younger women, who is from a town in the next valley over. Anor returns the nod in agreement. “Be patient.”

He is patient, but he is, perhaps, somewhat concerned for his horse.

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It is another two weeks before the women reveal their ruse, and the knight both wonders why he didn’t see it before, and why they did not kill him on any of the nights he slept among them, undefended.

“We did not come here to be killers,” says the eldest.  “Only to live our lives free.”

“And what of the shields and armor?” he asks.  “What of the hoard?”

Roxanne shrugs in a way most would proclaim to be unladylike.  “The mountain is steep.  It isn’t our fault if they fall from their horses.”

The knight elects not to broach the subject again.  As he said, the men who once wore that armor were not his friends.  

“I should leave, in that case,” he says, bowing.  “I thank you for your hospitality and apologize for my intrusion.”  For intrusion it was and is.  

“Leave?” asks Roxanne.

“I assure you, I will tell no one of what you do here.”  He smiles and hopes it comes off as charming.  “Perhaps I will say the dragon enchanted me.”

“I mean,” she says, coming closer, “you intend to leave by yourself.”

“I had thought—” begins the knight.   “You would come with me?”

“I would.”

“I have no inheritance,” warns the knight.  “It all went to my older brother.  I carry with me all I own, save my horse.”

Roxanne smiles, and her smile is charming.  And sharp. “My dowry,” she says, indicating the cave and all that lies within, “will be more than enough, I think.”

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For the second time, the knight does not ride away from the village.  Instead, he leads his horse forward, Roxanne perched rather nervously on top.  She is not as used to travel as he is, and they intend to settle far, far away.  

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A knight rides up the mountain to slay the dragon.  This is a different knight from before.  He comes months after the good knight and Roxanne have left.

He stops to rest his mount.  He has no great affection for the beast, but it is valuable, and the road is difficult.

The stolen women, he thinks, each gone on their wedding day, are most likely dead, eaten by the beast. Not that it particularly matters to him, except that each victim increases the glory he will receive when he kills the dragon.  

He is very concerned with glory.  It is how he will rise from his present station.  Experience, too, is important to him.  Should he slay this dragon, he may slay others.  There is a great dragon in the north, and the king will exchange his daughter for its heart.  Or so they say.  

But, first, this small one.

He urges his mount higher.  He comes across the women at their washing.  

It is a stroke of luck, he thinks.  Another note in his story.  He speaks to them of their luck.  Of the fortune they have received with his arrival.  

He comes up with a plan. He shall lie in wait while the women distract the dragon, and, when the time is right, he shall kill it in one blow.

They say the dragon will return in the night when the moon is highest.  The knight prepares.  He sharpens his sword, tightens his armor, hides his horse.  He takes the first serving of the supper the women prepare.  It is bland and bitter, and he salts it from his own pouch.  

He settles behind the dragon’s hoard to wait.  

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Outside, while the moon rises, the women take each other’s hands and move in a circle. Faster.  Faster.  Faster. Each was taught the steps to this dance by those who came before them, and the steps are old, old, old.

They are the head of the dragon.  

The eyes.

The wings.

The claws.  

The tail.  

The belly.

The heart.

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In the cave, the knight sleeps.  The women know their herbcraft.  The knight would be no match for the dragon, even awake, but why take the risk?  They would be fools to do so.  

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“I think we should leave this mountain, soon,” says the eldest, cleaning blood from her mouth.  “It has been too long.  Too many knights.”

“I should think, more knights are better,” says the dragon’s eyes, brushing her hair.  “For food, treasure, and love.”

“There are too few of us for love,” argues the dragon’s claws.  “I am glad for Roxanne, but the magic will not work for six.”  She looks at the heart.  “Though, I certainly wish you luck with love.”

“I think we should go, as well,” says the heart.  “South, perhaps.  I liked the spices Roxanne’s knight had from there.”  She licks her lips.  “I’ve heard it is a rich country, full of gold.”

“South it is, then,” says the eldest, the dragon’s head.  “Now, what should we do with the horse?”

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That night, if any who lived around the mountain looked up, they would have seen something that, if you squinted, might have been a dragon carrying a horse.  They did not look up.

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The good knight wakes to a rather strange sight in the morning.  The number of his horses doubled overnight.  The second horse looks to his eyes to be rather… anxious.  

“One more bride gift, it seems,” says Roxanne, leaning against him.  

The knight frowned. “How…”  The question trails away as he looks into Roxanne’s too-green eyes.

Well.  

Well.  

He would be a fool, to look a gift horse in the mouth, wouldn’t he?

[monthoffearart]

Rabbit of Caerbannog

by Hope Doe Sumi and Watercolor on Arches watercolor paper

The killer rabbit sleeps with the bones of it’s victims. Though it is tasked to protect the cave, it relishes in each and every kill in it’s fluffy cute nature.

Recently watched Monty Python’s Holy Grail and couldn’t help myself.

Done for the Month of Fear Challenge, ‘Monsters Unseen’

For more of my art: Instagram Twitter Facebook

[thelastyetfabolousmidwestmadman]

Detective Conan Deconstruction/Plot Twists/Subversion's

Howdy!

I've been thinking a lot because I haven't slept or been made sensible enough to see reality through rational means of comprehension.

For a black and white series of tales such as Gosho Aoyama's DCMKverse I can sure think of a multitude of ways to turn it grey. So many dark, bloody possibilities, such a endless plethora of grief, angst, and schadenfreude, of voided bowels and lost innocence, so many terrifying ideas yet so little time...

Anyway, to summarize the contents of all that verbal diarrhea, my mind has created a vast orchestra of sinister ideas that I can't put them all in one or more stories. Some of them I'll use later, some of them I will not. I guess my main inspiration for this stream of consciousness that shouts madly into the abyss of the World Wide Web, is the idea that some intrepid, curious wanderer may come across my inane rantings and be inspired to write their own atrocities.

Or maybe it will the stoke the wondrous imagination of a writer who is more of a sick fuck then I am, (:

There are five areas that can be twisted into something cruel. They contain the following:

Cases

Heists

Romance

Character Flaws

Black Organization

Get it on!

Case’s

Suspect Gets The Last Laugh- Killer is revealed but manages to poison the victim with Ricin or something more subtle allowing the target to die a couple days later. Simple enough.

More Then One Killer- The killer is caught! However a quick look back at the scene reveals he wasn’t alone and he ain’t spilling the beans.

Hannibal Lector Wannabe- A killer decides to fuck with our beloved Teen Detectives by playing a game of manipulation and horror while he threatens their loved ones into continuing.

Escaping Through Statute Of Limitations- When Our Teen Detectives decide to give their customary breaking speech,

Killer Gets Out Of It, Now After Detectives- The killer proves much too clever and sees through our casts tricks. Maybe he begin’s to notice Conan’s con and swears revenge out of his ego.

Loved Ones Hurt In The Crossfire- They were too quick for Conan’s soccer ball, Heiji’s sword, Kogoro’s Judo, or Division One’s reflexes. The bullets, blades, bludgeons. and Pelvic Thrusts couldn’t be avoided and the innocent were hurt before they could be saved.

It’s Too Much All At Once- When the cast see a suspect state his intention to kill himself, especially in the early episodes, the cast would dare them to do it, thinking it is a bluff. It isn’t.

All For Naught- Going down a dark rabbit hole isn’t worth it, if a killer turns out to have escaped or has been dead for a long time.

Big Troll- There was no murder or kidnapping, they just wanted to humiliate them.

Green Mistake- Not all detectives succeed at once. Sometimes they make mistakes... Okay just here me out here. I sincerely doubt that all those amateur detectives despite their talent have a perfect track record in solving cases or even not getting a innocent person hurt. Just look at Heiji’s, Kogoro’s, and Sera’s early (or in Kogoro’s case many) mistakes. It’s statistically impossible to get it right all the time.

Victim Is Worse- Conan and the gang successfully prevent a client from being murdered. The criminal screams at them, telling them how evil he was, and how this was mistake. When they learn of the clients sick actions, they understand why.

Romance

Waiting For Someone Who Is No Longer There- Lets think about the situation between Shinichi and Ran for a sec. if your like me you come to a unfortunate realization that was also in the OVA “Stranger In 10 Years.” Shinichi may never get back to the way he was. Maybe there is no antidote. What if he disappears in that time? And I don’t mean move on, I mean dies without anyone knowing. Ran now has to deal with both a missing Shinichi and a vanished Conan. Yet, throughout her whole life Ran holds out hope, waiting for them. Waiting for Shinichi to call. She refuses to fall in love with someone else and becomes obsessed with finding them... Until in her old age, she dies.

The Sleeping Sleuth Sleeps Around- Okay just listen to my reasoning here for a sec. I know many of you are probably sharpening their knives in the comments but let’s really think about this for a sec. This is the same Kogoro who smacked the butt of one of the Black Bunnies, and repeatedly motorboats whatever young woman he comes across. I doubt if Eri is okay with that. Plus, alcoholism and nymphomania is not a winning combination. He could easily make a mistake while in his delirium.

Shinichi’s Toxic Jealousy- Once again bear with me on this. I don’t think either Shinichi (or Kogoro for that matter) are evil. They have flaws just like any other person. However, Shinichi can be sort of a dick with it comes to how territorial he is with Ran. Just look at Eisuke. Unlike most of the perverts who are after her, Eisuke is a genuinely nice guy and Shinichi treats him like garbage. That got me thinking... Maybe Shinichi’s claims about wanting Ran to be happy aren’t entirely true. A part of him knows what he’s doing is wrong but a selfish side can’t. What if Shinichi’s jealousy starts to hurt Ran severely? Again it have to be written well so Shinichi doesn’t come off like a unrepentant dick but I think there’s something there.

Character Flaws

Hot Headedness Get You Or Others Killed- This idea concerns Heiji mostly. A rather temperamental fellow isn’t he? Always rushing into danger without thinking or having trouble with guile... Ain’t that a losing combination innit? I wonder how many criminals can take advantage of that eh? How easy it would be to trick Heiji to go into a trap if Kazuha is threatened, how simple it would be to switch a blunted blade with a sharpened one, how effortless it would be to get important information, how utterly painless it would be to manipulate him... Well I’ll leave you lovely sick bastards to come up with more.

Dysfunction Junction- Let’s talk about the Mouri’s. They’re... Not healthy to say the least. With Kogoro’s gambling/drinking/man-whoring problem barely touched upon, as well as his abuse of Conan along with Eri’s absenteeism I can say that’s a huge target for blackmailers, debt collectors, and Count Of Monte Crisco wannabes.

Conan The Gremlin- Y’know for such a seemingly innocent little boy, he sure gets into a lot of trouble don’t he? Murders keep happening around him like a curse, and that animal tranquilizer can’t be healthy for Sonoko and Kogoro... Plus people could find out who he truly is and... Well it would probably be really messy wouldn’t it?

Incompetence From The Police- In all seriousness, let’s think about this for a second. You have a overburdened police dealing with a intense rise in the murder rate, illicit narcotic consumption, and terrorism... But before we can get any further let’s talk about real life Japanese criminal procedure. In Japan you can be held for 21 days in a tiny dark cell without due process or access to a lawyer. Your are also being interrogated with the police officers using abusive tactics such as telling you how ashamed your family would be, something that can’t happen in a culture based on Confucian values. You confess but take it back only to find that you’re basically fucked since Japan has a 99% conviction rate regardless of innocence. If your a drug addict, you are literally considered nonhuman by the public at large and due to the Reaganite standards treatment isn’t a option. If your on death row, you are never told when your going to die and even if innocent is unlikely to get out. Stressed at the rising crime rate, the police refuse to investigate any suspicious death and just like in Osaka (yes this actually happened) will simply not add to the police statistics. If your a police officer what are you to do? Just a few years ago there was so little crime and now your stressed to the bone. You’re largely conservative and full of pride so you won’t admit that you must change tactics. This quick jump to conclusions and borderline incompetence can be seen in so many episodes of Detective Conan that’s it’s a wonder that more people haven’t been wrongfully convicted or got away with it... Or perhaps they have.

