#Thread: Inge

[dirtwatchman]

PARTIES: @dirtwatchman and @nightmaretist TIME: First week of May WHERE: Dance Macabre SUMMARY:  Two undead meet up for a drink that was owed months ago. The night gets interesting for Caleb and Inge as they both start to realize what the other is. WARNINGS: Eludes to domestic abuse at times

Clubs weren’t his usual scene. Caleb much preferred a quiet restaurant over the lively atmosphere of a dance bar but there were two things that had made him suggest Dance Macabre that night; the girl he’d promised a drink to was there when they’d started their conversation which meant he knew she liked it and the unusual presence he had started to feel around him was motivation to be in the middle of a ton of people. Something dark, almost sinister, was on his tail and he didn’t know why. It would come and go, the dark presence surrounding him one moment and then gone the next only for him to feel as if he were being watched again a day or two later. He just hoped that having more people around would deter whatever it was following him around from giving him the reason.

He sat at the bar, his own drink in front of him untouched while the weight of everything sat on his shoulders. People around him were laughing and having a good time, none of them paying attention to the anxious man in the corner as he waited for Inge. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice anything off about him either. There was no need to scare away a possible new friend before they’d even gotten the chance to talk.

When he looked up and saw her making her way through the crowd, he let the worry slip away and waved to her. Caleb’s smile was forced, barely lifting in the corners, but he’d managed one at least. “I didn’t know what you wanted so I went ahead and got my own. Feel free to choose whatever you like.” He had promised it for her birthday after all. “Happy Birthday…a few months late, that is.”

If this life was still to be called that – a life, despite the accusations of being a walking corpse – then Inge found only value in it if there was still spontaneity. Sometimes she was, as everyone, overrun with a desire to become something of a recluse. To be alone with her astral, her nightmares and her sculptures and nothing more. But she’d never done well with solitude and most importantly, she never felt dead until she gave into loneliness.

So even if she was in pain and angry, even if she felt something dark and ugly unfurl within herself, she went out. Dance Macabre was a favorite, as was the club in New York she astral projected to from time to time. She didn’t dance as fervently as she once had – her back and gut still aching – but she drank and she flirted and she talked. She went out to meet a stranger, because why not? Without spontaneity, she might as well be dead. Truly dead.

She approached the semi-stranger with a smile on her lips, sitting down next to him at the bar. “Why, thank you,” she said. Inge wondered – as she did with all patrons at this club – if he was undead or just simply willing to go to strange places. “Better late than never, right?” She gave a wink, leaned to the bartender to order herself a glass of white wine. “So when is your birthday? Maybe we can pre-celebrate that too, tonight.”

His eyes were on hers as she spoke but he looked away as she asked about his birthday. It was a day that he never really cared for but it had gotten so much worse after he’d died. Most of the time Caleb wouldn’t even tell what day it was, finding ways to keep others out of the know so that they wouldn’t bother with it at all. It only brought back bad memories of the past and dread for the future he now had. “It’s already passed as well. Guess it’s a late celebration for both of us.” Which wasn’t a lie. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice that he’d not said the date. He didn’t want that conversation.

So, maybe changing the subject was for the best. As he glanced around the club, he noticed that things were a little out of the ordinary. Or at least this place wasn’t what he imagined most clubs to be like. Strange dark red drinks were being served at another bar, what he assumed were fake fingers being given to a few people who actually looked familiar, and there were quite a few ghosts lingering around on the dance floor. Was it Halloween themed like Hallow’s Eats?

His gaze went back to Inge, confusion clear on his face. “Wait, what is this place? I didn’t take much of a look before you got here but it’s kind of strange.” She’d been the one who was here the night of her actual birthday and this was the perfect opportunity to change the subject so Caleb didn’t have to talk about his least favorite day of the year. “Are those…fingers? They don’t look gummy…”

He didn’t seem excited to speak about his birthday, which was often an indication of something. Inge wasn’t the type to pry into people’s sensitive and personal business, though, as she thought those things depressing and not her area of expertise. She went to places like these to indulge, not to therapize. So she paid it no mind. “A late celebration! Perfect. Better late than never.”

She gave the bartender a smile – glad that it wasn’t that Mack Ross girl who’d taken a bite out of her – when he handed her her drink and took a nice and hefty sip. Dance Macabre had a wide range of drinks, but they also just had good wine. They hadn’t found a way to liquidize nightmares and turn them into a product just yet. For the best, she figured. Commodifying something like that would be very depressing.

Caleb seemed unfamiliar with the club’s wide range. Inge blinked at him, innocuously. “Oh, it’s a little … avant garde, you know? Edgy.” She looked at the fingers. The human fingers. She didn’t often wish to be a different flavor of undead, but being able to munch on those while staring someone dead in the eye would be very amusing. “Attracts a certain kind of people. And those? Oh, yes. They’re fingers.” She smiled. “Look very real, don’t they?”

She seemed perfectly okay with dropping the subject in favor of the new one and for that Caleb was so grateful. There were a lot of nosy people around, it was nice to know she wasn’t one of them and in spite of the uncomfortable feeling of being watched he was starting to relax enough to enjoy this for the good time it should be. 

But then he kept staring at the fingers, one having been slid to someone closer to the two of them than the previous orders had. The zombie had seen enough detached fingers in his life to be able to tell if they were real or not and those were definitely real. Suddenly the night had brought on more mystery even if it made more sense that he recognized some of these people; they were clients, people that he fed regularly. Did he somehow stumble upon a zombie bar? How had Caleb never known this existed?

Oh, because he didn’t have fun.

Then his attention was turned back to Inge, wondering if she was the same as him or if she thought it all very niche. He glanced at her wine and then back to her eyes, deciding to go along with the charade just in case. “A little too real. It’s kind of disturbing.” But he was smiling into his drink as he lifted it to his lips. “Are you into that kind of thing? I feel like some of your paintings could indicate that you are but I don’t want to assume. Maybe you just like this place for the music.”

Though the imagery of eating another human was fascinating in a way – there was a reason shows and stories about cannibals took off – Inge was glad she could sate her cravings with nightmares. It was more refined. And if she wanted to she could gorge on a human being in a dream without all the mess anyway. (A part of her also appreciate that it didn’t require murder, but that was boring and moral.)

She was bemused by the other’s reaction, by the way he brought up her paintings as if they were any indication that she’d like to chew on severed fingers. She decided it was a compliment. Inge figured the other was human, or at least mortal — which was a little unfortunate, but did not mean this was to be a complete waste of her time.

“Oh, I’m not into munching on dead fingers. Alive ones, maybe,” she said, “But I have a few friends who like those along with their beers. You don’t?” She blinked at him as if she’d asked him what his friends did for work as she sipped her wine. “Maybe you should order one and see if it’s your kinda thing.”

He honestly wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not, the deadpanned way she’d mentioned liking her fingers live and well making him reconsider whether she was undead or not. Caleb was staring at her when she asked, his head starting to shake slowly once his brain had recovered from the short circuiting the reply had caused. Was she serious? “Not much for fingers myself, no.” He’d never liked the bony part that came with eating the human body and it was very hard to eat around them in a finger. 

Her suggestion to get one of his own was about to be denied until that unease came back to him from the shadows. It started to infiltrate his mind, push him towards agreeing, towards chaos. Again, he was afraid to say no. Something about this thing, whatever it was, was so menacing that even from the shadows it had a tight hold on him and Caleb found himself nodding slowly.

“But I guess it couldn’t hurt to see what the fuss is about. They look pretty popular.” It was a stupid decision and he knew it even as he placed the order with the bartender but defying this entity seemed stupider in the long run. What was he going to do though? Eat a real finger in front of someone who appeared, by all accounts, normal? Something told him yes. And he didn’t like it. 

“Not even for sucking one off?” Inge asked it innocuously once again. There wasn’t really any ulterior motive there — she wasn’t as interested in random hook ups any more, which was because of her newly gained scar and definitely not because she was hung up on some fae. But she was in a bar and she was flirty by nature because she could be and so she gave Caleb a small smirk. “Pity.”

She would understand it if he rejected her proposal. It was quite ludacris to order a decapitated finger if human beings weren’t part of your diet and even Inge wasn't particularly fond of holding the mushy things. They reminded her of knakworsten, dutch sausages that would snap when you broke them. Those were actually tasty, though she didn’t eat them any more because they contained too much salt for her to not feel a little sickened by them.

There was a stir in the shadows, but she didn’t think much of it. This was a club after all, with moving lights and strange dark corners. “Alright then,” she said, leaning forward towards the barkeep, “One of your fingers, please. A long one preferably.” As the employee busied herself with getting one of them, she eyed Caleb curiously. Was he just a human, doing something just for the heck of it, just to see if those were actual fingers? Or was he undead like her, aiming to get a snack without seeming too suspicious? “First time for everything, right?”

“Oh.” His eyebrows raised at the forward question, surprise shining through as he stumbled over it in his mind. He really hoped this hadn’t been what their interaction had been leading up to. Not that she wasn’t beautiful or fun or anything he just wasn’t available….maybe. Caleb still wasn’t clear on that part and was too anxious to bring it up with the one person he really needed to bring it up with. Still, looking back on it all, he might have misread the intentions with the back and forth on the internet. “That's uh….I'm not saying that I don't like that part.” He really should have kept his mouth shut. Not only was he stumbling in his mind but he was stumbling over his words now too. 

Thankfully he was saved by the arrival of the drink. Or was he burdened with it? It was hard to tell when he glanced over at her again, still not sure if she could tell this thing was real or not. It certainly was, that wasn’t the question. The question was if she would start screaming when she realized it was. The woman did seem to be taunting him as she ordered but he could already tell that was something she enjoyed no matter the situation. He cleared his throat and put his hand over the glass as if that would stop her from truly seeing his garnish but he made no moves to get rid of it. 

He hated fingers.

Smiling softly, Caleb shook his head. “A first time doesn’t mean a good time. Is it weird that I’m nervous about a strange gummy finger?” Was that even working? “What if I changed my mind…?” He trailed off as a grumble struck him deep in his mind. So much for that idea.

He was flustered. It was endearing. Inge chuckled a little and took a long sip from her drink, waving with her hand as if trying to wave away his nervousness. “I’m just teasing you,” she admitted. “Whatever you like you can keep to yourself.” She could push now, tell him that she’d looove to find out, but she wasn’t planning on making this ordeal painfully awkward. A little bit of discomfort was fine, though. That’s why they were ordering the finger.

She looked at the finger with mild interest, wondering where it had come from and how Dance Macabre sourced them. Was it from the young goths that wandered in here? Or were it other people that were dissected and put up for sale? There was something very morbid about it all, especially now that she had actually seen what it was like when someone’s toes were chopped off. A pathetic part of her hoped the people who had once owned these fingers had been dead after the separation.

Apparently Caleb was having some hesitation as well. Understandable, if he was a human. Inge shrugged. She pinched the finger. The sensation made her feel a little uncomfortable, which she hated. She did really have friends who ate these things, but that before Rhett’s toes. “Nope. It’s on my tap. I won’t see it go to waste. Eat up.” She took a hefty sip of her wine. She was glad, for once, that she didn’t have heightened senses. “Plenty of people here snack on ‘em.”

The zombie was glad that she wasn’t someone who was going to pick at the subject that clearly made Caleb uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that he came across people who would willingly give up the playful torture of intimate discussion, their curiosity and amusement taking precedence over another’s comfort in his experience. It made him like her that much more as he relaxed his shoulders, made him comfortable enough to throw a teasing remark back. “I have to keep my air or mystery, right?”

It wasn’t until she reached out to touch that very real body part sitting in his drink that the discomfort returned. She had to know that she’d just touched actual flesh and not the gelatin candy he had been trying to push it off as which made his own curiosity about what she knew, what she was, grow. He couldn’t refuse. She was right, she had ordered the drink herself and the people pleaser in him wouldn’t let that go. Not to mention the darkness that surrounded the two of them pushing for him to take the bite that he was so hesitant to take. He just didn’t know if it was wise to reveal this secret to her so shortly after they’d met. 

She had to know already if she was pushing for it, right? 

Caleb reached out and took the finger, biting into it the best he could around the bone. The bite only proved to him why he hated these things so much and made him wonder what the other zombies ordering these things were thinking. Placing the finger back, planning to munch on it sparingly for the rest of the night, he did feel a little satisfaction after he swallowed…whether that was because it satisfied a little hunger or the entity who had a grip on him was anyone’s guess. “Happy? Or do I have to finish the whole thing?” He was smiling but his eyes showed the nerves that were coursing through him now that he was pretty sure she knew what he was, awaiting her reaction with bated breath.

His air of mystery. Right. Inge thought the other looked quite unassuming and he would be plain if it wasn’t for some of his more striking features. Still, she didn’t quite think him very mysterious — aside from the entire debacle of whether he was undead or not. She had that kind of doubt about plenty of people, though. She indulged him, though, “Certainly, we don’t want to reveal too much too soon.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected from Caleb once faced with the finger. Hell, she hadn’t expected to be met with her own complicated feelings about the matter — but that was something that happened more and more these days. Surges of emotion, of nasty memories trickling in. She’d have to start singing a different tune in her nightmares, incorporate these thoughts of factory floors and being stuck on walls into the dreams she offered others so she could see the memories in a different context.

Maybe this would help, too. She watched Caleb take a bite and did not bother to hide her surprise when he swallowed. It wasn’t the kind of horror a human might feel at the sight of someone eating a finger, but it was still something. She took a sip of her drink, eyes wide and intrigued. “I mean, only if you’re hungry,” she said casually. “Do you do that often, Caleb? Eat human parts?” She glanced at the finger, seeing the bone protrude. It was a nasty sight, which was why she kept looking. Nightmares were really a more refined diet. “I know a few people who do. That, blood … dreams?” She took another sip. “How long ago did you die?” It was a gamble. But she tended to live on the edge, anyway.

There was a weight lifted from his shoulders. Her reaction, though surprised, was definitely not as bad as he’d been expecting but there was also something else that had been lifted. The air wasn’t as…heavy. That presence that Caleb had been feeling for the last couple of days wasn’t near anymore. It was as if her lack of screaming didn’t interest the menacing presence at all and it decided to move on. Was that all it had taken? To reveal what he was to someone who didn’t already know for it to leave him alone? 

No, that was too easy. It had to still be there somewhere. 

