#Wayward Waves I Will Follow You Home verse

[moonraisedsunchild]

i am gaining more ffxv oc which i definitely didn’t expect.

scylla has her verse and many au ideas, Adara has her verse, Sol has her verse, and Andi has at least the start of an idea for a verse.

[mightydragoon]

Pray for Piett

@silvereddaye​

Piett isn’t paid enough for the skywalker family drama bullshit. 

(comprised in no particular order, some stories are more explicit than others with Pray for Piett) 

1.  Compromising -samvelg

5 + 1 Five times Admiral Piett misunderstands the nature of Luke and Vader's relationship, and the one time he doesn't.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539302/chapters/25908651

2. For Want of a Skywalker--- acuteneurosis

After the miracle of having survived Bespin, Piett does not ask why they are stopping on Tatooine. Or why Lord Vader suddenly has acquired a small child. Or why this child's name is Luke. Or how long they are going to keep him.

He probably should have.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044874/chapters/52612567

( Note* Part 1 of the Through the Eyes of the Beholder)

3.  The kidnappings of a Sith Lord - maedre13

How a certain Sith Lord may or may not kidnap his rebel son. One-shots. Strongly inspired by sparklight´s “Where Our Intrepid Hero Doesn´t Get Away”.

Current chapter: In which Vader tries to arrange a marriage

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606992/chapters/23453241

4.  Living Relics-- planningconquest

Poe Dameron, on a routine flight, stumbles across an entirely new mess for the New Republic to deal with. Finding Imperial relics that can help with the galaxy's most pressing questions and problems.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113807/chapters/55303762

5.  Luke Skywalker Is Altogether Too Likable - Mokulule

A bounty hunter claims to have caught the empire's most wanted rebel, unfortunately for Admiral Piett, Lord Vader is not in attendence, so he will have to take the call.

Alternatively; the Piett POV story I have amused myself with for several months and that I hope others will also enjoy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477958/chapters/33444051

(Note* Part of the  Likability Conundrum series ) 

6.  Firmus Piett Is Altogether Too Likable- Mokulule

This is a companion piece to Luke Skywalker Is Altogether Too Likable, it is basically the first chapter from Luke's POV with more background and angst.

Luke has been captured by the nasty bounty hunter Bossc Blackscale along with small Twilek child Nia, who was used as a hostage.

Now he's about to enter Imperial custody and he meets the most peculiar Imperial.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18065363

(Note Complete Series below)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300493

7.  Some Assembly Required - Mokulule

Luke desperately call out for help in the force. Darth Vader finally gets his hands on his elusive son, but he doesn't quite get what he expected.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394782/chapters/40941173

8. One Dream, One Vision- severnlight

After the disastrous duel on Bespin, more than mere words transpire over the newly forged bond between father and son. And this time, R2 is not so lucky with the hyperdrive. Darth Vader is beyond pleased to finally have his son in custody, but the Force keeps whispering something about the terrorist Princess as well. With the identity of Lord Vader's long lost son revealed, every being of some consequence from Core to Outer Rim is busy plotting their own schemes for Luke Skywalker. The young rebel is trying his best to navigate the new relationship with his father, and scramble a plan or two of his own. Admiral Piett and various unsuspecting Imperial citizens are entangled in the drama. Vader acts completely unpredictable, the threads of destiny are tossed up in the air, and the Galaxy holds its breath.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817640/chapters/22044329

9.  Darth Vader Goes to School - LadyVader23

Darth Vader gets bored with killing people and decides to get a degree in Engineering. He develops an interest in his classmate, Luke Lars. Poor Piett becomes the awkward middle man.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905714/chapters/57477952

(Note* Vader essentially commits identity fraud on Piett to do a few online classes and Piett roles with it because what you want to say no to Vader, and gets tangled in the fuck up that is Vader’s life) 

10.   LIBERO per fidem, or How Piett Accidentally Hastened the War Because He Kinda Cared About Vader--ThreadSketchier

It's the Admiral's job to overthink things. This time, however, it's going to be both the best AND worst decision he's ever made.

(note* this is not technically a fic and it’s a private story but it’s still worth checking) 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535980/chapters/53852038

11.. How (not) to cope with Skywalker family drama - prayforpiett

In which the admiral of the Executor tries to find ways to manage his stress. Like any sensible person, he tries to turn his frustrations into creative endeavors. And he also drinks. A lot.

Of course, it all gets worse when he starts to have stress dreams about a certain Luke Skywalker...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320452/chapters/58632580

(   Note* From the appropriately titled author PrayforPiett. )

12.  A Life Day Miracle - Mokulule

A few months after the Death Star was destroyed, Darth Vader gets an early Life Day present in the form of the child he'd thought he'd lost, now if only events wouldn't keep conspiring against him he would actually get to tell his son of their relation.

Luke and Wedge are very confused, this is not how they expected being captured by Imperials would go.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646887/chapters/41613821

(Note*  Mokulule again) 

13.  In Loco Pirates - izzythehutt

A down-on-his-luck Hondo Ohnaka manages to capture the unicorn of all bounties--Luke Skywalker, which sends Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, on a painfully familiar trip to the planet Florrum to collect his prize. The failed negotiations leave Vader in the awkward position of being stuck in a besieged pirate bunker, trying to balance keeping his wayward child safe (and in his custody) with controlling the tongue of a loose-lipped pirate who--to the surprise of no one--has a bad habit of telling 'amusing' anecdotes from the Clone Wars.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841744/chapters/8574070

(Part 1 of  In Loco Pirates-Verse  https://archiveofourown.org/series/324137)

14.  Palpatine Ad Portas - izzythehutt

When the Emperor Palpatine moves the Empire Day Celebration to Naboo, Darth Vader is forced to confront a past he had thought better buried and forgotten. Admiral Piett becomes the reluctant confidante of the monarch, caught in the middle of a deadly Sith cat-and-mouse mind game. Meanwhile, the young Rebel who blew up the Death Star returns to his mother's home world to pay his respects on the anniversary of her death--unaware of his father and the Emperor's presence on the planet and the very grave danger he is in.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819292/chapters/11034437

(Part 2 of  In Loco Pirates-Verse  https://archiveofourown.org/series/324137)

15.  Meet the Skywalkers - frodogenic

Newly returned from the Unknown Regions with Darth Vader, Admiral Piett doesn't expect much of a welcome from the New Republic. And not in a million lifetimes would he have predicted that their very first guest would be Luke Skywalker. After all, Skywalker and Vader are still mortal enemies...right?

Multichapter prequel to Lord Vader's Limpet and Driving Lord Vader.

Chapter 14: The Lady’s 25-year sojourn enters the final risky stretch.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158216/chapters/18696025

(Note* Part 3 of the  Limpet AU,  see more here  https://archiveofourown.org/series/554200) 

16.  in an endless universe----loosingletters

Chapter 8 , 9 and 10 : Grandfather Vader AU 

Luke has a kid to raise and the Empire might not care much about its personnel, but at least it pays its mechanics well. Enter Darth Vader.

Part 1:https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/55002466

Part 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/55067716#workskin

Part 3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/56968354#workskin

(Note* Link to full series : 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/57641386) 

17.  Allegiance - KaelinaLovesLomaris

Luke is captured by Imperials while on a mission and ends up needing his father's help getting out of a tricky situation. What follows is shameless Luke and Vader father-son bonding, with plenty of action, angst, and fluff, as Vader finally has his son at his side and plots to destroy the Emperor. Everyone's favorite Imperial, Admiral Piett, plays a large role, as does Luke's fellow pilot, Wedge Antilles, and Boba Fett will probably make an appearance.

Post ESB AU, with canon divergence. This is not Dark!Luke. It is eventual Vader redemption.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745156/chapters/16127191

(note* Allegiance-verse series)

18 . Interview with a Sith Lord--- KaelinaLovesLomaris

Before Piett was the Admiral of Death Squadron, he was captain of the Accuser. And once Darth Vader learned of his son and realized he would someday need to take the Emperor down, he began looking for an admiral he could trust... Or how Piett got the job of captain of the Executor and eventually became admiral of the Death Squadron. This is in my Allegiance-verse, but it's not necessary to read Allegiance to understand this.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747338

( Note* Allegiance-verse series)

19. Twin Suns - EagleInFlight

ROTJ AU: Vader reached out into the Force, eager to teach this trooper a lesson when suddenly the old him woke from his slumber and an Anakin quip slipped out of his mouth: “Have the Empire become so desperate that they’re recruiting below the height requirement?” A wave of amusement splashed through the Force from the trooper. That signature... The trooper took off his helmet, jerked his blonde hair back from his eyes and stared up at him. “Explains why I can’t see out of this helmet.” Darth Vader was left utterly speechless. His son stood before him. His son was here of his own free accord. Luke flashed a smile that warmed Vader’s heart. “I’m here to rescue you.”

OR: Luke Skywalker sneaks on-board the Executor to rescue his father, Darth Vader.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289804

20.  Skywalker Family Values - Ariel_Sojourner

Camp Chippewa is proud to be the Empire’s foremost camp resort for privileged young adults. Located on the picturesque forest moon of Endor, your child will have the opportunity to participate in wholesome outdoor activities and socialize appropriately with their peers. We invite your offspring to join us for the experience of a lifetime and a bright future in service of the greater glory of the Empire.

On opposite sides of the galaxy, on opposite sides of a civil war, Darth Vader and Padme Amidala unwittingly send Luke and Leia to the same camp during school break. Chaos naturally ensues.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258124/chapters/32883750

(Note* Piett doesn’t feature in this as much compared to the others but dear lord still, pray for this poor man) 

21. Two and a Half Men (with a baby)- orphan_account

After a long day of bargaining with Hutts and attempting to ignore his past, Darth Vader is nearing the end of his rope. When he discovers his two-year-old son, it's the straw that breaks the semi-rational Sith Lord's back; in a rash act worthy of the Skywalker name, he scoops his son into his arms, steals a shuttle from his own fleet, and punches in random hyperspace coordinates to a destination on the other side of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, father and son are not the only ones on the ship.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420057/chapters/16853212

TAGS

Firmus Piett

Firmus Piett & Darth Vader

Feel free to add any more to the mix . 

[spohkh]

miracle on cornelia street [dean/castiel]

so BASICALLY sarah @adanceinasnowglobe and i were talking about what everyone would be up to post-series -- yknow, like, now that theyre all safe and healthy n everythings cool and destiel is officially together. yknow. as happened in canon -- and we were like so obviously destiel get a house, and thats kind of the basis of this verse so !! this is the foundational fic for what i HOPE will be a series of fun lil day-in-the-life drabbles, from both me and sarah!! 

ehehehe :-) enjoy!

read on AO3

The house is a quaint thing, sitting low and snug under a pair of shady oak trees in a quiet suburb just outside of downtown Lawrence. Its brickwork face is weathered—definitely in need of a good power wash—and the roof is just as worn. The bottom step to the porch slants unevenly, and the porch itself has cracks in the concrete. There are chips in the paint on the window frames, the iron porch railing is rusting, and who knows when the gutters were last given a proper cleaning.

There’s a lot of work to be done, but standing there in the small front lawn, Dean Winchester can’t say if he’s ever seen anyplace else so perfect as the house at 3767 Cornelia Street. Dean’s house—his home. His home with Cas.

“Can you believe it?” he quietly says to Miracle, who has been sitting patiently by Dean’s leg. Miracle tilts her head and wags her tail. Dean looks back up at the house. “Yeah, me neither.”

The sound of a familiar car rumbling up the road snaps Dean out of his reverie. He rubs a knuckle at his eye and clears his throat and tries to look like he hadn’t been standing in his front yard about to cry while talking to his dog, christ.

The car rolls to a stop on the curb just in front of the house. The driver’s side door opens, and Sam slowly unfolds his ridiculous limbs as he gets out. It’s always a wonder how he can fit himself into a car at all. Sam gives a dorky little wave as he ambles over to where Dean is standing.

Dean peers behind Sam, trying to see into the car. “What, no Eileen?”

“Hello to you, too. Dick,” he replies snarkily. “She’s wrapping up a work thing. She’ll come over when she’s done.”

Dean sucks his teeth in disappointment. “Ah, well. Guess you can go home then.” Sam shoves at his shoulder. Dean just laughs and pulls Sam in for a proper hello hug.

“Why are you standing out here, anyway?” Sam asks when they part.

“Can’t a man just hang out in his own front yard? Accompanied by a dashing canine companion?” He leans down to pat Miracle on the head.

“I guess…” Sam looks down at Miracle. When she tips her head up and gazes back at him, Sam snorts.

“What?”

“Miracle on Cornelia Street,” Sam says with mirth.

Dean squints at him. “What?” he repeats, now more incredulous.

“You know—like Miracle on 34th Street. But we’re on Cornelia, so.” He nods down at the dog. “Miracle on Cornelia Street.”

“Dude.” Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s goofy grin and starts walking up the path to the house, Miracle trotting behind him. “Shut up and come inside already.”

Sam follows after him, pausing just inside the threshold as he spots something on the doorframe. “Oh, classy,” he says, throwing a sardonic look to where D.W. and C.W. are scratched into the wood.

“Just wait,” Dean jokes with a toothy smile, “when I got the time I’m gonna draw a little heart around it.” He was joking, but now that he said it, he kind of wanted to.

Cas looks up from the stove when they walk into the dining room. He’s wearing one of Dean’s old AC/DC tees, the logo all but worn away from being washed so many times. He’s usually in some ratty tee or other when lounging around these days. But in honor of Sam’s visit today (Cas’ words) and to seem a little more dressy short of donning his usual button-downs (Dean’s private opinion), he’s also wearing the cable-knit cardigan Sam got him as a gift last Christmas. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam leans against the counter that separates the dining and kitchen areas, craning his giraffe neck to catch a glimpse at the stove. “Hey, Cas! What’cha cooking?”

“Nothing. Dean made it. I was just watching the pot so it didn’t boil over.” He locks eyes with Dean, his intent stare very clearly communicating I did not touch the chili I added nothing I did not touch the dial I was just watching it like you asked so don’t even start.

Dean just smiles as he walks past the counter and steps into Cas’ space. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, and busses Cas on the cheek.

“You’re welcome,” Cas replies warmly. He’s gazing up at Dean with those summer afternoon blue eyes, standing in one of Dean’s shirts and that dorky cardigan, and Dean starts to get full of that feeling from out in the front yard again. If they were alone, Dean would probably say something recklessly sappy like I am so stupid in love with you.

As it is, Dean clears his throat and turns back to Sam, slinging an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and says, “He did the salad.”

Cas sneaks him a knowing look before, thankfully, putting his attention on Sam without commenting on Dean’s hasty redirection. “I did the salad,” Cas agrees blithely, and places the salad bowl on the counter for Sam to see, seeming pleased with himself.

Sam looks between the two of them, an amused tilt to his eyebrow that Dean implicitly distrusts. He’s definitely thinking mocking thoughts about the two of them. But he just quirks a smile and says, “It looks great.” Shrewd little diplomat.

Cas shifts to the side to see past Sam’s shoulder. Sam glances behind himself before shooting Cas a confused look.

“She’s still at work,” Dean tells Cas, guessing who he’s looking for. “Sadly.”

“What, am I not good enough?”

“Of course you are,” Cas promises earnestly, just as Dean says, “Well…”

Sam’s opening his mouth to retort, probably something absolutely scathing, when his phone chimes. He pulls it out of his pocket, a smile spreading over his face. “Speak of the devil,” he says, then tips his head with a grimace, “as it were. That was Eileen. She’ll be here soon, so I’m gonna go wash up.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall—“

“Dude, I know where it is. I did help you guys move in.”

Dean spreads his hands in assent. “Fine, christ, I swear never to be a good host to you in my home ever again. Go ahead and go take your dump now.”

“I’m not gonna—ohmygodnevermind.” He turns on his heel and huffs down the hall, Miracle trotting after him, the tags on her collar clinking together jauntily.

Dean reaches past Cas to turn the burner off, then lands his hand on Cas’ hip. “Have I told you today how cute you are in that sweater?”

“Yes.” Cas brings his hands up to cradle Dean’s face. “Four times.”

“Make it five.” Dean kisses him. He pulls Cas into a hug, pressing his face against Castiel’s shoulder. They sway into each other. After a warm moment, Dean says in a low voice, “The first family dinner in our house.”

Cas hums a soft, contented sound in agreement. “The first of many,” he responds, just as quiet. Dean squeezes him tighter. He knows they’re both thinking about Jack and Claire, their bedrooms sitting empty and waiting for whenever they can find the time to visit—and Kaia and Alex and Jody with Claire, if they can, and Charlie and her girlfriend, and Bobby, and all the other wayward extensions of their sprawling family caught out in the wind. Their house isn’t big enough to host everyone, but with Sam and Eileen up the block and the bunker just a few miles out, there’s plenty of room to put up people who come out their way. Dean has the hope that 3767 Cornelia Street becomes a common pitstop for folks—a suburban Roadhouse, a tidier (much tidier) Singer Salvage.

Dean presses a kiss against Cas’ neck, and Cas breathes a sweet little sigh that pushes all thoughts about future dinners right out the window. Fuck, this dinner could go out the window, for all he cares. He kisses a little higher up, right under Cas’ jawline, before pulling back to catch Castiel’s darkened gaze. “How ‘bout we ditch the nag and go have a private party of our own?”

“Dean, no. I worked really hard on that salad.” He sounds perfectly serious, but the playful glint in his eye gives him away. Dean snorts, mumbling oh, forgive me, Chef Cas as he leans in again.

Just as they kiss, Sam walks back in. “Hey, I think something’s wrong with your sink–- oh, sorry.”

“Huh?” Dean reluctantly pulls away as Sam clears his throat, looking sheepish. “What’s wrong with what, Sammy?”