Black Organization

Government Corruption- Given how much sway the BO has, it got me thinking. What if everything wrong with the Japanese Government is because the BO IS the government. Something sorta akin to how the Russian Mob are basically government officials. So many possibilities other then the usual blackmail, assassinations, and bombings. Electoral fraud, jury tampering, manufacturing consent, subtle revisions of the law to encroach on democratic rights such as those the Third Way, and Neoconservatives did in the west. So many more subtle yet intriguing ways to go about this! Perhaps the BO serves as a lobbying for other more savory companies that proudly align with them such as legalizing gambling or deregulating protections.

Caught!- The BO discovers Conan’s true identity. Hell follows.

Heists

Heist Bombing- Some madman or maybe the MK organization decides to bomb the Kid Heist. Lots of people die, are traumatized and have to deal with the aftermath. I’ll leave the rest up to you guys.

Crazy Fans- Self explanatory until you really think about it. If Kaito Kid is real in this universe, how toxic is the fandom? How many of them have pedophilic undertones with the beloved Kid Killer? What if a stalker discovers Kaito’s real identity and goes psychotic? Riots could happen! So many possibilities! Doesn’t have to dark like in my sick mind, can be played for laughs.

One last thing, because of how long this took to write, a certain beloved detective’s birthday is here.

So HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHIN-CHAN!!!

[functionally-immortal]

the demons that follow you across the threshold of sleep

TW/CW: stalking, graphic depiction of fictional physical assault and violence.

It was spring. Early enough that it was still cold but late enough there was no snow. The afternoon sunlight held no warmth.

I was standing in the doorway to an aging, abandoned house. The windows were so coated in grime, you couldn't see the details of the forest outside. Dried leaves crunched under my boots as I walked further inside. I paused briefly as a twig snapped loudly in the dense quiet here.

The walls were papered over - newspaper clippings and typewritten letters plastered from ceiling to floor like wallpaper. Everything was in shades of yellowed beige, even the light. The letters all had the same format. The date, followed by a blank space, then a few sentences - some cryptic, others poetic - more blank space, then "Ina". They were all signed "Ina". There were no replies among the hundreds of letters. As I moved through the room I could see that the correspondence started sometime in the mid 80s and ended in the early 90s. Just shy of a decade. The newspapers seemed to range from the same time. Headlines about a mysterious stalker, never caught, never brought to justice. A woman, terrorized for nearly a decade. And then ... an obituary.

Ink faded and paper peeling. As though it had been touched a thousand times.

The house held it's breath, then. The silence that anticipates violence. I know the sound. Or rather, the lack of sound. How many times did I hold my breath the same way as a child?

A soft noise ghosted across my ears. The whisper of cloth on dry wood. I turned then, vision going blurry as someone collided bodily with me. A shriek, wild and maddening, filled the room.

An old woman. Her body bent and head white with the passing of years. She had pushed me to the ground. Her gnarled hands pulled at my winter coat. It ripped open and I heard the faint sound of a plastic button pinging against a metal lamp shade. She hurriedly pushed my shirt up, up to my shoulders, exposing my chest. My body heaved, heart hammering, as I tried to dislodge her. The old woman stuffed the fingers of one hand in my mouth, while the other hand scrabbled against the place where my rib cage ended. She dug her fingers into my skin there, desperately curling them, trying to break through my flesh, to dig her way under my ribcage. I knew then that she needed to take my heart. She would force her blunt and twisted fingers through my skin and muscle, she would break and snap my ribs, and she would tear my heart out through vicious force of will alone.

I wasn't her first victim, was I? Ina. She had killed the object of her obsession, taken the other woman's heart physically when she could not capture it emotionally. Ina. A stalker, a killer. Ina.

I bit down. Hard. Still she dug at my ribs. I bit again, grinding my teeth, until I felt something pop. My efforts were rewarded with blood blooming across my teeth and tongue. I screamed. Screamed through my own fear and around her fingers that tasted of metal and filth. Blood and spittle flying from my mouth as a ground my teeth through her flesh, stopped only by the bones of her fingers. Still she dug. I could barely breathe from the agony of her assault. Surely she had drawn blood by now. It wouldn't be long before I felt her hands squirming, wriggling, slithering, through my chest towards my heart. I was going to die here, like this. I screamed again, weaker. I couldn't breathe.

I bit down. I was vaguely aware of my hands seeking out her face, my fingers searching for her eyes. If I died, I'd take her fingers and eyes with me, and leave her blind and bleeding out.

There was a crunch that I felt reverberate through my teeth. A sound I never heard, a bouncing and clicking in my skull. The woman bellowed, no longer from mindless rage, but from acute pain. She let me go. She scrambled backward, clutching her hand. Something fell, she reached, tried to catch it, missed. A sickening plop as it landed.

A finger.

Bone splintered and flesh ragged from the blunt force of my teeth. I spit out her blood, ribs aching as I hauled in breath after breath. As quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared, moving with unnatural speed, backwards, through the only doorway, her limbs bent at inhuman angles.

I needed to get out of here. I tried to stand. My knees gave out halfway up, and the floor rushed to me.

I awoke then, in my own bed, arms and legs deadened with exhaustion, heart rabbiting in my chest. The sour stench of sweat. The bitter taste of fear.

My eyes cast about the room, looking to see if anything had followed me to the waking world.

My blood chilled as I realized the pain in my ribcage remained.

My demons may not have followed me past the threshold of sleep, but the pain they inflict upon me certainly does.

[the-dirt-king]

Looking for Creepy Pasta RP

Ha ha, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it but I’ve fallen into the deep end of the creepypasta fandom and am looking to RP with some OCs. I’m good with my partner using OCs or official characters and wouldn’t mind NSFW at all, though it’s not required. I personally will be role playing with OCs, a girl and a boy, and can do gay or straight ships/nsfw.

It’s also my personal head cannon that creepy pastas are somewhere between alive and dead, and so cannot be killed all the way, but can be taken out of commission for a while through typically mortal wounds, at least in most situations. I’m willing to be flexible with this though!

As far as NSFW goes, we can discuss that in private.

My characters are here! Please shoot me a message if you’re interested!

1.

Basics

Name (& pronunciation): Tripp (trip) is all you need to know

Date of Birth (& age): July 9th (18)

Place of Birth: some small American town

Gender: Female

Species/Racial Origin: Human, white

Social Class/Community Status: Poor

Language: English

Family/Friends/Pets/Etc: Just the proxies she was raised with, none of which she’s fond of.

Physical Description

Height: 5’7

Weight: Underweight

Hair: Light brown, with a real hack job ending just at her chin, but several strands that are longer or shorter.

Eyes: Dull hazel and tired

Limb Dexterity: Clumsy

Detailed Physical Description: Trip is tall and lanky, with lean muscle but evident malnutrition. Her hair is messy, looking like somebody cut it with a pocket knife, and she’s pretty riddled with scars. Her most noticeable feature is a limp and a foot that’s not quite turned right from a mediocre attempt to fix a broken ankle, hence the nickname. Her eyes are wide and paranoid with noticeable bags beneath them.

Typical Clothing/Equipment: Old second hand clothes, but mostly hunting plaids and such, thicker material. She also wears a mask, though, it’s made of paper mache and sealant, and looks pretty torn up, but it still has a relative shape of a bird head to it.

Personality/Attributes

Personality/Attitude: Depressed, tired

Skills/Talents: Tripp’s talented at murdering folks with whatever’s around, and pretty good at digging. Her favorite tool is a shovel, because she can hit people with it without letting them in stabbing range.

Favourites/Likes: Warm food, warm drinks, warm house, being away from work and the other proxies, soccer, critters, normal people

Most Hated/Dislikes: the other pastas, Especially the proxies above her, getting caught, people poking at her foot.

Goals/Ambitions: Escaping the Slenderman and living a normal life

Strengths: Creative, intelligent, desperate, fearless

Weaknesses: Slow as f u c k, easily over powered by folks in the business, clumsy on her feet, desperate

Fears: Tripp is terrified of Slenderman after the last time she tried to escape.

Hobbies/Interests: Wood carving, star gazing, rocks, neat bugs

Regular Routine: Wake up, eat, complete the day’s mission, go home, fail to sleep, pass out

Philosophy of Life: You give your life meaning, or somebody does it for you

Attitude Toward Death: she can’t wait, it’s got to happen sometime... right?

Religion/Beliefs: If there was a god, she wouldn’t be in this situation

Fetishes/Strange Behaviors: Always looking over her shoulder, starts coughing up black bile and leeches when she goes against the Slenderman

History: Tripp was kidnapped in the third grade or so as an offering to Slenderman, but was chosen as one of the many children to be raised as a proxy due to her physical skills as a soccer player. This was all as fine and dandy as it could be until she broke her ankle chasing who was supposed to be the next victim of the Slenderman in the seventh grade, and, considering she was mostly being raised by other children, it never healed right (turns out, broken bones need a splint and not just bandages. Who knew?) This led her to lose pretty much all of her agility, and led to the affectionate nickname of “Tripp”. Knowing that she was no longer valuable enough to keep, she tried to escape as a teenager only to be tracked down by the proxies she considered friends, who brought her back. She doesn’t really remember what happened next, but she hasn’t felt quite right since.

Sexual Preference/Experience/Values: She doesn’t know yet, having had no sexual experience, and only really hearing the basics

Education/Special Training: She was raised to kill, but not to go to school, so she isn’t great at maths and reading, much less grammar

Place/Type of Residence: The slender manor

Occupation: Proxy

Place of Work: Wherever the Slenderman wants her to go

2.

Basics

Name (& pronunciation): James Jackson

Date of Birth (& age): October 4th, 18

Place of Birth: Somewhere in New York State

Gender: Male

Species/Racial Origin: Human, native/white mixed

Social Class/Community Status: Upper Middle class

Language: English

Family/Friends/Pets/Etc: Deceased

Physical Description

Height: Average

Weight: Average

Hair: Black

Eyes: Green

Limb Dexterity: Good

Detailed Physical Description: James is a fairy good looking guy, tan skin, white smile, pretty green eyes, the whole deal. He’s pretty averagely sized, but has some lean muscle to him.

Typical Clothing/Equipment: Nicer clothes, and a large hammer that he uses to smash heads. He wears a fancy bunny mask and calls himself the Easter Killer. The news papers call him the Red Rabbit instead. James is unhappy about this:

Personality/Attributes

Personality/Attitude: Smug, cocky, and full of himself

Skills/Talents: James is fairly decent at murder, but by no means the best. He’s also good at school and is pretty smart

Favourites/Likes: Being an asshole, smashing shit, buying things, sports

Most Hated/Dislikes: The cops, freaky monsters, folks being better at things than him

Goals/Ambitions: Being remembered as a famous serial killer

Strengths: Pretty athletic and fast

Weaknesses: He’s too cocky and picks battles he can’t win

Fears: Getting forgotten, being caught, the freaky monsters that stalk him in the night

Hobbies/Interests: Murder, dark things, knifes, serial killers, revenge

Regular Routine: Pretty average, he fucks around during the day and then kills at night

Philosophy of Life: The purpose of living is to be remembered

Attitude Toward Death:  Won’t happen to him

Religion/Beliefs: Christian, just doesn’t respect god

Fetishes/Strange Behaviors: It’s pretty weird to wear a rabbit mask while smashing people, but aight

Brief history: He didn’t take the car crash that killed his parents all too well, and started killing folks he believed deserved to die more than his parents. Once the news got involved, he started to get high off the attention. It’s too bad that once his killing spree got really rolling, he was chosen as a target for the Slenderman, and he shot himself in efforts to kill himself before the monster did. Clearly, it didn’t work, as he’s not quite dead now. He doesn’t like removing his mask though

Sexual Preference/Experience/Values: Bisexual, but doesn’t know it yet

Education/Special Training: Finished most high school, but no real murder training

Place/Type of Residence: On the run

Occupation: None

Place of Work: None

Work-related Skills: None

Past Occupations: Worked at his aunt’s restaurant for a tick.