For now he would just focus on his companion though. There was no need in fretting over something that wasn’t there, not until it came back. He shook his head at her first comment, pushing the finger to the side onto a little napkin before pulling the rest of the drink closer. What exactly was it served in? “I’ve never really liked fingers much.” He pressed his lips together as he nodded at her question, eyes locked on the drink in front of him so he didn’t have to look at her. “But only as often as I have to.” He knew others who ate humans like it was their day job and, while he understood, he’d never been able to…overindulge. 

Caleb looked up at the dreams comment, eyebrows furrowing as he wondered who she knew. His concern for certain people in his life started to grow but he hoped he wouldn’t have to worry too much. With her reaction, she seemed used to this. “You mean nightmares?” He finally took a drink of whatever the finger had been served in, pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be an actual cocktail. “Just over six years. It’s been a bit of an adjustment. What about you? Are you in the same boat or do you just like hanging out at bars catered to the undead?”

So the truth was out, laid on the table amidst their drinks and the half-eaten finger. Inge felt a level of relief at the final revelation that Caleb was like her — a person who had died and transformed. Wicked’s Rest came with many disadvantages but this was something she liked about the place: it attracted the undead. And though that meant the town also attracted slayers and other dislikeable figures, it almost made it tolerable. It was just better, she found, to surround herself with people who did not age. 

She had figured out a while ago that there was to categorize the undead into two categories: those that abstained and those that indulged. She fell into the latter category, making an art of her nightmares and creating more than she strictly needed for survival. Plenty of others fell into the first category, though – only eating as often as they needed to, as Caleb put it. Inge couldn’t relate. She’d long ceased to feel guilt over the nightmares she spread around. Maybe it was different if your diet required human parts, though. (She thought of Rhett’s leg without wanting to.) “Fair enough. Fingers don’t seem especially nutritious.”

She nodded at his conclusion, “Yes, nightmares. That’s my diet.” It really was more refined than brains or blood, she thought. She looked the other up and down, figured that it made sense that he was still new to this. Inge chuckled. “So I’m like you. It’s been about half a century for me, now, since I died.” It felt wrong to put it like that. “And transformed, of course. It’s why I celebrated here, you know? Most mortals don’t understand — the complications of birthdays when you don’t physically age any more.”

“They aren’t.” It was said with a breath of laughter, Caleb finding it funny but at the same time feeling the weight of this conversation thick in the air. The fact that he knew that was horrifying in itself and every time he laid out the details of his diet, no matter how small, it felt like he was discovering the horrible reality of being a zombie again. It laid heavy on his chest, images of all the bodies he’d ransacked over the years flashing in his mind until the two faces of the people that died by his own hand popped up. They were always side by side, their features locked in the horror they had felt during their final moments. He ground his teeth together as he tried to push those images away and focus on her.

But he did finish the drink in hand before he spoke again, the glass tipping up with a clink as he gulped it down. Not that it would do much good unless this bar had ways of making their drinks stronger for the dead as well. “So you’re a mare then.” It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that at least she only caused fear and it didn’t always result in death but he also knew that didn’t matter. Mayhem came with both of their diets, his just came with the physical whereas hers was more phycological. Both ways did their own catastrophic damage. 

“Transformed?” That was an interesting way to put things. The word could hold different meanings in this context but he got the feeling that Inge wasn’t ashamed of what she was or how she had to survive and that definitely piqued his interest. Not to mention how long she’d had to live this way. “I can’t even imagine being alive that long. Somehow I still think my body will find a way to give in to nature even though I’ve lived through things I shouldn’t have at this point. Are you-” He wasn’t quite sure how to pose this question so he continued the only way he could think of. “Are you happy?”

How had she even felt, six years into her transformation? Inge struggled to recall it — but time played a trick on her memory. It was back in Amsterdam, when Vera had been a teenager and she’d still been trying to figure out how to exist as a mare, as a sleepless creature of the night. She’d felt shame then, she must have … but she preferred not to think of it. Not of that, nor the time she lost, nor the child that was gone, nor her partner in all it. She was a woman of her own future, living in the twenty first century and proud. What she had been in the past was gone.

But she did recall it, the shame. How it had once been there, for the way she had to feed. How it had been replaced by her pride, now. She saw it in Ariadne, who had only been undead for a year or two. She saw it in Leila, who had centuries on her. She had even seen it in Richard, who was older than any other undead she had ever met. She felt bad for them all, these creatures like her who did not think of consumption as a form of self are. “Maybe we should find you something better to eat, then.”

She chuckled mildly. “It’s still perishable, but … not as easily maimed any more, is it? For you, at least.” Vampires and zombies had that advantage over her – their ability to heal with speed. Inge had to wait human weeks and months before pains left her body, before scars were formed. “I’m only in my seventies, Caleb. I’ve hardly outlived most humans.” His question was met with another sip of her drink, too heavy to answer without contemplating it over a sip of alcohol and a little bit of procrastination. “I am, most days. Happier than I ever was as a human.” She smiled. “Not always, but most of the time. Why?”

“I’m okay right now.” He gave her a smile, hoping that she wasn’t worried about the state of his…appetite. There was no need to be. Caleb liked to think he was responsible with his consumption even when his supply was still dwindling to a dangerously low point spurring him to work harder or cut some deals. Inge’s hesitation was understandable though. Not everyone was responsible with their diet, not everyone had the means to be. Which might be why he tried not to eye a random drunk man trying to sneak the tossed finger out of the napkin next to him. At least some poor dead souls digit wasn’t being wasted even if he still felt the need to give her the money for her purchase. 

His attention was back on her after the drunk zombie walked away giggling, clearly thinking he had gotten away with his heist. “Right. It’s wild to me that mares don’t heal the way we can even though we’re all…dead flesh. But at least you guys get to astral. That always sounded kind of cool to me.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender, his smile started to fade quickly. “You’re right, it’s not that old. I guess I just…never thought I’d make it past my teens so the idea of getting that far in life is strange to me. Add to that people calling me old in my forties, it’s a little surreal.” Caleb didn’t miss the way she took a drink before answering him, the zombie taking that as a bad sign even as her words suggested otherwise. He couldn’t say for sure whether she was feigning happiness for his benefit or if she was even doing it for her own peace of mind but he understood that it wasn’t the whole truth. “I think I just wanted to know if I had something to look forward to. Everyone’s different, I know, but a little hope is nice.”

“Good,” she said, not bothering to press the subject any further. When another – presumed – zombie stepped by to snatch the finger, she did raise her eyebrows in amusement and a hint of judgment. The finger was part of her tab, after all — but if Caleb wasn’t going to finish it, then it might as well get eaten by someone else in need. Inge looked back to the sole member of her party, “Well, that’s one way to get by.” 

Her face split into a look of pride, if not something close to that happiness he’d been asking after. “Very true. I’m not sure if I’d swap it for quicker healing or higher tolerance for injury. It makes for a quick get away, too. And it is cool.” Yes, mares were truly the crème de la crème of undead. Except for the healing, of course. “Wish we’d just bleed regularly, though — it’d definitely make hospitals easier.”

The statement was said so plainly, as if it wasn’t a devastating thing in and of itself. If Inge was a more compassionate woman, if she was more sentimental, she might have searched further. “Well, here you are … You might push past two hundred.” Though not all undead made it that far, especially not in a town such as this. Slayers liked to shorten lifespans, even before they’d lived a full human year. “Of course you do!” She sounded more convinced now, because it was certainly easier to speak of the future as something promising than it was to speak of her current happiness or lack thereof. “There is so much to live for. You will look like this forever — and it’s not a bad look to have!” He was handsome, and no lines marred his face. No gray hair in sight, either. “The world is your oyster, Caleb — that much is true for each and everyone of us.” And with us, she meant her fellow undead. Not humans. “Come, let’s have another drink. Fingerless, this time. And we’ll toast to those oncoming years.”

There was a brief moment where Caleb considered asking the zombie if he needed a steadier supply for his diet but he figured this was supposed to be a fun night out so he let it go. He did have a new place to network though. Now if only he could figure out his supply shortage. “Not the smartest way but as long as he’s not rampaging…” Another reason to ask the man, Caleb wanting to make sure that he could prevent that as much as possible. 

Again, this was supposed to be fun, so he tucked those thoughts away in the back of his mind along with the shadows that were stalking him before. Smiling at how much she actually enjoyed the aspects of her…situation, the zombie wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t to argue with it or not. Healing came in handy, especially when the weird stuff really started going down. Volmugger acid most likely would have taken him out if it hadn’t been for his ability to eat a brain and be brand new again. But he had always thought the astral projection was cool, ever since he’d found out about it from Aria. “Not a believer in the grass being greener in someone else’s world, I take it.” It was a statement more than a question since Caleb was already sure he knew the answer to that one.

Inge’s confidence was admirable and he had to wonder why he always seemed drawn to people like that. There was always some kind of pull to them, some awe he held in their presence, because he knew he’d never be able to achieve that level of…well, loving himself. He was too damaged from years and years of being told he would never be good enough. “I hope not.” The statement was said under his breath, the idea of two hundred years on this earth harrowing. 

There was something about people who were confident; others would tend to believe anything they said. Inge spoke with such conviction that Caleb felt like there was no choice but to smile as he thought about what could be in the years to come. His life wasn’t that horrible at the moment, it was true, he just needed to learn how to navigate what he was with ways that made him comfortable. Six years wasn’t long enough to do that. It was what he thought about with new drinks in hand, the zombie tipping his glass to her as that familiar chill of being watched started to return. He would deal with that tomorrow, tonight he’d learn to let loose with a new friend and see where life took him.

“To the world being our oyster.”

[mikaikaika]

Quackity : Chilling after unleashing his social experiment on the ccs

Meanwhile Cellbit :

[eyndr-stories]

My first art of the year, have a little Sunhinged :]

[iamnathannah]

Yup, we're back at it with another Glorbie Twitter post inspired by another famous post that got so much attention;

This time, we've got Gloria being a teen activist and Barbie lusting over it, along with our usual Duolingo slander, Sasha just being embarassed by the horniness of her moms, the Mattel CEO tweeting despite his aversion to it after being attacked by She-Ra fans, and even a random celebrity cameo out of nowhere.

As always, the ALT text is here for fun and whimsy (and of course, accessiblity)! Enjoy!

[yuexias]

@xinxiins / continued from here

[ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：？ [ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：zěnme háiméishuì？ [ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：thought you mentioned you had a full filming day today?

[doomxdriven]

Kusaka hadn't spoken to this woman, Sylvia, in a long time, not since their last encounter, their little impromptu competition as it was-- he remembered that day fondly, it was a heap of thrills, though he also remembered that she hadn't seen it the same way... quite the opposite in fact.

Kusaka wondered if Sylvia was still sore over the events of that day, but if she was, it wasn't going to stop him from speaking to her. Kusaka was just too curious about Sylvia's presence here, and he finally saw a chance to speak with her in private, away from all the nosy bastards they both associated with.

"You don't actually buy any of the garbage that old man is selling, do you?" Kusaka pointedly asks as he reveals his presence, stepping out from behind a tree here in a lightly forested area near the estate of the very man he was referring to, Jin Kariya.

Smirking, Kusaka continues, his red eyes trained on the back of Sylvia's head, "you never struck me as the gullible type, princess." // @glaciialis

[astarab1aze]

continued from here / @vicariousphotographer

He felt like he was losing his grip, known to happen from time to time when the seals in his brain loosened, though the symptoms were primarily memory-related - not that it mattered here, because he was floundering, eyes caught then on a shadows distilled and far away, writhing somewhere far off in, visions retracting like elastic bound to break. Instantaneous, no no, it was the fog of his mind, a terrible daydream where false dark came upon him and whispered the name of a man who was no more. Rewind, fast-forward, and everything's normal. People going about their day, a man in front of him - bewildered, concerned.

And worse still was his own state, anxiously palming now at clammy skin and mussed hair, wildly and unceremoniously smoothing out fabric that felt a little too much like something else. Light flickers, flashes of his face, a world decaying around him- His breathing remained laboured, but he'd realized in truth where he was, situated in some space between, acosting the man, yes. Oh, and how terribly sorry he was with what little congruence he could manage then.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly, sloppily- willing his stress away and failing miserably, hands shaking, shoulders trembling, and that damned shadow, the rust, the paint chips- Ashari would not have panicked, he would've adapted, kept calm, breathed. Illusions could flicker and ripple against reality all they liked, one was real and the other wasn't - he just had to figure out which.

Away he stepped, wringing his hands; For the first time, in a long time, unable to articulate much else, wary and conscious that which aimed to swallow him whole. What had he wandered into this time? He wondered if the bile in his throat would ever settle.

[gossipsnake]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Pines PARTIES:  Anita (@gossipsnake) and Inge (@nightmaretist) SUMMARY: Anita & Inge Find an Egg! CONTENT: child death tw (references to death of an adult child), pheromone influence, discussions of motherhood

Something had changed between Anita and her. Or, at least, Inge assumed it had. If there was an occurrence to change a casual friendship (with added benefits), it would be saving someone’s life from hypothermia while they were a ginormous snake. It wasn’t an unwelcome change, though. There was something nice about the deepening of this particular relationship.

So they were passing through the woods near Anita’s home, hiking the way humans might and divulging in the latest rumors. Perhaps not much had changed after all. “This Max —” She bristled still, at the sound of that banshee’s name, but she sounded amused too, “She looked like a freshman and thought she’d kill me. It was … almost endearing, you know? Like an angry toddler.” She scrunched her face up in demonstration.

When the pair turned a corner Inge’s eyes fell on an unusual sight. Which was, of course, quite usual in a town like Wicked’s Rest. Things didn’t tend to be usual. There was a great chance the trees were watching them and there was some kind of fae monster lurking in their branches — and she liked that. But this was something else. This caught her attention like nothing else. “Is that … an egg?”

_ 

Metzli and Cass, they had both seemed to want to talk about the occurrence this past winter in the woods. It wasn’t that Anita didn’t like talking about it (to a certain extent) but it did make her feel her own mortality more than she would like. She wasn’t like Metzli, or Leila, or Inge for that matter. She wasn’t immortal. But Inge hadn’t brought it up much, not explicitly. Anita could tell that things had shifted between the pair, however. They spent more time together neither at work nor naked (though they still did both of those things), and it was really quite enjoyable. 

“I’ve gotta admit, as annoying as that Max sounds, I’m kind of glad to hear I wasn’t the only one up to my ears in banshee bullshit.” Anita had told her a fair bit of what had gone on in Ireland but not quite everything. There were certain things that didn’t feel like her palace to tell. Was this growth? Like that meme from that HBO show? 