“Uh, with your bathroom.”

“The bathroom? Oh, what, you clogged the toilet?”

“Wha— N—  I DID NOT SHIT IN YOUR BATHROOM.”

“Then how did the toilet get messed up?”

“It’s the SINK, the SINK—”

“You took a shit in the sink?”

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dean…”

“What? He started it.”

“Started WHAT?”

Dean snaps his fingers. “The end of the world.”

“Oh! My god!”

“I guess technically, yeah, since god is our kid...” He turns to Cas. “Weird, weird lives we lead.”

Cas just shakes his head, clearly exasperated. Sam has given up on speaking completely and has fallen back on making a gesture like he’s one second away from grabbing Dean by the throat.

“I was there for all twelve years of it,” Sam says to Cas, “and I still can’t believe you stayed with this guy.”

“Well,” Cas muses serenely, “you’ve been here a lot longer than me.”

Sam grimaces when Dean throws him his best shit-eating grin. Nothing like his two favorite people bonding over how much of a pain he is.

The sound of the front door opening distracts them, and then a voice calls, “Knock knock! The life of the party has arrived!”

“Eileen!” Sam exclaims happily. Miracle takes off down the hall, Sam hot on her heels.

Dean chuckles at Sam’s unabashed excitement, then gives Castiel another peck on the cheek before moving away from him. “Can you put everything out on the table? I’ll go check out the bathroom sitch real quick.”

Cas catches his hand as he starts to leave, softly saying his name. When Dean looks back at him, Cas smiles and says, “I love you.”

Dean wonders if maybe three time’s the charm and he should just give in to what his body wants him to do. If a man has a right to stand around and cry messily anywhere in his own home, surely the kitchen would be the place to do it. The kitchen, after all, is the heart of any house.

But Dean doesn’t. He indulges in a little sniffle, Cas’ eyes glimmering with knowing in the soft light. Dean brings Cas’ hand to his mouth and kisses the neat gold band around his finger, and he kisses each peaked knuckle, and he turns Cas’ hand over and kisses his palm and his wrist. Then he lets go and puts his own hand against Cas’ cheek, and says his recklessly sappy thing: “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

And the glowing feeling inside him doesn’t settle, only grows brighter.

Whatever’s wrong with the sink will be just one more thing to a long list of shit to deal with. Their house needs work, no denying. But Dean knows they’ve got plenty of time.

[xparadisexlostx]

So this is a little drabble in my verse with @stcriestcld. We never did really talk too much about how Beck got to SHIELD. There’s some dialogue in here I am not in love with because I tried to cut some length down. I might go back in an tweak it.

For some back story Beck works with a group who helped save her from her brother/mother (verse dependent). They masquerade as nuns under the name The Sisters of  Holy St. Marciana of Mauretania but another common name is The Sisters of Emily, which pertains to their founder as well as some of their coded language. They operate out of several “churches” as well as a convent that is a front for their headquarters. This is just a glimpse into how Beck interacts with them that I thought was fun to write out. Plus it helps me get my mind around how Beck came to work for SHIELD despite zero qualifiers. 

Exchanging favors for favors was always messy. Beck had known that from the time she was small. Witch’s deals weren’t unheard of in the magical community, but it would be a stretch to call them common. Her people didn’t tend to enjoy being held to anything--not laws or contracts--but Beck had always found that in a tight spot a clever witch could twist her words and strike a deal that wouldn’t turn around to bite her in the ass. In hindsight she should have realized that her silver tongue was bound to turn to lead at least once or twice.

When she’d picked up the drop she figured it would be the same as any other job: meet the client, make a plan, execute, and run. She’d done it dozens of times. Almost all of them, apart from the occasional retrieval of a magical artifact, were domestic violence cases. The wife of some asshole cop that no one was ever going to hold accountable for his violence, the queer kid being beaten down by their devout and religious parents, the foster teen tired of being abused in the home that was supposed to provide them refuge. The Sisters, and Beck in particular, were very good at helping people who wanted to disappear do just that. Beck agreed not because of a contract or any kind of payment, but because she’d been those kids. The difficult child with the saintly, blameless parent. That’s what most people had seen… but only because they didn’t want to see the truth. If she could help anyone trapped like she had been, she was happy to do it. After all, if it weren’t for the Sisters, her mother would have likely killed her years ago.

Beck pulled open the enormous oak door to the convent chapel and entered silently. Wood pews without cushions lined the barren stone walls up to the front, where people knelt with clasped hands murmuring softly. Wayward souls seeking the kind of religious guidance that places like this were meant to offer. They didn’t know---couldn’t know---what this place actually was.

She stepped out of the way as a small party of nuns walked two-by-two down the aisle in perfect sync. They positioned themselves in front of the wooden altar, fanning out so that there were six on either side of the entrance to the dias. A clock chimed in the distance, low and solemn, the bell sounding three times in total before beginning to echo off into the early night air. By the time the ringing had left her ears, the room was in total silence, and without looking at one another, the nuns began a slow, harmonious chorus in a language Beck didn’t understand.

Once the song began, she knew she was free to wander back into the aisle. She kept her head down, her hands clasped in front of her, and cautiously approached the left side of the chapel where dozens of flickering candles lined the wall. There the abbess stood, rosary wrapped around her aged fingers as they pressed together in prayer. Her eyes were closed, and Beck didn’t want to startle her. The witch lit a candle, mimicked the sign of the cross she saw them make a thousand times, and knelt at the altar beside the feet of the abbess in waiting.

It felt like she knelt there for an hour, struggling to sit still and quiet. Finally the singing stopped, and a gentle hand reached down and squeezed her shoulder.

“What can I do for you, child?” The abbess asked, and even in the silence, Beck scarcely heard her.

“Revered mother, I have come in search of a miracle.” She didn’t look up. Staring into the flames, she summoned tears to her eyes. 

The abbess hummed. “What would you ask of our Blessed Mother?”

Beck didn’t particularly enjoy the song and dance, but she knew the script well. “God’s eyes are so much greater than my own. My sister has gone missing, but I know none of us can stray from the Lord’s gaze. Can he see her? Can he see my sister, Emily?”

The hand on her shoulder squeezed, and raised her head to look into the knowing grey eyes of the abbess.

“Dear child, you must be so tired. Come, we will pray together.” 

Beck accepted the hand up and let the woman lead her out into the halls. There was a gate that separated the private quarters from the public area of the abbey, and she unlocked it with a skeleton key that looked older than the abbess herself. The metal groaned as the gate swung open, and Beck followed closely behind as they crossed the threshold and into the old stone corridors. They were dark, only lit by an occasional lantern hung from an iron hook.

When they came to a room near the end of the hall, the abbess opened the door and led her inside. 

Beck waited until the door shut behind them to speak. “Out of all the people to contact me, I didn’t think it’d be you.”

She could hear the older woman shuffle through the darkness fearlessly, and then the sound of a match being struck, before a vibrant flicker of firelight came to life at the end of the little wooden stick. Abbess Fina transferred the flame to a candle and took a seat at a little wooden table. She unraveled her rosary and pulled off a bead, which she rolled between her fingers until it began to glow. It clicked quietly against the wood of the table, and streams of light shot up into the air, creating a picture.

“New target?” Beck tried not to be irritated by how cagy Fina was being and how long this whole thing was taking. It was why she rarely took jobs directly from headquarters. 

The man in the shimmering picture was pale. His eyes were brown, similar in shade to his hair, from what she could tell, which appeared to have been disappearing for some time. His expression was deathly serious, and it looked like he was holding something. A file, maybe? She couldn’t be sure with the distortion. 

“Your new boss.” Abbess Fina said. She saw the way the younger witch’s jaw clenched and the dark shadow that passed through those blue eyes. “Eleven years ago my people brought you here to this abbey. We hid you for months while you recovered, and when we gave you the choice to run off into the darkness or stay in contact and help us on our mission, do you remember what you did?”

Beck pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I asked you to make a deal with me.”

“I tried to tell you no. Said I didn’t want to extort favors from you in the state you were in.”

“And I told you that you saved me, and if it ever came down to it I would return that favor… at any cost.” Beck didn’t like where this was going.

“Beck, I’m in trouble. We all are. Ever since New York was attacked the humans have been foaming at the bit, looking to punish anything or anyone they don’t understand because they never got to string up the idiot responsible for the whole mess.” Fina said. She looked older than Beck remembered, which was odd for a witch. Eleven years meant nothing to a skilled practitioner like Fina… but stress could kill anything, she supposed.

Beck fished in her pocket for her packet of cigarettes, her noise snarled up a little as she spoke. “Asgardians have been fucking things up since the vikings. Can I smoke in here?” 

A wave of the abbess’ hand and the little window over the barren cot on the far wall flew open. Beck extended the box to Fina first, and the old woman gladly took one and lit it off the candle on the table. Beck followed suit, looking back at the image the bead was still reflecting. 

“So what is this, exactly? And how do I fit into it?”

“The mortals have made up this---organization. They call it SHIELD. It---keeps track of us and-”

“No.” Beck said, her voice taking on an immediate edge.

“Listen to-”

“No.”

“Beck-”

“No!” She wasn’t one to yell, but the venom in that word made it echo around the room. Beck lowered her voice to a whisper again. “Are you out of your mind?! Out of all the witches on Earth you think it’s a good idea to feed me to these fucking wolves? Have you forgotten that my brother is still out there, half mad off sacrificial blood magic and looking for me? You saved me from him, and now you’re going to sell me out to a bunch of suits that will dig into my ugly past. He’ll find out. He’ll kill whoever he needs to, and he will drag me back to Cali and throw me in a hole so deep I’ll never get out.”

“Beck! Listen to me!” The abbess grabbed her hand and pressed it to the table. Her grey eyes blazed with intensity as they locked with Beck’s. “That is not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“SHIELD’s director has made contact with a few of our agents. I wouldn’t call him pleasant to talk to, but he says he doesn’t want any trouble, and for the most part I believe him. He’s well aware that the---sensitivity of the mortals could result in another witch trials and if that happens it won’t just be you that has to fear the wrath of your brother. Or your ex, for that matter.”

Beck put her head in her hands and groaned. It was true. Fenris and Harper both wouldn’t hesitate to go to war with the humans if they started killing witches. The other clans would have no choice but to get involved. It would be a bloodbath---and one she doubted the mortals would win. Witches didn’t fight in mobs of mindless hordes, converging on a single city, fighting out in the open. Cities would burn with no indication of who started the fire. Crops would shrivel no matter how well tended. Assassins would carefully pick off anyone that mattered. Chaos would be carefully cultivated, and when people were at their weakest, then armies would rise. Their only hope would be Asgard stepping in, but they’d be breaching a treaty thousands of years old with the witches. Even if they were willing to do so, it’d likely be too late.

She had a very limited love for mortals, but she loathed war.

“So what does your new friend suggest to stop this impending chaos?”

“Our visions aren’t unaligned, Beck. Director Fury has agreed that it’s best the magical world stay in the shadows where it is. At first he asked us to submit all our agents to this index he has, but I refused. Instead, as a gesture of good faith, I agreed to send him a handful of agents to aid SHIELD in its different departments. No--wait. Before you get upset.” The abbess squeezed her hand, and Beck looked back at her. Concern was writing lines into her tired face. “I made my own witch’s deal. With him. That I would send him aid, send him some of my best people, but with my own files. The deal forbids him from digging any further. Even if he suspects the information on them is nothing but lies. In return for your help, SHIELD will pay you and help protect your identity as best they can. Just like with any other agent. I’m just asking for a couple of jobs, Beck. After that, consider our deal fulfilled. We’ll extract you, and you’ll be free to do as you please.”

“But they’ll have my face.” She said, still not convinced she wasn’t marching off to an early grave. 

“They can’t be any harder to shake than Fenris. And the deal explicitly states they aren’t allowed to track you or listen to you without consent. Please… I don’t have a lot of people I’d trust to be smart enough to swim with these sharks and walk out whole.”

“I want Boda to look at the file.”

Fina nodded. “Of course.”

This wasn’t going to end well for her. But she reached out her hand anyway, and Fina smiled as she shook it.

“Right then. So who is this guy?”

“His name is Harry Pearce. He’s in charge of the anti-terrorism department based out of London, England. He’s expecting you there in seventy-two hours.”

[pluto-art]

Syncytium - Chapter 2 - Ferrum

Title: Syncytium - Chapter 2 - Ferrum Words: 5,707 Rating: T

Fan Fiction link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13712482/2/Syncytium

Full chapter below the cut. I’d recommend the fan fiction version, however, which includes all the italicized words which are not emphasized here.

September 11th, 7:30 AM

Darkness.

A light flicked on. It flickered a moment before settling. A pen sharpened... and subsequently broken. Whoops. A vase with three roses delicately placed right near a picture in frame with four occupants. Perfect.

Pinky clasped his hands together, sighed deeply, and tipped his square rimmed glasses down a little, the better to address his eager pupils.

"Good morning, class! I am Dr. Ronald Pinkus, Professor of Trozology!"

And he wrote upon the blackboard behind him with vigor as he said it, accidentally flipping the 'k' in 'Pinkus'. He turned back towards the crowd.

"But you can call me Pinky! Ha-ha-ha!"

It was a carrying little laugh, bouncing and pinging excitedly off the walls with a lonely echo.

"I'll be your teacher this semester, and that's because, well, I'm the only teacher of this subject!"

He giggled again. No one said anything.

"You'll be instructed on the topics of Poitilism, Narfonics, and, of course, Trozology. Allllllllll grades are final, except, of course, when they're not, in which case... I'll get back to you on that!" said he, chuckling to himself once more. "Now, are there any questions? Anyone? Yes! Nilly."

If Nilly had raised her hand, no one noticed. But, then again, no one seemed to care. Perhaps it was because Nilly had no hands to raise in the first place. Perhaps this was because Nilly was actually a sack of flour. Or perhaps it was because all the "students" were made up of things like an empty bottle of soda, a bag of corn chips, two toilet paper rolls stacked one on top of the other, and a plunger. Whatever the reason, only Pinky seemed to have recognized Nilly and her very silent question. He didn't seem to mind, however. On the contrary, he positively beamed, acknowledging his pitiful excuse for a pupil-laden classroom as if they were real mice, voles, hamsters, and shrews hanging onto his every word like campfire kids to a spooky story.

"Well, I'm glad you asked that, Nilly, because I happen to be verrrrry versed in the subject!" Pinky snickered, eyes half-lidded as he picked imaginary dirt from his fingers, looking in the direction of his students with a very devious smirk indeed.

Several doors down and around a corner, in the middle of a long hallway, a locker was being absolutely mutilated. Books, pencils, various household tools, and a half-eaten burrito wrapped in tin foil were carelessly tossed onto the floor, its aggressor in a state of pure panic.

"Ohhhhh, shoot. Where are they?!" Gadget growled, hair a little unkempt as she flung a notebook over her shoulder, almost hitting a passerby in the process.

"Hey! Watch it!" the boy mouse shrieked, dodging out of the path of the wayward notebook just in time.

Gadget didn't even seem to notice as she continued to tear through her locker, muttering angrily to herself as she threw a pencil case onto the floor. It burst open. One of the pencils popped out, rolling all the way across from the locker and underneath the door of room three-nineteen. On and on the little chartreuse pencil rolled, finally coming to rest with a soft 'plink' against Dr. Globetrotter's desk. His ear twitched at the sound and his head peered around the side of the desk at its source. There sat a thin, yellow pencil. He picked it up, frowning, and set it down on a far side of his desk.

"As I was saying," Globetrotter rang, clearing his throat, but he'd barely reached out for his mug of steaming hot coffee before the class was interrupted yet again, this time by a very haphazard-looking and goggle-less Gadget.

"Sorry I'm late," she mumbled, head down and gaze firmly directed at the floor as she shuffled past a barrage of staring eyes to plop into her seat between Maisy and Tillie. Gadget shut her eyes tight. She, along with everyone else in the room, knew what was coming, and they all held their breath in anticipation.

The unpleasant echo throughout the room was palpable as Globetrotter set down his mug, glaring.

"Oh, well, I suppose we all can just excuse Miss Gadget here from arriving two minutes past our start time. Obviously, she has more important things to do than be punctual. I guess my precious hours of time spent preparing for this class that will help all of you get a proper education simply don't matter in light of one tardily-inclined, mucilage-chewing student forgetting their pack of lime-flavored gum right before 7:30, is that right?"

Sarcasm dripped like venom from every syllable, causing Gadget to shrink ever lower in her seat. Somewhere in the class, journal boy jotted down "tardily-inclined" and "mucilage-chewing" under the ever-growing list of Globetrotter insults. Maisy glared at their teacher, but, like every other student, she didn't dare say anything. To retort meant a week's worth of detention, and they all knew that it was better to bite the bullet now than suffer the consequences for a harsh retort later.

"It's not like I spend all night grading your measly excuses for a thesis, carefully combing every paragraph for even a sliver of intelligence, while you're at home watching reruns of Dukes of Hazard..."

On and on it went, ironically cutting into his so-called "precious time" to teach. On and on he rolled, all the way up until 7:55 AM. The only good thing about it was that it was twenty-five minutes they didn't have to spend studying. Some had taken to drawing little sketches in their notebooks, others took the opportunity to sneak in a snack or two, and Tillie was full-on knitting.

Finally, he reached the end of his spiel. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Now... Seeing as that's hopefully enlarged your minds a little, please turn to page eighty-seven of your textbooks, as we delve into the absolutely incredible topic of Meiosis."

"'Incredible', my arse," Maisy muttered. "Couldn't find your goggles, huh?"

Gadget shook her head, too embarrassed to give a verbal reply.

"Oh, leave her alone. We've forgotten our fair share of trinkets before," Tillie whispered, putting away her knitting. "What are you so upset about? I thought you had hearts for Globetrotter."