[netherbunny]

Dear Rabbit

  He had to keep going. He had to keep running to stay alive. To stay away from him. He's been running for what seems like days, but it was only a few minutes. He saw nothing, but fields of snow. His breathing was getting heavy as he ran on all fours, he left leg hard fresh bite marks. He was tired, he wanted to rest, but fear filled his soul. The fear of being caught by the wolf close behind.   He lost his balance and he fell hard, he struggled to get up. His large white ears twitched as he heard the large animal come from behind him. He remained still hoping not to anger the preditor any further.   "Why did you run, Blue?" His name came out dark out of his captor's mouth, "I warned you didn't I? What would happen if you left! I was trying to protect you, keep you safe." Blue's ears flatten against his back and he shook in fear. Yes, he did warn him about leaving him, but he had to go to see his brother and make sure he was okay.   The wolf laid down next to the injured rabbit, he didn't say a word. Blue against his better judgment, he gazed upon his captor. He had a black jacket, with fur on the rim of the hood, a red sweater, and black shorts. His eyes gazed upward to his head, he had a scar above his left eye and dried blood from many victims. The wolf locked eyes with the small creature, Blue closed his eyes waiting for his fate.   "Why?" Blue reopened his eyes and look towards the wolf, "Why did you leave me?"   "I-I wanted to s-see my brother, a-again." The wolf turned away in guilt. He knew Blue would never see his brother again, he was the one to end his fate and many more before him. He soon grew sick of the taste of blood, so sick that he left his pack and his own brother behind.   "I've told you many times, he's dead and I took his life. Out of pity for you, I spared you if you stayed with me and never leave. I told you what would happen if you did. Deep down you knew this, you just wanted to get away from the Big Bad Wolf!" His voice grew more sinister with each word he spoke.   Blue tried to sneak away, but he pinned the rabbit with one paw. He got up increasing the pressure on Blue's back, he tried to get out of the wolf's grip but it was hopeless. The wolf turned Blue's head so he was facing his, it eyes full of fear as tears ran down his cheeks.   "Stop it," He said, "stop looking at me like that! I'm not going to hurt you!" The tears and fear grew as he raised his voice as the weak creature. "I'm trying to protect you! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT!" No matter what he said his words were not making to Blue, he was too scared of him to listen. It pissed him off, he was tired of seeing the same look. He needed to end it.   Without thinking he bared his fangs and attacked. Blue screamed in pain, begged and pleaded for him to stop, but it only made him bite harder. He soon heard the rabbit's cries and released, he saw met with a horrific scene.   "H-Hey," He called to the rabbit, "get up. C-Come on, get up. Stop looking like that! Stop looking me like that." He called over and over trying to get a response out of the small snow white creature. Blue was covered in his own blood, slowly his life was fading away from him. His beautiful white fur was stained with blood.   He didn't want this, he didn't mean to hurt him, he was just angry. The smell of blood filled his nose, his instincts were telling him to finish the job. To use the rabbit to end his hunger and continue on to the next prey he sees. He didn't was that he wanted to stop, he didn't want to be alone again.   He gently grabbed the rabbit by his blood cover bandana in his mouth and ran back to his cave. The taste of blood filled his mouth, he resisted the urge to bite down ending his life completely. He made it to his cave and laid Blue down gentle, he sicked the wounds clean. He wrapped his body around the rabbit and started to pour his own magic into him. Healing wasn't something he was good at, but he knew enough to keep the rabbit alive. He soon saw the little creature start to breathe normally and his eyes closed as he rested. Feeling relieved, he covered Blue with his tail and rested himself.   Blue opened his eyes to see the cave's walls, he yawned and rosed up to stretch. He felt something fall off of him, he turned to a large furry tail. He traced it back to its owner and he started to panic. Memories of yesterday flowed back to him, but parts were missing. He should have been dead, why was his still alive and how? He wanted to know, but the fear of repeating the same pain terrified him. He began to sneak around the wolf's still sleeping body, but a paw slammed down in front of him. A large shadow rosed above him, knowing who it was he didn't turn around.   "W-Why?" Blue asked, "Why am I still alive? You're a wolf! You're supposed to kill me like you did my brother." Blue shook in fear and anger, trying to figure out the wolf's intentions. Was this a game to him? Putting him through the same hell over and over until he was his toy. Blue closed his eyes tight thinking such a painful fate.   The wolf turned him around and pulled him closer, he lowered his face so they were eye to eye. He started to lick the small rabbit's skull, cleaning its body of the remaining blood. Blue was shocked at the predator's actions, but let him continue.   He pushed the rabbit to lay on it's back and nudge it's shirt up to relieve its ribs. Blue flushed and turned away in embarrassment as the wolf continued. The rough tongue felt really good on his bone, but he held in a moan, not wanting the other to know how good it was.   "Does it hurt?" the wolf asked in a low voice.   "E-Excuse me?"   "Your body, are you in pain?" Blue was confused for so many reasons, he was concern about him. This wolf was very strange, "Blue?"   "U-Uh-O-Oh. I'm fine, but please." The wolf raised its head, wanting the rabbit to continue on with its request, "answer my question. I need to know." The wolf sighed and pulled the rabbit close to its chest, he wrapped its body around the creature.   "I don't like being a wolf," Blue eyes widen at his answer, a wolf not like being a wolf. Why? They were feared, powerful, and one of the most dangerous creatures. Blue was so confused. "I don't like being looked at with fear, it's been that way my whole life. My brother and I were the strongest wolfs in our packed and every creature feared us. He loved the attention and the power, even after all that we were still brothers."   "What about you?" Blue asked looking at the one, he should be scared of for life, with compassion and sadness.   "Me? I was feared as well, but I grew tired of killing. I wondered what my purpose was besides ending lives. I didn't want that life, so I left without anyone knowing and soon I grew lonely. I wanted someone with me, but every time someone saw me they get scared and run. It made me angry seeing them look at me with fear, so angry that I chase after them and end their life. I didn't want to do that with you when I first saw you, I knew I had another chance. Now, I'm thinking that the way others see me will never change."   "That's not true!" The wolf eyes widen in shock at Blue's outburst, "I have to admit, I was scared and I feared you because of what you did to my brother. I'm usually happy to meet new creatures and the way I treated you was wrong. You did save me and you wanted to protect me from other predators. I treated you so wrong, only thinking about leaving you without getting to know the one who saved me twice. For that I am sorry, I didn't know how you were feeling and I want to start over and be friends."   His eyes, they were once filled with fear of the large creature, but now. They were filled with kindness, forgiveness, and compassion. He wanted to forgive his brother's killer, this rabbit was strange and yet so easy to forgive. That look in his eyes was like stars, so bright and full of life he wanted to protect that. He wanted to protect him from this dangerous world, he wants Blue to be with him forever until death.   "You are a very strange rabbit."   "And you're a very strange wolf!" Blue giggled, it made the predator smile, "Friends?" He answered by giving the rabbit a lick on his cheek, it made him giggle more.   "I will always protect you," the word made halted Blue's laughter, "as long as you stay by my side no one will hurt you. I could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave. So I'm telling you that you'll be safe with me."  His words, he said the same thing when he was first taken, they were sinister to him then. A threat. Now, they were the sweetest thing he's heard and he wished to keep hearing them. Hearing them now, it sounds like a promise.   Blue nuzzled under the wolf's neck, trying to comfort him. Letting him know that he wasn't going anywhere without him. He heard the wolf's soul beat loud and calm, powerful and yet so gentle. He felt the wolf move closer to his new companion, keeping him warm from the outside breeze. No one will hurt him, as long as he stayed.   "You never told me what your name was," Blue said looking up at his new friend.   "Red," He replied, "My name is Red."

[cyberneticlagomorph]

The Hunter King

Its getting worse. Strips and stripes of blue crystal breaking the smooth brown sea of your synthetic skin and the semiflexible plating beneath, glowing with your biolume, that still runs through visible veins in the rigid facets marring your body. For now.

What started out as an oddity has become an affliction. The crystal forming the pulsating phylactery was that once your heart has begun to spread and consume your other systems, yesterday it was just your organs and bones. Now its your skin. You can see the patches visibly growing before your eyes and yet you cannot summon the fear appropriate for this situation. Only calm as you disentangle yourself from your wives, shower, get dressed, and leave the Warren before the sun has a chance to rise. No one stops you, and you aren't surprised. With the new babies everyone's understandably worn out, you are too, but with your issue progressing like it is you can't afford what paltry moments of sleep you can manage to scrape together.

You make your way to the Main Street Library, in the dark snowy silence. Nights like these remind you of gunfire and red stains on white, the scar on your chest burns with traumas still fresh in your mind. Distantly you taste butterscotch, but make no motion to stop. Your progress towards the library is wholly uneventful, the streets deserted and cold, buried in ankle deep snow with only the automated snow plows to play sentry to the sleeping city. You watch one rumble past, amber and black in the streetlights, leaving a trail of exhaust as ghostly as your breath. It beats you to the crosswalk and sits there, the blade of its plow hovering almost uncertainly over the barely visible lines. It beeps at you, softly, encouraging you to cross. It waits for you quietly, politely, and you wave at it the moment you get to the other curb. It lifts its ice-encrusted plow and waves back as best it can, beeping at you again before resuming its intended function, rumbling off into the fading night.

The Spark's Crossing Main Street Library looms behind you like some ancient petrified godbeast that still deserves the worship of lowly mortals like you. You've long since lost track of all the hours devoured by the library and all the wondrous knowledge it contains, you're certain it remembers you and your days as a librarian within its walls. Sometimes you miss those days, but only sometimes. Its closed right now, it being as early as it is, but that doesn't diminish its grand stature in the slightest. You walk up to one of the two massive stone snakes that coil protectively around the Greco-Roman-esque columns that decorate the front of the building. It’s recycled glass scales shimmer iridescent in the gathering dawn, you stick a hand into it’s gaping mouth and ignore the subtle warmth of it’s breath against your fingers. You find a button behind one of it’s fangs and press it, watching as it’s milky, glass globe eyes flicker with life for less than a heartbeat. You ascend the library’s grand stairs without a word, skin prickling as a barrier of ancient magic flickers to life around the building, casting a glamour around it with the echoes of a thousand whispers. You keep walking, ignoring the locked front doors in favor of the vividly glowing portal that yawns intimidatingly on the landing, hidden from mundane eyes by the whispering wall of magic. You step into the portal and continue down the slowly spiraling stairs into the smoky murk beyond.

A simple wooden door, green with cracked and peeling paint that shows the weathered grain beneath it, stands at the bottom of the stairs, embedded in a wall that just might not exist exactly in the way you think it really ought to. It swings wide as you approach bathing the stairwell in shifting light, the room beyond is improbably huge, an impossible sprawling maze of shelves and books illuminated by winged lanterns lit with the souls of Library patrons long dead. The floor beneath your paws is made of earth, covered in a thick blanket of moss and grass, the shelves and furniture are living things, the trunks of trees grown into fantastic shapes to serve a simple purpose. The ceiling above you is a moving map of the cosmos, studded with planets and constellations you do not recognize. Automatically you pause and breathe in the smell of old books, raw magic, and churned earth. The scent of Fairytales and wild adventures.

No matter how many times you visit the Grand Library, it never ceases to amaze you. You can remember your first visit clearly, but you aren't here to fall victim to nostalgia. Not now, not today. You wander through the forest of shelves, pursued by a very helpful Soul-Lantern that seems intent on lighting your path. It flutters after you on batlike wings, roosting on shelves whenever you pause, giving off a stubborn hot pink glow that goes much farther than you thought it would given how small the Lantern is.

Librarians stalk the shelves, towering inhuman things with legs like birds and feathers like ink stained paper. They watch you with calm black eyes, shelving books and pushing carts, attended by swarms of Lanterns and scuttling groups of hobgoblins. Despite their wicked claws and snapping teeth they seem docile, it'd be hard to guess that the feral, screeching things in Night Vale and these gentle giantesses were the same species. Night Vale librarians are stunted in their growth, gone mad with captivity and proximity to iron. You weep for them whenever you visit. You aren't here to weep for their forgotten sisters today, you need help and you need it now. The growing crystal claims your right eye and everything becomes a glorious fractal, time is off the essence.