Anita was so caught up in her moment of self congratulations that she hadn’t really noticed anything strange until she heard the question, and she instinctively began to answer it before she even laid her eyes on the thing, “It wouldn’t be uncommon, this is prime bird egg laying season honestly…” she trailed off as her eyes landed on the egg in question and quickly corrected herself. “Okay, that didn’t come from any normal bird.” Almost immediately, she took a few steps closer to get a better look at the thing. 

_ 

Though her confrontation with Max had irked her, it would serve to be a story worth repeating down the line. Inge hadn’t encountered a lot of banshees in her days, after all, and it was somehow refreshing that it hadn’t been a slayer (or other type of hunter) who’d wanted to kill her for once. She would very much prefer it if no one wanted to kill her, but to get hung up on wanting such things was childish. 

“Banshee bullshit,” she repeated, “That rolls off the tongue nicely. I am still a little offended that Siobhan didn’t think to invite me, you know. I thought we had something special.” She wasn’t sure if she would have gone. She hated Siobhan. She was glad Siobhan was back, though, but only because all their other colleagues – save Anita – were dull and incapable of challenging her. “With Dolan back we’ll have plenty of banshee bullshit to come, though, but just her brand.” She hated her so much, which was why there was a hint of fondness in her voice.

There was not a lot of time to overthink her feelings about the banshee who’d left her on a wall, though. The egg was taking up most of her headspace. It smelled … strange. Earthy and musky, like a perfume she might have whiffed off someone else. Was Anita wearing a different scent? She followed the other, stepping closer to the egg. “It’s beautiful.” A branch snapped and she whipped around as if scared something would come hurt the egg. “It’s … it’s all alone, out in the open … that’s bad parenting.” 

_ 

It was no secret that Inge and Siobhan were not exactly fond of one another. But they were without a doubt Anita’s most enjoyable co-workers. While that wasn't necessarily because they were her only known non-human co-workers it certainly didn’t hurt. Though there was something about the organic chemistry professor that gave distinctly non-human energy, Anita had yet to crack that case yet. “I’m sure there will be all kinds of new and exciting bullshit to deal with when the new semester starts, banshee bullshit and others.” 

Despite being a reptile, Anita was never actually an egg herself. Rattlesnakes, like a few other species of snakes, give live birth to their young. She felt much more kinship, however, to species who laid eggs than those who didn’t. “Very bad parenting…” she repeated in agreement as she carefully looked around, wondering if there was any sign of the mother nearby. All that she saw around them was open forest and a few large predator birds flying overhead. Anita knew these woods - they were not kind. 

The smell of the egg was so distinct that, and at first, Anita was worried it was rotten. Abandoned by a mother who perhaps knew it was never going to hatch. As she moved close towards it the egg seemed to shift. “It’s hardly even in a proper nest. I wonder if its mother was eaten by something out here. Or, maybe it got separated from her somehow.” Nobody had ever accused Anita of having a maternal instinct before, but all she wanted to do was scoop this egg up and find a nice warm incubator for it. She looked over at Inge, about to say something when the egg seemed to move again. “Whatever kind of egg this is, that little guy is a fighter. I don’t want to leave it out here unprotected but I’m worried trying to move it might hurt it.” 

_ 

Inge had never thought much of eggs. Eggs were simply food — they were part of Sunday breakfast when she’d been a mortal, boiled at the exact right level of hardness for Hendrik. They went into her quiches and the sweet things she baked. She’d had chickens, with her once-husband — a trio of clucking hens that he’d gotten from the farm he worked at. She’d search for their eggs each morning and sometimes they were warm to the touch, and she incorporated them in food or gave them to her parents.

But those eggs? What did those eggs matter? Those small, insignificant chicken eggs, that were naturally overshadowed by the egg in front of her. Now this was an egg. This egg had something to achieve besides being cracked above a bowl or boiled in water. Inge moved closer, its scent working itself into her nostrils and finding its home there. “Who would do such a thing … to leave an egg so beautiful? A child so innocent, so in need of protecting …” 

She swallowed thickly, wondering if Anita was right. Maybe its mother had died. Her mind trailed off for a moment, thinking about how she had died when her daughter had been young — but then it was quickly pulled back to the egg. She was able to lift her gaze from the egg after a moment to look at Anita. “We — well, it’s clear, isn’t it? We cannot abandon it in the wild like this.” She crouched down, placed a hand on the shell. It was warm. “It’s a fighter, and it should be looked after. And we’re … well, the perfect pair, aren’t we?” She could look over the darling egg from the astral at night and Anita was a fierce protector. “It’s beautiful, truly.”

_ 

It was reassuring that Inge seemed to feel the same way as Anita about this egg. Maybe that should have been concerning, but all she felt was relief in knowing that the two of them wanted to protect this precious egg together. Thinking of how Inge had helped her out of that dicey situation this past winter, getting help, keeping her alive  -  Anita nodded genuinely at the question, “Yes. We are the perfect pair.” Her attention quickly returned to the egg, as Anita took her phone out to take a few photographs of it. It was so beautiful and she had never seen anything like it before. It was like she suddenly understood why parents posted so many photos of their children online. 

“You’re very lucky we found you, sweet egg,” Anita said softly, “if humans had come across you they probably would have tried to make an omelet out of you. Humans are quite awful.” Just then the egg twitched again, or rather, the creature inside of the egg twitched. Anita grinned, “I think they agree.”  The egg didn’t stop twitching though. “Do you think it’s about to…” she trailed off slightly, almost astonished at how fantastic their timing seemed to be. The smell seemed to be getting a bit stronger and Anita frowned a bit as she looked at the “nest” that this little babe was laying in. “We need something softer for it, if it’s going to hatch here. I have some clothes in my bag,” she said as she took her backpack off. A lamia, or any smart shifter, never left home without a change of clothes on them. 

_ 

She had shed any maternal instinct like Anita had shed her skin, had thought herself rid of it now that her adult daughter had been dead and buried for over a decade. It had never fit her well anyway, that role. She had made a better aunt to her nieces and nephews, made a better mentor than a mother. But today, here and now, Inge knew suddenly that she had been an absolute fool to try and rid herself of this duty. She was a mother, and she needed to use her maternal skills to take care of this abandoned babe, this poor, lost little soul. She would nurture it. It was the very thing she was born for.

She nodded, “You are so very lucky. We understand you.” The egg was twitching and Inge looked at it with interest, but also with worry. It was beautiful, it was doing so good — “It might be,” she said. “But you’re right, this is no place to come to earth.” She had no extra clothes on her, and just wore what she was wearing. It wasn’t like temperatures bothered her much any more. She still worked on undoing her jacket and then the top she was wearing, standing only in her bra. It didn’t matter — the egg needed the softness. “We’ll take care of you.” She started to surround it with her own clothes, then looked at Anita. “I have nowhere I need to be.” She had multiple appointments, but she could forgo those. She already had.

_ 

Anita had seen many creatures be born. She had even seen many eggs hatch, incubated many of the snakes that lived at home with her. But never had she felt so immediately protective of an unknown creature before. As she bundled up the t-shirt and leggings that she had pulled from her bag she was so caught up in making sure that whatever was about to hatch from this egg had a soft landing spot that she hardly even made note of Inge’s half-undressed state. Hardly, she was a true MILF now but she wasn’t blind. “Classes are out for the summer, I don’t have anywhere I need to be for quite some time.” 

It was mostly true. People would worry if she disappeared for a while, wouldn’t they? Metzli would. At least a person would worry. But Anita had worries of her own to consider, worries about this precious life that she and Inge were about to foster into the world. More movement was coming from the egg now and far more rapidly until eventually, finally, the first small crack in its shell occurred. “Oh!” Anita said with a wide grin, looking over at her newfound partner in all of this. “That was impressive. A little fighter in there. She’ll fit right in with you and I.” She said with a playful nudge, the smile never leaving her face as she scanned the forest around them, making sure there were no outside threats incoming. 

_ 

All the worries she’d been occupied with were melting away, replaced with the nurturing care she felt for the sweet egg. The only way she could be made to think of those concerns was in the context of that egg — what if her demons were to catch up not only with her, but with this darling thing, too? Inge crouched down at the egg, nodding at what Anita was saying, “Same here. And whatever I do have, I can set aside. This is … oh, egg. No appointments matter in the face of you, I think.” 

Her eyes met Anita’s at the same time, a kind of glee shared between the pair that was new. She may have brought life into this world before, but this was different — this was done without her body tearing open, without her sweat and tears. And Anita was a better partner, was she not, than Hendrik had ever been in parenthood? Because Inge did recognize what was happening for what it was — a parental instinct, a need to take a young thing under her wing. “Very impressive,” she said, putting an arm around Anita as she pulled her towards her and looked at the egg. Its shell broke a little more and a round head poked out. “Oh …” Her eyes shone, her hand pressed against her mouth. “Oh — she’s … a beauty, Neets.”

_ 

Anita was no stranger to the feeling of intoxication. She often lived her life seeking it out, in fact. Not just in the form of her favored tequila but in the intoxication that could be found through an array of thrilling activities. Each type of intoxication, that brought on by killing, by lust, by adventure, by defiance, were all unique. As she was crouched down beside Inge as this sweet darling egg began to hatch Anita felt an intoxication unlike any she had experienced before. With Inge’s arm wrapped around her, there was a feeling of security as the beautiful babe shed its literal shell to be welcomed into the world protected by the two women. “Si… she really is.” Her eyes darted between the mare and the egg, equally intoxicated by how the creature was hatching and Inge’s reaction to it. “ Just like her mami’s,” Anita beamed. Practically, scientifically, Anita knew that there was no genetic relation between them and their egg but that didn’t stop the swell of pride she felt. 

The creature, their sweet egg hatchling, didn’t look reptilian. It wasn’t really a surprise to Anita since the egg itself hadn’t seemed particularly reptilian. While it would have been incredible to stumble upon a lamia egg in the wild she knew that wasn’t what had happened. She mirrored Inge’s gesture, and wrapped her own arm around her, as she used her other hand to take a few pictures (and maybe a video or two) of the egg’s hatching. “I’m glad we found her together,” she said, resting her head on Inge’s shoulder as she put her phone away to admire the egg more without the distraction of the screen. “It’ll be nice figuring all of this stuff out together, how to take care of another person. A very small vulnerable person at that.” 

_ 

Anita said what Inge felt. She bestowed the title of mother on both of them and the mare did not shy away from it this time, did not consider all the anguish and trouble that came with that part of her identity. Why would she ever denounce motherhood, after all? Why had she ever despised this feeling of responsibility? As she looked down on the egg, she knew she would give anything and all for it. “Just like her mums indeed,” she said, cocking her head to the side so she could see her hatchling child from a different angle. “Please share those pictures with me. We’ll have to take many — infants grow so very fast.” She leaned her own head against Anita’s, hand rubbing small circles on the other’s shoulder.

She nodded at her words. Her mind ventured to Vera once more, for a moment, and when she had been an infant. The nappies and the breastfeeding and the sweet smell of her and her laughter — all of it seemed to pale in comparison to her new child. Perhaps this was what she’d needed, as a mother: a different child. “I’ll teach you,” she said, “How to be a mother.” Anita didn’t know of her late daughter, but Inge didn’t remember why it should be something kept quiet. It was important they were honest with each other, for the wellbeing of their child. “I’ve done it before. It’s hard work, but for her? It’s all more than worth it, don’t you think? We —” She sighed. “Will be amazing parents.”

_ 

A symphony of questions flooded Anita’s mind at the unexpected admission that Inge had done this, motherhood, before. It hadn’t even been something that she had considered a possibility, despite knowing the other had been alive far longer than she had. Sometimes she forgot that people existed outside the context in which she knew them. There wasn’t time to dive into all of the questions she had about this past child of Inge’s though, because the child in front of them kept working so diligently to break away pieces of its shell. “I’m glad to have you as a teacher.” 

Thinking of her own lack of experience as a mother; thinking about her relationship to her own mother, Anita felt a small pang of fear wash over her. Their baby was becoming exposed to the harsh realities of the world and she couldn’t help but wonder if, even with Inge’s help, she had what it took. “I’ve not done it before, obviously. But I’ve seen it done. You can learn a lot from observation. I may not know exactly what to do … but I think I have a sense of what not to do.” She inhaled a quick, sharp breath, before nodding in agreement. “We’ll be amazing parents.” 

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Max @screadqueens & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Inge's office SUMMARY: Max pays one of Siobhan's hottest colleagues a visit. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death (past), torture (threatened)

It was hard for Max to decide which of the rogue banshees who’d left their mark in this wretched Maine town was the more disappointing of the two. Regan’s mistakes were humiliating, to be sure — cleaning up her mess would certainly take some time — but that was to be expected. Regan had been a failure since the beginning, since the first day she’d shown up to train with Max and Tina despite her age. Siobhan was a failure in her own right, of course, but she’d at least been raised properly. The fact that she had managed to fail so spectacularly was just… sad. 

Especially when Max found the corpse in her contact list.

It wasn’t the fun kind of corpse, wasn’t the proper kind that you could sit and watch beautifully decay. No, this corpse was a disgusting thing. The kind that walked around, the kind that defied Fate. The mere concept of the undead was sickening, and yet Siobhan had been out and about befriending one. It was horrifying, really. Regan had something of an excuse in her sad human upbringing, but Siobhan? Siobhan should have known better.

It was no matter, though. Max was more than willing to correct the mistake.

It was luck, perhaps, that the corpse found employment at the local college. It made Max the perfect banshee for the job, what with her youthful looks and her sharp wit. Blending in with the human children was an easy thing to do, a simple one. She looked like she belonged, and so the idiotic humans assumed she did. She listened to them talk about stupid things, she waited for an opportunity. And when the corpse was spotted, Max wasted no time on goodbyes before getting up to follow it.

“Excuse me,” her Irish lilt lifted the words, carrying them to the corpse’s ears. There was something dully fascinating about the unnaturalness of it, she thought; she found interest in it the same way one might find interest in an unidentified puddle with a heavy stench. The mind was drawn to disgusting things, sometimes. Max wondered if that was how things had started between Siobhan and Inge. Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn’t important either way. The corpse was a mistake Max would correct. She was sure of that. “I missed your office hours, but I’d like to discuss a few things with you. Mind extending them?”

—

She had been healing. In the slow pace of any mortal human, Inge’s injuries had started aching less, her muscles regenerating somehow. She didn’t care about the biology of it, really. Didn’t much care about most of it, as long as there was process. And so she’d been returning to her classes, opting to sit on her desk in a position that seemed casual but just hurt less than standing and walking around. 