Maisy didn't reply, but shot another scathing glare at Globetrotter as she pulled out her textbook.

"Trusting that we won't have any more interruptions," bit their teacher, shooting a look at Gadget as he said it, "I'd like you all to turn your attention to..."

Bang.

Everyone jumped, including Globetrotter. He turned behind him to stare at the wall. What...?

"A-As I was saying, please direct your attention to..."

BANG.

Nobody jumped this time, but Globetrotter once more turned sharply 'round to inspect the wall. The heck?

A few seconds passed. Nothing. Perhaps someone was just doing maintenance... in the unused classroom?

"Kindly direct your atten-"

BANG!

"Graaaaaaaaahhhh!" Globetrotter growled, storming out of the classroom and followed by a host of eyes watching him go. Gadget cautiously sat up in her chair as he went.

Down the hallways he trundled, shoulders hunched, every footstep a declaration of annoyance as he made for door two-ten, pushing aside the occasional student or teacher who dared cross his path. It was fortunate the door was a little ajar, for he kicked it open with such force that it flew open, BANGED against the wall, and reverberated so heavily that it shook the walls. Had it been closed the door handle probably would have broken along with it.

"What in CURIE'S name are you DOING?!" the angry little mouse shouted, smoke practically steaming off of him as he fumed, his fiery gaze trained squarely at the tall, lanky mouse in front of him.

Pinky was in mid-swing, one leg raised high up in the air as his paws clutched firmly around a wooden baseball bat. He was dressed in full baseball attire, and his classroom had been very primitively set up to resemble a sandlot of sorts, each of his "students" serving as the players. Globetrotter's explosion had thrown him off only a smidgen. If anything, Pinky beamed and waved at the newcomer.

"Mr. Globetrotter! You're just in time for the home run! Or... you would have been if you hadn't thrown me off just now," he giggled.

"Would you kindly explain why you're using your room as a sports arena?!" Globetrotter snapped.

"Oh! Well, Nilly here wanted to know if I was well-versed in the thrilling art of baseball, and I couldn't turn that one down 'cause, you know, I am. Hmhm!"

Globetrotter turned to look at this "Nilly", arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently.

"That's a sack of flour," he retorted, unimpressed.

Pinky gasped.

"How rude! He didn't mean it, Nilly. Did you, Brain? Say you're sorry to Nilly!"

"It's Brian, and I am not apologizing to an inanimate object! And I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from playing baseball in a classroom! Don't you realize you're disturbing the peace - upsetting my students and keeping me from my work?"

"Ohhhhhhhhh. Is your classroom on the other side of that wall?"

"Yes."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Got it, Brain! We'll play baseball later, shall we?"

"You shall."

And with that, he stormed off... right into Olivia, in fact, who was in full delivery mode. The force of their impact knocked her backwards onto the floor.

"Ah! My letter!" she screeched, reaching for a little yellow note that had slipped out of her hands.

"Hmph," Globetrotter muttered, completely ignoring her as he trudged back to his classroom.

Olivia watched him go, reeling back a little at the slam of a door five seconds later.

"Ooo. Too angry. Too angry," she mumbled to herself, sprinting up to classroom two-ten and peering inside.

Pinky was now hard at work not playing baseball. All the chairs, tables, and "students" were being reshuffled to resemble a normal classroom again, the big television in the back rolled up to the front behind the main desk to serve as a new source of entertainment.

"Sorry, class. Baseball is canceled for the moment," apologized Pinky, hooking up the tv as Olivia tip-toed into the classroom and carefully shut the door behind her. "Oh well. That's why I brought my Honeymooners tapes, "he exclaimed, whipping out the tapes from the stand's shelf in a flourish. He was just about to pop one in when a light cough caught his attention. He turned around. There was Olivia smiling at him.

"Oh! Hello, Olivia!"

"Hello, Mr. Pinky," she said, a little shyly this time. "I've got something for you."

"Another letter?" he asked, taking it from her and reading:

Dear Mr. Pinkus,

I must regret to inform you that baseball or sports of any kind are not allowed in the hallways and classrooms. While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I also appreciate my job, and I can't very well keep it when there's a home run going on a few doors down. This is for your own sake. I do hope this reaches you before Globetrotter does...

Sincerely, Mrs. Judson

"I think baseball in the school is a wonderful idea," Olivia piped up as Pinky read the letter, his ears lowering a little as he went over each word. "I heard we used to have a field, but... they got rid of that years ago." Her own little ears, round and pink, drooped at this. Pinky thought a moment.

"Well... perhaps we could make a petition?"

"Petition?"

"Certainly!" said he, setting down his tapes for a moment. "We could write up a letter saying we'd like a baseball stadium back on the lot, and if we get enough signatures..."

"We'll get one!" Olivia gasped, tiny hands tucking up against her chest in excitement.

"Well, maybe. It still has to pass the board of directors now, don't it?"

"We'll get a lot of signatures then. You get the form, and I'll get people to sign it!"

Pinky smiled.

"You've got yourself a petition there, Missy! I'll draw one up tonight!"

"Good good!" Olivia exclaimed, bouncing up and down, tam-o'-shanter bouncing this way and that. "So what do you teach?"

"Oh, a little of this. A little of that," Pinky said, dodging the question. "Do you like The Honeymooners?"

"The Honeywho?" she asked, shuffling about his desk and picking up one of the bunsen burners to peer into it with a curious eye.

"Now don't tell me you've never heard of one of the best television shows of all time!"

"Not really. I don't watch a lot of tv."

But whatever Pinky said next in response to this she didn't catch, for she had just discovered his notepad, and of the number of colorful stickers coating it, one in particular stood out to her. She gasped again.

"Is that a radish rose whatchamawhoozit?!"

Pinky was caught off guard. He stopped mid-sentence, stared at her, and slammed his hands down on the table, making her jump.

"You know what a radish rose whatchamawhoozit is?!"

"Look!" Olivia said, sweeping off her tammie, the better to see her fluffy ears. Hanging from each ear was a small earring, both shaped like radish rose whatchamawhoozits. "My mum used to use them for parties! I always liked them."

Pinky went wide-eyed.

"My mum did, too! You know... you're the first mouse I've met who knows what that is."

"I'm surprised most people don't know what that is!" Olivia giggled.

"Me too!" Pinky chuckled back, eyes a little misty.

For a moment they just stood there, smiling at one another, two radish rose whatchamawhoozit buddies meeting for the first time. There was something very comforting about it.

The slow tick, tick, tick of a wall clock nearby brought Olivia back to Earth, and she stepped back shyly.

"I... probably should go," she said, smiling. "She's probably waiting for me."

Pinky's face fell.

"We-.. uhh... would you like to stay for just a minute longer?"

"Sorry, but I really do have to go," replied Olivia regretfully, looking very much as if she didn't want to.

"Umm... what else do you like to do that's... not watching tv?"

"Well... umm... I do like to sing."

Pinky beamed, dug in his box, and pulled out a microphone attached to a small radio-looking device.

"Do you like karaoke?"

Olivia beamed.

Several doors down and one wall over, Globetrotter had everyone in a stupor. Gadget could barely keep her eyes open, one of the boys had taken to drawing circles over and over again in his notebook, and Maisy's brother was actually snoring. Perhaps Globetrotter would have cared if he hadn't been so engrossed in the exciting subject of Meoisis, one hand clasped firmly around a nearly-drained cup of coffee, the other brandishing a thick ruler at the blackboard behind him.

"The initial metaphase takes place when the homologous pairs travel along the metaphase plate. Kinetochore microtubles from the spindle poles attach to the-"

He stopped. His ears twitched. Some of the students lifted their heads, shifting in their seats. A distant sound of singing could be heard, just beyond the wall. Globetrotter frowned.

"Um. The microtubles attach directly to-"

It was soft at first, then it grew - louder, louder, louder. Pinky and Olivia's singing had escalated from a light hum to a crescendo and climbed all the way to the top in a full on opera. The student with the journal counted down on his fingers to his friend: three, two, one...

SNAP!

Right on cue, Globetrotter applied so much anger... or... pressure, rather, to his ruler that it snapped clean in half. Journal boy made a mark in his book: t'was the fourth one snapped this semester, apparently.

For the second time that morning, Globetrotter stomped out of his classroom, although this time he was followed, not by one student, not by two, but almost the entire class, albeit tepidly. Although he probably wouldn't notice them, considering the state he was in, caution was still advised... at least to a degree. Ronald Pinkus was in for it big time and they couldn't afford to miss this. They'd heard the rumors: that when Mr. B. got this flustered he'd actually physically vibrate, lose all mastery of the English language, and sometimes even spout intense poetry at the accuser. It was one of the only exciting things that happened in his classes and they sure as heck weren't going to pass up the opportunity when it presented itself.

Science room three-nineteen's teacher had barely managed four steps out the door, however, when he was approached by a tall lady mouse in a green dress. All the students moved back a pace, retreating into the classroom.

"Ah! Mr. Globetrotter. I was just coming to remind you that the teacher's conference is this weekend at 5:00 PM."

"Yes, Ms. Weatherby. I'll be there," he scratched, barely containing himself.

Ms. Weatherby stepped away, not the least bit perturbed, whether due to pure naivety or a lack of concern none could tell.

She was barely two feet away when Globetrotter continued his trek, down the hall and around a corner. His students followed at a careful pace. He'd just turned the corner when a boy vole with glasses knocked into him, his homework flying everywhere.

"M-Mr. B! I-I mean, Mr. Globetrotter!" he stammered, shaking from head to tail.

"What is it?!" Globetrotter growled, impatience growing by the millisecond.

"I-I-I just wanted to ask about the upcoming assignment. Is there any way I could turn mine in just... a day late? M-My mother is sick in the hospital, you see, and-"

But he was abruptly cut off as Globetrotter shoved him aside with a sharp, "NO!" to boot.

"O-Or I can just turn it in on time then! N-No biggie! Eheh...!" the vole stuttered, clutching the few remaining papers to his chest ever so tightly and quickly picking up the rest before running off. He jumped as he almost ran into Globetrotter's entire class. Gadget reached out a hand towards him, as if to apologize on Globetrotter's behalf, but Maisy stilled her with a shake of the head and a clutch of the paw. They tip-toed on.

Globetrotter was almost at door two-ten when plump Mrs. Judson came flying down the hallway.

"Globetrotter! Don't you even think about touching that door!"

The little mouse grumbled.

"I have EVERY RIGHT to open that door!" he shouted, already trembling. A couple of the boys in the crowd started bouncing up and down excitedly. This was just getting better and better. They might actually get a full show!

"You don't know what that poor boy's been through. He might be a complete boob, but you leave him alone! Let me talk to him," Mrs. Judson spouted, paws on her hips as she went face-to-face with Globetrotter.

"Mrs. Judson," Globetrotter replied, full on vibrating now, "If you don't get out of my way, I swear I'll report you to the principle for unlawful involvement in a teacher's affairs!"

"Hmph! 'Unlawful involvement.' There's no such thing."

"Oh, isn't there? I can MAKE it a thing! And," he added, voice low and threatening, "I'll tell them about Marley."

Mrs. Judson went wide-eyed.

"You wouldn't dare."

"I would," Globetrotter seethed.

With brows furrowed and lips tense, she turned in a flourish and marched off, shooting his class a harsh glare as she rounded a corner, shaking her head at them.

"You watch your step," she hissed.

Some of them exchanged worried glances. It was incredible Globetrotter hadn't even noticed the crowd following him; so enslaved by anger was he. It was almost impressive. The entire group collectively held their breath as their teacher, fuming, flung open the door.

"WHAT THE BLAZES ARE YOU-"

But at this, he stopped, for what met Globetrotter's eyes rendered him speechless.

"Aaaaaaand wwwwwwwelcome to the show!"

The room was unrecognizable. A sparkling blue floor complemented an equally sparkling purple stadium decorated with red velvet curtains, all so dazzling that Globetrotter had to rub at his eyes to stop himself from going blind. The entire place looked like a game show one might see on tv - Wheel of Fortune or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Energetic, happy-go-lucky music blared on a little radio in a corner, completing the effect, and a seemingly disembodied voice, all flamboyant and hospitable, dominated the scene.

"Come on in! Take a seat!" remarked the voice, which turned out to be Pinky's as he scooted Globetrotter into the room and onto a chair right next to Olivia, who waved at him.

"That's my new teacher!" she whispered excitedly to him, pointing at Pinky, who was fully decked out in a purple suit and bow tie. Globetrotter sputtered.

"Now, h-h-hold on! I need to tell you-"

"Why, yes. You do need to tell me your name, good Sir!" interrupted Pinky, holding up a microphone right in front of Globetrotter's face. "And you are?"

"I... ma... puh... G-Globetrotter, b-but that-"

"Ladies and gentleman, give it up for GLOOOOOOBETROTTER!"

An invisible crowd cheered. Olivia clapped.

"And your name, young lady?"

"Olivia!"

"OLIVIA!"

More clapping.

By this time, all of Globetrotter's class was pressed up against two-ten's door, eagerly peering in at the activity with wide, bugged out eyes.

"Now, folks, you know we just completed the singing competition, with an outstanding performance by little miss Olivia."

The invisible crowd cheered again, and Olivia blushed.

"But now it's time for the moment you've all been waiting for! Drum-roll, please," requested Pinky, and right on cue... there came a thundering drum-roll.

The entire class was now shuffling into the room, taking spots at the back that had actually been set up for a proper crowd. They filled every seat.

"TUUUUUURBULENT TRIVIAAAAAAA!"

Clapping and cheering from the invisible crowd on... the radio? another dimension? ... was now mixed in with actual applause from Globetrotter's class. He turned to stare at them, flabbergasted. He had an actual audience?! How embarrassing...

Two pedestals, each with a big red button in their centers, rose up out of the floor to rest in front of Globetrotter and Olivia.

"Now, you all know the rules!" Pinky continued, gesturing to a giant board behind him that was laden with a plethora of different topics. "Our contestant with the most points picks a topic, and both try to answer it! Whoever gets the most points at the end of the show wins!"

And he jumped up and down at this, Olivia mirroring him as she bounced around in her seat. Globetrotter was silent. He wouldn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Every time he opened his mouth to voice his complaints, no sound came out, as if he was so caught off guard by the affair that he simply didn't know how to react. And rightly so. He simply had no words for this.

"Olivia! You're up first, my dear, so pick a subject!"

Olivia stood up in her seat, thought for a moment, then pointed at one of the topics.

"Ummm... I pick... Science!"

"Science it is! And heeeeeere's your question!"

And the little box marked 'SCIENCE' flipped over to reveal a small paragraph, which Pinky read out:

The first known telescope was submitted as a patent to the Netherlands government in 1609 by which spectacle maker?

Someone slammed down on their red button.

"Yeeeeeeeeeees?" Pinky questioned, sporting a wide, toothy grin.

Surprisingly, it was Globetrotter who answered. He actually was standing up out of his seat, looking mad as a hare.

"That's preposterous! It was patented in 1608, not '09, and the answer is Hans Lippershey!"

"CORRECT!"

Ding ding ding ding ding! went Globetrotter's big red button, as it flashed on and off a luminous green color. He sat down almost shyly in his seat, as if surprised he'd found himself out of it, as his entire class clapped and cheered. He turned to look at them with an expression of absolute surprise.

"Congratulations! You've just earned ten points! But Olivia is still in the lead with thirty. What's your next topic, Olivia?" Pinky asked, an open hand gesturing to the board.

"Ummmm... music!" she piped.

"You got it!" Pinky exclaimed, as the next little box labeled 'MUSIC' flipped over. Once again, Pinky read aloud:

Who composed this famous piece?

And a deep, booming tune played loud and clear throughout the room. Olivia slammed down on her button.

"Go ahead, Olivia!"

"Mozart!" she shouted out, but...

EHNG!

Wrong!

"Ohhhh. I'm so sorry, Olivia! But it's not Mozart! Do we have any other takers? Anyone?"

Globetrotter's button rang again, albeit with a bit more hesitance this time.

"Globetrotter!" Pinky shouted.

"That's obviously Beethoven," Globetrotter muttered, arms crossed indignantly.

"CORRECT!"

Ding ding ding ding ding! rang the little button again as ten more points went up on Globetrotter's side of the scoreboard. The crowd went wild. Some of his students had actually gotten popcorn from... somewhere, and looked as though they were having the time of their lives.

"Go, Mr. B!" some shouted out, and, "Trotter! Trotter!" others cheered. "You can do it!" one gal said. Globetrotter's ears perked up a touch. They were actually... supporting him?

"Oooooo. Globetrotter's giving you a run for your money, Olivia! Better pick a good one!" Pinky egged on.

"Hmm. I piiiiiiiick... mathematics!" she shouted, standing in her seat, two pink paws set firmly on the pedestal in front of her.

"Let's see that math question!" rolled Pinky, pointing at a box with 'MATH' written on it in big, bold letters, and reading out:

The square root of 6,428 is...

Before Pinky could even list out the options, Globetrotter's red button was punched.

"80.1748090113!"

"CORRECT!" Pinky yelled, and the crowd exploded. He was now tied with Olivia!

Globetrotter actually went slightly pink in the face as his class whooped and hollered and cheered him on. He almost dared to smile a little. This was... actually... kinda fun...?

"Aaaaaaand now! For the FINAL question! This one... is a TIE BREAKER," Pinky exclaimed dramatically. At this, all the lights dimmed at once, with spotlights thrown on Globetrotter and Olivia only. "Since you both have thirty points each, I'll be picking the question," Pinky continued. "Whoever gets this one right... is the ultimate winner."

The music boomed just as dramatically. Globetrotter actually swallowed thickly. The crowd went silent.