You flag down a librarian with the help of the Lantern and ask her to take you to the Bookwyrm. You trail after the long spindly legs of the creature as she leads you to the heart of the labyrinth, Special Collections. There in a nest made from the pages of books that could not be saved, lives the Bookwyrm, a magnificent dragoness with scales covered in mile after mile of shifting black text in a thousand languages near lost to time. She has lived here as long as there has been a Grand Library to live in and as such had made herself the Grand Librarian, married to the Library itself. Paige, the Spirit of the Grand Library, lays curled around her wife's neck like an odd scarf, eyes shut in contentment even as you approach. You tell the Bookwyrm of your problem, show her the crystal in your skin and feel her flinch. You ask her for the whereabouts of the Hunter King and watch even Paige frown, you beg, you offer your soul, your kingdom, every book in your library but they refuse them all. Literal sapphire tears roll down your face and clatter to the mossy floor beneath you. The Bookwyrm tilts your head up with a claw and hushes you.

The Bookwyrm regards you with eyes the color of well thumbed pages, lowering her great snout to speak in a whisper only meant for you. She gives you an address in the outskirts of the city, where the Ruins just barely begin and the crows speak in tongues not heard for a thousand years. There you find the shell of a once magnificent mansion, gray and covered in snow. The weeds grip your ankles and the crows shriek curses, you ignore them all and ring the doorbell. It echoes through the house like a solemn banshee's cry, heralding nothing but suffering. But you don't flee, you stay on the front stair, shivering in the cold, and you wait. The moments tick by, your paws grow numb, the front door creaks open and two red eyes glare from the gloom beyond.

"I've never known a rabbit to deliver itself so readily into the jaws of a hungry wolf, nor have I ever seen a witch so eager to meet her death," said a voice as old as old could be, one that rumbles like a smoker's but purrs like a fine gentlemen's. It holds several accents blended into something pleasant but unnerving that makes the fur along your spine lift. "Do you know who I am young one?" the stranger inquires

"Vlad Dracula Tepes, the Hunter King," you whisper, flinching as he snarls

"The Hunter King, you say it as if that's a thing to be proud of. The King of bastards, murderers and thieves, the King of Witch killers." he growls, sharp teeth glinting in what milky sunlight manages to filter its way through the persistent clouds. He sneers at you, seeming to grow in the darkness,  but not yet daring to take a step into the light, "Why have you come, Witch?"

You tremble, dropping the tentative glamour around you, and tip your head back to let the crystal catch the light. You watch Dracula's eyes widen in surprise and feel his claws close around your forearm, dragging you into his home. Inside, the mansion is warm and ornate, well kept and clean. The door slams behind the both of you and for the first time today you feel afraid.

"What have you done to yourself?" he asks, demeanor changing entirely as if you were no longer an arrogant, strange Witch on his doorstep, but his child with a skinned knee. You remove your coat and watch him recoil as more patches of crystal come into view, he sweeps you into the den as you try to explain the situation. Try to explain the Red Queen, the quest for the Looking Glass, her return, the phylactery and everything in as few words as possible. He listens intently, lighting a fire in the hearth with a single word. You watch him retreat into another room but don't dare follow,

"Sit," he tells you, gesturing at a great highbacked arm chair in front of the fireplace. You do as you're told and sink into the massive seat. "Your heart isn't made of crystal, its a soulstone."

He calls from the other room over the clinking of metal on glass, "You,  being half fae, produce more magic than it is capable of containing and as such it is trying to compensate by growing." he swishes out of the other room, through the den to another room from which he retrieves a book, "if this isn't taken care of immediately the stone will continue to grow and grow until it consumes you entirely." he snaps the book shut, "you'll be nothing but an expensive lawn ornament."

You open your mouth to speak but Mr. Tepes has already returned to the other room and resumed his clinking and clattering. You sit there for awhile, slowly warming up in front of the fire, unaware of how heavy your eyelids are getting until you've already fallen asleep. You wake up sometime later, wrapped in a thick brown fur with a steaming cup of tea perched precariously on the arm of the chair. You sip it politely until Mr. Tepes shows himself again, armed with an eye dropper full of dark liquid. You let him put two of the bitter drops on your tongue and feel your stomach turn immediately. He's there with a bin before you can be sick on his pristine floors. All that comes out of you is crystal shards and raw magic that sparkles like something out of a cartoon. "you need to purge the crystal and excess magic from your system as quickly as possible so that I may properly quarantine your heart. This emetic will do just that, I apologize for the inevitable discomfort."

He leaves you be after that, returning to what's probably his lab to resume his clinking and clattering once again.

Every so often he leans into the den, red eyes glowing in the dimness as you quietly sip your tea and sink further beneath the blanket, listening to the fire crackle in front of you. Exhaustion tugs at your eyelids, dragging you back under as you remember your promise to sleep. You don't fight the dreams that threaten to take you and burrow beneath the fur throw as if you were back home. Mr. Tepes wakes you sometime later, offering another cup of tea and some chocolate cookies, he tells you that the medicine is almost complete and that puts your fitful mind at ease. You send a selfie to your favorite group chat and hope it calms whatever panic you might have left in your wake. Ada, your mother, insists on thanking him for his kindness, something you'll do before you leave. Dracula suddenly looms behind the great arm chair, a paper bag rustling in his grip. He wordlessly reads the chat over your shoulder before handing you the bag,

"I am not grumpy." he says, a hint of a pout leaking into his voice as you rise from the chair and stretch. You snort, but don't say anything, stowing the bag in your chest for safe keeping. Dracula sweeps you towards the door to his mansion, "Two drops on the tongue every morning before breakfast, do not flush or discard any shards you expel, see me again the moment that the bottle is empty," he stoops a bit so that you're both eye to eye, his teeth flash in his mouth like daggers sliding from hidden sheaths, "Understand?"

You nod, you thank him, you put on your coat and you leave, feeling the air behind you fold in on itself as the grand estate once again becomes dilapidated and overgrown in the gathering night. When you get home and get settled, tangled in the arms of two worried witches, you open the bag and find your medicine, a tin of spiced tea, and a box of chocolate cookies.

[babybottlepop96]

Jorogumo (Chapter 5)

A/n: Final Chapter!

Warnings: Death, blood, shit like that

The night air was filled with nothing but crickets chirping and a soft breeze as you and Armin took watch. Twenty minutes left until the other police unit arrived, twenty minutes for anything or nothing to happen and you prayed to whatever god was out there that nothing happened. This simple fun camping trip to a murder location had taken a turn for the worse, so much worse. Friends were dying, some fucked up creature was apparently the killer all along. When did this even start? Why are you and your friends being hunted like deer and rabbits? None of you have ever done anything illegal in your lives that you’re aware of, so why are you and the others, of all the people in this vast, cruel, beautiful world?

“(y/n)? Are you doing okay?” Armin spoke tenderly, his oceanic eyes staring at your tear filled ones.

“No, not really. You?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper, scared that if you spoke any louder then whatever or whoever was after you, would hear.

“No.” He replied, eyes now gazing down at the ground. “Once we get out of here, I want to take you on a da-” Suddenly, Armin was being whisked away by an unknown force.

“Armin!” You screamed, the others quickly coming out of the RV to see their brilliant blonde friend being dragged across the dirt below them. Everyone ran, trying to save the boy. But by the time they made it to the edge of the woods, he was gone. “No! Armin!” You cried, your heart couldn’t take this anymore. 

“Fuck!” Levi screamed his hands now in his hair pulling at the stands. 

“I’ve had so much fun playing with all of you, but now I’m bored.” The rest of you turned around and stared at the sight of a small blonde woman, blood drenching her clothes.

“Krista?” You spoke softly, arm reaching out to touch her, but Jean held your arm back, shaking his head.

“Of course I’m not.” She hissed, “I’m just using her body for now. Quite a cute little body if I do say so myself.” She spoke as she ran her hands up and down the stolen body.

“Don’t touch her like that you bitch!” You shouted, trying to get away from your brother’s grasp. Ereb stepped in front of you, putting himself between the Krista look-a-like and your trembling body. 

“I guess you volunteer first, good. You’re cute.” She snarled and lunged at Eren, her body morphed, twisting and growing, sounds of bones being broken and rearranged filled the air, the body of a giant black and yellow spider appeared before them. Her jaw opened, ten times bigger than any normal human, teeth pointed as she ripped Eren’s head right from his body. Warm, thick blood spewed from the severed body, coating everyone in its warmth. A scream was stuck in your throat as you watched the Spider creature devour Eren’s head, his green jeweled eyes, lifeless as she closed her mouth around it, gulping it down like it was a pack of smarties. “So good.” The thing hummed, licking the extra blood and drool that slid down its chin. “Okay, so who's next?” 

Everyone scattered, running to hide in different places amongst the trees and shrubs that filled the eerie woodlands that surrounded them at every turn. Your breathing was hard as you climbed a tree, getting to the tallest branch you could reach before you started to get dizzy from the altitude. 

Levi rolled under some bushes, not caring if his clothes got dirty or the thorns that were tearing his skin apart. He stayed there, quiet, unmoving, playing possum. He heard some twigs snapping and held his breath, this was not how he wanted to die, he thought he would either die peacefully in his sleep or from some freak car accident, but not like this. Definitely not like this.

He stayed like that for who knows how long, until he heard the undeniable sound of Hange’s screams. “Hange!” He shouted as he ran towards her voice, Levi would never admit this, but he had some harbored feelings for the nerd, sure she was annoying, but that's what drew him to her, the way only she could get him to crack even the smallest of smiles and cheer in victory for it. It wasn’t until he made a way to a clearing when he saw her, body lying on the lead covered ground, not moving, not even the faintest of movements were seen. He knelt beside her and held her in his arms, brushing the hair from her face. Her glasses were broken and her face was sunken in and pale in color. He wanted to vomit but he hadn’t eaten much since hours before, nothing to heave out his disgust, regret and sorrow. “I’m sorry.” He spoke to the woman who was stiff in his arms.

“Mine.” That was the last thing he heard before he hoisted into the trees. He didn’t care if he died now, even as he watched Hange’s fading form below disappear behind thick tree branches, he muttered a last ‘I’m sorry’ before the world went black.

Jean just kept running, he took random turns to try and throw off the spider, Jorogumo. ‘A Jorogumo.’ He thought, ‘Who knew that stupid video game boss was a real fucking thing!’ He huffed breath after breath, stopping behind a large tree to take a quick breather. He couldn’t hear anything, thinking it was safe for him to just sit for a moment. ‘Almost everyone is dead! Connie, Marco, Sasha, Krista and Ymir. Eren.’ He might not have gotten along the best with the green eyes stud, but he never wanted him to die. He wouldn’t even wish that on his worst enemy, especially not like how it happened. Then his mind to you, his sister, out there somewhere where he couldn’t save you, protect you. Jean was never a religious man, always had some kind of argument whenever someone would chasisze him for not believing in any higher being, but he prayed now. He prayed to whatever higher being existed that you were safe, that you got away, that you would be okay. 

“Praying won’t save you.” He whipped his head around to stare at the Jorogumo, who was still in spider form, but now, long brown hair put up into a high ponytail rested on its head instead of blonde, and there rested a pair of broken glasses, enlarging brown eyes instead of blue.

“You bitch! You killed Hange!” Jean shouted as he tried to slice at the being with his butter knife. The Jorogumo only laughed and dodged ever attempted the poor boy tried to make.

“Yes, she was of great use to me, her blood giving me more strength. It also helped that the raven haired boy with the stoic face tried to come to her rescue. It was one less human I had to hunt.” She spoke, her voice cackling as she made her attack, webs clinging to every part of his body. Jena didn’t have any time to scream as the jaw of the Jorogumo torn his head from his body, a violent ripping sound accompanied by the sound of chewing lingered in the air as the Jorogumo dropped his body to the ground with a thud. “Now, one more.”

“You were hard to find, so stealthy.” Mikasa turned her head to face the demon spider. “It's such a shame you have to die.” Mikasa put up a good fight, lasted longer than Jean by a good five minutes, but in the end, she was still no match for the Jorogumo. The venom burned as it surfed through her veins, body going weak from the blood draining her, she managed to get a slice across her face, left eye to her chin, but all it would do was scar. Mikasa fell limp to the ground as the Jorogumo hunted its last victim, you.