It was good to be back. There was something about teaching that wasn’t entirely despicable to her, something about it that she did like. Maybe it was just that she wanted to be the smartest person in every room and being a professor of art did tend to ensure that. It helped that she was an undead one, as she’d certainly outlive all her students if things went her way. Perhaps it was a pitiful thing to gain confidence from, but wasn’t that the point of being a teacher? To know better? 

She’d take all she could, these days.

And so she walked the hallways again, with less trouble than she had a few months back, but still with some trouble. Sometimes she was afraid there would be permanent damage to the muscles that kept her upright, those in her lower back. Inge refused that kind of reality, though, and so she bit through the pain. 

When someone addressed her, she looked at the voice the words belonged to. She didn’t recognize the student, which made her crease her brows. In all fairness, she’d been absent-minded, if not physically absent, these past months. “Hi …” There was an empty space there where the other’s name would go if she’d known it, an open invitation for an introduction. “What is it you’d like to talk about? I have some time until my next lecture, but…” She smiled and there was a hint of sourness to it. There was an implication there, something along the lines of it better be worth my while. The other was lucky, as they were near her office. Inge looked at it down the hall. “Well, don’t be too long.”

—

She moved like she was in pain, and there was some idle fascination to that. A corpse that ached was a funny thing, Max thought. There were banshees back home, she knew, who felt some pity towards the undead. It was hardly their fault that they’d outlasted their fate, after all, and they were surely suffering because of it. But Max had no room in her heart for things like this. When she saw this body, this dead thing that Siobhan had adopted as some sort of hideous pet, all that stirred in her chest was disgust. It was humiliating, in a way; Siobhan had brought embarrassment on their entire community, hanging round with trash like this. Shouldn’t she have known better?

“Max,” she introduced herself, though not without considering it first. It didn’t matter much if the thing before her knew her name. It would be dead the way it was meant to be dead before long now, would be ‘laid to rest’ the moment it let Max into its office. A scream would be the best way to do it, she thought, though it would bring unwanted attention. Was there a window in the office? It would be simple enough to slip out after. In a town like this, surely something else would take the blame. No one would ever think to point a finger at Max, and she’d be long gone before anyone even considered doing so. Unlike Regan or Siobhan, Max had no intention of sullying herself by remaining in this town a moment longer than she had to.

“Don’t worry,” she assured the corpse. “What I have for you is very important. And something you need, I think!” It wasn’t a lie. Upholding Fate was the most important thing a banshee could be tasked with, and the corpse was in need of finding its end. Perhaps there would be peace for it, in the moment. Perhaps it would even be grateful. With a sharp smile, Max followed the corpse into its office, shutting the door behind them both.

—

Maybe this was one of the students who’d taken on the class in the time she’d been absent. Inge had offered some forged doctor’s notes to those that stood above her on the academic hierarchical ladder and spent most of her days away from lecture halls. She wasn’t very good at remembering her students on top of that, with some exceptions here and there. Some of them made art or wrote essays that stood out – negatively or positively – and those names she remembered. But Max was a stranger to her.

She moved towards her office, not bothering with the usual slew of small talk she was good at. Professor Endeman was a professor who liked to talk, after all — usually, that was. She had little to say now, though, was more focused on moving as fluently as possible. She shouldn’t have worn trousers that closed around her waist where her scar was still developing.

“Ah?,” she asked at the other’s very confident words. Whatever could it be? A project, a piece of art she’d seen at a museum, something she had read? Inge offered a smile, moved towards her desk and sat down in the chair, stretching one of her legs to put less pressure on her injury. She despised that painkillers didn’t work. She hoped the sun would go down soon, so she could return to her dear astral. “Well, don’t keep me waiting Max. Take a seat, tell me whatever it is you have for me.” Despite her fatigue (funny, considering she hadn’t slept in over forty years) she offered a look of enthusiastic intrigue. It better be worth her while.

—

Max studied the corpse, the fascination something she found herself unable to shake. She hadn’t seen many undead in her life. She hadn’t seen many people who weren’t banshees in her life, really, given the isolated nature of their community in Ireland. She’d heard tale of the abominations that defied Fate, of course, seen the disgust in the expressions of those sharing the stories, but she never imagined she’d see one up close. She didn’t think she’d have time to dissect this one the way she yearned to, but there were others in town. According to their findings, the place was crawling with them. Maybe she could find another when she was done here, now that she knew what it felt like to be in the presence of one. Maybe she could take it apart piece by piece.

“You’re friends with Professor Dolan, aren’t you? I’ve heard the two of you are close.” Max made no move to sit in the chair she’d been offered; instead, she continued to stare at the corpse, allowing her head to tilt ever-so-slightly to one side as if she was working out a particularly difficult puzzle. “What is it you think she sees in you? Does she actually enjoy being around you, or is there just something interesting about a corpse that walks and talks?”

She took a step closer, reaching out a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick. It’s not your fault you’re an abomination, is it?”

—

If she had any functions in her body that could make her respond instinctively, the hairs in her neck would have stood upright now. The mention of Siobhan was concerning — it was hardly like they interacted a whole lot professionally but there was of course the case of the chopped off leg and her being left stuck to a wall. Inge tightened her jaw, screwing it even tighter when Max asked her about their relationship, called her a corpse.

Something was amiss. It wasn’t paranoia crawling over her skin this time — there was something wrong with the girl who remained stranding and inched too close. “I don’t think she sees an awful lot in me,” she said, fingers inching towards the drawer in her desk. She’d placed self defense measures there – of course she had. The weapons could cost her her job, but she’d rather risk that than her head. “It’s more that she envies me.” The drawer opened during that  sentence. “Because I am capable of more than she has ever been.” Love, wasn’t that what it had been? She didn’t get the banshee. 

Inge got up to her feet, staring at the younger creature, fingers wrapped around a switchblade. “You’ll not do a thing,” she said, “Besides get the hell out of my office and leave this campus.” 

—

The corpse’s hand went to the desk drawer, and Max watched it inch its way there with a faint spark of amusement behind her eyes. There was something funny about it, in a disgusting sort of way. Here was this thing that had cheated Fate once already, existed in a world that had moved on without it long after it should have been gone, and all it could think of was ways to cheat further. Wasn’t it exhausting? Shouldn’t it be tired? Max didn’t understand why it was fighting so hard. If anything, it should be honored. Such lucky few were allowed to be delivered to Fate by a banshee’s scream. 

But the corpse didn’t want the honor, it seemed. It pulled a blade from the drawer, and Max’s lips quirked upwards in a smile that turned into a bubbling giggle, unable now to hide the amusement dancing across her features. Was the blade even made of iron? She doubted it. “You should be careful with that,” she crowed, shaking her head. “You’ll hurt yourself. Not that it matters much. You’re dead already, right? A few more cuts won’t change that.”

As if the words had reminded her of it, Max allowed her hand to dance down into her pocket and retrieve a blade of her own. It was thin and sharp, gleaming silver. “You don’t have to do it yourself, though. I’ll help you with it. I’m not used to things like you, so maybe you can help me here. If I stab you in the throat, does it end you? No, right? The throat is only a vulnerable place because of breath and blood flow, and you’ve neither. What of your arteries? If I cut them, what does it do to you?” She paused, humming. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve changed my mind. We won’t be doing this quickly after all. I’d like to know more about you.”

—

Her mind was racing and she hated that it was light out, that she was once again in a situation where she was confined and bound to the earthly plane that was filled with horrid things. Inge stared at the other, wondering what she was, why she came here asking after Siobhan and accusing her of being dead. She didn’t seem a slayer — a slayer wouldn’t pull out a glinting knife and ask how best to kill her. But wouldn’t it be presumptuous to think the other something as rare as a banshee?

She stood there, putting most of her weight on one foot to keep her body from straining too much. If her job here was compromised too, what was left? What was to keep a slayer from bursting in next? Inge felt the tug again, that instinctive urge to run. “I don’t intend on using it against myself,” she said. “What would a few cuts do to you?” She flicked the blade open, small and pointy yet plenty effective when she needed it to be.

If the other wanted to talk, Inge could do that. She preferred to cut with weapons. She preferred to stall, to figure out a way to avoid being murdered and turned into dust in her office. “You are inexperienced,” she concluded, which was a relief. She had evaded wintered hunters before. A girl with a knife who didn’t know how to kill her could be bested too. “Why should I tell you the best way to kill me? Do you think me such a fool?” She offered a smile, saccharine and unemotional. She eyed the door, considered her chances of running around the other and returning to the hallway – but she knew the knife would find her body before she would be able to. Especially with her limited agility. And even if this Max didn’t know how to kill her, a knife was still a knife. It still hurt. “But fine, ask away. Feel free to sit.” She sat down herself, gesturing at the chair. “Office hour, right?” 

—

Did this rotting corpse really presume itself so capable? How had Siobhan been around this thing for as long as she had without putting it in its place? How had she been around it without sending it back to Fate, the way it was meant to be? It was embarrassing. Humiliating, really. Max wondered if those back home had any idea just how far Siobhan had fallen. Surely this proved that they had been justified in their decision to cast her out of the aos si in those years before Max had been born at all. Surely Max herself was better for having lived in a community that Siobhan Dolan had not been a part of. This was disgusting. This was a shameful thing.

“You’ll never know what a few cuts would do to me,” Max replied, tilting her head to the side. “You’ll never get close enough to find out. Do you think I should be frightened of you? You, who have been dead so long you’ve started to stink? I’m an agent of Fate, and you’re a fugitive of It. I want nothing more than to send you where you belong. You should be grateful. You should be asking for this.” If it had any pride at all, Max thought, it would have been. Nothing should want to exist as this thing did, and yet here it was, fighting for a life that had left it years ago. 

Inexperienced? The muscle in Max’s jaw twitched, nostrils flaring briefly in a quiet display of fury. It was something she’d heard before, of course. Even back home, even leading up to this particular excursion. We should be sending more experienced banshees, someone had said. Not children. Max’s mother had insisted that this was the best way to turn children into banshees, had put a foot down. Max would not prove her wrong. “I think you nothing at all,” she countered. “I think you a stain on the very fabric of this world. I think you a thing that ought not exist, a thing worse off for its state of being. I think you an embarrassment, a mistake. I don’t think you a fool, because in order to be a fool, one must be a person first. And you’re not that. You’re not anything at all. You’ll be less than that soon. Or more, perhaps. The only way for you to get better is for you to finish what you started doing when you were made into this — for you to finish dying. I was going to help you do it quickly. I really was. But I want to see what your blood looks like now. I want to find out if you ache, if you hurt. I won’t sit when I ask you my questions. I want to see them proven first. So…” She trailed off with a sharp smile and, with little warning, thrust her blade forward. “What does your blood look like? You don’t need to answer. I’m going to find out.”

—

Would Anita come to her aid? Or better yet: would Inge get over her pride to ask her to help her? She’d aided her, that day in the woods, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach out for her now that she was still unharmed and some young thing was threatening her. It was pathetic, wasn’t it? And so she didn’t reach for her phone, just eyed the intruder with narrowed eyes and thought of escape routes. She’d be damned if she went down in this stuffy office, in a school, of all places.

“I think I have a better idea than you have about me,” she said coolly. As the other went on, she sounded like a zealot. A banshee zealot. She thought of her conversations about death with Siobhan, always held easiest online where the other wouldn’t have to see her face as she bared herself. Fate sounded awfully similar to ‘God’s plan’ and because of that just as boring. She defied it, by roaming this earth, and she thought it a good thing. “Do you not get bored, being so limited by your worldview? I don’t think you should be frightened. I think you should reassess your life, perhaps, and sound less like a mouthpiece to whatever person told you these things. And you should get your nose checked.” She wore expensive perfume and was incapable of sweating. She smelled delightful.

While the insult to her scent didn’t insult her, the tirade this Max went on made Inge halt a little. It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard these things before as she was no stranger to people who thought she ought to be dead in a more definitive way. Still, it wasn’t like music in her ears to hear these things. To be called a thing, a stain, something unfinished. As if she hadn’t transformed into something more powerful and beautiful after she’d awoken post-death! As if this wasn’t the best thing for her to be! She opened her mouth to retort as the other trailed off, but in stead of a cutting reply, she let out a furious yelp as the knife made contact with her lower arm, cutting through skin and making glittering energy pour out. “You —” She bristled, used her other arm to reach for her paperweight (a one of a kind one, mind you) and aimed it towards Max’ head. She was quick to press her now-free fingers against the laceration after she’d thrown the thing. There were too many scars that had originated in this town, now, and there’d be another added. “You’re boring, you’re narrow and you’re going to get out of my office now.”

—

Limited? It was so clear that the corpse had no idea what it was speaking of, what it was speaking to. To call a banshee, of all things, limited? It was as preposterous as it was insulting. How had Siobhan managed it all this time? How had she been in the presence of a thing that not only disrespected Fate with its very existence, but disrespected banshees with its words? More than ever, a fire burned in Max’s chest. She had half a mind to hop a plane, to fly back to Ireland and confront Siobhan herself, to take her by the shoulders and shake her and demand to know why, why, why. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any of it. She couldn’t comprehend why Siobhan had come to care for this town, why Regan did. She wanted to. There was a part of her that wanted, desperately to understand the appeal. Was there something she was missing? Some unseen piece, some hidden part of this puzzle? Max intended to find out, sooner or later.

But first, she was going to dispatch the corpse.

Her blade found the corpse’s arm, slicing the skin and revealing the hidden secrets beneath it. Max marveled at the shine, tilting her head to the side as it shimmered on its journey to stain the floor of the office. “Oooh,” she gasped, looking as close to delighted as she’d ever allowed herself to be. “Do you have a jar? I’d like to take some of this with me when you’re dead. I think my sister would get a real kick out of it. Do your pieces turn to dust when I take them off? I know vampires’ do. Found that one out the hard way. It would have been a lovely finger to watch decay.” How would the corpse’s limbs decay? Would they do so slowly, or would they make up for lost time and crumble all at once? Max wanted to know. 

She looked back up at the corpse just in time to see a paperweight flying at her head. She ducked quickly enough to avoid a concussive contact, but not soon enough to keep it from hitting the side of her forehead hard enough to send stars flying into her vision and rage burning through her. What did this corpse presume itself to be? What right did it think it had? Max glared, teeth grinding together as she took a step towards it. “Just for that,” she said lowly, “I’m going to cut off your fingers one at a time. I think we’ll start with the thumbs. Harder to throw things without those.”