"Here... is your final question, in 'Entertainment'," said Pinky, and he read out:

Which character in The Honeymooners was known for his catchphrase, "Bang, zoom, right to the moon!"

Globetrotter began to sweat, not because he was oblivious, even though it was common knowledge that he rarely watched tv, but because he was embarrassed that he knew the answer. He had to answer, though. Surely, the kid wouldn't know. Would she...? And yet...

SLAM! went Olivia's paw onto bright red button. No way.

"Olivia?" Pinky asked, all ears.

"Mary Poppins!" she rang out.

ENGH! went her button.

"Ohhhhhh. I'm sorry, but that's not the right answer! Globetrotter?"

He was sweating all the more now. He'd surely be teased forever for this, but he couldn't not answer a question he knew the response to...

"Globetrotter? Ten seconds!" Pinky countered.

"Come on, Trotter!" one of his students shouted.

"Yeah, you can do it, Mr. B! Come on!"

And more shouts... and more... and more built up, until finally...

SLAM! went Globetrotter's paw on the big red button.

"Yeeeeeeeeees?" asked Pinky.

"R-Ralph Kramden!" Globetrotter shouted out, eyes tightly closed.

A pause. And then...

"CORRECT! GLOBETROTTER WINS!"

The din was deafening. Balloons and confetti actually fell from the sky as the lights went up all around Globetrotter, Olivia, Pinky, and the entire class as triumphant music was played. Olivia was jumping up and down, actually hugging Globetrotter, not at all perturbed that she'd lost, as the crowd poured out from their seats to congratulate their teacher. Globetrotter was completely stiff. How the heck was he supposed to react to this?

"Congraaaaaaaatulations, Globetrotter! Let's see what you've won!"

There were no show girls, so Pinky himself had to run off-set, grab a selection of items, and fly back onto the stage in front of Globetrotter.

"You win: an orange juicerator, a block of Worcestershire cheese, and a week's supply of paperclips!"

All these he dumped into Globetrotter's hands. Everyone clapped and cheered, and the celebration might have gone on forever had the bell not rung.

"Oh! That's the bell! Time to go, everyone!" Pinky directed, and they all filed out of the classroom, Globetrotter and all, Pinky bringing up the rear. He was still in his purple outfit. "Everybody go on to your next class! Go on! Thanks for playing!" he said, spending an extra second or two to thank Olivia for being such a good sport and handing her a bag of chips. She beamed, thanked him, and skipped off, crunching on them happily. Globetrotter remained, the only participant who hadn't quite taken it all in.

"What... just happened?" he asked, turning to stare at Pinky, his bulky prizes still clasped in his arms.

"You'd better get back to your room, Brain! Your next class is about to start!" was all that Pinky said as he gently pushed him forward, ducked back into his classroom, and shut the door behind him.

Globetrotter just stood there for a moment, staring at door two-ten, before looking down at the batch of prizes he was still holding. Without a word, he slowly, almost drunkenly, meandered back to his classroom. With some difficulty, he opened the door, set down his newfound possessions upon his desk, and breathed in and out, slowly, deeply...

What... had just happened? Never in his life had he ever experience anything like that, not in this school, not in public, not... anywhere, for that matter. It was a time-waster. It was ridiculous. It was... fun? He hated to admit that to himself: that somewhere, deep down, he'd managed to enjoy something so asinine. And yet...

He took a minute to go through each of the "prizes". An orange... juicerator, it was called? It was a portly thing, about half the length of his forearm, and sporting a curved spout that looked a bit like a faucet. How pointless. Unlikely he'd ever find a use for such an item. He'd never even heard of the thing until now. He tossed it in an unused drawer. The second was a block of Worcestershire cheese. That wasn't... all bad. He quite liked this type. In fact, it was his favorite. How did that bumbling idiot know that? Last of all was the "week's supply of paperclips". Handy, he supposed. Nothing wrong with some extra tools for one's classroom. These he put in a top drawer that was visited much more frequently.

He sighed again and stuck his hands in his back pockets. Something crinkled against his right paw... Huh?

He pulled out a note.

Thanks for playing with us! You have a lovely smile. - Pinky

Globetrotter blinked, taken aback, and was caught off guard at a sharp knock on his door. He tossed the note in the trash.

"C-Come in!" he stammered.

It was two of his students: journal boy and his friend.

"Sorry, Mr. B! We forgot our backpacks!" journal boy said, as the two mice ran to grab their packs. But as they headed back towards the door, they stopped. "By the way, um... congratulations, Mr. B!"

"Yeah, that was awesome!" his friend exclaimed.

And with that, they exited the room, closing the door behind them.

Globetrotter stood rooted to the spot. He'd surely die from all these positive comments. Never had he received so many before; at least, not under this roof. He peered into the trash can, paused a moment, then extracted the little note from it. He read it again:

Thanks for playing with us! You have a lovely smile. - Pinky

He settled on those last words again, for they stuck out to him.

You have a lovely smile.

And for a moment, though no one could see him, though no one was watching, he held the little note close to his chest, closed his eyes... and smiled.

-----------------------------

Author's Notes:

- Ferrum is the Latin term for Iron (Fe), which is sometimes found in paperclips.

- The nickname "Mr. B." is actually an obscure reference to another fandom I'm in. If you want the full story, message me. Heh.

- Globetrotter's reaction to Gadget being late was inspired by a friend's story in which one of her actual teachers would respond in a similarly harsh fashion to late students.

- Yes, Olivia's radish earrings are absolutely a reference to Luna Lovegood's equally unusual earrings.

- All of the information about meiosis I got directly from Wikipedia.

- The game show part of this story was my favorite part to write. Originally, I was going to have the whole thing be a lot more low-key, but this is technically a cartoon world, after all, so I figured... why not go all out?

- I finished this at 1:35 AM last night, two days after a surgery and while in pain. I have no regrets.

[house-of-mirrors]

Today I bring you more song lyrics. I was recommended “Weaver Of Fate” by Brothers Of Metal. All my friends know my music taste so well. Anyway, a sampling of verses (Source: AZ Lyrics):

Clear as the sky On a midwinter's night And deep as the stormy sea I hear a whisper inside A hunger devouring me I beseech you, my heart, to be free Farther away Than the night from the day I reach for your true embrace Shadow of mine Memories fail through the veil of my mind Here at the end of our time

Shrouded in doubt As I leave for the shore Though cold and unkind The horizon calls Way, way, wayward waves I will follow you home And vanish into the unknown

[drowning-in-dennor]

A Washed-Up Fool

Many an interesting thing washes up on the beach, brought to the land by the wayward waves of water and fate. Whether the sea brings in a shell, a piece of driftwood or a girl with lessons on how to truly live, it cannot be denied that much can be learned from these aquatic deliveries.

[Warning: This is nine thousand words long so buckle up folks] [This work contains mentions of blood, as well as slight violence.]

  The sea’s radiance hurts her eyes.

  Off the waves, which bob and roll with the breeze, fading sunlight glows, glimmering like tiny sparks upon their watery blanket. Kiara looks away from them, but green spots still bounce around in her vision. She tries to blink them away.

  Against the shore the waves roar, a dull whooshing sound with every ebb and flow, leaving white foam fading on golden sand. It echoes, over and over again, in her head. With a grimace, she tries to drown the noise, if drowning water were possible. The attempt fails. Kiara grits her teeth and walks faster, determined to escape the sound of rushing water as soon as possible. If not for the factory yielding a decent pay, she would’ve moved somewhere quieter far sooner.

  But a few paces from her house, the sound of the waves but a dull nagging in her mind, someone begins to sing.

  It’s the pointless sort of song, the type that repeats over and over again with no indication to where it will end. It is soaring, trilling, like the warbling of a bird at the most inconvenient of times. Kiara’s ears almost ache at the sound; after eleven hours in a factory surrounded by low, whirring machines, the song cuts through the still-present white noise in her head like a hot knife through butter.

  She ponders on whether she should turn back and ask the singer to stop before they become more of an annoyance than they are already being, but then Kiara looks at the sky, steadily darkening with every nonsensical verse that comes from the beach, and decides to just leave it be. When she finally reaches home, slamming the door shut and closing all her windows, she sighs. The song, as idiotic as it is, keeps repeating in her head. Kiara pinches herself to try and shut herself up. 

  While cleaning the living room, Kiara sweeps sand out from between the floorboards, opening the door and depositing them onto the ground outside. Her shoes, worn-out from walking to and from the factory every day for three years, never fail to track sand into her house. She sets down her broom after her floor is clean and grabs her shoes, sweeping the sand off their soles and shaking the cloth out her door. It seems the ocean follows her everywhere.

  Dinner is, as usual, a simple affair; the rough rye bread and blandly-cooked array of carrots, potatoes and fish are no strangers to Kiara. She finishes her meal quickly, rinsing her plates with water, drying them off and pushing them into her plain cupboard. The evening is, as usual, unremarkable. 

  Almost immediately after dinner Kiara changes into her plain nightclothes, walking upstairs on stairs with dull floorboards. She looks out the window, at the distant sea, which now looks like an inky swatch of silk in the darkness of the night. The curtains slide shut, leaving only Kiara’s lantern as the only source of light.

  Clothes for the next day are laid out on the bedside table. Kiara folds up her day dress, untangles the laces on her corset, shakes out the sleeves of her cardigan. Then she extinguishes her lantern, plunging the room into darkness, and crawls into bed.

  As her eyes close, the sound of the sea floods her.

  The next morning, Kiara’s alarm-clock slaps her awake at five in the morning with its shrill, tinny cry. She turns it off, yawning, and slides out of bed. The sun is just starting to rise, weak rays of warm gold reaching in from between the curtains. 

  Fully dressed, Kiara slips on her shoes and walks downstairs, her worn heels clicking dully against the steps. A slice of last night’s loaf of bread serves as her breakfast as she leaves the house and walks to the factory. Barely anyone is out on the streets at such an hour, when the sun has just begun to breach the horizon with its golden glow, and all is quiet. Kiara treads quickly, chewing on her bread, and sweeps past a few passed-out drunkards sleeping on the streets, past a few dogs curled up on the cobblestone. On the other side of the street, where stone fades to sand, the waves lap at the shore. 

  Thankfully, there is nobody singing in the morning, no irritating noises to grate on nerves that are already frayed from an early waking. The walk to the factory does not take long, and soon Kiara is surrounded by the familiar, almost soothing noises of machinery. She reaches her station, dispels all thoughts of the sea and of songs from her mind, and begins to work.

  She runs home once the day is done, ignoring how unbecoming she must look, letting the sound of her shoes pounding against the path and her rapidly-pounding heart surpass any other. When Kiara reaches her house, she is gasping. A stitch is in her side. 

  She repeats the routine of the former evening. The assortment of clothing that she lays out on her bedside table before she goes to bed is almost identical with her morning ensemble. Kiara winds up her wretched alarm clock to wake her exactly seven and a half hours later, turns out her sheets, snuffs out her lantern and sleeps.

  The morning is the same. So is her breakfast, and her trek to the factory. By lunch, when she goes to the same vendor and buys the same pastry, her eyes are strained from operating the loom. Kiara looks to the sea; little people are there save for a few fishermen preparing to sail. The obnoxious singer from two nights before is thankfully not among them.

  The afternoon sees six more gruelling hours on the loom, but she takes the burden. Once she returns home, she will have dinner, and sleep will replenish what energy she has lost. When the long workday is over, Kiara pushes her hat onto her head and trudges her way home.

  To her utter dismay, somebody is singing again.

  For the second time, her ears protest at the sounds, and she doubts she can handle a third. Looking around her, squinting at the glare of the setting sun, Kiara finally finds the person oh-so inconsiderately causing the ruckus, who is perched nonchalantly on a rock. Kiara rubs her temples and approaches them.

  Nearing them, Kiara realises that they are female. She leans back, relaxed and rejoicing, her porcelain hands clutching the rough-hewn stone, creamy unstockinged legs crossed at the ankle and half-dipping into the water. The waves lap at her feet, beads of water glinting on impeccable skin like tiny crystals. 

  She tosses her head back and down bounce glossy ringlets so well-groomed they look as though shaved from varnished wood; they fall in front of azure eyes so wide and happy they seem to reflect all the sky and sea. Her lips are stretched into a smile as slight and sweet as the branch of a quince tree, pouring out some inane little ditty that could be calling out to the seagulls soaring above the beach. 

  And her voice, soaring and surreal, is the low murmur of rain, the deep sigh of a coastal wind, decadent and sweet at the same time; if one were to drink the world’s richest wine and eat the darkest chocolate while walking past gently babbling waves, then somehow turn that to sound, that would be her voice.

  Kiara reaches the rock, where the girl is still singing. She raps her knuckles on it, clearing her throat. “Excuse me.”

  The girl looks down, her song wavering slightly. Kiara raises her voice. “Excuse me,” she repeats.

  She stops singing, and in place of words is a lazy smile. 

  “Your singing is a disturbance,” Kiara says. She ought to be more polite, surely, but the song has grated away at what little niceties she had remaining. “I ask you to stop, please, for the good of everyone around you.”

  She speaks.

  “Oh, but I cannot help it.” Even in speech, the girl sounds as though she is singing, her voice deep, melodious and elegant. “The ocean is singing, see, and it longs for accompaniment. And it’d be a shame to not take the chance to sing a duet with the ocean.”

  The girl is probably mad, an undiscovered escapee of an asylum. Or perhaps she is a poet — arguably, that is worse. If she is a poet, or a writer, or any of those other literary types, she will keep Kiara here and blabber on about metaphors and symbolism. She will never be able to escape her.

  “Your singing is not a duet with the ocean.” Kiara looks at the girl’s smiling face, gazes upon the strong, yet delicate hands that have surely not worked a day in their life. “It’s a nuisance and an annoyance, and I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped.”

  “But can’t you hear it?” The girl gestures to the ocean. “Can’t you hear the song that the ocean sings? That can’t be a nuisance. It could only make you wish to sing along, to run into the ocean and feel the cool water around your feet.”

  Kiara sighs. “The ocean is not singing. The ocean cannot sing. And just because you can does not mean you should.”

  The girl tilts her head, and another shiny, oak-dark lock of hair falls into her eyes. “I see. I thought you might like some music to listen to while walking home, that’s all.”

  “What’s your name?” Perhaps she can report this raving lunatic to the police station tomorrow morning.

  “My name now, you mean?” She picks at her dress. It is beautiful, striped pink-and-white with lacy blue bows sewn along the hem. She has made the scandalous decision to not wear a crinoline. Kiara pinches herself. She must not forget the girl’s name. “My name now is Lilje.”

  “Your name now?” Kiara repeats incredulously. “What do you mean? Will your name change when the sun goes down, and change again when it rises? What are your names then?”

  The smile on Lilje’s face wavers slightly. “I will not tell you my names from other times. You know my current name, yet I still do not know yours. Is that not enough?”

  “It is enough.” She forces herself to twist her lips in a semblance of a placating half-smile. “I’m sorry for pressing, and now I will leave. And if you must know, my name is Kiara.” A wave splashes the shore, and she darts backwards to avoid it. On the contrary, Lilje allows it to wet her feet and her gown without a care in the world. “Have a good evening, Lilje.”

  “Likewise.” Her full, bright smile returns. “I hope to see you again.”

  “I do not,” Kiara mutters as she turns away. Her hat is precariously close to flying off her head, for it has been fighting the good fight against persistent seaside winds the entire conversation. She will have to get herself a new hatpin soon. She can hear Lilje humming quietly even as she steps back onto the road. At least she is not so loud now.

…

  While eating her usual dinner, Kiara’s mind wanders back to Lilje. She is so different from all the other ladies she knows from work. She lets her long hair fly free in the wind, her gown is shorter than what is deemed acceptable by most and she does not even wear a shawl to cover her bare arms. Anyone would think her peculiar, to say the least.

 Her teeth bite down on something hard. With a jolt, she realises she has been chewing on her fork. Her plate has been long-emptied. 

  Kiara sets her fork down and carries her plate to the washbasin to clean it. She winces slightly at the still-hot water, rinsing her cutlery with her bar of soap quickly. Though her washing-up could not have taken more than five minutes, her hands are red when she wipes them dry. 

  Before she goes to get ready for bed, she takes her wash bucket outside and throws the soapy water within it onto the stones. Kiara carries it to the well in the city centre. Nobody is there, fortunately; she has hardly any energy left to have a conversation. She pumps water into the basin, standing a good distance away to keep her dress from getting wet. While the basin is being filled, she looks around. Apart from a few night-workers trudging home, the street is empty.

  Ever-present, the rolling waves are the only sound she can hear. Her street tapers off into the beach, and not a day goes by when the cobblestone is not half-covered with sand. Perhaps she should have moved out of her seaside house long ago.

  The basin is still not full. Kiara keeps looking. The tide is high, and the water threatens to splash onto the streets. The rock Lilje was sitting on is almost entirely covered. The girl is nowhere to be seen. 

  Cold water sloshes onto her shoes, soaking into her stockings. Kiara jumps, turning towards the well, and realises that she has been pumping so long that the basin has overflowed. Shaking her hands dry, she carries the now-heavy basin back to her house.

  After setting it down, Kiara heads upstairs to her bedroom and gets ready for sleep.

  The next morning, she opens her cupboard only to realise she has run out of bread. She will have to go without breakfast this morning.

  Stomach growling, she leaves her house and begins her walk to the factory. There have been tales of starving workers collapsing after skipping meals and being sacked by their ruthless employers, but she will not be one of them.

  “Oh, good morning!”

  Lilje is standing on the beach, a few meters away from Kiara. She is dressed in blue today, a brilliant azure that seems to blend in with the cloudless sky above. The hem of her gown only comes halfway down to her calves, leaving her ankles and feet exposed. Many a man would throw a fit if he saw her. “Good morning.”