You stayed in the tree, vigilantly watching your surroundings. Deciding on going to the other side of the large tree to be more out of sight, you shimmied your way from branch to branch until you reach the other side, and you really wished you hadn’t. The sight before you was horrendous, disgusting, down right gut-wrenching. Your eyes watered and tears streamed down your cheeks, a hand covering your mouth for two reasons, to keep your screams from pouring out and to keep your vomit in your stomach. There were dozens of web covered bodies strung up and caught into a nest of spider webs. Most of the bodies were missing heads and some looked to be twenty years decomposed. 

You dry heaved for a moment, turning your body around so you were now facing away from the scene before you. You weren’t safe here, you had to get away, find Jean and any other survivors and get the hell out of this living hell. 

“Aw, leaving so soon?” You heard the voice before you saw it as you headed down the tree. You didn’t even answer and you practically ran down the tree, snapping a branch and falling at least ten feet to the ground below. Landing on your back, you groaned out in pain, turning to the side to try and push yourself up, but a certain murderous spider wasn’t having it. Pinning you down with its eight, long, hairy legs, its face got into yours. It was so close you could smell the coppery scent of blood and rotten flesh oozing from between its fangs. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?” It asked, its hand slowly caressing your face as Armin once done. “You’re perfect.” 

Everything went black.

“Over here, Petra! We have one!” Your eyes fluttered open, staring at the blurry sight of a man who looked like an older version of Jean.

“Oh! Thank god! Can you hear me? I’m Officer Petra, I’m going to get you some help.” She took off her talkie and began to speak, “Yes, I need an ambulance, stat, Shiganshina Trail.” She spoke.

“Can you sit up?” The man asked, you nodded in reply as he helped you sit up.

“What happened?” You asked, looking around the darkness.

“We aren’t sure, we are hoping you can help us. I’m Officer Olou.”

“(y/n)”.

THREE YEARS LATER

“Will that be everything?” You asked, bagging the items the couple in front of you had purchased.

“Can you put fifty on the pump?” The handsome young man asked, handing you the bill. Smiling, you nodded and put the money in the register. “I’m going to pump the gas, can you get some lottery tickets?”

“Sure thing, babe.” The beautiful redhead answered her boyfriend, giving him a quick kiss. “Can I have this one and this one?” She pointed to the tickets under the small window on the counter top. You pulled out the tickets, rang them up and handed them to her smiling. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get the scar under your eye?” 

“I had a fight with my friend, it’s okay though, she isn’t a problem anymore.” You took her money and put it in the register. “Your boyfriend is quite handsome.” You told her and she smiled.

“Thank you, he is my everything.” You gave her a polite smile in return.

“You better keep a close on him, don’t want anything happening to that pretty face.” She looked at you, confusion written on her face. You just smiled, teeth growing sharp as your body morphed and cracked. “You’re next.”

[homogrimoire-archive]

The Remnant Branches

CH. 2 - Vile Toxic Intent

Part 2: In the Name of My God(ess)!

The murderous duo proceed to the facility where they will find what they desire. However, they run into a major problem, one whose might they will not even begin to comprehend. As a result, Tyrian is winds up in another world.

“Here we are!” Tyrann singsonged. The two vicious killers stood in front of a surprisingly neat looking building. However, it was only the size of a small market. It held no markings indicating what the building once was or what it now holds.

“This is the place we’re looking for?” Tyrian said, doubtful that this mere thing could be the key to his mission.

“Looks can be deceiving. This place goes underground so far, even a nuclear bomb couldn’t destroy it all!” They walked through the automatic doors and headed to a nearby elevator.

“The hell is a nuclear bomb?” Tyian said, confused. Tyrann looked at him as if he should know, though it was difficult to tell because of the lack of distinguishable facial features. The sterile white light buzzed and the elevator hummed as it descended.

“You’re world is fuckin’ weird. How do you all have bitchin’ weapons like that, but no nuclear bombs?” Tyrann would have killed to get some insane weapon like Tyrian’s. Though, that wouldn't be saying much. He would have not killed to get some insane weapon like Tyrian’s.

“How the fuck do you have nuclear bombs but no fucking awesome weapons like this?” Tyrian retorted as he caressed the weapon that had ended the lives of countless people.

“Good point good point. Damn, I would have taken shit like that over nuclear any day though. It can cause some weird and downright disgusting side effects. Ugh.”

“Like?”

“Like… you know, I’ve forgotten… Don’t give me that look, its been a couple of centuries. What I do remember is that it doesn’t discriminate and leaves a place totally fucking destroyed and uninhabitable for a long time.”

“Sounds like a pretty nice weapon to me.” Tyrian replied. The elevator doors opened and the two noticed that rudimentary defensive machines lay ahead. They were more advanced than those at the junk heap, but still much less powerful than anything Remnant could offer. The hall held many doors and had many other hallways connecting to it. “I take it you know where we’re going?”

“Hmmm… more or less. But yeah,” They began their way down the hall, slashing and destroying the machines that stood on their way, “they’re nice until everyone bombs the whole world to shit and you have to live in some cramped underground bunker for the rest of your life. Trust me, I had to do it for a month and it was not fun. Well, not for long. Muder is a lot harder to get away with in a hellhole like that you know.”

“Sounds like prison.” Another round of bullets incapacitated a few machines, a wave of magic destroys a couple more.

“Yeah, pretty much. Oh, I just remembered. People used to think nuclear bombs could cause weird mutations in animals, like two heads, six legs instead of four or make ‘em giant. Real crazy shit.” Tyrann said, shifting his focus to Tyrian. His tail slashed through a machine, and then acted as a balance as another group of machines was pumped full of lead “I’m just gonna say it. Is your tail a common kinda thing in your world? Cause it sure as hell ain’t a thing around here.”

“Those of us with some animalistic characteristics are called Faunus. Some get a useless little rabbit tail, some get alligator skin, and some of us get a scorpion’s tail, with poison perfect for killing.” A slash of his tail disarmed a machine

“Tell me more about your world. I need something to keep me from dying of boredom.” Tyrann requested. Machine after machine fell as jagged swords tore into them, spilling fluids everywhere. and sending wires and metal scraps flying.

“Sure, it isn’t too different from here though. The only other major difference is that people can have an aura and a semblance. Aura is our soul, and its basically armor. We can also extend it to items, like our weapons. And those of us who’ve unlocked our aur aura, can have a semblance. What a semblance can do varies. Some people get super speed, some get an ability to ignore pain, and others,” Tyrian said as his eyes changed purple and his aura manifested around his weapons, “can ignore aura, and go in straight for the kill!” He slashed at a machine, rending it in two. “But, my semblance isn’t really useful here.”

“Damn, you were just born for murder weren’t you.”

“What can I say? Doing anything else just wouldn’t be right. I remember my first kill. It was some guy in a random alley when I was a teenager, around fourteen, I think. This huntsman was being an annoying little bitch, so I-” Tyrian brought his tail up to his neck and imitated his first killing blow. It was a jab to the neck, his eyes a powerful purple as the tail pierced through aura, and ruthless poison ran its course. “After watching him die a slow, painful death, I knew that it was only the beginning.” He smiled a crazed, joyous smile.

“Ahh, the look on a man’s face as he dies is the best, isn’t it? The fear. The remorse. The hatred. I had my first kill at around nineteen. It was some guy who had been getting on my nerves for some time. He was a higher rank than me, but dumb as shit. One day, I had enough. His plan was suicide, but he was too far up his ass to see that, so I shot him and took the lead instead. Everyone in my squad looked at me in fear and shock. ‘If you don’t wanna end up like him, follow me.’ I told ‘em. There was only one casualty that day: him. I won’t ever forget the look on his face as he bled out.” Tyrann sweetly reminisced.

They continued chatting all while they lay machines to rust. They talked about their favorite ways to kill, favorite kinds of victims, and other things lovers of killing would talk about. In the middle of a story about the recent murder of a woman in white who was a thorn in the side of his Godess, they were interrupted by something new to their surroundings: an android. It was a dilapidated thing, and rather out of place. Its entire body creaked as it moved to them. It was made of a dark metal.

“I― think― I― can― I― think― I― can―” it cackled out of a barely functioning voice box. “I― think― I― can― I―” It was cut off with a slash of a jagged sword. The sound of the metal being roughly cleaved was one both hoped they wouldn’t have to hear again. They enjoyed the sound of flesh being sliced, blood splattering, bones breaking, and screams and cries piercing the air. The cacophony that was born from tearing through metal wasn’t something they found beauty in.

“I think it can fucking die. God, fucking robots. I’m getting real fucking tired of them.” Tyrann said with malice. He punted the severed head into the wall, embedding it at eye level. Just them, its eyes glowed red.

“I― THINK― I― CAN― I― THINK― I― CAN―”

“I― THINK― I― CAN― I― THINK― I― CAN―”

“I― THINK― I― CAN― I― THINK― I― CAN―”

“I― THINK― I― CAN― I― THINK― I― CAN―”

“I― THINK― I― CAN― I― THINK― I― CAN―”

“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! FUCK!” Tyrann screamed in anger as he stabbed the decapitated hunk of metal.

“I take it that’s not a good thing?” Tyrian asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Hell no it isn’t! That bitch just alerted the rest of the androids in its network! You better pray to your goddess the rest of ‘em are just as shitty!”

Back to back, they prepared themselves for what was to come. The android’s mantra could be heard around every corner. The footsteps echoed as metal creaked. They could tell that the android’s numbers were great. They first to round a corner looked pristine. It had white hair, and red eyes. It was tall and slender, but minimally clothed. As it walked towards them, more followed behind it. Then it tripped over its own feet, causing those that followed to stop, look down, and imitate their fallen brethren. Tyrann and Tyrian both laughed and laughed.

“This, this is the thing we were scared of!” Tyrian burst out. “I could kill them all in my sleep!”

“Damn, look at their ass though! These things are about to make me act up...” Tyrann said as he eyed one.

“Damn! These things do have a fat ass!” Tyrian exclaimed as he smacked one’s ass. “Ow.” he murmured as he frantically shook his hand in the air. Slapping hard, cold metal was not one of his best ideas.

“Ehh, its probably best that we just kill them all though.”

“What? Why? Can’t we have a little fun?”

“Trust me, you won’t have much fun. You’ll only want the ones made for fucking. I learned that the hard way a long time ago.” Tyrian was grateful that he only broke a finger. He’d take a broken finger over a broken dick any day.

“Well, at least they look human. It’s better than those plain old hunks of iron back there.”

“Agreed. Now, let’s get to killing!”

-

I know I can, I know I can.

-

I pick up one of the flowers. I love their pretty white glow. I place it in my hair. I can’t see how it looks, but I like it. Oh how I wish I could leave this place! I want to see all the pretty flowers of the world!

But, I also don’t want to leave. I love these flowers too much, and they love me. I notice that our numbers are dropping at an alarming rate. That’s alright. It doesn’t really matter anyways. They’ll all be replaced soon enough. As long as I have these flowers, I’ll be content.

-

I walk lightly as to not harm the flowers. They’ve done a lot for me. When my synthetic skin decayed away, these petals made me glow as beautifully as them. When all my hair fell out, their stems formed into beautiful, dark hair for me. Now they grow in my hair as well.

-

These flowers are my god. From what I’ve gathered, a god holds great power, and creates. They must be loved, for they are powerful, and kind to their believers. I loved these flowers, ever since I saw them. A glitch in my code allowed me to linger for a second too long when I saw them. So, they developed into a curiosity, then a hobby, then a love. I made the right choice in loving them.

Because of them, I know I can. I know I can change my code, and change the world around me. I know I can love. I know I can leave. I know I can do anything! But, I know that I only want these flowers. It’s the least I can do for them after all they’ve done for me. They created me, after all.

-

Odd, their numbers are falling more than they have in centuries. No matter, I know that I have all that I want, and all that I need. I’m happy, and so is my god.

Speak not the Watchers,

Draw not the Watchers,

Write not the Watchers,

Sculpt not the Watchers,

Sing not the Watchers,

Call not the Watchers' name.