—

Her blood – or whatever one was supposed to call it – was a thing of beauty, Inge agreed. She vaguely remembered the first time she had seen it after having nicked her finger while peeling an apple for Vera (she had hated apple peels and she had been indulgent, especially after they’d moved to Amsterdam) and staring at the glitter on the cutting board. Sometimes on sunny days she’d look at herself in the mirror, admiring the way the energy beneath her skin glimmered. But the reasons she found it beautiful were different from why this Max found it beautiful, that was for sure — hers was an obsessive intrigue and Inge was sure that she wouldn’t be able to swindle her for five thousand dollars like she had another.

No, she would be lucky to get away with her life, which was a rotten way to be lucky. 

Inge wasn’t sure what would happen with her blood should she die. Perhaps those little jars of blood on Parker’s and Rhett’s shelves would turn to dust along with the rest of her and that thought was strangely comforting — even if she had no intention to die. The thud of the glass paperweight was satisfying, as was the look that washed over the maybe-banshee’s face. She was no good at fighting, lacked the finesse and technique, but she was very good at fighting like hell. Tight corners were hers to escape, “You are so confident for someone so ignorant,” she bit to the other, clutching her arm. “And you will remain just that.”

There were tighter corners she’d been in before. She had full control of her body now, was not restrained by rope or salt or stuck to a wall, which was apparently an option as well these days. She would not be reduced to dust by a child who didn’t even know what a mare was. Inge bristled, the threat of her fingers being cut off eerily familiar to the way Siobhan had undone all of Rhett’s toes. “Who do you think you are?” She didn’t move, kept her shedding blood from view. It was not the other’s to see. “Here to teach me a lesson? For some higher purpose that, like all purpose, is a farce?” At least her purpose was selfish and not dedicated to some God or entity. She was trying to gauge how fast the other was, how her chances would be. There was nothing heavy left on her desk to throw, and she would lose a knife fight — but she had more than her knife. She had her nature, which the other despised but she revered. “If you wanted to cut off my fingers, you should have restrained me,” she said, provoking, “Siobhan, the woman you mentioned, she knew to do that before cutting off a man’s toes. What is it you’re going to do? Hold me down with your tiny body, struggle and squirm? You should have planned this, Max. You should have at least brought some fucking rope.” Maybe this was an office hour, after all.

—

The dead had no right to arrogance. They had more rights than some might believe, of course — the rights of the dead were important to uphold — but arrogance was not among them. Things like that, Max wouldn’t even afford to the living unless they had a scream like hers. Banshees were the only ones with any claim to such things, were the only ones who could boast being above anyone else. An argument could be made for other fae being above humanity, but even that felt like a stretch Max wasn’t quite ready to make. In her mind’s eye, you were either banshee or inferior. And this body in front of her now, this pile of bones and skin that spoke despite its heart that did not beat, was certainly no banshee.

So why did it believe it had some right towards arrogance? Why did it think it had earned any ability to speak to Max this way? She was its better. How had Regan or Siobhan stomached this for so long? How had they managed in a world where no one knew how low on the totem pole they really were? If she didn’t hate them as much as she did, Max might have found room to be impressed. Instead, it was disgust that curled up in her chest, tendrils of it spreading down to her stomach and up to her throat. They should have corrected this way of thinking, she thought. They should have shown this thing just how disgusting it truly was, should have never allowed it to escape Fate for as long as it had. It was cruel, almost. Like letting a sick animal suffer instead of ending its misery. 

Max would not be so cruel.

She would experiment with it, sure. She would peel back its skin, take out its eyes, see what happened when pieces of it were removed. But she would only do these things so that she might understand, so that she might know better for the next time. The way this thing existed was no way to continue, and Max wouldn’t force it to do so. She would use it for learning, yes, but she would be kind in a way SIobhan hadn’t. She wouldn’t suffer an abomination like this to continue its existence. No one should.

“This is a school,” Max said, “and I want to learn. You’re a professor, so you’ll teach me. I’ve never seen a thing like you before. It would be a disservice not to allow me to learn from you. It would be a disservice to others like you, too. The next time I run into one of you, I want to be able to take care of it quickly. Don’t you want that? Don’t you feel loyalty to your kind? You’re already dead. This way, it can mean something.” 

It was a silly notion, the idea of restraining a corpse. It shouldn’t have been necessary. Max didn’t particularly want to tie up the body, didn’t want to rely on such things. Her mother wouldn’t have, if she were here. She doubted Clare was using rope on the one she’d gone after, either. The mention of Siobhan — and the implication that she knew better than Max did — filled her chest with a that disgusting hint of fiery anger again. “Siobhan is a disgrace,” she replied flatly, repeating something she’d heard a thousand times before. “If she weren’t, I wouldn’t have to do this. She should have taken care of you herself, you know. If she were any good, she would have.” Perhaps she was wasting time here. Maybe she should find another of this kind, one more cooperative. Maybe the best thing she could do for this one was to simply end it. Would her scream be too telling? Would it get her into trouble? She’d heard tell of a screaming moose roaming this town — perhaps the sound could be blamed on that. 

Clicking her tongue as she debated, Max relented with a shrug. “Okay. If you don’t want to teach me, I suppose I can’t make you be good at your job. We’ll do this quickly, then.” Stepping forward, she grabbed the body’s cold wrist and put another hand on its shoulder. One scream, with this physical contact, and it would explode in a beautiful shower of blood and viscera. Max wondered if it would sparkle all the while.

With a cruel smile, the banshee let her eyes go black and opened her mouth to scream.

—

She had thought herself to be wrong at two points in her unlife. First, when she had initially been transformed. When she had died in her sleep and come back like something else, something capable of moving between planes of existence, something that lived through cruel consumption. She had hated what she was then. Something that died and had come back, that should not exist by the rules she had been taught in youth and church. Death was followed by heaven, should you be forgiven, and that was that. And yet she had continued to exist, without judgment or afterlife — and it was wrong, was it not? Godless.

But she had learned to find the rightness in it. She had claimed it, this unlife and made it a life – had loved it and reveled in it, had indulged and created. She had gained a freedom her mortal life had never offered. And then came the second time she felt her existence was wrong. When her daughter looked older than her and was withering away in a hospital bed it had seemed like a cosmic fuck-you. The not aging was no longer something to be glad for, but rather something perverse. The inability to get sick was a boon, but one that only she had received. 

Inge had gotten over that. Not the death, nor the grief — those were pains you didn’t grow out of as a parent of a deceased child. But the self-hatred. It was in part because of that, that she found the views of people like Max so grating. Who were they, to tell her that her existence was a mistake? If she could appreciate it, despite the pains and discomforts, then why should she give their closed mindedness any consideration?

And so she didn’t, “This is a school. But you are no student of mine. You are rude and petulant.” The idea of Max going after others like her if she didn’t give her more insight didn’t really stir her. She would go after undead regardless of what she offered her in information or demonstration. (Though Ariadne would most likely volunteer to show her more of her blood and tell her more of her nature — she should warn her, once this was over and done with.) “My death and subsequent life mean plenty already — maybe that can be your lesson.”

It was interesting how the other spoke of Siobhan. Inge wasn’t sure how she felt about the banshee any more these days – there had been a few moments of raw honesty with the other, or at least more raw than she was with most others these days. She’d shared her grief over her daughter with her, had shone a light on her life before this new one. But she’d also hung on a wall, left behind as Siobhan had refused to kill two people that should have – by her calculations – died. What would this Max think of that? “Siobhan is much more fun than you,” she said, in a strange moment of defensiveness. 

Before she could consider any more ways to jump to Siobhan’s defense, the other moved in with haste. Inge was in her grasp, bare skin meeting bare skin, and she was not sure what the other was capable of doing in a moment like this. Did it matter? She knew what she was capable of. She focused on the area where Max’ fingers closed around her skin and pushed forth a sense of fatigue, making the banshee grow drowsy. “Here’s your lesson,” she bit, before letting the young fae fall asleep properly.

She caught her before she fell on the ground, pushed her into one of the seats she’d refused to take. Inge watched, for a moment, how peacefully the banshee slumbered. It would be so easy now, to kill her. To take that knife and slit her throat or stab her heart — but she knew what the cycle of violence looked like, now. A bloodied factory floor, a sword in her gut. She sat at her desk, got a bit of stationery and wrote in cursive, Mare 101. After underlining those words, she skipped a few lines and added: Class dismissed. She placed the note on the other’s lap, took her knife from where it had clattered on the ground and spent a few diligent minutes locking her drawers and other things. Soon enough she got up, plucked her coat of its hanger and took her leave. It was her best survival tactic, after all. To run from the corner she’d been backed into and hope nothing would nip at her heels.

[staywskz143]

Lucifer earrings ^

could be Adam or Vaggie idk ^

Angel Dust 1 ^

Angel Dust 2 ^

difficult to tell but it’s a cat Kee Kee ^

Lilith or Eve (or our fanon version of Adam 🫣) ^

^ tree of life for Adam i guess? also have paper crane earrings which could be Adam

Alastor 1 ^

Alastor 2 ^

Vaggie ^

gonna make this a thread cause i have more earrings and can’t do more than 10 images because tumblr mobile hates everyone

[soulsxng]

@arcxnumvitae replied to your post:

Mhoirbheinn honestly wasn't expecting that so Baet would've successfully error 404'd him! But then he snaps out of it and thinks he's just messing with him, which kinda pisses Mhoirbheinn off even more.

"Ah, that's what I like to see...how lucky for me, getting to draw a reaction like that out of you." Baphomet's smile softens, and-- perhaps rather surprisingly-- he takes a step back. "I think that's probably enough for now, mm? It wouldn't be very nice if I pushed you too much after that."

[j3ric0]

INT     somer  and  sons  undertakers. ENTER     caroline  somer    ,    @carolinesomer.

the  two  were  more  alike  than  either  of  them  would  probably  ever  admit    .    the  heir  apparent  who  tossed  legacy  and  tradition  aside  and  lost  all  respect  for  him  in  the  process  to  the  young    ,    single  daughter  who  fought  tooth  and  nail  to  be  seen  as  anything  but  the  black  sheep  to  the  family    .    it  seemed  as  though  they  were  nothing  but  opposite   —   but  yet    ,    in  the  end    ,    they  both  fell  under  the  harsh  and  unredeeming  eyes  of  their  unbearably  judgmental  parents    .    he  knew  he  should've  been  there  for  his  siblings  after  the  deaths  of  their  parents    ,    caroline  especially  with  all  the  weight  carried  upon  those  slim  shoulders  of  her's    ,    but  when  responsibility  showed  up  at  his  doorstep  he  did  little  but  slam  the  door  in  it's  face.

one  could  say  that  he  had  been  given  the  opportunity  to  right  his  wrongs    ,    but  instead  of  patching  up  old  grievances  he  prioritized  his  own  affairs    .    once  again  his  career  came  before  all  else    ,    and  it  would  prove  to  be  detrimental  to  both  himself  and  those  who  relied  on  him    ,    again  and  again  just  like  the  ever  repeating  cycle  that  seemed  to  plague  him  all  these  years.

he's  sat  in  the  viewing  room    ,    empty  now  except  for  the  looming  weight  of  the  spirits  who  were  once  mourned  there    .    it  should  all  be  so  familiar  to  him    ,    the  scent  of  chemicals  wafting  from  the  basement  ventilation    ,    the  heavy  hang  of  dread  over  the  whole  room    ,    the  stiff    ,    unmoving  air  that  seemed  to  suffocate  all  who  entered    .    there  were  memories    ,    here  and  there    .    the  flashes  of  them  as  children  racing  around  the  displays  of  perfectly  picturesque  faces  placed  upon  pedestals    ,    carefully  and  meticulously  picked  by  loved  ones  and  adorned  with  expensive  arrays  of  fresh  flowers    (    another  thing  that  would  only  wither  and  die  soon    ,    just  like  all  else    —    he  used  to  think    ).    how  the  vases  wobbled  precariously  under  the  pressure  of  heavy  footsteps  threatening  to  topple  them  over    .    the  way  jericho  had  always  been  too  picture  perfect    ,    just  like  those  eerily  fake  and  posed  portraits    ,    to  join  in  on  any  sort  of  fun    .    '    mom  and  dad  are  gonna  kill  you    .'    he'd  say    ,    perched  condescendingly  in  the  doorframe  simply  watching  with  the  intent  to  see  just  how  horribly  the  plans  of  his  siblings  would  go  for  them    ,    but  deep  down  he  longed  to  join  in  on  the  fun.

if  anyone  asked    ,    it  was  research    .    well   ,   on  one  hand  that  wasn't  entirely  false    .    he'd  grown  pretentious  enough  to  claim  that  a  novel  was  only  as  good  as  the  research  put  in    ,    that  nothing  was  better  than  immersing  yourself  fully  in  the  craft  or  some  bullshit  like  that    ,   something  even  he  barely  believed  and  felt  foreign  on  his  tongue    ,    but  maybe  if  he  spoke  it  enough  times  it  would  become  a  second  nature    .    little  mind  is  paid  to  his  surroundings    ,    nose  pressed  firmly  in  his  leather bound  journal    ,    scribbling  with  a  ferocity  few  would  be  able  to  replicate    .    he  doesn't  even  hear  the  footsteps  of  his  sister  pitter  against  the  floorboards    ,   focus  held  solely  on  the  work  before  him.

[robotsafari]

its millia monday people!!

stream writhe in pain! stream still in the dark!! stream existence!!!! stream the irony of chaste!! stream lily of steel! stream love the subhuman self!

[fightwing]

HELLO FRIENDS!!! slooooowly starting to come out of hiatus SO couple of important things: 1. please LIKE this post if we have an active thread you'd like to continue (i'm gonna try and reply to some anyway, no pressure at all to continue ones you've lost interest in, this is just to help me remember who I owe. also message me or comment here if you've got one specifically you'd like to continue), 2. send me a meme if we don't have anything/if you just want new thread(s) and 3. i am slowly VERY slowly going to be catching up on stuff i missed while i was gone like followers list etc. so if youre still with me or i missed u i wanna say thank u for being patient and hmu if you'd like to write anything specific!!

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Backdated, somewhere in late summer  LOCATION: Inflorescence PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Inge @nightmaretist SUMMARY: Conor and Inge work on making some seed bombs to increase biodiversity in town and chat about a variety of things, from ventures into art to how the Youths ™️ speak these days. A soft start to a friendship. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

It was near closing time when she arrived, her bag clinking with the sound of glass bottles as she got in the store. A wave of green and bright colors burst around Inge as she glanced around, her lips curving appreciatively. Sure, as an artist her color pallet was darker and a lot more desaturated, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t like a burst of color in real life. That of plants especially was welcomed, her apartment filled with dark and lighter greens. When she’d move, she’d get rid of most of the plants save a few, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t always down to add another to the collection.