  “Off to work?” She walks unsteadily towards Kiara, toes digging into the sand. Her unsteady gait looks like that of a newborn colt. “It is quite early, after all.”

  She nods. Her having to talk to this irritating nuisance of a girl at six in the morning must be a punishment of sorts. What did she even do wrong?

  “You look hungry.” Lilje sways back and forth like a reed in the wind, continuing, “I don’t think you had breakfast today. Wait here.” She hobbles away from Kiara and closer to the sea. Only her conscience keeps her from abandoning Lilje.

  When she returns several minutes later, wobbling so much that she seems just one misstep away from falling, she is holding a shell. “You can eat this.”

  It turns out to be a scallop, pale-pink and glistening slightly. Kiara has only eaten scallop once, but it did not look anything like the one that is resting on the cream-and-white shell Lilje is holding out. It is not steaming-hot, nor covered with a peppery butter sauce like she remembers. In fact, it does not look cooked at all. She cringes. “Is that raw?”

   “Yes.”

  “I am not eating that.”

  “Why not?” 

  Her stomach churns with hunger, but she forces herself to say, “it looks repulsive.”

  Lilje laughs. “Now, don’t say that! If we judged all foods by how they looked we would starve. I promise you this tastes perfectly fine. I just had one for my breakfast.”

  Which is worse — forcing down this peculiar thing, or risking a humiliating collapse in the middle of work? She has not eaten anything in twelve hours. “Fine,” Kiara huffs. She takes the shell from Lilje and, bracing herself, picks up the scallop with her hands and eats it.

  It tastes of the sea, cold, light and savoury with just a hint of sweetness. It is softer than she expected. At the very least, it is not repulsive, like she thought it would be.

  “Well?”

  “It’s all right,” she admits. “Thank you.”

  Her face lights up. “I’m glad to hear that.” Lilje coughs, and Kiara takes a step back. “If you so wish, I could bring you more food. Since you liked the scallop, I know of some other dishes you might also enjoy.”

  “I never said I liked it.” At the disappointment passing over Lilje’s face, she quickly adds, “but I will consider your generous offer. Thank you once again.” Kiara notices a cluster of her colleagues walking down the streets towards the factory. “But I must go now.”

  Eyes twinkling, Liljes bids in that deep, sing-song voice of hers, “I hope to see you again.”

  Kiara does not answer her.

…

  There is no more singing when she walks home from work, and the tide is rising. To her surprise, Lilje is sitting on her rock. It is half-submerged in water, but she does not seem to care. She dips her feet in the water, kicking them up from time to time and sending droplets of water flying into the air. The spray catches the light of the setting sun and flashes like hundreds of tiny, ephemeral crystals. She catches Kiara’s eye and grins.

  She nods back, but does not get any closer. The seawater would surely destroy her shoes.

  By the time she reaches her house, the sun is nearly gone. Kiara looks back towards the beach. Lilje is no longer there.

…

  The factory is closed on Sundays. Often, her colleagues gather on Saturday evenings to discuss what to do on their day off, suggesting a swim or an afternoon of needlework. Kiara has never joined them. Her Sundays are usually spent sleeping in, then going to the general store to buy food. Like the rest of her days, it is nothing special.

  While walking home from the store, her satchel full of cans, Kiara finds herself instinctively looking towards the beach in search of Lilje. Sure enough, she is standing knee-deep in the water, the bottom half of her gown dripping wet. Unlike the bathing gowns she sees her colleagues show off sometimes, this one resembles a chemise from the olden days and exposes her bare arms. Lilje steps further into the water, and her pure-white gown swirls around her legs.

  Kiara nears the beach, but she does not notice her. The wind is especially loud today, sending tiny grains of sand swirling up from the beach and blowing her skirt about. Only her crinoline prevents her legs from being shown.

  In the water, a particularly large wave knocks into Lilje and soaks her side. Her gown clings to her every curve, and Kiara cannot help noticing how she has that silhouette most ladies yearn for, even when she wears no corset. She forces herself to tear her eyes away and step onto the beach. The heels of her shoes sink into the sand. She grimaces.

  Lilje continues walking into the sea, completely oblivious to her soaked bathing-gown. Another wave crashes into her. Ensuring that nobody is around to see her, Kiara takes another cautious step and calls out her name.

  Those mesmerising blue eyes light up at the sight of her. “Hello!” With unexpected speed, she runs to shore to stand before her, dripping water onto the sand. Her hair has been tied back with shell-pink ribbons. “And what are you doing today?”

  “I just bought some food.” She lifts her satchel. “I will be heading home soon.”

  “Why don’t you stay here for a while?” Lilje offers. “It must be so boring to stay at home on the only rest day of the week.”

  There is little more to do, anyway. “I will stay, I suppose,” Kiara says begrudgingly. “What have you been doing?”

  “Walking around. Singing. You know, what I do every other day.” She shrugs. “I like to swim on warmer days.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Better than being holed up in a house,” Lilje quips. “You ought to go get some fresh air more often.” She points at a rickety old thing floating a few paces away. “See, that over there is my boat. If you like, we could take it out to sea.”

  She does not notice the boat at first, only sees her companion pointing at a particularly-large pile of planks. Kiara holds her tongue and grits out, “it does not look very safe.”

  “It is, I promise.” She sweetens her vow with a sugary smile. “Come now, have you never wondered what it felt like to be at sea?”

  “Actually, I have not,” she replies honestly. “Unlike you, I am not particularly interested in the sea. But,” she adds grudgingly, “I suppose I can give this boat idea a try.”

  She beams. Lilje takes her hand and leads her towards the boat, humming cheerfully. Her hand is cold from the seawater.

  The rough wooden seats of the boat are miraculously dry, and Kiara sits down on it cautiously. Nothing breaks. Lilje sits in front of her, takes hold of the battered oars and begins to row.

  They float lazily on the crystal-clear water, waves lapping against the boat. The wind has calmed down a fair amount, just enough to keep them cool but not to make their journey turbulent. Lilje’s ribbons flutter like butterflies. “See, I told you the boat was safe.”

  “Mmhmm.” 

  “I realise now that we do not know much about each other,” she says. “We have talked a few times, yet all I know about you is your name and where you work!”

  “And I do not even know the latter about you.” Kiara folds her hands in her lap and asks, “so what do you do for a living?”

  “I sing. I think about things. Not the way a philosopher does, though, I have no need to think about the meaning of life and all that.” She dips her hand in the water for a moment. “I like to think about the temperature of the water and what type of rocks I might find in the sand. That’s all.”

  “Is that what you’ve always wanted to do?”

  “I guess so,” Lilje says. “And you? Have you always wanted to work in the factory?”

  She shakes her head. “Nobody truly wants to be there. When I was a girl, I just wanted to sail around on a big boat, on which I could have my own farm to provide for myself, and never actually work. But of course, that is not practical at all.”

  “Practical!” She repeats incredulously. “Humans throw that word around all the time these days. What does it even mean? If it means being like those company owners who lust after money and never dream, or the fools who only care for ‘useful’ things and not those that are beautiful, then I do not ever want to be practical.”

  Kiara shrugs. She looks behind her and sees the city fading farther and farther away. “Practicality puts the food on the table.”

  “It takes everything else in exchange,” Lilje remarks waspishly. “All practical people care about is surviving. Not one of them wants to live.”

  “And if I call myself practical, am I like them?”

  “Yes, you are. If you would like to be practical even though that word scarcely has a meaning, you are just like those humans.” She looks back and winks. “But I do not think you are. Deciding to get on a boat and sail to who-knows-where is not very practical, after all.”

  “You say ‘humans’ like you are not one.”

  “Am I human?” Lilje mulls. “I think that depends on how one defines a human.”

  “A scientist a while ago gave us the name ‘homo sapiens’. A philosopher from two thousand years back called us ‘featherless bipeds’.”

  She laughs, low and sweet. “So those plucked chickens at the butcher’s are humans also?”

  Kiara cannot help the giggle that escapes her lips. “Of course not, that’s why that theory was debunked.”

  The city is but a tiny speck now, and there is only water around her. The boat bobs up and down.

  Lilje looks back again, and Kiara notices a tiny, almost-invisible scar across her cheek. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing much, really. I was just curious. I thought someone as pretty as you would have someone to go home to.”

  “Not yet.” It is suddenly difficult to look her companion in the eye; that azure gaze seems to pierce too deeply. “I am only one-and-twenty, though, so not yet a spinster. And I am not pretty.”

  “Yes, you are!” Lilje stops rowing and turns around to face her fully. “I like your eyes, for one. They look like the chocolates that I hear people like. And your hair is pretty, too.” She fiddles with one of the ribbons in her hair. “May I try braiding it?”

  Kiara touches her hair, running her fingers through the dirty-blonde locks. “All right.” She turns around so that her back is facing her, and soon she feels Lilje undoing the pins in her bun. 

  With a touch far more tender than what her hands seem capable of, she combs her hair with her fingers and twists it into patterns. Her hands fly, as though she is braiding rope instead of hair, and soon she is done. Lilje undoes one of the ribbons from her hair and ties it into the braid, right next to her right ear. “There!”

  She looks at herself in the water. A few locks of hair frame her face, but the rest have been coiled into an elegant twist. It does not pull her features back as much, and the ribbon at the side of her head makes her look younger, almost girlish. 

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s quite fetching.” Kiara touches the smooth silk ribbon. “I look quite different.”

  “You do not look as sharp,” Lilje agrees. “Not that it makes you less pretty, of course, I think you look as nice as ever.” She peers over the side of the boat. “Oh, look.”

  A school of minnows are darting away in the water, sunlight reflecting off their silvery scales. They dip lower and soon disappear into the depths of the sea. 

  “Do you ever wonder what lies beneath the surface?”

  She turns back around. “Not much. I have never gone so far out to sea.”

  “I have seen it.” Lilje’s eyes seem to grow brighter, a wild shade of blue that gleams in the afternoon sun. “And though you might not have the chance to see it today, I will bring it to you anyway.”

  Her stilted sentence has Kiara frowning. “What, are you going to swim?” She asks.

  “Precisely.” She reaches into the pocket of her bathing-gown and pulls out a gleaming silver knife. Kiara scrambles back before realising that she is trapped. “Give me a moment, won’t you?”

  Before she can say anything, Lilje hitches up the skirt of her gown and reveals her toned calf, its pale skin covered in tens of silvery scars. Unflinching, she draws the blade across her calf.

  “What are you doing?” Kiara lunges for the knife, edged with blood that looks a tad darker than normal. Lilje drops it, slips her gown off and half-dives, half-falls off the boat into the water.

  She hisses with pain when her bloody wound makes contact with the seawater, and her head dips below. When she surfaces, her hair is plastered to her face and her arms move to keep her afloat. Her legs cannot be seen, even in the clear water.

  Then something glimmers. 

  Kiara peers into the water and sees what she is below the waist. Her legs have knitted together, merged into one almost grotesquely. The undulating, flexible mass is covered in silvery scales, from the sides and end of which protrude paper-thin, waving fins. “A tail,” she realises aloud. 

  There are a number of slits on Lilje’s bare chest, opening and closing every time she takes a breath. She smiles up at the boat and points at her gills. “See, however you define a human, I am most certainly not one.”

  It takes a while for her to remember how to speak properly. Lilje looks ethereal in the water, her tail waving softly and her hair swirling about her. There is surely a name for people like her, something depicted in children’s stories and written off as fiction. These beautiful women of the sea, with gills and fishtails below the waist and must be called something. Feeling rather childish, she inquires, “are you a mermaid?”

  Lilje shrugs. “Maybe that is what humans call us sea-dwellers. But I am one of those who can live on both sea and land.” Her pale skin is ghost-like, glowing softly in the sunlit water. “Are you surprised?”

  “Well, it explains why you love the sea so much.” Kiara cannot tear her eyes away. 

  “Just stay here. I will be back soon.”

  Before Kiara can question her, she dives deep into the water again and disappears.

  The boat bobs up slightly at the splash Lilje’s tail makes. She peers into the depths of the sea, where she is already nowhere to be seen. There is not even a fish in the water, at least as far as she can see, let alone another sea-dweller like Lilje. Perhaps they are like humans, with a massive civilisation on the seafloor. Or maybe they are nomadic, moving from sea to sea with no fixed home. She will never know.

  After what could have been five or fifty-five minutes, Lilje rises to the surface and pops her head up. Her fists are clenched, and she leaps out of the water in a sudden, stunning show of strength. Droplets of water rain from her fins and onto Kiara’s head. 

  She rather inelegantly flops onto the boat with a crash. “Hand me my knife,” she says breathlessly. She snatches it from Kiara’s hand and slashes at her silvery tail. Blood seeps from the wound and sparkles on her scales, tainting its clean glow with a dark, angry red. She grits her teeth, one webbed hand clutching at the side of the boat.

  As though ice in fire, the scales melt away, fins wilting into nothingness and gills closing up. Slowly, slowly, the tail fades until Lilje’s legs return, as though it was never there in the first place. A new, pink scar is among the many others on her calf. She gasps softly, one white-knuckled fist still clenched.

  “Are - Are you all right?” Kiara asks.

  She nods dismissively. “This is just how we travel between sea and land. We spill our blood and mingle it with water in exchange for a tail, and with air for legs.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m stabbing myself in the leg, of course it hurts,” she huffs. “But it is a small price to pay for the privilege of living in two worlds.”

  Kiara stares at her legs, at the many scars it has. How many times has Lilje gone through this pain simply to swim or walk? The sting of saltwater in a bloody wound is bad enough once, let alone tens of times. But she cannot keep herself from wondering aloud, “can all sea-dwellers do this?”

  She nods again. “Not many of us shift so often — the pain turns most away. And there is always the danger of being found. But I still do it.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Always ‘how’ with you humans. So technical!” She kicks up one of her bare legs. Kiara tries to keep herself from looking; for some reason Lilje has not put her gown back on yet. “You always want to know how and not why. But to answer your question, I truly do not know. Maybe I will one day, though.”

  The sun is beginning to set, painting the water with its beautiful shades. The waves continue to rock their boat, and they do not sound as annoying as they used to. Lilje wrings water out of her hair. The morning seemed just seconds ago.

  “We should leave soon,” Kiara says. “Neither of us have had dinner yet.”

  Lilje gestures to her satchel, forgotten under her seat. “We can just eat here.”

  “Eat cold, canned food on a boat in the middle of the ocean?”

  “Exactly!” She grabs the satchel and pulls out a can. “I think it will be fun.”

  Why does it seem like she can never deny Lilje anything? Kiara rolls her eyes in half-defeat as her companion wrestles with the container. She manages to twist the cap off after a while, placing it on her bench victoriously. “There we go!” She bends the cap to make a crude spoon and hands it to Kiara. 

  As she expected, the food is cold. But the lovely view makes up for her meal’s blandness. Lilje opens another can and picks out a chunk of carrot with her bare hands, ignoring her disdainful look. “Come on,” she wisps, “there is no need to be refined on a boat.”

  Once they have finished their meagre dinners and cleaned their hands in the cool seawater, Lilje picks up the oars and begins rowing back. It is almost completely dark, the water rippling like a massive pool of ink. Her eyes almost seem to glow with how bright they are.

  Kiara starts when they near the town and the faraway street-lights bathe them in their glow. “Put your gown back on. Goodness help us if someone sees you like this.” She averts her eyes as Lilje dresses. 

  It is unusual to stand on solid land again, where things do not rock and sway. She stretches her legs out, feeling her knees crack, and rolls her shoulders. Hours of being seated have made her feel like an old woman. Now presentable, Lilje stumbles out the boat and runs her fingers through her still-damp hair. “I very much enjoyed our afternoon together,” she murmurs. 

  “So did I.”

  Her heart leaps to her throat when Lilje approaches her and gives her a wet hug. Kiara looks around her, ensuring that nobody is looking before wrapping her arms around her. She can feel the warmth of Lilje’s skin despite the cold water soaking it.

  When they pull away, Lilje tilts her head. “Oh! I almost forgot. I found something while diving just now.” She opens her palm, revealing something small and shimmering. “Catch!”

  Reacting too slow, she lets the small item bounce against her chest before it rolls down the sand and towards the sea. Lilje chases after it and scoops it up before it can disappear. “What did I tell you?”

  “I am too old to be playing games like this.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘too old’. What is maturity but an excuse to give people responsibilities? Now catch!” She tosses it again.

  This time Kiara manages to catch it in her hand. She looks down and her eyes widen. Lilje has thrown her a pearl, a beautiful, perfectly-round sphere of silvery off-white. It is warm from being in her hands, tough and tiny and more expensive than anything she owns. “Goodness knows how much this is worth,” she breathes.

  “Oh, don’t you sell it. You would not be so ruthless as to sell a present from your friend, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not.” The sky is now fully dark, the only light coming from the street lamps along the road. “And I really must go, I need to sleep.”

  “Sweet dreams, then.” Lilje twirls around, toes digging into the sand, and says, “and I hope to see you again.”

  She smiles. “So do I.”

…

  Work in the factory is a downright nightmare after the excitement on Sunday. The harsh lights and mechanical clicking of the looms feel like an insult, a reminder that despite her euphoric afternoon she will still have to return to work. It is only eight in the morning and she can already feel that familiar ache in her shoulder from hunching over. 

  The monotonous work leaves her with plenty of time to think of Lilje — whimsical, carefree Lilje; beautiful, smiling Lilje; Lilje who is unafraid and enduring, who understands humans well even though she is not one herself. Her song fills the dull nothingness in the factory, no longer an annoyance, and Kiara can feel herself smile. The pearl she was given yesterday is in her pocket, stored safely inside a rough pouch. After work, she will take it to a jeweller and have them make it into a pendant.