For some reason, this keeps popping in my head. I know that it is the will of my god, so I pay no mind to it.

-

As I admire a flower that just bloomed, I hear a loud sound. Banging and shooting. Its coming from where the door was, but it’s been covered by vegetation for so long I can’t even see it. No matter. Whatever may be, I know it is the will of my god.

Finally, two people break through. One is a man with a tail. Odd. Another is a female Replicant, although she speaks with a male voice. I realize that this poor replicant girl was possessed by a mean male Gestalt. She somehow seems familiar. Poor thing. Perhaps I should tell her of my god. Maybe they could help free this poor girl. And perhaps they could heal this man of his wretched tail. What am I saying? I know my god can help them. I hope my god can forgive me for that sliver of doubt.

“Hello.” I say as I arise. “You two look like you could use some help.”

You are a Watcher.

“Huh?” I look at the two in confusion, thinking the words came from one of them

“Is this guy dumber than the others or something? We didn’t even say anything!” The tailed man said. The two laughed.

You must carry the will of the Watchers.

“What? Who are the watchers exactly? What is their will?” I look around, but do not see the source of the voice.

I am a Watcher, you are a Watcher, a servant of God, a creation of God! Our goal is to exterminate everything not created by our God!

“Really? I’m a watcher?” I say happily. I really couldn’t be happier. There is nothing greater than serving my god!

Yes, you are. Now, exterminate those two! Exterminate everything that is not the will of our god! Kill! Kill! Kill!

“Yes. I am a Watcher! And you two will perish! That is the will of my god.” I shout with a smile. This is my first time in combat, but I know I can kill these two. I will kill these two. It is the will of my god! It is my will!

“Oh? You think your god will help you against me? They are NOTHING compared to my great goddess!” The tailed man laughs happily. I understand how he feels. I laugh too.

“You should know your goddess is nothing compared to my god. Here, let me show you.” Out of instinct, I open my mouth, and begin singing. “Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhh.” I feel power surge through me, the power of my god.

“Oh fuck no. I’m out of here! That thing, it’s like the damned beast! No way am I dealing with this shit! See ya!” the gestalt says, and quickly leaves. I don’t care. I know his destruction will come eventually, one way or another, just like all the other things not of my god’s will.

“Whatever.” the tailed man says as he shrugs. “More fun for me!” He readies his weapons, and I sing louder. Power flows through the area, enveloping it in a red force field. Rings of the script of my god circle the barrier. Its beautiful, all so beautiful. He looks a bit scared. He should be. I know it is the will of the watchers, it is the will of my god.

He makes the first move. I sense another presence, another android with powerful magic and strong technology of their own. No matter. It is not of my concern. They will meet their end eventually too, one way, or another. Right now, this man is my focus. He will serve as a good measure of my newfound abilities. I dodge the first strike with ease, but fail to dodge the follow up. I know now. He fights with a berserker-like style. He swiftly slashes and attacks in every direction surrounding him, thus leaving very little openings for his opponents to counter him safely.

However, I am a Watcher! And I will not fall to him! I move in towards him, and grab one leg. It sends him off balance, and he falls. I toss him, but he is quick to react and latches onto my arm with a hand. He sets off his weapon and sprays my face with bullets. It doesn’t hurt. There isn’t anything that can hurt me. Especially not anymore. So I slam him into the ground, and do so again. I feel bad that I crush some of the flowers, but it can’t be helped. I know my god forgives me though.

I noticed that the surroundings around us have changed. We seem to be at a deserted fortress. The sun above is made ruthless by magic, but the barrier protects him from it. I know its heat wont harm me, so I remove the barrier. I know I could summon monsters here, but most of them won’t do much against him. I will give him that much credit. He gets up and puts some distance between us. A futile effort, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. I fail to see why he cannot understand this.

“Can’t you see that you are outmatched, that your goddess has failed you? That she is weak?” I tell him. Anger fills his eyes. They’re a striking purple now. Odd.

“How DARE you speak of my goddess like that!? You WILL speak of her with respect!” he shouts as he lunges at me. An expected reaction of a delusional man, or perhaps he believes in his goddess as much as I believe in my god. Well, all will end the same, one way or another. Although, I have a feeling it could take longer to reach that ending for some reason. No matter. It can’t be helped. Whatever happens, happens, for it is the will of my god.

He fights much more wildly than before, but has since run out of ammunition to fire his weapon. And his blades, they slash through my petals, unlike before. I tread more carefully now, dodging his blows and getting a punch, or kick, or a wave of magic in when I can. It is almost as if we are dancing together, a tribute to the one we hold above all else.

We back off from each other after another exchange. A fourth of my petals have been severely damaged, and it will take some time for them to repair. I also see a wave of purple spread across his body. With a crazed, joyous smile, we both move in for the deciding blow. I know he will be the one to die. He lost his ability to even scratch my petals. It is a miracle he was able to even harm them in the first place. Hmm… Perhaps his goddess has some power afterall, though obviously nothing that compares to the might of my god! Its time to end the life of this affront to my god!

But then, I sense someone. Their presence is one that far surpasses mine, yet, it is not entirely different. That could only mean one thing.

“My god!” I turn away from the man who follows his goddess, and I run towards the entrance why my god is. I don’t even look back to see what happened to him. I don’t care! “My god is here!” I throw open the gates and gaze upon a beautiful woman. My god is far more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

Her hair and clothes are a pure white, though there is some black in her clothing. My, it could mean so much I could go on about it for days, but I know I will go on about it sooner or later. She has such a beautiful body, one worthy of an eternity of worship. And her eyes! Or rather, eye. It is a vibrant pink, accentuating her elegant femininity. The other eye is a beautiful flower, almost exactly like the ones that made me. This is my god. I fall to my knees in awe of her, and I begin to cry tears of incomprehensible emotions. I don’t even care as to why she seems shocked at first.

“That’s right, I’m you god.” She tells me in a sweet voice, one I would crawl across mountains on my hands and knees just to hear. She softly cups my face and motions for me to rise, and so I do. Behind me, I hear the man screaming. How dare he scream like an animal in the presence of my god, and how dare he interrupt us?!

“Excuse me, my god. I will take care of this pest.” She nods her head, and I turn to face him, ready to kill him. I feel so joyous as I wait to strike. I am serving my god! But, I feel pain in my abdomen. I look down to see that a white sword has impaled me. Its the one my god was holding. Why?

“My god, why? I―” I slump over and fall to my knees once more. She yanks the blade out of me. The look on her face hurts me more than anything. It is a face of hate. Why would she hate me? I love her more than anything.

“I thought I could― I thought I could― I―”

“Shut up.” She commands me with a smile on her face as she stabs the swords into the center on my neck. It doesn’t kill me. It doesn’t hurt. Then, I hear her struggle for a moment as he tries to take her sword.

“Don't, touch my god!” I weakly tell the tailed man. He jams it into me over and over again, laughing wildly. It doesn’t hurt, but I know death is coming for me. I thought I could live forever though. That was the will of my god, wasn’t it?

“Some goddess you have! She doesn’t even love you! My goddess! My goddess loves me! She is powerful! And! That’s! Why! You! Lost!” the guy sneers as he stabs me. That hurts. I thought I could not be hurt. She just stands back and lets him destroy my body. I hear more people arrive, but I don’t care.

“Looks like someone is having fun.” one of them says. I try to get up, to reach my god, to try to reason with her, but I can’t. Perhaps my death is her will. If it is her will, then it is my will. My vision fades, the sounds turn to silence, and I no longer feel the sword. Then, it returns. I am looking down at my lifeless body. The petals have been stained red, and the black stems that were once my hair have been chopped up finely into mush.

She is not your god. I hear a voice state. It is the one that spoke to me earlier.

“You again. Please then! Show me my god. Please let me serve my god! I thought I could kill him! I thought I could do what my god wanted of me! Please, let me redeem myself! I’ll do anything!”

Oh, you will serve our god. Us Watchers always serve our god, one way, or another. And you, you are no different. We all serve our god. Our god has great plans for you.

Then, I see my god. I truly see my god. My god is far greater than that sham of a goddess the scorpion-man believes in. I walk towards my god, ready to serve my purpose, whatever it may be, whenever it may be. My god’s will is my will, and it will be fulfilled.

Speak not the Watchers!

Draw not the Watchers!

Write not the Watchers!

Sculpt not the Watchers!

Sing not the Watchers!

Call not the Watchers' name!

Our god’s will is to exterminate humanity! Our god’s will is our will! I see now! Even in stagnation, the Watchers’ mission progresses!

Speak not the Watchers!

Draw not the Watchers!

Write not the Watchers!

Sculpt not the Watchers!

Sing not the Watchers!

Call not the Watchers' name!

The nature of the universe is destruction! The nature of humanity is the universe!

Ha Ha. Ha Ha Ha. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!

I will do what my god wanted me to do! I’ve always been doing what my god wanted me to do!

Ha ha ha ha haa! La la la la laa!

I thought I could! I knew I could!

La la la la laa! La la la la laa!

[tinuviel-undomiel]

Until Proven Guilty Chapter 3: Down the Rabbit Hole

Woo hoo! I was thinking I wouldn’t finish this until next week, but boy was my muse on a roll! So here is a new chapter for all of you. I hope you like it.

Note, the book The Thirteenth Tale is a real book by Diane Setterfield and I highly recommend it.

Also found on ff.net and ao3.

           The lights cut on a six o’clock, followed by the sounds of the guards ordering everyone to get out of bed, get dressed and be ready to head to the cafeteria. Gold had the bottom bunk on account of his knee so at least he had some reprieve from the harsh light. Still, it was a bit disorienting to be rudely awakened from sleep. It was his only escape from the nightmare he was now living in.

           His cellmate was already getting his clothes in order and had claimed first dibs on their shared toilet. Antonio Zosorino was his name, but everyone called him Zoso. Gold rarely spoke to the man and he blessedly received the same treatment. Zoso was older than him, with thinning white hair and a heavily lined face. Despite that, he moved like a man twenty years younger. Even better, he wasn’t plagued with a bum leg.

           Zoso quietly finished his ablutions and then let Gold have his turn. They both dressed and waited patiently for the guard to unlock their cellblock so they could get breakfast. The other prisoners weren’t nearly as silent as they were. Shouts were already echoing down the corridor. Someone accused another if stealing his socks. If this continued, the guards were going to have to interfere and God only knew when they would be let out for their meal then.

           Thankfully, things quieted soon enough and they were released. Gold had been told by Jefferson, another resident on their block, to get in the back of the line, never skip ahead or he faced a beating. As one of the new guys, he was at the lowest end of the hierarchy. That meant he was not allowed to take the last carton of orange juice, and he couldn’t complain if they were out of sausage. He didn’t say a word as he got behind Jefferson and Whale, the only two people who not only acknowledged his existence, but were also friendly to him. He’d only been in prison for three weeks, so he couldn’t call them friends really, at least not yet. It was hard to imagine that he was contemplating being friends with a drug dealer and a man who’d sold organs on the black market, but this was his life now.

           “Think they’ll have bacon today?” Jefferson asked.

           Whale shook his head, “Nah, that’s only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today is oatmeal and toast.”

           “They better not run out of grape jelly.”

           Gold didn’t really care what was on the menu. His eyes kept drifting to the clock on the wall, counting down the hours until ten. Killian had promised to bring Bae to see him today. It has been difficult, finally deciding to let Bae see him in this place, but the longing to see his son was worse than the shame of knowing his son would remember him like this. However, Bae had begged to see him, terrified that he would never get to see him again like his mother, so it was better this way.

           There was a bit of commotion up at the start of the line. Apparently, there was only one piece of sausage left and two other men were arguing over who had dibs on it. There was probably more being made in the kitchen, but considering the location, this was no guarantee. Jefferson had warned Gold that several years ago there had been a riot over cookies so it was best to keep a careful eye on these things in case one had to duck away from a flying tray or wayward fist.