As she perused Inflorescence’s wares, she considered the online conversation she’d had with the shops owner and their mischievous plans. There wasn’t a lot besides art Inge was passionate about, but since the nineties – when she’d stopped eating meat – she had grown a lot of heart for the environment. If she was to inhabit this world forever, she’d rather not see her home country sink and everything go to ruination because of the greed of a rich few. Which wasn’t to say she was passionate enough to make their lives hell, as art still took a precedent over all other things — but she had once tried very hard to try and find Jeff Bezos’ house from the plane.

At the sound of footsteps her head popped up, falling on the man she’d spoken to online. Conor did, at least, look like his profile picture. Inge waved, fingers tickling the air. “Hiya. We spoke online? I’m here for the seed bombs.” She lifted her bag, which made a clinking sound once again. “And I made good on my promise.”

—

“Sorry, I was working in the back,” Conor took off his gardening gloves, shoving them into his apron to approach her and shake her hand. “Ah, yes. I remember,” he glanced down at his wrist. Where had he put down his watch again? Patting at his apron, he found it there. It was five minutes before closing time. He doubted anyone would show up in that time lapse, still, he didn’t feel like it would be fair to close early. 

“I’ll get everything ready,” his eyebrows furrowed. “You wanna work here or outside?” he motioned toward the door he came from, his fingers slipping through his hair as he attempted unsuccessfully to tame it. “Considering the time of the year, we’ll be doing aquilegia, campanula, coreopsis, delphinium, myosotis, penstemon and pansy seeds,” that’s what made the most sense to him, at least. “Though if it doesn’t rain at all until September, I doubt we’ll get much out of these,” his nose wrinkled at the thought, and he gave Inge a look. “Still worth a try, though.” A smile etched itself on his lips. That would hardly be the worst he had done for the good ol’ planet. 

___

She shook her head at his apology, rejecting it on sight. “No need to apologize. I’m a little early.” When Inge’s cold flesh met Conor’s warm, she hoped there was no part of him that cared to notice. “Good to meet you in real life, Conor. You’ve got a nice shop here. I’ll have to get something for my place.” 

Her hands traveled, fingers rubbing the rubbery leaves of a plant. Maybe these were the only living things she could be trusted to take care of. She wanted no more children, the gap Vera had left too significant to even consider it, and there were no pets that tolerated her. Plants, however, were easy enough for an immortal. Besides, with plenty of care they could grow and live with her. “Just let me know if you need any help. And I’d prefer to work inside, please.” The sun was hard on her eyes and skin on these summer days, and Inge had already walked here the regular way. “It will rain. This is Maine. They named it so to make it rhyme.” She grinned at him, winking. “And otherwise we’ll just have to rebelliously water them.”

___

She ran a bit cold, but it wasn't what troubled Conor the most, nor was it the clear lack of a heartbeat. He'd seen it before. 

He tried to conceal his puzzlement, eyes fixating on the floor briefly as he attempted to try and make sense of it, of this feeling of unease he had had as she had approached him, like something crawling underneath his skin. Conor tried to relax his stance. They'd spoken online, Inge seemed nice then. Even better, she seemed great. It was one of those times he didn't want to trust his gut feeling.

"Alright, I just hope you're not allergic to cats," he mentioned, in passing. The animal wasn't around now, probably too busy hunting mice in the backyard or far beyond his fences. "Taoiseach will probably be back later though," with a shrug, he took out a tray, setting down a couple of large plastic bowls, powdered clay, and a couple more things for them to get started. He picked up another apron beneath the counter. He never used it, it was here in case his current one ended up ruined or too dirty for the day, but Conor for all he was clumsy, was clever enough to get an apron that was dark green.

"Alright, put this on, and then we can get started." 

___ 

Godver, this guy had a cat? Inge let out a breath of air, frowned a little. “I am a bit allergic, yes. We’ll figure it out when we get to it, hm?” There was no cat around as of yet, and so she had no interest in forcing the two of them outside where the summer sun was sure to tire her out. Maybe they should have set this appointment after sundown.

As Conor continued wha he was doing, she produced two bottles and opened them by using a third, extending one to him as he held out the apron. That was hung around her neck and tied behind her back with ease. Inge took a sip and looked at the other expectedly, eyebrows raising.

She didn’t want to admit to it, but it was nice to have a goal for the summer. To do something that could be considered a contribution in another way than art was. Selflessness hardly fit her, but she liked projects. Whimsical spontaneousness. A little act of eco-rebellion was exciting. “Let’s do this. Tell me what to do, chief.”

—

"Ah. Well, I'll just have him go upstairs then, it's alright," he brushed it off. She said she was only a little bit allergic, so it couldn't possibly be that bad. "Don't worry, he won't be back for a bit. It's not his hour yet," funny how cats managed to have a schedule despite being asleep most of the day. Conor wondered if that was what the cat did out there, just sleeping somewhere cozy only to return back home for food and pets.

She'd brought drinks along, which he found rather considerate. He took the beer she gave him with a polite nod, having thrown thanks to the bin and replaced them with more fae friendly phrases. 

"Alright, so. It's quite simple. We're gonna be mixing up one cup of soil, one of clay and one of water for each pack of seed. As you can see, I have prepared a bunch of them so," they'd have to make a sizable batch. "Lots of work ahead of us, but hey, we're in good company, with excellent food," he motioned toward her beers. "Should be fine."

—

That was a point in his favor, she decided. “I appreciate it. Cats are cute, but I just … don’t respond to them very well. Biologically speaking.” Technically true, though it was more accurate to say that the cats didn’t respond well to her. Annoying and dull, she thought it, the way animals were afraid of mares. She liked them in dreams, though. People dreamt of their cats a ton. “What kinda cat do you have, though?”

With her apron tightened and instructions being delivered, Inge found herself smiling despite herself. This was going to be fun. She took a sip from her beer and put it away for now, grabbing a measuring cup.

“Doable.” Good thing she didn’t get tired and didn’t need sleep, she figured. Left plenty of time for activities like these. “And hear, hear!” Lips spread wider as she dug into the soil, getting ready to mix it with clay and seeds. “When should we drop them, then? This does need a sequel, I think.” Inge glanced at him. “We can’t keep our efforts limited to just one night.”

___

“That’s a shame. Cats are great companions,” her misfortune earned her a sympathetic smile.  “He’s a red cat, his coat is fluffy, full of long hairs, you know?” Overall, he’d have described the little animal as regal. 

While she was getting ready, Conor headed to the front of the shop to turn the We’re Open sign around and pull onto the curtain. Even with that sign, he knew for a fact people would try to get in if they saw him on the other side of the front windows. How perfectly normal. 

“Doable? Music to my ears,” his smile broadened. It was nice to have met someone who took issues such as biodiversity so seriously. Picking up a bucket behind his counter, he set it there and turned around to pour water into a jug. “Go on, add everything in, we’ll stir and then we’ll make bombs the size of a golf ball. They’d put them on a tray and leave them to dry in the sun tomorrow. “Oh this won’t be enough to get the city back on tracks,” he agreed. “We could meet once a week if you want, change seeds depending on the season. 

—

Sure, cats were great companions, except when your sheer existence had them flying in curtains or attempting to claw you open. Inge had had a cat when she’d been a girl and she’d loved the thing, despite it’s grumpy nature. But four decades of immortality had put her off the creatures. “He sounds like a beauty,” she said, which wasn’t entirely insincere. Pretty cat. Nice to look at. That’s it.

As she started mixing everything, the familiar feeling of solids mixing underneath her hands made her smile vaguely. Inge worked with clay with regularity after all, molding it into shapes meant to terrify and inspire. (To her, those words were often synonyms.) 

It was good work, easy work. She glanced up at Conor. “Indeed. And maybe do more than just seed bombs. I’ve always wanted to do some lobbying.” She had done lobbying. Back in the 00s and the 90s. She’d gone onto the streets, had huddled together with like minded people, Sanne on her side. Wicked’s Rest was not the epicenter of the world and thus not the place where most change could be made, but wouldn’t it be fun to try and shake things up? “Those lawns must change. The common needs to change, too, while we’re at it.”

__

“He is. I’m not sure why he decided that this was his home though,” he wasn’t Conor’s cat. Or well, he was now. He had even checked with the vet to get him IDed. It was his cat, officially so. 

Watching her work with her hands, he noticed that she wasn’t shy about it, or afraid to make a mess. She wasn’t making a mess, which had to be the most impressive part. Conor might have worked with plants for a long time, he was always making a mess, moving too abruptly, too urgently. He’d have preferred being agile, careful, but that wasn’t him. “That’s not your first time doing this?” 

He looked at her, and her words made him smile. “I would love that. I haven’t been doing activism in a bit, but I’d be up for it,” now the objective wasn’t to make an enemy out of the city council, but Conor agreed that the town could have done a lot more for biodiversity, starting with the god awful common. Grass and a bunch of trees. Boring. “How much are you willing to bet people would like it better covered in wildflowers?” 

—

“So he’s like a stray that just decided to settle here? Adopt don’t shop, huh? Or, I guess he adopted you in that case.” She would like a pet, sometimes. A pair of large hounds would suit her well, or a siamese cat. But alas, Inge only had her birds in the dreams she gave others.

His observant comment was pleasing, and she looked up as she nodded. “No. I work with clay a lot. I’m a sculptor.” And how her works had transformed! There had been that line of bowls and vases when she’d just started taking things more seriously, glazing them in furiously bright colors. Now, Inge was sculpting birds, molding wings and scary beaks, hundreds of them.

“Quite a lot of money, honestly. People must come here for the nature, and then right in the middle of town there’s just that large piece of green grass. Dull! We humans want to frolick in the flowers.” With we humans she did mean herself, in this case. Desires like these were very human after all. “We need to get more people on board. And we do need a name for our initiative. Should get one of the youths to do social media for us, even.”

__

“I suppose he did adopt me,” he agreed with a small smile. The cat stubbornly showed up in his flat every day, not even asking for food, but rather offering up mice and a set of unlucky birds Conor had buried in the backyard. He now had a plate of food in the backroom of his shop, and his watering can had become a drinking source of choice for the red haired feline. 

That made a lot of sense, he thought. “Oh, you’re an artist !” The realization seemed to please the faun, who hadn’t smiled so bright in a while. “That’s great. I’d love to see those sculptures of yours sometimes,” he beamed. It wasn’t often that he smiled, no, but the subject of arts always brought out the warmth in him. 

“The worst part is, they must spent even more than that maintaining it in that condition,” because he might have hated what that entailed, he didn’t hate the look of it all that much. It lacked verticality, sure, but it didn’t lack skills. A great lawn was hard to achieve and Conor admired people who could achieve that perfectly even coverage, but it was too damaging to bugs and biodiversity in general for him to sit and applaud those green surfaces. “I’m willing to bet there’s a bunch of young people who would feel invested. The new generation is a lot more aware of these issues, right?” 

—

“Cats are known to do that,” she said, though the words were empty. Cats only chose Inge to hiss at or scratch, with little interest for scritches of her manicured nails. She was just glad the creature wasn’t here, because she definitely didn’t want to insult Conor by telling him his cat was an annoying creature with bad judgment. (All animals had bad judgment, for not liking mares.)

She smiled at his next words, of course, her ego something that was always clamoring for some more applause. “You could always come by my studio sometime. I have an online portfolio, but the real thing …” She shrugged. “It’s better. Ah, like the plants, you know? Better in real life. Do you make art yourself, or anything of the sorts?” 

Inge nodded, “Of course they do. Such perfection takes effort, even if it looks absolutely dull. Perfection often is, if you ask me — why would we want such boring symmetry in our nature, anyway?” She tutted. “Absolutely, they’re the ones who will have to inhabit the world down the line.” Along with her, of course, and her unaging body. Inge cared for the planet because she intended to live on it forevermore. “It shouldn’t be hard to recruit, but we need something snippy. The seed bombs will definitely be a good way to get people’s attention, too! Who doesn’t like wildflowers?” Well, plenty of people, but fuck them.

__

“Art? Like painting or sculpting? No,”  he wrinkled his nose. Conor didn’t have much of a culture regarding those things. Visual arts were nice to look at, he supposed, but he didn’t get much of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he lacked the codes required to understand it. “I mean, I play music, but I don’t really make the partitions. I play them,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “But anyhow, I would love to have a look at it. Let me know when’s a good time to stop by.” Because he agreed that plants weren’t the most interesting in photographs and he was intrigued now.

Nodding along, Conor picked up a handful of the mixture and tried to roll it into a ball between his palms. “I’m gonna add a bit of water and then I think we’re gonna be good to start the fun,” fastidious, repetitive, “part of this.” At least they’d be doing something good here. Saving the town from being dull, one flower at a time. “I spoke to this guy the other day who seemed interested. He didn’t sound young. As in, I understood everything I was saying. Young people are…” He cut himself off. He didn’t look much older than 35 and he supposed she didn’t need to figure out just yet that he wasn’t entirely normal, or that he was plain weird. “Anyway… I don’t care if people don’t like wildflowers if I’m honest. I’m mostly doing it for insects and biodiversity in general,” with a shrug, he poured the water in, and left it to her to stir and make the first seed bomb.

—

She was still glad he did something that was artistically inclined, “But that’s wonderful, too! What instruments do you play?” She went for plural, because she hoped for the best. Inge wasn’t much of a musician herself (she could not carry a tune, for one), but she was a big enjoyer of music. There had been plenty of concerts she’d snuck into over the years, after all, and her record collection was quite vast. “I’ll let you know! And if you’re ever down, I’d be thrilled to hear you play whatever music you’re fond of playing.”

The fun part would be going out on the streets and pulling off some kind of creative process, but rolling up seed bombs was far from a boring way to spend one's time. “Sounds perfect,” she said. She considered what the other was saying — he looked her age, perhaps a tad younger. Inge didn’t want to think too much of it. “Oh, I get it. I feel removed from the younger generations at times too.” Which were most generations, at this point, and it wasn’t like Inge felt particularly connected to her fellow boomers, either. “Ha, agreed. If they like them that’s sweet, but it’s not for us.” She started stirring once the water had been poured, only stopping when she figured everything was mixed well enough. She took some of the mixture and started rolling it into a ball. “So, you’re like an old soul, then?”

__

“Oh, I play the violin,” and he could dabble with a viola and a cello (he’d never tried the bass) but that wouldn't have counted as being able to properly play those. “I’ve played it since I was six years old,” old enough to hold a fiddle with his chin alone and let his mother pass onto him all she knew about it. Up until he left the house in a hurry in the midst of his teenagehood and selfishly took along with him his instrument as a rare souvenir of people he’d never see again. He regretted only taking one picture of his mother along with him. Not even them together, just a portrait of her. Yes, Conor had a lot of regrets regarding his early life, but not any bigger than having ruined his chance of seeing his mother grow old and letting her see him grow. She had his brother, and his father in law, she was not alone. That was his consolation.