  Her eyes are strained when she is finally allowed to leave for a short lunch. The cool sea breeze soothes her cramped muscles. Belly growling, she begins her search for the vendor who sells her regular lunch. But before she can lay eyes on them, she sees Lilje, limping up to her on bare feet. 

  The first thing she notices is that she is still barefoot, despite walking on the road. There are no new wounds on her legs, she sees with relief. She leans on her shoulder, giving her a strained smile. “Hello.”

  “Good afternoon.” Kiara shifts her weight so she does not fall over, either. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just did not expect human roads to be so rough.”

  Her knees are buckling. She takes Lilje’s wrist and leads her to the rock she is usually found sitting on, asking, “why were you off the beach, anyway?”

  Lilje sits down and answers, “I wanted to try more of those human foods. They are so different from what us sea-dwellers have, see, and I would never turn down a chance to try something new. In hindsight, I should have covered my feet like you humans do.”

  “So did you manage to find something to eat?”

  She pulls a pouch out of her dress pocket and opens it, revealing two slices of pound cake. “I bought some for you too.”

  Kiara’s mouth waters. She picks up a slice of cake and bites into it, savouring its rich sweetness. The taste of butter fills her mouth. 

  Lilje is picking at her cake too, daintily breaking off small pieces as one would with bread, and nibbling on them. Crumbs scatter onto her skirt. “How is it?”

  “Excellent.” She pats her mouth clean with a handkerchief. “I don’t remember the last time I had cake.”

  “I ought to buy you more, then,” she says.

  “How did you manage to buy them? I do not think you get paid for sitting here.”

  “You’d be surprised how many coins you find in the sea.” Lilje pops another chunk of cake into her mouth. “This is very good. Too bad it would not even last a minute in the sea, though.”

  They move to sit closer to each other once they have finished their food, close but not yet touching. Kiara stares at her friend, who has cake crumbs at the corner of her lips. She has a splash of freckles across her nose. She would be content to stare at her all day.

  “What did you do this morning?” Lilje asks. She does not seem to notice her gawking.

  “Oh.” She starts. “Well, er, I was just working in the factory. How about you? Have you been up to anything productive?”

  She huffs, “now there’s another word I hate. It is used all the time, thrown around meaninglessly even though nobody really knows its true definition. Tell me, Kiara, if one person works all morning and another plays, what makes the worker more productive than the player?”

  “Er…” This is the sort of thing taught in a university to philosophy scholars, surely not something asked to a common woman. “The worker earns an income. The player earns nothing.”

  “Of course the player earns something! They would gain leisure and joy from their activities. Is that not as valuable as money?”

  “Joy does not pay the rent.”

  Lilje groans audibly, dramatically swooning on Kiara’s shoulder. “Always about money with you. If I were to look into your heart, would I see your hopes and dreams, or just a paycheck?”

  The heat of her skin is almost distracting, and she has to pinch herself as a reminder to answer. “If being productive is not about earning something, then I think it is about working towards a goal.”

  “And what goal would slaving away in a factory achieve? You save your pay for rent and for food, but there is nothing else waiting for you. You sell your freedom to a rich man. That’s it.” She tilts her head so that her chin is resting on her shoulder, and grins. “To play, however, is to reach the goal of making yourself happy. Is that not more productive?”

  Weighed down by Lilje and her warmth, she cannot think of a way to answer. 

  “I think the answer is in the word itself,” she says slowly, “pro-duc-tive. There is ‘produce’ inside of it. To produce is to be productive, regardless of target or gain.”

  Her tongue finally unties itself, and Kiara sputters, “do they teach you these clever things under the sea?”

  “No, but us sea-dwellers see the difference between land and ocean all too clearly.” She snuggles into her side, kicking her legs. “Under the surface, nobody would look at an idler and tut, ‘why aren’t you doing something more productive?’. Nobody razes another’s dream by jeering, ‘that is impractical.’. It seems to be something only land-dwellers do.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That is one way to describe it. Really, you humans are so clever but so stupid at the same time. It amazes me.”

  “Tch.” Kiara flicks her nose indignantly. “If I did not have to go back to work right now, I would argue with that.”

  With an unladylike snort of protest, Lilje rises from her shoulder and instead collapses down on her lap as a noblewoman might do on a fainting couch. “Working hours are a sham.”

  Her heart is pounding so loudly it might well burst through her chest. As though by instinct, her hands go to play with Lilje’s hair. She must go, she simply must, but the idiotic part of her wants to stay on the rock and look at the sea and let Lilje lie on her and laugh and joke until one of them falls asleep, then they can wake up the next morning and perhaps have breakfast together. But most of her colleagues are already heading back to the factory, and she cannot be late. Kiara runs her fingers through her hair, careful not to pull too hard, and sighs, “I will be in trouble if I stay.”

  She pouts. “Then promise to come by after work.”

  “Fine, fine, I promise.” She eases Lilje off her and stands up. “I will see you this evening.”

…

  To both her delight and horror, Lilje is waiting for her right outside the factory, dressed properly but still devoid of shoes or stockings. A few passing pedestrians throw her a look that is equally annoyed and disgusted, and Kiara does not realise why until she sees the bloody footprints on the floor.

  “You went to sea again, didn’t you?” She asks as she once again leads her towards the beach. “Why do you shift so often if it hurts?”

  “I love both sea and land; I simply cannot stay in just one.” Lilje practically sits in her lap, white skirts sinking around her like sea-foam. “I’m used to the pain anyways.”

  “Would it not be better to avoid the pain entirely? Better have harmless stability than painful change.”

  “Always — ”

  “Always about harmlessness with you humans?” Kiara finishes drily. “Or something along those lines, at least.”

  She lets out a huff of laughter and tosses her head back to rest beneath her chin. “You know me too well. But I digress. If the world refused to change for fear of pain, nobody would get anything done. Isn’t it worth it to struggle now and rejoice later?”

  “I am starting to think all fish are philosophers,” she mutters.

  As though she didn’t hear her, Lilje continues, “you see me change form nearly every day. Even before that, I changed my home, my name and my very being. All those transformations hurt me on some degree, but now I am happier than ever.” She turns her leg and runs a finger over her new wound. “I am happy now, even if the price I pay for happiness is my blood.”

  Pinned down by the weight of both her body and her words, Kiara scrambles for a response. But she cannot find one, so she settles for burying her nose in Lilje’s hair. She smells of salt. 

  The sun is setting. It shows its brilliant, fading face in both the rippling sea and Lilje’s eyes, blue and bluer, before it will drown in the depths and disappear for the night. Kiara gets to work trying to untangle the knots in her hair. “You know,” she finally says, “I want to know more about sea-dwellers. You know humans so well, yet I know almost nothing about your folk.”

  Lilje lets out a puff of air and nestles into her chest. “‘Sea-dweller’ is an umbrella term,” she starts. “It refers to those like me, with fishtails and human torsos, but there are sea-dwellers with the lower half of a crab or an octopus. Nereids are also sea-dwellers.”

  “What are nereids?”

  “Maidens born of silt and sea-foam. They have legs, so they don’t look as strange as us, but if they try to leave the ocean and breathe air they will dissolve into the sand they are made of.”

  Kiara picks at a particularly annoying clump. “That is rather tragic.”

  “Well, they enjoy the ocean. Most nereids have no need nor desire to leave.” She closes her eyes. “Careful now, don’t tug.”

  “Sorry.”

  She kicks at the advancing tide, and a few droplets soak Kiara’s stockings. “I know that many humans ask about sirens. They do not exist.”

  “Really?” She asks. “But I hear stories of ships that sailed into rocks or into a foe’s ambush because of sirens that sang and told them to do so.”

  “There is no such thing as the siren species. That is just a term we use for sea-dwellers who like to sing to humans, whether or not they mean ill.” Lilje hands her a pair of blue ribbons, content to laze around and have her hair styled. “Before they knew which name to refer to me by, my friends called me ‘Siren’.”

  “It suits you.” Kiara weaves the ribbons into her bun, and adds, “but I think ‘Lilje’ does too.”

  She giggles, tilting her head back so that she’s looking right into her eyes. “I made sure to choose a name that fit me. It is a wonderful thing to have your life in your own hands.”

  “To be free, you mean.” She prods Lilje on the forehead. “You have the strangest habit of refusing to use a simple word and using a ten-word term of the same meaning instead.”

  “It is prettier that way.”

  “But it is not prac — ”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Practical?”

  Lilje makes a face. “You’re the worst.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure I am.”

  The tide is rising steadily, white-capped waves beginning to surround the rock. It will be submerged soon. The sky is darkening.

  The water ascends halfway up the rock before Lilje finally says reluctantly, “you should go.”

  “Yes,” Kiara agrees, “I should.”

  They awkwardly shimmy off the rock and into the shallow water, soaking the hems of their gowns. Kiara trudges towards the streets, weighed down by her wet dress. She asks, “where will you sleep?”

  “In my boat. It is more comfortable than you think.” She gestures at it, floating miraculously in place a few paces away. “I would sail away forever if I could, but that would mean leaving this city — and you, of course — behind and that would be quite awful. Now I should stop rambling and let you go.”

  “I will see you tomorrow.” The fading sunlight is painting Lilje’s fair face gold. “Goodnight, Lilje.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She forces herself to turn away and walk home.

…

  Kiara cannot sleep.

  It cannot be the sand tracing her floors that is keeping her awake, nor the sound of the sea outside. Not any more. Her muscles ache and her eyes droop, but the soft embrace of sleep does not come to her just yet. She rolls over, burrowing under her blanket. Maybe she has gotten used to lounging around with Lilje squashing her, and now she cannot rest alone.

  Oh, Lilje; that pretty sea-dweller with her casual philosophies, bearing everyday pain that she exchanges for joy and belonging. Her soft, deep voice echoes in her head. Kiara curls in on herself and exhales sharply. The two of them have known each other for barely a fortnight, yet their lives have already become hopelessly entwined. 

  How would life be if they lived together? They could live on a boat so Lilje would not have to shift so often and be two lady sailors traversing the seas to sell fish and pearls. They could stop at every other harbour they pass, to buy new clothes and stock up on food. Or maybe she could grow crops on the boat like she’s always wanted to, so they would not have to survive on things in cans. They could anchor the boat in the middle of the ocean, and Lilje could go spend time with her fellow sea-dwellers, then they could watch the sunset together.

  Fantasies, all of them. Kiara lets herself indulge in them, smiling to herself as drowsiness finally takes over.

  The next morning, she hesitates in front of the factory. Why must she work for half the day, until she is so exhausted she can hardly think? Why must she give her time to a job she hates? Before she can stop herself, Kiara turns away from the factory and runs for the carpenter’s store.

  She spends nearly all the money she has saved, buying so many planks of wood and tools that she can hardly carry them. People throw her strange looks as she stumbles out of the store, half-buried under all her shopping. Arms trembling, she takes the supplies to the beach, tripping over her feet to reach Lilje’s rock.

  Sure enough, she is there. She jumps off her perch and helps Kiara set her load onto the sand, inquiring, “what’s all this?”

  “Supplies,” is all she can say.

  “Yes, I can see that, but for what?”

  “Your boat.” She doubles over, panting. “We are going to use all these supplies to make your boat bigger, and give it sails and anchors and all that, so it can sail far away.”

  Lilje crosses her arms. “I told you, I have no intention to leave this city alone.”

  “Then let us leave together!” She bursts out. “We’ll renovate your boat and travel the seas together, and I am suggesting this is because I like you very much and even though we haven’t known each other very long I think being stuck on a boat with you for a long time would be far better than working in the factory for another day, and now I realise you might not like me back and will call me an idiot for saying all this.”

  For a moment, the only sound that permeates the awkward silence is that of the waves, eternally soothing. Then Lilje steps closer to her and takes her hand. She laces their fingers together, smiling. “I like you just about as much as you like me, which I hope is a lot. And to sail away from here with you would be a dream come true.” She kicks one of the planks and adds, “one thing, though — do you even know how to build a boat?”

  “...no.”

  “So you’re telling me that you bought all this with no idea how to work with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Lilje says teasingly, “that is not practical at all.”

  She laughs. “Why, thank you.”

  “See, you are learning.” She rummages through the tools and emerges with a hammer as well as a box of nails. “We ought to start building. We can learn how along the way.”

…

  It took them one year to finish the boat. Once the year was up, and their little vessel was ready for sailing, Kiara walked into the factory for the last time and announced that she was to leave. Precisely the day after, she packed all that she needed from her house, sold it and sailed away with Lilje. It was difficult, as they didn’t build the boat on a harbour, but they managed. The sight of the city, growing smaller and smaller as she left it forever, is one that she will never forget.

  They have been at sea for five months now, on their little dogger-boat that Lilje decided to name Seafarer. It is, perhaps, the most cliché name one can give a boat, but she insisted. The cabin is small, and sometimes on peaceful days they sleep on deck to get fresh air. The sails rip and the mast snaps during storms, and it can smell unbearably of fish on hot days, but it is paradise nonetheless. 

  Kiara crosses the deck of the Seafarer now to check on the pool of oysters they raise. Lilje found a way to slip a bead inside of them to have them create pearls, so that she does not have to go through the danger of diving for them. Once the pearls, round and beautiful, are collected, they turn them into jewellery and sell them wherever they have docked. She changes the water in the pool, plucks a few dead leaves from their tiny farm and pecks Lilje on the cheek. She is seated next to the oyster pool, busy setting a pearl into a brooch.

  While rushing back to their cabin to count their day’s wages, she passes the contraption Lilje built, made to turn seawater into freshwater. Kiara lifts up the waxed paper on top and removes the bowl of freshwater, adding it to their large bucket. She splashes some of it onto her face.

  Once the wages are counted and the brooch complete, the two of them sprawl on their bed to sketch new designs. Lilje wiggles her pencil, swinging her legs up and down as she draws. Despite having never learnt how, she is talented at creating art.

  Kiara glances at her kicking legs. The number of wounds on her calves does not grow too quickly these days, with her content to swim as a human instead of a sea-dweller. Now, Lilje mostly uses whatever magic she has to make the oysters produce pearls in weeks instead of years. 

  “Look, we can use four of those smaller ones for a snuffbox, and the big ones for bracelets.” She touches the pearl hanging from her neck and resting at the bob of her throat, matching Kiara’s necklace. “Maybe we can use some for headdresses. I hear those are rather popular here.”

  “Put some on a hatpin,” Kiara muses. “That would look quite stylish.”

  “Oh! That’s clever.” Lilje starts to roughly sketch a pearl hatpin. “By the way, did you remember to water the tomatoes?”

  “Of course. I watered the cabbages, too.” The patch of vegetables was the most difficult addition to their boat. It has been destroyed twice during storms, but they managed to fix it both times. “How much longer ‘til this batch of oysters are ready?”

  Lilje hits the bed while thinking. “I reckon one more week or so. We will have fresh pearls just in time for our next port.”

  The boat bobs up and down slightly, swaying them like a cradle would a baby. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. Lilje finishes her drawing of the hatpin and stands up to leave the cabin. 

  The sea is painted pink and orange, glittering here and there from the fading sunlight. Waves lap softly against the hull of the Seafarer. Kiara holds her hand as they walk, shoes clicking softly against the deck. They look out at the sea, at boats that are sailing away to somewhere else. Tomorrow, they will lift the anchor out of the water and join those boats, leaving this city for another whose name they do not know and whose language they do not speak. Not knowing where they will go next is half the fun.

  “What are we having for dinner today?” Lilje mumbles.

  “Those strange little pies we bought from the market today. And if that is not enough, we still have those canned fish things that smell like death.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought of them.

  “They’re good, they really are.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, dear.” 

  Lilje lets out a puff of laughter and prods her side. The sun is setting further. 

  As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, she begins to sing. Kiara pulls her closer, letting the sweet song mingle with the sounds of the sea and envelope her with bliss. 

  The waves roll. Birds call. She stares right into the waves, where the last sunrays glimmer, and does not look away.