           Gold had pretty much decided lukewarm oatmeal wasn’t worth any broken bones, even if he was rather hungry, when both prisoners suddenly stopped. He watched as Zoso broke through the line, snatched up the last sausage and took a bite out of it in front of the two squabbling prisoners. He continued to chew, staring at them both. Neither man blinked. At last, they moved on with their trays, casting glances at Zoso who continued to stare them down. It was ludicrous that a man twice their age could intimidate two burly, tattooed men, but somehow this was the case.

           He wondered over this, sneaking glances at Zoso who had taken his breakfast and sat down at the far end of one of the tables, completely alone. Gold took his food and was waved over to where Jefferson and Whale were. Jefferson was mixing his jelly with his oatmeal until it was a shade of lavender then spooning it onto his dry toast. “Don’t knock it till you try it,” he said when he caught Whale’s quizzical look.

           “I’m good, thanks.”

           “It’s not like we get sugar or cinnamon here anyways. I always hated oatmeal as a kid. Always reminded me of vomit.”

           “Now it looks like grape vomit,” Whale said, wrinkling his nose, “Very appetizing.”

           Gold hardly paid attention to their asinine conversation. He kept glancing over at Zoso who was quietly eating his oatmeal, completely alone. He used to think he was a tough-as-nails kind of person. Certainly he’d developed a reputation for being a hard on his tenants when they were late with their rent, but he was a kitten compared to many of the men in this place. Yet all of them had bowed to Zoso. Was he some sort of serial killer he’d never heard of? Why were they afraid of him?

           He was wondering if he should be concerned about sleeping below this man, when Jefferson apparently noticed his gaze. “Don’t stare too long or you may not have eyes.”

           That snapped his attention back to his breakfast. “Is he really that dangerous?”

           Jefferson shrugged. “Usually he keeps to himself, but if you trip that wire…” he smacked his hand down on the table for emphasis. “Kaboom!”

           Gold looked over at Zoso again, trying to be stealthy about it. It was still hard to be wary about a man older than him just quietly eating his oatmeal and sausage. “What is in for?”

           Everyone had a story here. He was asked what he had done when he had first arrived. He wasn’t the only one saying he was innocent, so no one was really surprised that he said he had be wrongly convicted of murdering his wife, but he doubted they believed him. Some challenged him, most just said nothing.

           “He’s got the biggest rap sheet here,” Jefferson said, “Guy has been convicted of killing nine people, probably more.”

           Gold tried to hide his surprise as best he could, but Jefferson still grinned at him so he knew he had failed. Whale had obviously heard of this before because he merely shrugged. “I head it was closer to twenty.”

           “Just who is he exactly?” Gold asked. Now he was seriously wondering if he was bunking with Ted Bundy.

           “He was a hitman for the mob,” Jefferson said, “Worked for the Falconi family in Boston. Rumor is his grandfather was the big one himself, Capone.”

           The latter Gold wasn’t sure on; since likely someone would also say his uncle was Vito Corleone, but the former actually made a lot of sense. There was a hierarchy in prison, and someone with a large body count and ties to the mob would certainly be on the top of that pyramid.

           Gold went back to his breakfast, silently contemplating if he should be concerned that he had to share a cell with this man. Still, if Zoso wanted to kill him, he doubted there was anything he could do to stop him. Best to stay on his good side then.

           There was some shame in knowing that he would only be able to glimpse his son through a glass wall, but Gold told himself he didn’t care. He hadn’t seen Bae in weeks. If this were the only way he could visit with his son, then he would do it.

           The guard escorted him to the visiting station. Killian was already there on the side for those who were free with Bae perched on his lap. His son eagerly scrambled for the little black phone, speaking into it before Gold could even lift his own to his ear.

           “Papa, I miss you!”

           “I miss you too, Bae,” he said.

           “When are you coming home?”

           Gold looked over and Killian who gave him a sad shrug. So he did the only thing he could do for his son: lied. “Soon, very soon, how are things in pre-school?”

           “Good. I learned French!”

           Gold smiled at him. “French? Wow, what did you learn in French?”

           “A song. Fray-er Jack.”

           Gold chuckled a little. “Can you sing it to me?”

           Bae nodded and began to sing “Fray-er Jack, Fray-er Jack/ Dom may voo, dom may voo.” He pressed his little hand up to the glass as he sang, reaching for his father. Gold blinked through tears, adding his voice to the song and placing his palm over Bae’s. He could almost feel the warmth of his son’s hand through the thick glass.

           “That was beautiful, Bae,” he said when he had finished.

           “Belle likes it too. She’s working at the library now.”

           A rush of relief filled him at that bit of news. He had been wondering what had happened to Belle after he was convicted. Aside from himself and Bae, Belle was another victim who had endured so much because of all of this. The media had labeled her the “other woman”, with much speculation that she had been involved in the murder. Of course, this was absolutely ridiculous, but he knew that since he was gone now everyone would be talking about her.

           He smiled a little though at the thought of Belle being surrounded by all of her beloved books. “I’m sure she’s happier there than she was at my shop.”

           “She read me a book,” Bae said gleefully, “Horton Hears a Who.”

           “Did you like it?”

           “Uh huh. She promised to read me another one when we go back.”

           “That sounds wonderful.” The clock was ticking away, betraying the fact that their time was quickly running out. No father should have to limit his time with his son to just four hours a month.

           “Bae, can you hand the phone over to Uncle Killian now? I want to talk to him a bit.”

           “Okay, Papa.” Bae dutifully passed the black phone over to Killian. His friend smiled at him and said, “Hey, you doing okay?”

           “I’m fine, it’s an adjustment, but it’s not terrible.” It wasn’t a completely lie. Being away from Bae was torture, and he hated the fact that he was no longer free to do what he wanted, but he kept to himself mostly so the rest of the prisoners left him alone. Besides, Jefferson and Whale were decent guys. Granted, it wasn’t a picnic knowing he was sharing a bunk with a hitman.

           “I’m glad you’re doing okay then, I worry about you,” Killian said.

           “I’ll be fine. Is Bae doing all right?”

           Killian shrugged, “Like you said, it’s an adjustment. He misses you and his mom like hell, but he’s a trooper.”

           “That’s good. Is the town treating him okay?”

           Killian nodded. “They haven’t bothered us. Belle on the other hand…Granny and Ruby are sticking by her, but a lot of the others have sort of ostracized her.”

           He knew Ruby and her grandmother would have Belle’s back, probably Leroy too, but the rest…? Certainly Mother Superior and her nuns would be in full swing condemning her for her supposed sins, just as they did everyone else. Ms. Ginger and her gossip gang would be spreading rumors all over the place, no doubt spinning this whole thing into a clandestine affair that culminated in Milah’s death.

           “Hopefully that will die down soon,” he said, though he didn’t believe his own lies. Maybe she could save up enough and move to another town where no one would know her. Oh God, her college. He had been helping her out financially with that. He knew Belle would love her job at the library, but it wouldn’t pay as well as he had. She’d have to take out loans if she didn’t drop out entirely. The thought of that twisted his gut painfully. She deserved so much more in life than that.

           The treacherous clock told him their time was almost up. Gold glared at it, willing time to stop entirely. “I suppose it’s almost time for you to go. Thank you, Killian, I can never repay everything you have done for me.”

           “Hey, there’s nothing to repay,” Killian said, “We’re practically family. You’d do the same for me.”

           Gold nodded, knowing it was true but wishing that none of this had happened. “Can I say goodbye to, Bae?”

           “Yeah, of course.” Killian handed the phone back to Bae.

           “Papa?” Bae asked, “Do you have to go back to the playroom now?”

           Ah, so that was what Killian called it. He nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so, you be good for Uncle Killian now. You’ll be back to see me very soon, I promise.”

           “Can’t I go with you?”

           “I’m afraid it’s only for grown ups. But hopefully I’ll be out of here soon and I can be with you all the time.”

           “Okay,” he said quietly, clearly not happy with the notion of having to wait, “Bye bye, Papa.”

           Gold couldn’t blink back his tears. “Goodbye, son.”

           It was nearly lunchtime, and the library was completely empty save for Belle. She didn’t mind the solitude, but this hour was always a little painful for her on Wednesdays. Mr. Gold had always bought her lunch on this day, usually from Granny’s. He always got her favorite, a cheeseburger with fries and extra pickles with a large iced tea. They would sit in the back of his shop, eating and talking about books, sometimes even arguing over which authors were superior (Jane Austen would always best Sir Walter Scott and nothing would change her mind on that). Mr. Collins enjoyed books too, but he was too mild-mannered to ever carry a lively conversation.

           In these silences, her mind would more often than not wander to Callum and what he must be enduring in that prison. Did he have a library? Could he read books? Was he all right?” She longed to talk to him again. When Bae said he was going to go visit him, Belle had almost asked to tagalong. Granny had talked her out of a visit. “Everyone is watching you right now,” she’d said, “Don’t add fuel to the fire or you’ll wind up with third degree burns.”

           But it felt so very wrong to sit here, listening to the clock tick on, knowing Callum was locked away for a crime she knew in her heart he didn’t commit. Did he ever think of her the way she thought of him? Surely his first thought had to be of Bae, of course, but…did he miss her?

           The silence was starting to suffocate her, cloying at her throat and pricking tears in her eyes. She had to speak to him, or at least let him know that she was still his friend. The notion now too strong to fight, Belle rummaged through the desk for a pad of paper and a pen. She couldn’t call him, couldn’t see him, but she could write to him. He would like that. He’d always hated phones, calling them a “bloody nuisance”. A letter would be more fitting.

           How to begin though? Dear Mr. Gold? Dearest friend? Nothing seemed right. Finally, she simply wrote, “Dear Callum,” and that felt like an okay place to start, though it fell short of what she truly felt.

           I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write to you. I wanted to see you the day after the trial, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted me there. Granny and Ruby told me it was better to let you and the rest of the town adjust before I did anything.

           I am working at the library now. I remember when you offered to buy me the library once if I would deal with Ms. Ginger when she wanted to sell her collection of hatpins. She was so bitter when you told her that they were worth only fifty dollars all together. Those were good times.

           Belle blinked back tears at the memory of them laughing in the back of the shop, mimicking her indignant shriek that she had not stumbled upon the metaphorical gold mine she’d been after.

           I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t bring up those times. I think of you quite often. I hope you  are as well as you can be. Is there anything I can get for you? About all I can offer you would be books. Do you have a library there? If not, I’d be happy to send you some books to read. I just finished a wonderful Gothic story that I think you might like.

           Bae came in the other day and told me about his visit. I think he is doing well. He loves coming here to see me every now and then. I think he’s adjusting well, but he misses you terribly. So do I. I miss my friend and the best boss in the world.

           There was more to say, but Belle kept her pen from jotting down those private thoughts. He had lost his wife and was locked behind bars, what good would it do him letting him know that she had a silly crush on him? The thought of Milah sent a pang of guilt in her heart. She had never cared for Mrs. Gold, had even fantasized that she would leave Callum on a few occasions, but now the woman was dead. Surely she was the worst person in the world for having wished a man’s wife gone like that.

           Would it be all right if I came to visit you soon? I miss hearing your voice and simply talking to you. I can let you know more about how school and Storybrooke is doing, perhaps even bring you something from Bae.

           Please, write to me if you can. Know that I miss you and think of you all the time.

           She gnawed on the top of her pen, mulling over how to close it. She was tempted to put “Love, Belle” but that felt like too personal, but “you’re friend” seemed woefully lacking. Instead, she signed it as “You’re friend and favorite employee,” hoping that would make him smile a bit.

           Belle stuffed the letter in an envelope and addressed it. She hurried outside and put it into the public mailbox before she lost her nerve completely. Perhaps Joe, the mailman, would tell someone about her letter, but there were no secrets in this town anyways. Besides, she wasn’t ashamed of her friendship with Mr. Gold. She knew he was innocent, knew it in the bottom of her heart. There were other things in her heart as well, which had her musing that perhaps there was a secret of two in Storybrooke after all.

           The letter from Belle had been a lovely surprise. Killian had sent him pictures Bae had drawn and notes fairly regularly, but Gold hadn’t heard from Belle since he was convicted. He hadn’t expected to hear anything from her. She was young, and certainly had to be embarrassed about her association with him, so he had figured she would do the expected and sever all ties with him. Despite his expectations, there was a warmth in his heart when he saw her name on the envelope. He had missed her, more than he had anticipated he would.