“Well then I'll just bring my violin along. One way to break two windows with one stone.” Because he’d never liked how cruel the original expression was.

“Yeah… the younger generations are … well they are a lot of good things, but I often wonder if they're not just trying to make us confused on purpose with their lingo. Nothing quite like that to make me feel like a bozo,” he shook his head, and dug his hand into the container, aligning on a plastic platter the seed bombs he made. An old soul. The expression made him pause. It felt a bit pretentious at first but he couldn't precisely deny it without lying and suffering for it. “I suppose I am. Me, and my violin, my flowers, my cardigans and my baseball games,” he realized he could have just been someone's grandfather with those sorts of interests. Owen didn't hold back on the old man nicknames for sure, which wasn't very nice, but it wasn't a lie either and Conor figured that was a joke anyway. 

—

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” It was. Inge loved a good violin in all kinds of music, thought its versatility and dramatics were the perfect ingredients to a good song. “I wish I’d learned to play an instrument at that age.” But with one dead and four alive kids and too little money, there had been little space for creative pursuits at home. Maybe that was why she had ventured into drawing: that only took a pencil and some paper, or even her writing slate back at school. None of those drawings had survived, she figured, or maybe they were rotting in some storage box of her deceased parents. It was more likely that her siblings had thrown it out, though. “A great idea. Don’t actually break my windows, though.”

She tried to stay with the times, which she succeeded in in some regards — but when it came to the lingo, even Inge was often quite lost. “Ah, don’t let them make you feel inferior! That’s how they win. Besides, plenty of their lingo makes absolutely no sense.” She was amused by his answers, figured he really was an old soul – either figuratively or literally. She continued to roll balls. “My students, they make me feel ancient. Every week it seems they’ve introduced new words to their vocabulary.” She chuckled. “I do like to think I’m hip. And flowers, violin-playing and cardigans are perfectly fine.” Albeit a bit boring. “But I guess there’s always gonna be a new generation to shake things up, huh? Can’t really complain about that.”

__

The faun tilted his head down and smiled. “It’s not too late to learn, you know.” He paused. “What would you have liked to play?” His eyes darted toward her and he brushed his hands together above the mixing bowl. “I won't, I pro-” his lips pursed into a line and he cleared his throat. “I prefer not to upset you.”

It was unlikely that he would have ever broken one of her windows but he didn't want to find out what would happen if he accidentally did.

“Oh no, not inferior,” feeling that way didn't make much sense to Conor. You couldn't grade people or organize them by worth. That was unethical and rude. The only place where he accepted and understood hierarchy was within orchestras. He’d been in one and he knew how these things worked. He supposed it made sense in the army too, or in institutions, but out there? Absolutely not. “Maybe you should just hit them with archaic or obscure words. You seem like the sort to have extensive vocabulary,” the commentary was neither meant as a compliment or a complaint. It just was how he felt about her. She seemed clever. Anyone who taught had to be.

“It’s fine. I don't care much for being hip,” as long as his bouquet stayed up to date, he was more than glad to keep on making more. “Generations should work together for things to properly shake. There's not much weight in a divided mass,” he noted, setting down the last seed ball of another row. 

—

It probably wasn’t too late to learn, especially not in her immortal state of being. But it was frustrating to not be good at something when she was skilled in other areas. “I would really like a bunch of synthesizers and master them all. Or the piano … or the cello …” She thought for a moment. “Bass.” Inge squinted slightly at the way he cut off his own sentence, not sure if it implied anything. “I appreciate that very much.”

She shrugged, “Bozo sounded inferior,” she pointed out, but it didn’t matter much to her. “But if that’s not how you fell, all the power to ya.” At his compliment (at least, that’s how she decided to take it), Inge let out a sound of amusement. “That would be one way to go about it, yes. I don’t know if I do, but I have always had a bit of a knack for languages. I enjoy learning them, in and out. The bad and the ugly, you know?” 

She laughed in agreement, “Neither do I. It’s much better to be yourself, however cliche that is to say. I think I’m plenty for my age, anyway.” In this case she was speaking of her actual age, of course — the one where she was nearly 78 years old. Not the thirty-something years she appeared to be. “Exactly. This pitting boomers against the current youths is not helping anyone. We’ve been shouting about the environment needing improvement for decades.” Inge hoped that sounded like she was talking about humanity in general. “Every generation has those who don’t care, though — but ever generation has those who do, and we should move together. So, more youths in our group are needed, yes?” As if they weren’t both relatively young-appearing themselves.

_

“I could teach you the cello,” he glanced her way. “Don't tell anyone I said this, but it is like playing with a big violin,” with a couple differences.  He found it easier, perhaps because by the time he first touched a cello, he had already mastered using a violin. There was also the fact that you needed to be seated to play it, and had a better view and control of what you were doing, at least during the first few years of learning. Bass worked the same so he didn't bother repeating himself. Instead he smiled and went back to their hard work. 

He supposed Bozo wasn't such a kind word to hear these days but back in the 60s when he was a little boy, he’d found the expression more amusing than anything else. With a shrug, he let her know it was alright. “Yeah? I’d be the opposite I guess. I ain't got a fucking clue on how to write half the shit my family taught me about Irish. I can speak it, but I can't write it.” Come to think of it, he wasn't sure whether his grandparents or his mother ever did.  “I suppose I never saw the point in learning. Or learning any other language,” which might have appeared like close mindedness. And maybe it was. Conor hadn't been to school for that long and that might have killed some of his curiosity. That, and realizing monsters were real, because both things occured at the same moment.

“I don't know about cliches but the status quo never really ever was my thing,” which wasn't to say that he was a marginalized person in society (though he once had been) : Conor had missed being around people even if some of them were dickheads. “I know. Back in the 90s people were already commenting on that shit,” he brushed his hands together above the bowl again, and turned around to rinse them over the sink. “Do you want a cup of tea? I’d offer coffee but it’s terrible.” Pause. “ When I make it. You’re allowed to like coffee.” He grimaced. “Anyway. Tea?” He figured that might be nice to have on hand while discussing the terrifying fate of their planet.

—

“Now that’s an idea. I must admit I don’t have a great sense of rhythm, though. Can’t be good at every area of art, huh?” Inge laughed despite herself, not that bothered with her inability to hold a note. She had at least managed to find a good way to move her body on music, and that was what mattered most. “I’ll keep your secret though. And maybe I can teach you some things about my trade.” 

She tried to withhold judgment against his disinterest in learning languages. Different worlds, she reminded herself. “Fair enough. English isn’t my native tongue to begin with, and I traveled a lot around Europe, so there was always a push for me to speak the language of the country I was in.” It was crucial to at least know the basics: some flirtation, how to order a cab and the directions to the museum. “But you know, English is widely used. I understand not really bothering.” 

Inge nodded and let out a chuckle, “Nor was it mine.” A woman who left her husband in the 70s, who shared a home and life with a woman after her divorce, who was dead but still roamed this earth. She had once minded being an anomaly, but her days in Wanneperveen had long passed. “Even earlier than that, mind you.” She rolled a final ball, patting it lovingly as she put it down. It would do great things. “Tea sounds good. I don’t tend to drink caffeine this late, it keeps me up.” How delightfully human that sounded! As if it was caffeine that kept her from sleeping. “This is nice, Conor. I think we’ll do great things together.”

__ 

“I suppose not. I’ve never really given drawing much thought but I reckon I’d be terrible at it,” he was however quite a gifted dancer, or so he had been told. It was a shame he refused to indulge into the activity. Too much excitement could easily lead to a feeding accident, also referred to as mass murder. Once was too many times for a lifetime. It happened over 40 years ago but Conor couldn’t shake it off of his mind.

He believed that he most likely never would. 

The papers at the time spoke of a cultist event, unexplainable deaths. Conor didn’t linger around and at the time sworn off feeding himself like this. Believe it or not, this made it even worse. 

“Meanwhile I’ve never left New England states,” he commented. That didn’t exactly push someone to try and learn another language. “So you can easily understand why I never really bothered,” the occasion never prevented itself, and Conor might have had a life span that allowed him to learn a lot more things than the regular person, most of it had been dedicated to learning all he could about crops, flowers, the violin, and the Red Sox. 

“I’ll fix us a cup of rooibos then,” he offered with a slight smile, and catching a towel to dry his hands, motioned her to follow behind. “I have great hopes for our collaboration,” he agreed. 

[gossipsnake]

TIMING: February 24, 2024, (the evening of this) LOCATION: Inge's House PARTIES: Anita (@gossipsnake), Metzli (@muertarte) Inge (@nightmaretist), and Cass (@magmahearts) SUMMARY: After learning about what had happened to Anita and that she had been brought to Inge's house to warm up with Cass, Metzli comes over to make sure Anita is okay. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

It wasn’t right. Anita had been hurt, and any reasonable individual would’ve been motivated by panic and stress, guided toward their loved one with such a force that everything stormed out of their path. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for Metzli, who had to usually rely on logic above all else to mimic love. They didn’t know how to feel or what to do or how to process, but they had a location and a place to be, so they drove. And somehow, they’d done so calmly, even if they were going twenty over the speed limit. 

By the time Metzli arrived, there was not much they could recall from between their walk from the car and their knock at the door. Nothing else mattered except getting to Anita. They just wished they could have made the moment sweeter with a warm drink or a filling pastry, but that was something they could do another time. Their focus diverted completely to their sister. 

“Where was she found?” They rushed inside with a curt nod at whatever invitation they were given, not paying much mind to Inge so they could lay their eyes on proof that Anita was alive. It wasn’t as if she or Inge had any reason to lie. As far as Metzli was concerned, they both had their trust, and had given no grounds for them to not take her at her word. But between someone who thought themself a sibling, and the person they saw as their family, nothing else mattered more than reaching them. 

With utmost care, Metzli opened the door and reached Anita in a blink, hovering a hand over her hair. She looked tired and worse for wear, but she was warm and breathing, resting soundly in clothing that looked much too big now. Metzli thought perhaps their mind was playing tricks on them, which would be no surprise. Panic had a way of altering a mind.

Metzli retracted their hand and backed away slowly. “I am here.” They kept their voice quiet, waiting for Anita’s approval to get closer. Their touch would do her no good, considering their lack of body heat, but they still held onto hope that they could offer some sort of physical affection she usually claimed she didn’t need. It wasn’t uncommon for Metzli to find her cuddling up with Fluffy or leaning into their touch. As much as Metzli wanted to, they never picked on her for it, and they especially wouldn’t right then. Not in front of Cass or Inge. 

It was important that Metzli find out what was going on as soon as possible. Cass could only imagine the worry they must have felt when Anita didn’t come home. Were they looking for her? Were they scouring the woods, were they searching? She couldn’t imagine they’d be doing anything else, not if they had any inkling that something was wrong. Metzli was proactive, was dedicated, was loyal. And they loved Anita, Cass had seen it. If they knew Anita was hurt, they’d be worried. So they needed to find out right away.

She figured it would be better for Anita to text them, maintained her position practically curled around the lamia as she did so. She kept up that warm-but-not-too-hot temperature, gradually warming herself a little more to make sure Anita got the heat she needed without being too hot. She tried making awkward small talk with Inge at first, but she got the feeling neither of them really wanted that, so she gave it up after a few minutes. 

And, when Metzli finally arrived and entered the room, she let the relief wash over her all at once. 

She wondered, somewhat absently, if Metzli would display the same desperation if it were her in Anita’s position. She felt guilty for wondering it — Anita was hurt, and this should be about her — but her mind went there all the same. Cass was so used to being an afterthought and, in this moment, Anita was clearly anything but. She thought back to Alex, after she was hurt, to the way she would have done anything to get her out of Rhett’s cruel grasp. Hadn’t it been intoxicating, being the center of someone’s world? Even if only for a moment, even when it was over now? Hadn’t it felt good?

“She’s getting warmer,” she spoke up almost tentatively, like she was no longer sure of her place in this room. Neither Inge nor Metzli had the body heat to warm Anita, so Cass was necessary. She liked being necessary. It meant no one could make her go. “I think it’ll be a while longer before she’s… back to full strength.”

—

They had been at Inge’s place for a little while before Anita had the strength to even send Metzli a message about what had happened. And of course since she didn’t even have her own phone with her she had to rely on using someone else’s to even send the message. It felt like this was becoming a habit, needing help from others, and it made her feel uneasy. As much as she wanted to tell everyone to leave, not because she didn’t want them there but because she felt that her debt to them was growing with each passing second. Debt she didn’t know how to repay. 

Just before Metzli arrived, Anita had finally felt warm enough to shift back. While most things in life were aided by being an incredibly large rattlesnake, trying to get warm was certainly not on that list. “I’m gonna get smaller,” she said to Cass so as not to startle the woman wielding that much heat near her skin, “It’ll make it quicker. Warmer blood and whatever.” It took more effort than she was used to but the scales that spread across her body were slowly replaced with soft pink flesh, allowing her to curl up into herself and get herself under the aluminum blanket that the tall stranger had given her. 

When she heard Metzli’s voice there was a simultaneous relief and guilt that panged through Anita. She didn’t want to worry anyone… she didn’t mean to worry anyone. There had been nights, plenty of nights, that she didn’t make it home. She usually let them know that was going to be the case though, when she remembered to. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she offered up. Normally the lamia adored being the center of attention - she thrived on it - but this type of attention, this type of care, felt so foreign to her. She didn’t know how to handle it all. 

“I just need to get warm. I already healed the wound.” Nodding towards Cass, Anita agreed, “Will be a while, for sure.” Even if her body got warmed up Anita wondered how long the exhaustion she was feeling would last. “I’ve never… I don’t know anyone who’s ever… guess this is why my father wanted me to stay in the desert.” 

_ 

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d turned on the heating in her cold apartment, but she had it blasting now. Inge could host, at the very least — it was one of the skills she’d taken with her from her former life. She could fret a little, offer whatever comforts Anita needed while waiting for her to warm up again. In a way, it was good to be on the other side of this: to help rather than to need to be helped. 

And though her body ached from all the walking, she got up and moved towards the door all the same when the doorbell rang. Her eyes locked with Metzli, she offered the, “Come in,” required for a vampire and let them burst in. She followed, pushing through as she tried to keep up their pace. “In the Pines. I was astral hopping and I saw her and got help.” This was the second time in a long time where Inge was confronted with the fact that she was limited, that in some cases she was powerless. She had none of the superior healing her vampire brethren had, nor the strength. Not even the bodily warmth to assist Anita. And even though she’d manage to help Anita, she despised the feeling.