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — middle fingers up

summary: lyrics, composition and production for middle fingers up warnings: none wc: 1903 (not counting lyrics)

when he started music, it was only a fruitful thought. one that was wary with the times of boom bap saturated in the east coast — boarding school times, and he almost crafts himself a small wicked smile. nostalgia that pains his bones when he’s thinking to the shitty small room he was subjugated to, the speakers of his laptop bound to the sounds of biggie.

but he’s no biggie nor is he the second-coming of asap. he’s just haon, the sell-out from the sea of idoldom that’s got him whole. and where he’s alive becomes the sudden patterns of how music changes from one woe to the next — boom bap into trap, and he laughs at the incredulity of stepping into trap.

an explorer, a sole wanderer. he traps himself in the middle of the keys, pounding away one by one. they paint the picture to the time where he was nothing more than thirteen on the verge of puberty inside hannam-dong.

he starts with the progression of a chord, nothing too flashy nor showy. never been part of him when he’s only been a part of modesty and sulking behind the shadows of attention. it rises like the childhood keys, stripped away from the classical touches of beethoven and into the formative years of who he is now.

the first few regressions of the chord don’t sit easy. instead, they end the way they always do — the slams of his palms into a fucked up mash of notes he doesn’t know what to do with. he closes his eyes, and starts from base one, the one he’s always known. staccatos, and now he only rolls with the punches of what comes when he’s half dazed from sleep and his eyes bloodshot with the lack of sleep he doesn’t have.

and when he’s on what feels the hundredth time of something different, he lets it sit. plays it back — maybe it’s the lack of sleep or maybe it’s just the low standardization he’s fixed himself to, it clicks. seeps deep into the cracks of his soul where nothing soothes the deepened wounds that get buried under years upon year. imperfection, and it’s nothing short. nothing half-assed by the time he tries again and again. the last cut makes it, and he leaves the piano to something else — the instruments that don’t fail him when hands are against the tufts of hair balled up amidst frustration.

it sounds mismatched, mangled. (he doesn’t care.)

and he moves to percussion, the process that’s always been the status quo from one move to the next. there’s a charming point in trap, and he doesn’t fit the bill, slotting creativity into place when there’s the baseline of drums involved. 

his foot taps against the ground, confused in the off-match haze of differing rhythms. rather, he fixes himself with another swig of the iced coffee now melted in the corner of his desk — the brass adding another color to the track void of any lyrics. 

and he thinks to the time where he’s been the artist without any words. without any restraints freeing the built up frustration and animosity inside his soul — now, it’s only the beats of the piano mangled with the percussion hitting every other beat. but it doesn’t last long, no. not when he takes the latter part of the track and puzzles it to something new. revs up the drums for a hit of a party, something that breeds the excitement he no longer has.

he takes a listen, a playback — it sounds rudimentary at best. nothing complex until the bass hits, but some sort of charm escapes between each strike of chord, and leaves it ringing loudly inside the surface of his heart. his lips quirk back into a smile: minute satisfaction, and he collects it.

when inspiration strikes him in the middle of the fervor, he takes it. runs with it, and make does with what he can (sometimes it doesn’t last long, and it leaves his mind barren without time to collect the pieces once more. savor it while you can.)

what he starts off is the beginnings of a song, one he mismatches to the current state of affairs. because now, the mantra is clear: middle fingers up. 

the first three words sprawl across the page, and he capitalizes it. makes it bold. loud and clear as the blueprint to navigate each and every lapse of time that passes. instructions, he wants to send out to the world plagued by second-hand guesses, and the constant battering of what others think — they should stop, and so should he.

he adds in the jingle, humming to the tune the playful childhood fable-esque melody. it’s morbid at best, the juxtaposition of the lighthearted tune ridden by the resenting animosity he hangs to his chest. the feeling never goes away, no. not when he wishes for it, turning and tossing inside late night sleeplessness. there’s no sleep in seoul, so be it.

middle fingers up thumb, index finger, ring finger, pinky fold them and lift your middle finger up raise it, twirl it, play with them now just eat this, fucking eat it.

what his mind jumps to next, all tongue-and-cheek spurred by the sudden enjoyment that music sparks in him. god, when was this feeling last felt? he couldn’t tell you. all that he knows is that euphoric highs from the fun of writing a verse becomes insurmountable to any fleeting joy of here and there. the affairs of the company — shit. the affairs of his own personal life — shit. business comes in brushed shoulders, mediocre handshakes in coy smiles yearning for a hidden meaning. gyujeong tries to decipher each one as a sham, name-calling to yank their strings into place for a climb up the ladder of the fame that trails eight years and counting.

the conversation becomes a humorous one — painted in cheap laughs and even cheaper innuendos. get the number, and call it a roadmap for the tempest tides for five minutes of famed. gyujeong makes his answer clear: why? he’s never been second-dipped inside the tides pulling him from one hot name to the next, his name clear in the headlines only fuel to add onto the taste of an image bc’s crafted for him. laughter. it spills from his lips.

what did you just say kid? we’ve met before, you say what — no we haven’t. i’m close with your friend. so what? you ask, can you give me your number so we can have a drink together sometime? but why should i give you my number? who the hell are you?

he doesn’t know them, they don’t know him. the feeling’s not mutual, shit if it’s ever been. it’d be a lie, and his lips tainted with poison if he gives in to the facades of each soul that wants to reap the benefits without climbing down the wayward journey all the way up — nothing’s all the way up. not then, not now. (has it ever been?)

collective thoughts and privacy becomes uncertain, rare. something treasured and pocketed away to the confines of his own bare bones. he craves one thing: anonymity. that sort of shit becomes priceless halfway through an aged careers — his private matters stowed away, picking up the specks as time passes for he’s never begged for more. the circle around shrinks as the years go, half-hearted smiles burned to the ground as he loses more and more of the dignity scraped away by the schedules and people he’s brushed shoulders with.

he likes it that way. likes two real friends rather than a cesspool of empty hearts and laughs that bear nothing more than the coins clinking into their bank — no more drama. no more stories. no more shit to put up with when he doesn’t become the victim of everyone’s embittered war.

talk, alarms, lock, sns are all on private my ever-shrinking personal and social relations it ain’t nothing. no more meet-ups with people, no more stories no more drama, just straight to the last episode

and if they want to catch him, they better while they can. he’s sure to slide past the void of their fingers clasped against each other and chung gyujeong stands from the other side in a cocked grin waiting at the top with the answer to their question he can’t give them an answer to. then again, when has he ever conveyed an answer to their dead-end questions, nor spared any time to give in to the temporary pains of a broken timepiece. genuineness is lost in the world — lost when he’s tethered to bc.

follow me until you reach the climax what’s real? what’s fake? i don’t know.

the fingers type away the verse — he makes note of a few things (repeat the chorus, italics of the chorus. the references, flipped and mashed back together for a coy play on words.) trust the creative process, and he’s floating along on the surface. tides turn into ripples, and suddenly — he’s left grinning ear to ear, smiling away with the middle fingers up.

when he returns to the studio, it’s the same way he’s left it. the bucket of laundry loaded in a corner, growing higher and higher by the day. the emptied out plastic cups, all lined perfectly across his desk with the screen blinking and the sounds of the desktop still running on edge with his lapse in judgement to shut it off the few days prior.

today, he has help — no big help, just the trusted staff in the room as his fingers motion forth to enter the dungeon he’s been subjected to for the past few years. gyujeong motions once more: take a seat, make yourself feel at home. it’s written in silent gestures, and he steps forward to the recording booth with his headphones sliding over his ears (this feels comforting, like second=nature.)

the staff involved today serves no input, no help. no standardized comment of what sells nor what’s written in the outlines of bc’s expectations. instead, it’s another set of hands — another set of fingers to press buttons when he knows the booth provides the pristine sound he wants to collect for the alibi of the song. a crystal clear voice, no longer stumped by the background noise fiddling out from the lack of soundproofing. here, he’s able to relay the lullaby he writes for the masses encroaching deeper into dangerous territory. 

it starts with the chorus, the starting of the song. his hand waves past the recording glass, signaling the start of recording as the beat plays in the background — his phone’s already snug in the other, posed in front of him with the lyrics loud and clear.

and it’s his voice that relays the rest. gritty, slurred. no real pronunciation when it poses itself as a near whine — nearly flirtatious it takes when he hears the playback. (he guesses, it’s the effect of having fun with music again). there’s no idea how this will progress, no expectations then again. so, he continues on when the beat plays and he starts the verses — it toys. plays into the push-pull of lilting his voice in a mediocre taunt.

an ode, disguised as a taunt. or flipped and reversed, he still doesn’t know.

still doesn’t get it by the time he’s back after a full-stomach, leaning back into his chair. no more clicks nor a staff to help, it’s him against the computer screen pulling and yanking different filters with the snaps of the mouse. the vocal stabilizes, little need to refine and tune the voice into key. he adds in extra embellishments, things he’d never use as a play into the new break. when has he become the nomad adventuring out into unknown territory? he couldn’t tell you, only knows the high-tide fun that comes from horns and alterations buzzing out the verses then into the chorus. the movement, and piecing together of a complete piece.

here, there’s no missing pieces. just a full track that checks off satisfaction.

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

When You Least Expect It, Preview - Part 8

Jensen x Musician!Reader

Preview of Part 8! The full chapter should be up over the weekend.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

Spotify PlayList

Everything Tags: @kazosa // @sorenmarie87  // @lefthologramdeer //  @his-paradox //  @letsby // @thefaithfulwriter

SUPERNATURAL TAGS: @wings-of-a-raven // @negans-wife // @mrsbarnes-rogers  // @teller258316 // @spnhollis // @sweet-things-4-life // @hobby27 // @sweetlythoughtfulbird // @theoriginalvicki // @dreamchester67 // @xxwarhawk // @babykalika2001 // @superwhovianfangirl81 // @toobusynerdfighting // @missihart23 // @idreamofplaid // @thewinchesterchronicles // @wayward-gypsy  // @closetspngirl // @fatestemptress // @rebelminxy  // @22sarah08 // @witch-of-letters// @cole-winchester // @rainflowermoon // @adoptdontshoppets // @waywardvalkyrie // @fandomoniumflurry // @gnrfanfic // @blackcherrywhiskey // @jessieray98  // @lyoly  // @a–1–1–3 // @31shadesofbrown // @whereismyangel-damnitdeanshare // @pilaxia // @screechingartisancashbailiff //  @kgbrenner // @holylulusworld // @deansenwackles // @jamielea81 // @coffeebooksandfandom // @logical-princey // @gemini0410 // @salt-n-burn-em-all // @collette04 // @mrswhozeewhatsis // @deathofmissjackson // @lauravic // @akshi8278 // @katehuntington

When You Least Expect It: @winchest09 // @jerkbitchidjitassbutt // @aomi-nabi // @luciathewinchestergirl // @alexisxwinchester // @moonxdance // @seppys-return-to-madness // @donnaintx // @deans-baby-momma // @the-is13

“Hey! Did I miss anything?” Rob said and plopped down into his seat, his beer now completely saturated in condensation from sitting untouched.

“Nope,” Y/N said and leaned back in her chair, “Jay and I were just catching up. By the way, fun concert tonight. You boys rock out like that at every one of these conventions?”

“We do,” Rob smiled, “It's usually a really good time. You need to start coming to more of them, you fit right in up there. If you’re up for it, that is. I mean, you and Bri sounded amazing together. That should happen more. Right, Jensen? Maybe I should grab her and Bri, then we take this act on the road?” He wiggled his eyebrows and playfully draped an arm over Y/N’s shoulders, drawing her into his side.

Jensen opened his mouth to respond and the lights of the bar dimmed on and off, before settling into a hazy ambiance. The duo took to the stage again and picked up their instruments for another set of four songs. While they played, Y/N took out her phone and zoomed in to record them play. She took less than thirty seconds of video before tucking it away.

“What’s that for?” Rob leaned in and whispered.

“I’ve been taking videos and pictures of all the acts so far, to put them out on the social media accounts. The followers have been growing a lot. Hoping by the time the pre-sale starts next month, all the final acts will be in place and lots of tickets will go fast once they get a look at the line up and diversity of the acts.”

“Smart girl,” Rob mused before leaning back in his seat.

As their second set played on, they transitioned into a cover of Etta James’ Misty Blue. Y/N knew it almost instantly. It was one of those songs that immediately conjured up a memory and not necessarily ones that she wanted to have present. Her initial reaction was that she wouldn’t let the memories of the song hit her like a tidal wave. But by the time the first few lines were sung, she was already being pushed underwater.

“Do you guys want another round?” she asked in a hushed whisper, suddenly desperate to get up and move around.

“Sure, but I ca--”

She waved Rob to sit. “I’ll go.”

Y/N didn’t wait and left the table in a hurry, headed towards the bar. She wanted to leave the club completely, but it was just a song after all. She just needed a moment to herself and she would be able to push away the memories of her father playing it on repeat after her mother left. Y/N didn’t want to think about how he would sit on the couch, staring out of the window at the ocean, most liking wishing he was out on the sea, instead of in the house he had shared with the woman he loved.

Somewhere around the second chorus, Y/N had realized that she wasn’t standing alone at the end of the bar, Jensen now standing next to her, reaching out to take her hand.

“Hey, you ok?”

Y/N shook her head but then chuckled. “Yeah, I’m just being stupid.”

He watched her carefully and could see she was far from the truth. “What’s wrong? Something is clearly wrong.”

“It's the song. Just… reminds me of--”

“The ex?”

“No… not at all. My dad, actually.”

“Oh,” Jensen breathed and pulled out the stool next to her and guided her to sit.

He stood right at her side and motioned to the bartender to bring over another round. When he looked back down at her, he wanted to offer some kind of comfort but wasn’t sure where the boundaries had been set. “Do you wanna get out of here? We can take a walk, or…”

“No,” she replied again, but this time gazed up at him and was struck by how suddenly grateful she was that he was there. She didn’t talk to many people about her dad, yet she felt comfortable sharing things about him with Jensen. “The messed up part is I love the song. But after my mom left, he played it repeatedly for months. He and my brother would fight about it constantly. Then Dave started being home less often, then eventually took off for good. I mean, it wasn’t just the song, obviously. They butted heads over everything.”

“What about you?”Jensen asked, just as the beer was left for them on the bar top. “Did it bother you?”

“Not then, no. I knew it was what he needed to work through it. That’s just how my dad was. I learned from an early age that music was how he dealt with stuff. Whenever he had a problem or got hurt, felt angry he would go to music. He was a man of few words, but you always knew what kind of mood he was in by what was playing in the house.”

Y/N sighed at his memory, and as the song she both loved and hated came to an end, she felt Jensen rest his hand on the middle of her back, gently gliding his thumb back and forth over the fabric of her shirt. She liked the warmth and weight of it against her and silently hoped he stayed just where he was. It was inviting. Soothed her enough so as she sat in the dimly lit corner of Rosa’s Lounge, she felt ready to trust him a little more.

What’s the worst that could happen? She asked herself. I end up singing Joy to the World, right, daddy?

“One time, my brother had stormed out after dinner, so my dad sat out on the bench and killed a six-pack. He had this on repeat, of course. I remember going out there and sitting on the bench with him. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I could tell he just wanted to sit quietly. Then he started to sing along with it. And I mean, his eyes closed, a few tears in his eyes, and just this look of pure anguish, you know? He was ripe for a country song to be written about him.”

“Oh yeah, I know the look,” Jensen said.

“It was one of the few times I’d seen him cry. He sang through a verse and a chorus and then finally remembered I was there.” Y/N stopped and drank her new beer, and felt his hand still there only now slowly working its way to the small of her back. “I guess over time I just realized that music could talk for those would didn’t have the words to express how they felt.”

Y/N felt like she was rambling on and bit her lip to stop talking. Taking a gulp of the beer, she felt a sense of relief when they came to the end of Misty Blue and picked up the melody of some old Muddy Waters tune.

“I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. That’s how it was for your dad?”

Y/N nodded. “Me too, actually. As you’ve experienced, I’m not a great communicator,” she chuckled nervously and raised her glass before taking a sip.

“Oh, I dunno,” he said with a slight shrug. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

Y/N turned her head to look at him. His features looked drawn and tired, but his eyes were alive with something she couldn’t quite place. Being close to him again, and not just in proximity, but opening up about things that were very personal to her satisfied a need she didn’t even realize she had. Though he looked weary, he looked happy.

“You look beat. You should have gone back to the hotel to sleep.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Never.”

“Good. I mean you’re not wrong. I’m fucking beat. But I wanted to come out with you guys tonight. I really did miss having you around, Y/N.”

“I think we got what we needed. We can call it a night. You have another long day tomorrow, right?”

“Eh, I’ll be fine. I’m used to these schedules by now,” he waved her off and ran his fingers along the rim of his glass. “Besides, we were talking about you, not me.”

“I would rather talk about you. Are you sleeping enough? Traveling too much? Please tell me you’re not just gorging on Sow burgers and beer every day, are you?” she asked sternly, though Jensen could easily see through her facade and sarcasm. She was asking because she cared and wanted to know he was taking care of himself.

“Yes ma’am. I am well rested, hydrated, and have even been eating my veggies.” He was teasing her now.

“Don’t give me that look. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re taken care of.”

Jensen smiled and looked up through the bar, watched the blues duo play for a beat before turning back to Y/N. “That’s your job, is it?”

Y/N shrugged, then changed the subject. “You coming out with us tomorrow night, too?”

“Do you need me to?”

“No. Not necessarily.”

“Oh,” he sighed, the disappointment oozing from that single word.

“But… I’d like you to. You certainly make it more fun.”

Tags are open for SPN or this series if you wanna hop on (or off)!

[moonraisedsunchild]

My brain is now on daemon au for FFXV (also taur au).

my brain is like how unfortunate that so much of the au could involve dragons as like a family thing but also like is the LC have dragons, what to the NF have?

Are they also dragons? Or do they have a more ice (cause Shiva) or even water theme (cause Leviathan)?

Do the Amicita have Eagle daemons?

Would Nifs have more cold related daemons cause of the snow?

Could Promto have a chocobos daemon or do you think it would be a cold related one?

Would it be weird if a Galahdian had a snow animal? Or would they have more jungle type daemons? Would they have more sea or like storm theme daemons cause of Ramuh and Leviathan? Or are there specific ones that tend to run in clans?

I know that in canon daemon are a much different thing but someone changed the name to Shades in their fics which I thought was a good alternative.

For the taur au, again do the Oracle have dragontaur bodies or something else?

I am assuming that the LC have dragontaur bodies (I have seen someone having an au that involves this and I think it is pretty cool)

[woodworkingpastor]

The Stubborn Older Brother Luke 15:25-32 Fourth Sunday of Lent March 22, 2020

Call to Worship

Do you feel it? God's kingdom is beneath our feet.

We live in the new creation shaped by God out of our brokenness.

Do you know it? God's reconciling love in Christ has shattered our ways of viewing people.

No longer do we label people based on their past, but we welcome those who turn back to God with open arms, calling them “Sister” and “Brother.”

Do you believe it? God has made everything, including us, new,

and sends us forth to share this good news with everyone!

Hymn, You are salt for the earth, # 226

The last time I worked at Camp Bethel as a chaplain, I served a Junior High age camp.  To prepare for our evening Vesper services, I would make an announcement each day during lunch on what the youth needed to bring with them to worship. One day I stood up in The Ark and said, “For worship tonight, you need to bring a rock.” 

Perhaps you can imagine the questions that came next: “How big of a rock?”  My reply was simply, “Bring a rock.”