           He took some of the plain paper he was given and used the back of a hardcover book as a desk. The pen he had was temperamental, but it was better than nothing. Zoso lay in his own bunk and showed no interest in what he was up to.

           Dear Belle,

           You have no idea how much it warms my heart to hear from you. Bae had said you were working in the library now. I suspect most of the shelves are empty since you have borrowed all of the books for yourself. I’m sure you must be relieved that you no longer have to deal with my accounts or my stock. Now you have your dream job: being paid to read.

           It almost seemed mocking, but he knew Belle would understand when he was teasing her.

           If you happen to look up from between pages, do send me some of your books. While we have a library here, it is even smaller than yours and filled mostly with bodice rippers. Some of the men here enjoy that material, but I have never seen the appeal.

           I am well. While I wouldn’t say I’m not intending to be crowned Miss Congeniality of the cell-block, I’ve met some fellow prisoners who are not bad men, just made some mistakes. I miss you and Bae terribly. I find myself thinking of better times as well, and hoping that I can find them again.

           I won’t bore you with the legal details, but my lawyer is planning on filing an appeal. She seems confident it will be reviewed, but until then I must wait patiently.

           I hope school is going well for you. I’m sorry I won’t be of much help to you now, but promise me you won’t give up on it. You can do so much, Belle. I’ve always known that about you.

           Be well, my dearest friend. I look forward to hearing more from you.

Ever yours,

Callum Gold

           The letter was put in the next batch of mail. Less than a week later, Gold was handed over a package. Inside the pre-opened package was a book called The Thirteenth Tale and a letter from Belle.

           Dear Callum,

           I’ll have you know that the library is still quite full here. I’m very careful to borrow no more than five books at a time. I will say that I have learned quite a few things. Did you know that Mother Superior actually has a fondness for bodice rippers as well? Perhaps I should send you a list of her favorites so you can compare with your friends there.

           I do hope you enjoy the book I sent you. It’s a twisted story of family secrets, and it has quite a twist in it that I certainly did not see coming. Tell me what you think of it when you finish. I miss talking about books with you.

           The letters continued between them. Gold enjoyed receiving a letter from Belle at least once a week or so, and a book here and there. He got so used to this that he nearly missed the fact that he hadn’t heard anything from Killian and Bae in a while. After six letters from Belle, Gold realized that the last note he had received from his son was before Belle had sent him that first book. Shame and worry rocked through him all at once. Why had it taken so long for him to realize he hadn’t heard from his son? Worse still, why hadn’t he received any word from Bae or Killian in weeks?

           The next day he went to make a phone call, a rarity since he was still new and hadn’t been given the privilege much. He dialed Killian’s number, but only received the three-note tone and the robotic voice telling him the phone number was no longer in service. That didn’t seem right. What the hell was going on?

           He tried the number three more times, but it was the same message over and over again. Had Killian gotten a new number? Why? Had something worse happened? Where was his son?

           Despite the pain he’d endured during the trial, it wasn’t until now that Gold truly felt helpless. He couldn’t do anything behind bars. All of his money had been turned over in trust to Bae and power of attorney belonged to Killian. He didn’t know how to get in touch with Killian now.

           Gold worried over it, staying up all night. By breakfast, he’d decided that there was nothing to be terribly concerned about. Killian probably dropped his cellphone in the ocean on his boat. Maybe he and Bae had gone out for a nice little vacation on the Jolly Roger. They probably just had to get away for a little while. They’d be back and have lots of stories to tell.

           When the guard told him that he had a visitor, Gold was relieved. It had to be Bae and Killian. He smiled broadly as he made his way to the visiting center. It faltered for only a moment when he saw it wasn’t his son at all.

           Belle grinned back at him from behind the glass and waved. His smile returned, despite his disappointment, he was more than happy to see her. She wore a lovely green blouse with a blue skirt and matching green flowers on it, always managing to look better than any model on those glossy magazines. “Hey,” she said in her usual bubbly way.

           “Hey back,” he teased her, “You look lovely.”

           “Thank you.”

           “Of course, at this point anything would be lovely after being stuck with only convicts for company.”

           Belle stuck her tongue out at him in retaliation.

           “I’m surprised to see you,” Gold told her, “You didn’t tell me you were planning to visit.”

           “That is the point of a surprise,” she said, “I missed talking to you, really talking to you.”

           “So do I, but I am enjoying your letters.”

           “And the books?”

           “Of course. The Thirteenth Tale was particularly good.”

           Belle grinned at him. “I knew you would like it.”

           Their conversation quickly evolved into their usual debate on books. She had brought him three to read this time because she couldn’t decide which one he would like best. She also started talking to him about Storybrooke. Apparently the schoolteacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard, had been having an affair with David Nolan. It was quite the scandal, and the Nolans were definitely getting a divorce.

           “How is Bae doing?” he asked her, desperate to know something.

           “Oh, well I haven’t heard much from him, you know since he and Killian left.

           Gold felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Left?”

           “Yeah, they left, were headed down to Boston I think. Killian must have told you this, didn’t he?”

           Gold swallowed back his growing panic. He couldn’t let her worry about this. Belle had far too much on her plate as it was. “Of course he did,” Gold said, hoping he sounded convincing, “I just hadn’t realized they’d left already. I hadn’t received word from them yet.”

           “Oh, well I’m sure they are just busy getting things set up,” Belle said, “I’m sure Bae will tell you all about Boston soon enough.”

           “Yes,” he nodded, “I’m sure you’re right.”

           He returned to the phone the next day, this time making a call to the Storybrooke Post Office. Agatha Wiltshire was manned the phones at the Post Office and she was never that good at remembering people all that will. Gold did his best to hide his accent and hoped for the best.

           “Hi, It’s Killian Jones. I haven’t been receiving any of my mail since I arrived and I just want to make sure I got the address and phone number right for my transfer.”

           “Oh, no problem, Mr. Jones,” Agatha said. Good, she was as dense as he remembered.

           Agatha hummed some asinine tune in his ear while she rifled for through the paperwork. He started looking at the clock, hoping she wouldn’t use up all of his time by giving him an off-key rendition of I Dream of Jeanie.

           “Okay, I’ve got it.” Gold got his pencil and scrap paper ready. “I’ve got your new address as 732 Beaumont St N, Apartment 13. And your new number listed is 555-9771. Is that right?”

           “Yes, that is correct, thank you, Agatha,” Gold told her, “You’ve been most helpful.”

           He hung up quickly, grateful that he still had some time left, and quickly dialed the new number. It rang twice, then Killian answered with a cheerful, “Hello, who is this?”

           “Killian, what the hell are you doing?”

           “Callum?” the surprise in Killian’s voice would have amused Gold once, but not anymore, “Is that you?”

           “Yes, it’s me. Why are you in Boston? What the hell is going on?”

           “I’m sorry, man, we just needed to get away for a while. Bae was having nightmares. I thought a change of scenery would be good, and I got this new job lined up. I was going to tell you, but it happened so fast.”

           “Just put my son on the phone,” Gold seethed. The phone crackled a bit then he heard Bae’s tiny voice answer, “Papa?”

           “Oh, Bae, it’s good to hear your voice, son.”

           “Hi, Papa. We’re in Boston.”

           “I know you are. Are you all right?”

           “Yeah, but I miss you. Can you come visit?”

           Gold blinked back tears. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. But I’m sure Killian will bring you by to see me soon.”

           “But I want to go to the park with you.”

           “I want that too, son, I really do. I’m trying to get out of here to see you. I’ll find a way, I promise.”

           “Good,” Bae said, “Then it will be like it was before. You, me, and mommy.”

           Gold swallowed thickly. “Bae, honey, I told you, mommy is in heaven.”

           “No she’s not, she’s at the store.”

           Gold frowned at the wall. “What?”

           He heard the sound of a door opening, and then a familiar voice call out, “I’m home!” Gold felt all of the blood drain from his face. His heart stopped when Bae called out, “Mommy! Papa is on the phone!”

           “M-Milah?” he gasped out. Then the line went dead.

           For a full day, Gold was in shock. He didn’t think he said ten words to anyone. He ate his meals without tasting a thing. He crawled into bed, but stared at the top bunk with wide-eyes, trying desperately not to think about any of it. There was only one thing that resounded clearly through his muddled mind: Milah was alive.

           The next day, he broke through. He tried to sort out the facts. 1. Milah clearly hadn’t been murdered. 2. Killian some how had found her. 3. The two of them were hiding out together.

           Gold tried to piece all of that together into a clear picture. He had written down all of the crime scene evidence earlier while he tried to figure out the best approach for appeal. Now he added to that, trying to figure out how Milah was not dead and why she hadn’t come forward. He started positing various scenarios. Milah didn’t have any living family, saying her mother died of cancer when she was twelve and her father in a drunk-driving accident when she was in her twenties. Perhaps there was more to the story she had never told him. Was it possible she had been on the run?  He’d heard of stories where people faked their deaths to hide form drug lords and crime bosses. Perhaps she had done that to protect him and Bae. Killian might have been digging into this and found her. Now they were in hiding together, trying to figure out a way to help him and bring their family back together.

           He started listing any details he knew about Milah’s past, anything that might give a lead to this theory. He worked for days on it, crossing things out and starting anew. He barely ate, didn’t sleep. Gold didn’t even realize that he had an observer.

           Gold had returned from a meeting with his lawyer to find Zoso sitting on his bed, leafing through his notes. “What the hell are you doing?” Gold demanded of him.

           “Browsing,” the older man said casually like he was looking through a book in a library.

           “That’s my personal information.”

           “Nothing is personal in prison, you should know that by now.”

           Gold reached out to take the notebook. “Give it back!” Zoso relinquished it without a fight. “I’m trying to find out what happened with my wife, it’s private.”

           “Oh I can see that,” Zoso said with a shrug, “Not going very well.”

           “It’s going just fine.”

           Zoso let out a mirthless chuckle. “You’re so blind, Gold. You’re wife’s alive and you’re confused as to how all of this happened?”

           Gold pursed his lips, desperately trying to control himself. This man was dangerous, but he’d always been a bit heedless of danger when his temper was at it’s highest. “I’m not confused. I’m working on it.”

           He laughed again. “You’re a smart man, right? Went to law school. I bet you graduated at the top of your class.”

           “Valedictorian,” Gold snapped at him.

           “Well, Val, seems to me that a smart man like you would know the simplest explanation is usually the right one.” Zoso said. He calmly stood up from Gold’s bed. At his full height, he was a few inches shorter than Gold, but the way he looked at him made Gold feel like one of Snow White’s dwarves.

           “The jury certainly reached that conclusion. Twelve average people with twelve average brains decided that the simplest explanation for a missing wife and a husband with a possible mistress and blood on his hands meant the husband killed her. I bet you would have thought the same thing if you were in their place.”

           Zoso took a step towards him. “You know the truth, Gold. It’s been whispering in your above-average mind like a tiny little worm, but you’ve been trying to ignore. Just say it. Say what you already know to be true.”

           Gold swallowed thickly, hating this man with every fiber of his being, and wishing he could deny it all.

           “Say it!” Zoso demanded.

           That worm he spoke of was screaming now. He was right. He couldn’t ignore it anymore.

           “They set me up,” he whispered hoarsely, “Milah and Killian, they did it together. They knew I would make sure to put everything in Bae’s name, and that I would give custody over to Killian. Once everything was final, they would just have to slip away and they would have everything: my money and my son. They planned it all. They planned to put me in prison so they could take everything away from me.”

           Bitter tears formed in his eyes, but he blinked them away. As much as the words hurt his throat, a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He could see everything so perfectly now. Killian’s remarks about his friendship with Belle were designed to make it look like he was having an affair. Milah had made sure to tell her friends how frightened she was of him. The getaway on their anniversary had been their idea. The sailing lessons…God, how could he have been so stupid to believe it all?

           Zoso clapped his hands and gave him a mocking smile. “Welcome to fucking Wonderland, Gold. Guess that bitch the Queen of Hearts got you good.”