She followed Metzli, no longer bothering to keep up with their vampiric speed and leaned on a chair in the living room. What a strange combination of people, two of whom she’d only met rather recently and in very different settings. Inge didn’t question it. Life was spontaneous. And pain connected, that too she knew. 

A small smile for Cass. Ariadne’s friend, she assumed. The one she’d asked her not to give nightmares. “Good.” She moved around the chair, sat on its edge, close to the gathering of people in her living room. So filled with life. She found it confusing. “You can stay as long as you need to, you know that.” Not often did she open her doors like that for people, and it wasn’t like Anita and her were as tightly entwined as she perhaps was with Metzli or even Cass — but still. Inge wasn’t going to kick her friend out. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. “It’s … you’re here now, hm? Just focus on getting warmer.” 

“Ay, mi hermosa.” Metzli leaned forward and planted an affectionate kiss to Cass’s head, fully trusting that if she was in contact with Anita, then it was safe to do so. Besides, they couldn’t help themself when the person they saw like kin was making them proud. She truly was a hero, and Metzli wholeheartedly believed that’s what she was meant to be. They smiled, “Thank you for helping her.” They didn’t care if Cass would bind them, and some part of them knew she wouldn’t. Regardless, it felt important to express their gratitude, and they turned to regard Inge, who they could see through the doorway to the living room. “And thank you as well, Inge. I…” Tears brimmed their eyes, a few daring to streak down their cheeks as they returned to Anita’s side and sat.

Metzli sniffled and cleared their throat immediately, trying not to feel too embarrassed. Anita likely didn’t have the energy to tease them, but they hoped she might. Anything to further cement that she was still there, and what Metzli was seeing wasn’t just a figment. It was asinine, really. They knew that. So, carefully, they reached forward, placing a gentle hand on Anita’s head for a few moments. They smiled warmly and retracted it before they could undo any of Cass’s hard work. Anita was real. Anita was real and even if Metzli had failed in finding her, she was alive and able to recover. 

“I looked for you. Was very scared you were hurt and I am very sorry I could not find you.” The possibility (and really, the inevitability) of Anita dying became far too real, and it choked them. It formed  a ball of some sort and it lodged itself in Metzli’s throat. Their leg began to bounce as discomfort overtook them, but they took a grounding breath to keep their emotions at bay as best they could. Some emotion was okay, but they didn’t want to overwhelm Anita or overtake the attention she needed. Instead, they breathed once more, offering Anita their hand, palm facing up. 

“I will be here until you can come home then. Whatever you need, hermana. Like Inge say, focus on getting warmer. We will help.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with the magma flowing through her veins filled her chest as Metzli addressed her, and she offered them the smallest of smiles. When they’d first found Anita in the woods, trailing behind Otis and Inge like a lost dog, there had been so much desperation. She’d been so afraid, so uneasy. If anything happened to Anita, she’d thought, and Cass didn’t prevent it from doing so, she was sure Metzli wouldn’t forgive her for it. She was good so long as she was useful, and she’d been useful tonight. She’d used the destructive force of her volcanic nature for something decent, for warmth instead of ruination. 

Metzli thanked her, and Cass disregarded it with a shrug. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy I could help.” She looked down at Anita with a small smile. “Everybody deserves somebody to help them, right?” It was something Cass desperately wanted, needed to be true. If Anita deserved salvation, if everyone did, didn’t she get to be included in that, too? 

She flashed Inge a grateful smile as the mare said they could all stay as long as they needed to. It was funny — she hadn’t liked Inge much at the beginning of all this, but she was grateful for her now. Offering her home not just to Anita, but also to Cass, who she probably still hated, was a pretty heroic thing to do. And Cass would know; she was a superhero.

“So, um…” She shifted her weight a little, repositioning Anita slightly so that they both could be a little more comfortable. “Anybody have any Uno cards?”

—

As much as Anita adored being the center of attention in normal circumstances, these were not normal circumstances. This collection of people surrounding her, from different aspects of her life, all coming together to help her out was not a dynamic she knew how to navigate. But they didn’t seem upset or annoyed, at least not visibly, at needing to tend to the weakened lamia. That felt surprising to her, mostly. Metzli’s reaction, their support, was expected. But the other two, that felt surprising. Not because of who they are or because of anything they had done but simply because having people around to support her was such a foreign feeling at this stage in her life. 

The idea of her absence causing Metzli to go out and search for her, knowing that she caused them any amount of fear, only added to the guilt that was cursing her. How many nights had she not come home in the past without letting them know? Did it always spark such a reaction? That wasn’t a question she really wanted an answer to. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have … been out there like that.” She reached out and placed her hand in theirs, keeping it there despite the cold. 

She turned her attention towards Cass, who was doing the work of a dozen heat lamps all by herself. “Is this tiring for you?” For all that Anita knew, whatever Cass was, and whatever powers she had, were foreign to her. “Don’t think I’ve played Uno since… college, maybe?” She didn’t wanna make presumptions but it seemed unlikely that Inge had a deck of Uno cards lying around. But Cass was onto something. If they had something to do to pass the time, maybe Anita would feel less guilt, or at least be distracted enough to not think about it for a short while. “Wouldn’t be opposed to playing a game or something, though.”  

__ 

The scene was a strange one. Inge had people over at her house aplenty, but it was never this kind of combination. Anita in her living room made sense, had occurred before, but Metzli she only knew professionally and then there was Cass, the thief who’d melted her things. Put together the fact that someone was being offered aid and she wasn’t entirely sure if she’d encounter this kind of thing again soon. She gave Metzli a serious look, nodded. “Of course.” It wasn’t like she’d done it for Metzli, but still. She didn’t mind a little appreciation.

Inge remained leaning on the chair until Cass said something about Uno. Now the scene was really becoming something completely foreign. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. She raised up, jaws tight at the movement. “I can find us something. I’ve got a deck of cards, so we can just play crazy eights.” She could host. Though the days of serving guests pickled eggs and vruchtenbowl were over, she hadn’t quite lost that. 

She moved away from the three others, feeling strangely out of place. She cared for Anita, certainly, and enjoyed her company deeply — but she and her had never felt this proximity she seemed to share with Cass and Metzli. No matter. It was hardly like she was jealous. Inge opened one of the many cabinets in the living room, most of them filled with various items. Old games from back at home, books and collections, dried flowers and trinkets she intended to do something with, one day. A deck of cards was produced and she returned, pulling an ottoman close to the small gathering. “If anyone wants something to drink, you can help yourself. There’s wine and other things in the kitchen.” No blood, that she only got when she had planned vampire visits. “But for now, I’ve got the deck. Shall I deal?”

Metzli shook their head at Anita and shushed her. “You are strong and your confidence is big. Maybe you make mistake, but you are alive. That is what matters.” They paused for a moment, offering Anita an intimate gesture by pressing their lips to the back of her hand. For someone not normally too keen on touch, it meant a great deal. It was something that required trust and comfort that they had only just begun to understand. “You matter to me. Worry will happen and that is okay. Just shut up and accept.”

There were various options that everyone presented for entertainment, nourishment, and comfort. Uno sounded interesting enough. If there were only a single item in a game, Metzli figured it couldn’t possibly be overstimulating or incredibly complex. It sounded quiet. Perfect, even. That was probably why Cass suggested it, and they offered a small and gentle smile to her as they gave Anita’s hand one final squeeze. She didn’t need her temperature lowered again. 

“Let us play this Uno game and I can pay for pizza if someone will like to order.” They turned their head just in time to watch Inge’s hair bounce around the corner as she mentioned a much more chaotic game. Crazy eights? That is bigger than one. Not by much, but enough. And the numbers were crazy? Metzli couldn’t make sense of it, but before they knew it, Inge provided the group with a deck of cards. They stared at it as if it were as atypical as themself, their back stiffening as they shook their head and responded. “I will watch. I do not want to gamble in your deal.”

Anita asked about her, about her well-being, and it was enough to make Cass’s chest feel warm in the metaphorical sense as well as the physical. She offered the lamia a small smile, shaking her head. “It’s not tiring. This is just… being, for me.” Without the need to maintain her glamour, this was actually less tiring than her day-to-day, even if the glamour only took a very small amount of energy to keep up. Regardless, even if it had been exhausting, she would have done it. Anita was cold, and Cass could warm her. That was all there was to it. It was a simple thing.

She hummed, disappointed but not surprised that Inge didn’t have any Uno cards lying around. It had been something of a long shot, given Inge’s whole ‘fancy lady’ aesthetic. Fancy ladies probably didn’t play Uno, which was stupid. Uno was fun. But, regardless, Cass knew how to work with what was given to her. Metzli wasn’t interested in Crazy 8s, though Anita didn’t seem to mind the idea. Cass considered it for a moment.

“Maybe we can do a round or two of that, then Go Fish?” She looked to Metzli as she said it, brows drawing together in a pleading look. It was an expression perfected from years of making sure everyone felt included enough to stay. If there was nothing for a person to do, they were more likely to walk away. And Cass didn’t want Metzli to leave.

She didn’t want anyone to leave, but Metzli was the only one who really could right now. Anita was frozen in place (though not quite literally anymore), and this was Inge’s house. If she could keep Metzli here, they could stay as they were right now. And Cass liked how they were right now. It felt kind of perfect… or as perfect as anything could be, under the circumstances. “Maybe we could have hot chocolate, too?”

—

It would have been too overwhelming for Anita to take the time to fully process and internalize the amount of care that was being given to her. So she was glad to have a distraction in the way of a card game, no matter what game that ended up being. Something to do other than talk about the situation she got herself in. “Crazy 8’s isn’t all that crazy,” she offered to Metzli in Spanish when they seemed uninterested in playing. She wanted them to have a good time if they were going to be stuck here waiting for her to defrost, but also knew that watching the others play might as well be as enjoyable as playing for them. 

Anita was feeling well enough to move her arms a bit, being able to do the absolute bare minimum action for a game of cards. As the cards were delt she reached out to grab her hand, fully accepting that it would be near impossible to keep her cards fully concealed from Cass.  “Hot chocolate would be amazing. Especially if you’ve maybe got some tequila lying around to throw in there?” She asked, looking over at Inge. She should have asked Metzli to bring some from home. Even though she knew the science behind it was flawed, there was no denying that a bit of tequila was known to warm just about anyone up. “I think after a few rounds of the game I should be warm enough to head home. I don’t wanna put y’all out all night.” 

_ 

She looked between the strange range of people and folded down the cards so they could be shuffled and dealt at a later time, “Maybe you can explain the rules to Metzli? It is not so different from Uno.” Inge got up, sure to not touch Cass and her searing skin again. She remembered how she’d burned her once and thought it some kind of metaphor — how warmth could be healing yet also dangerous. 

“Anyway — hot chocolate I can do. With tequila. I’ll also order a pizza.” And she’d pay for it. She was a gracious host, after all. It was a fundamental skill for women of her once-caliber. It was one she didn’t mind not having unlearned — though plenty of the other submissive housewife traits had luckily left her. “What kind of toppings do you like?”

Her eyes flicked to Anita, then. “Don’t worry. Neither Metzli nor I need sleep. You are hardly putting me out. You’ve —” Slept over before, she almost added, before remembering herself. Inge smirked vaguely and then gave Cass another one over. She was okay. Even if she’d stolen her bag and burned her hand. “And if you doze off, that’s alright.” She moved to the kitchen to heat up some milk on the stove, feeling a distant sense of a feeling she couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps it was as simple as contentment, but maybe something more rare — a feeling of safety and unity. 

They knew what Cass was doing when she made that face. They also knew she was scared that they’d leave, even if that was far from the truth. More than once, she had used it to get her way, ensuring abandonment of any kind wasn’t any option. It was how she operated, experiencing dismissal and loneliness far too long. If given the chance to live those moments again, Metzli surely would’ve given Cass what she wanted without any sort of plea. 

They just enjoyed her face far too much to give in immediately. They enjoyed the way she knew a certain look would sway any decision they made. As if Metzli was truly her guardian. “I am staying, mihijita. And I will beat you at this crazy game.” Gently, they reached over and patted her head, ruffling her slightly and playfully with a small but genuine smile on their face. “I will also beat Anita.” They chuckled, rising to their feet to help Inge out in the kitchen. A room they were comfortable and navigated well in. Never mind the fact that they had no need to eat actual food anymore.

“If you have chocolate that I can melt with the mix, I can help you make it very tasty.”

 “Pineapple!” Cass cut in immediately, eager to make her preferred pizza topping known. Normally, she might have let someone else respond first, might have pretended to like whatever the popular answer was, but… she felt comfortable, in this moment. She felt comfortable enough to be a little more of herself, to stop pretending even if it was only for a heartbeat. Later, the mask would slip back on as easily as breathing. She’d cut herself into smaller pieces, something easier to digest. But right here, right now… Cass felt good. And that was good. Wasn’t it?

She grinned a little as Metzli agreed to stay, feeling as though some invisible weight had been lifted. The teasing, too, felt good, felt like something she’d never thought she’d have. “There’s no way you’re beating me,” she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m totally gonna win. You’ll probably beat Anita, though.” She flashed Anita a grin — a quiet confirmation that she was only kidding, with a question underneath it: is this okay, are we here yet, can we do this? 

As Metzli and Inge went into the kitchen, Cass remained with Anita. This was good, she thought. However terrifyingly the night had started out, this ending was good. She wanted more nights like this. She wanted them forever. 

—

It was not very often that Anita found herself alone, physically. She usually had some body nearby to keep her company - either a meal or a tryst. Even when she spent time with people she cared about, the people in this room, it was almost always one-on-one. Genuinely, she did not know if that was an intentional doing on her part or if it was coincidental. Laying there, wrapped up in physical and emotional warmth felt so foreign to her. It made her think back to Mexico, before she left home. But even as she let her mind wander back there, as she shuffled through her cards and listened to discussions about pineapple on pizza, Anita was faced with the reality that home had never actually felt quite this warm. 

Back then she may have been constantly surrounded by a sea of family but they were all so preoccupied with themselves that moments like this - simple evenings - were scarce. Anita smiled up at Metzli when they returned with cups of cocoa and nodded at the indication from Inge that pizza was just a few minutes away. As she took that first sip of the spiked beverage, for a moment the guilt she had been feeling slipped away. For a moment she was just in a living room, playing cards with people who cared about her.