We met that night at the Quarry Pond.  Most of the kids brought a smallish rock, ranging in size from a good skipping stone up to baseball or perhaps softball sized.  But there were a few who went out and found the biggest rock they could find—small boulders would be a better description of some of these rocks!

I remembered that story when I read this apocryphal story about Jesus:

One day Jesus said to his disciples, “I’d like you to carry a stone for me.” He didn’t give any explanation. So the disciples looked around for a stone to carry, and Peter, being the practical sort, sought out the smallest stone he could possibly find. After all, Jesus didn’t give any regulations for weight and size! So he put it is his pocket. Then Jesus said: “Follow Me.” He led them on a journey. About noontime Jesus had everyone sit down. He waved his hands and all the stones turned to bread. He said, “Now it’s time for lunch.” In a few seconds, Peter’s lunch was over. When lunch was done Jesus told them to stand up. He said again, “I’d like you to carry a stone for Me.” This time Peter said, “Aha! Now I get it!” So he looked around and saw a small boulder. He hoisted it on his back, and it was painful, it made him stagger. But he said, “I can’t wait for supper.” Jesus then said, “Follow Me.” He led them on a journey, with Peter barely being able to keep up. Around supper time Jesus led them to the side of a river. He said, “Now everyone throw your stones in the water.” They did. Then he said, “Follow Me,” and began to walk. Peter was dumbfounded. Jesus sighed and said, “Don’t you remember what I asked you to do? Who were you carrying the stone for?” (Tim Keller, The Prodigal God, 58).

Last week we focused our attention on the younger brother in this parable, and I asked you to consider this question:

How valuable am I to God?

This week, we turn our attention to the other brother in the story. The inclusion of the older brother is an interesting choice.  Typically, we focus our attention on the younger brother, but he is not the point of the story. Jesus tells us about the younger brother so that he can help us understand the older brother and examine our lives through him. 

The older brother’s choices present a different question:

Upon what have I based my relationship with God?

What does the older brother’s outrage tell us about his relationship with his father?

“His elder son was in the field…”

When we first meet the older brother, he is out in the field working the family farm.  And we say, “Of course he was! This is what life is.” This man lived on a small family farm and there was a never-ending list of things that needed to be done to sustain their lives and their livelihood.  That’s just how it was. 

And to a certain degree, this is what a relationship with God is.  I wonder if that was a difficult statement for you to hear, or if it was not what you expected to hear.  We might not first think about our relationship with God involving things we do.  So let’s talk about this carefully and correctly. One way I like to think about it is by how much I appreciate the fact that while we have pews to sit in on Sunday morning, we are not saved to sit in pews. We’re not called out of darkness and into the light just so that we get a good seat on Sunday morning! When we surrender our lives to Jesus, we are brought into a family. Families are normally wonderful things that bring much blessing and structure and love and nurture to our lives.  But families also take a lot of work.  Families are neither simple nor easy. Newlyweds generally think theirs is the most amazing love story ever written.  It’s often my job to help them celebrate that. But it’s also my job to tell them that at some point you’re going to be cleaning up vomit in the middle of the night!  Love is expressed there, too.

Life in this family of God brings some work.  Isaiah 58 gives us a picture into this family life.  What does our life together look like?  We are asked to

We’re part of this family to make room for other people to become part of the family.

1 Corinthians 12 gives us a different picture of family life:

This life together in Christ comes with an expectation to step up and do our part.  We are given both the means and the opportunity to serve.  And here’s the thing: that’s exactly what the older brother has been doing. He was the dutiful older son: working out in the field, doing his part to ensure the strength of his family, all while his younger brother was off carousing with despicable sinners, spending down his share of the family wealth until it was all gone and he was neck deep in the muck of the pig pen.

During all those years he was busily tending the cows and the crops, he was also tending a grudge.  You can almost see him out in the field with his hoe, angrily cutting into the soil; or out in the woods with his axe, getting angrier and angrier with each swing toward a downed tree.  And when the younger brother came home, the dam broke and all that pent-up resentment came tumbling out.

It didn’t matter that the father had just saved his younger son’s life by welcoming him back into the family. It didn’t matter that the picture of the Prodigal being welcomed back into the family by the father is one of the best examples of healing we could possibly imagine.  Whatever issues that may have arisen by the younger brother’s extreme hunger and poverty were taken care of when he came home.  He had a place again—and not just any place, his place.  Restoration had happened and the older brother doesn’t care.

The sin of the older brother

All these years that the younger brother was gone—and even all the years before the younger brother left—the elder brother had everything that he could have expected: he had a family, he had the security of that family unit working together on the farm; he had the daily relationship with his father. He had never hit rock bottom or known the crushing suffering that the younger brother had brought upon himself.  But he missed the significance of that.

The older brother had to know what his father would do if the younger brother came home. I know that he is just a character in a story and that I’m making an assumption. But when we are around people we pretty quickly become able to predict their responses and their preferences. He had to know. 

But when the moment comes and he hears the music and sees the party and can look over into an empty pen where the fatted calf had previously lived, his heart is revealed.  He’s been living in his father’s house for years with a man who would do almost anything to welcome a wayward son home and he has not allowed his own heart to be transformed. 

The younger brother “squandered his essence” in the pig pens of a foreign land and is essentially physically dead before he returns to his home.

The older brother has squandered his time with a loving father and is spiritually dead, standing outside a party the likes of which his village has never seen.

This is where that bit about there being work to do in the family of God comes in to play.  The older brother has been doing the necessary labor in his father’s house, but he’s never understood the necessary love of his father’s house. He’s angry because he’s never been given a party.  Parties are nice, especially when they’re thrown in your honor. But what about the day-to-day interactions where relationships are built and character is formed? The older brother has done everything right in his life, but he is just as lost as his younger brother who has done everything wrong.  He’s been in the house doing the work of the household alongside his father, and he is completely spiritually lost. 

He’s never “drawn near” to his father so that he can be transformed and have a heart like his Father, one that responds to the suffering and stubbornness of others with grace and with welcome.  Because of that, all the time they spent together and all the work they did together was done from self-righteousness and misery rather than from the joy of being together with his father in the family business.

So what have you based your relationship with God on? This week I came across a hymn I’d never seen before; it was written by John Newton, who wrote Amazing Grace. It tells a somewhat similar story to Amazing Grace, except from more the day-to-day experience of our life in Christ.  The verse I want to share with you is verse 5:

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms and Proverbs

for february 7 of 2020 with Psalm 7 and Proverbs 7, accompanied by Psalm 49 for the 49th day of Winter, and Psalm 38 for day 38 of the year

[Psalm 7]

A David Psalm

God! God! I am running to you for dear life;

the chase is wild.

If they catch me, I’m finished:

ripped to shreds by foes fierce as lions,

dragged into the forest and left

unlooked for, unremembered.

God, if I’ve done what they say—

betrayed my friends,

ripped off my enemies—

If my hands are really that dirty,

let them get me, walk all over me,

leave me flat on my face in the dirt.

Stand up, God; pit your holy fury

against my furious enemies.

Wake up, God. My accusers have packed

the courtroom; it’s judgment time.

Take your place on the bench, reach for your gavel,

throw out the false charges against me.

I’m ready, confident in your verdict:

“Innocent.”

Close the book on Evil, God,

but publish your mandate for us.

You get us ready for life:

you probe for our soft spots,

you knock off our rough edges.

And I’m feeling so fit, so safe:

made right, kept right.

God in solemn honor does things right,

but his nerves are sandpapered raw.

Nobody gets by with anything.

God is already in action—

Sword honed on his whetstone,

bow strung, arrow on the string,

Lethal weapons in hand,

each arrow a flaming missile.

Look at that guy!

He had sex with sin,

he’s pregnant with evil.

Oh, look! He’s having

the baby—a Lie-Baby!

See that man shoveling day after day,

digging, then concealing, his man-trap

down that lonely stretch of road?

Go back and look again—you’ll see him in it headfirst,

legs waving in the breeze.

That’s what happens:

mischief backfires;

violence boomerangs.

I’m thanking God, who makes things right.

I’m singing the fame of heaven-high God.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 7 (The Message)

and importance of having understanding, of knowing the eternal truth in Love and the significance of grace, whether rich or poor, is seen in the lines of Psalm 49:

For the worship leader. A song of the sons of Korah.

Listen up, everyone!

All you who reside in this world, give an ear!

Everyone—rich and poor,

young and old, wise and foolish, humble and mighty—

My mouth will overflow with wisdom;

the reflections of my heart will guide you to understand the nature of life.

I will tune my ear to the words of a proverb;

to the sounds of a harp, I will reveal my riddle.

Why should I be afraid when dark evils swirl about me,

when I am walking among the sin of evildoers—

Those who depend on their own fortunes,

who boast about their earthly riches?

One person can’t grant salvation to another

or make a payment to the True God for another.

Redeeming a life is costly;

no premium is enough, ever enough,

That one’s body might live on forever

and never fear the grave’s decay.

Everyone knows that even the wisest ones die,

perishing together with the foolish and the stupid.

For all die—beggars and kings, fools and wise men.

Their wealth remains behind for others.

Although they wish to dwell in fine houses forever,

their graves are their real resting places.

Their homes are for all future generations,

yet for a while they have named lands after themselves.

[No one, regardless of how rich or important, can live forever;

he is] just like the animals that perish and decay.

This is the destiny of those foolish souls who have faith only in themselves;

this will be the end of those happy to follow in their ways.

[pause]

The fate of fools is the grave, and just like sheep,

death will feast on them.

The righteous will rule over them at dawn,

their bodies, their outward forms, rotting in the grave

far away from their great mansions.

But God will reach into the grave and save my life from its power.

He will fetch me and take me into His eternal house.

[pause]

Do not be afraid of the rich and powerful

as their prestige and honor grow,

For they cannot take anything with them when they die.

Their fame and glory will not follow them into the grave.

During their lives, they seek every blessing and advantage

because others praise you when you’ve done well.

But they will soon join their ancestors, for all of time,

among the tombs of the faithless—a place of no light.

Anyone who is rich or important without understanding

is just like the animals that perish and decay.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 49 (The Voice)

the closing verse of the same in The Passion Translation:

So this is the way of mortal man—

honored for a moment, yet without eternal insight,

like a beast that will one day perish.

[Psalm 38]

A Groan before the Throne

A poetic lament to remember, by King David

O Lord, don’t punish me angrily for what I’ve done.

Don’t let my sin inflame your wrath against me.

For the arrows of your conviction have pierced me deeply.

Your blows have struck my soul and crushed me.

Now my body is sick.

My health is totally broken because of your anger,

and it’s all due to my sins!

I’m overwhelmed, swamped, and submerged

beneath the heavy burden of my guilt.

It clings to me and won’t let me go.

My rotting wounds are a witness against me.

They are severe and getting worse,

reminding me of my failure and folly.

I am completely broken because of what I’ve done.

Gloom is all around me.

My sins have bent me over to the ground.

My inner being is shriveled up;

my self-confidence crushed.

Sick with fever, I’m left exhausted.

Now I’m cold as a corpse and nothing is left inside me

but great groaning filled with anguish.

Lord, you know all my desires and deepest longings.

My tears are liquid words and you can read them all.

My heart beats wildly, my strength is sapped,

and the light of my eyes is going out.

My friends stay far away from me, avoiding me like the plague.

Even my family wants nothing to do with me.

Meanwhile my enemies are out to kill me,

plotting my ruin, speaking of my doom

as they spend every waking moment

planning how to finish me off.

I’m like a deaf man who no longer hears.

I can’t even speak up, and words fail me;

I have no argument to counter their threats.

Lord, the only thing I can do is wait and put my hope in you.

I wait for your help, my God.

So hear my cry and put an end to their strutting in pride,

who gloat when I stumble in pain.

I’m slipping away and on the verge of a breakdown,

with nothing but sorrow and sighing.

I confess all my sin to you; I can’t hold it in any longer.

My agonizing thoughts punish me for my wrongdoing;

I feel condemned as I consider all I’ve done.

My enemies are many.

They hate me and persecute me,

though I’ve done nothing against them to deserve it.

I show goodness to them and get repaid evil in return.

And they hate me even more when I stand for what is right.

So don’t forsake me now, Lord!

Don’t leave me in this condition.

God, hurry to help me, run to my rescue!

For you’re my Savior and my only hope!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 38 (The Passion Translation)

[Proverbs 7]

Stick close to my instruction, my son,

and follow all my advice.

If you do what I say you will live well.

Guard your life with my revelation-truth,

for my teaching is as precious as your eyesight.

Treasure my instructions, and cherish them within your heart.

Say to wisdom, “I love you,”

and to understanding, “You’re my sweetheart.”

“May the two of you protect me, and may we never be apart!”

For they will keep you from the adulteress,

with her smooth words meant to seduce your heart.

Looking out the window of my house one day

I noticed among the mindless crowd

a simple, naïve young man who was about to go astray.

There he was, walking down the street.

Then he turned the corner,

going on his way as he hurried on to the house of the harlot—

the woman he had planned to meet.

There he was in the twilight as darkness fell,

convinced no one was watching

as he entered the black shadows of hell.

That’s when their rendezvous began.

A woman of the night appeared,

dressed to kill the strength of any man.

She was decked out as a harlot, pursuing her amorous plan.

Her voice was seductive, rebellious, and boisterous

as she wandered far from what’s right.

Her type can be found soliciting on street corners

on just about any night.

She wrapped her arms around the senseless young man

and held him tight—

she enticed him with kisses that seemed so right.

Then, with insolence, she whispered in his ear,

“Come with me. It’ll be all right.

I’ve got everything we need for a feast.

I’ll cook you a wonderful dinner.

So here I am—I’m all yours!

You’re the very one I’ve looked for,

the one I knew I wanted from the moment I saw you.

That’s why I’ve come out here tonight,

so I could meet a man just like you.

I’ve spread my canopy bed with coverings,

lovely multicolored Egyptian linens spread

and ready for you to lie down on.

I’ve sprinkled the sheets with intoxicating perfume

made from myrrh, aloes, and sweet cinnamon.

Come, let’s get comfortable and take pleasure in each other

and make love all night!

There’s no one home, for my husband’s away on business.

He left home loaded with money to spend,

so don’t worry.

He won’t be back until another month ends.”

He was swayed by her sophistication,

enticed by her longing embrace.

She led him down the wayward path right into sin and disgrace.

Quickly he went astray, with no clue

where he was truly headed,

taken like a dumb ox alongside of the butcher.

She was like a venomous snake coiled to strike,

so she set her fangs into him!

He’s like a man about to be executed with an arrow

right through his heart—

like a bird that flies into the net,

unaware of what’s about to happen.

So listen to me, you young men.

You’d better take my words seriously!

Control your sexual urges and guard your hearts from lust.

Don’t let your passions get out of hand

and don’t lock your eyes onto a beautiful woman.

Why would you want to even get close

to temptation and seduction,

to have an affair with her?

She has pierced the souls of multitudes of men—

many mighty ones have fallen

and have been brought down by her.

If you’re looking for the road to hell,

just go looking for her house!

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 7 (The Passion Translation)

[infernallewords]

Dialogue Prompt / The Trouble with Singers

The Trouble with Singers

The small little apartment where St. Clair and Amaline lived was packed with people when they got home from shopping.  The two had to elbow their way through a crowd of fawning onlookers, who were spilling out their open front door.  From the midst of the crowd, Amaline spied Bo, their tall assistant with his deep brown skin and arms waving around in the air, trying to signal his Superiors.

Amaline dropped the groceries to the floor, her mouth tightening into a stretched sneer, while St. Clair held a hand to hers, black eyes suffused with shock.  “What in the goddamn--” Amaline began.

“Wait, wait, let’s find out what’s going on first, and then react,” Amaline heard St. Clair say.  

Her friend might as well have been half a mile away, words streaming through an empty plain when they reached her ears, which were now on fire with anger. “Wait?  Wait for what?  We see what’s happening.  Do you see what’s happening?  You have precious vials and liquids that can’t be exposed to strangers, and what about all my stuff?  These people don’t give a good goddamn about our things.  They’re just stomping around like this is some kind of fucking ... some kind of ... fucking ...”  Amaline’s words drifted as a thought entered her mind.  “Some kind of ... concert.”

In seconds, her fears were finalized when she heard a high note streaming through the air, cutting through the noise of a crowd demanding one last song before they dispersed.  It was a sweet note, deepened and elongated with years of practice and preparation, that silenced the apartment full of people with the gentlest of entreaties.  The sound was soft, like a feather beginning its descent from the apex of the tallest tower, and gathering strength in volume like a hurricane as it wafted through the group, until its full power landed at the edge of the apartment where Amaline stood with St. Clair.  When the singer was satisfied, she began her slow progression through the song.  Her voice spun through the notes like a weaver spinning threads for a fine tapestry, pulling and stretching through chord changes with deft vocal chords as her tongue tapped at consonants like a ballerina dances across the room, light and limber.  Every vowel was pushed to its limit and treated to a thick application of the full richness of her vibrato, like decadent ganache spread over a fresh cake.

The people surrounding the two swooned, but every note, every word, every phrase filled Amaline with an anger so vibrant, so core-shattering, she reached into the eye of the hurricane churning and battering her own mind, ripped out a handful of energy, sent its electricity down her arm, and pitched it into the crowd with her hand.  Bodies flew against shelves and cabinets and walls in reply.  The music halted as people scrambled to avoid the next throw.  Behind her, St. Clair reached out, positioning her small hands onto Amaline’s shoulders, but the current coursed through her like a murder of crows taking flight.  She pitched again and again, sending a volley of pure hatred through the room, until every listener was either bustling past them out the door, in a heap on the floor, or shivering in a corner with their arms up in defense.

“That’s quite enough,” St. Clair ordered, her voice low and stern.  “I hope you haven’t damaged anything important.”

“Don’t worry,” Amaline said, pulling out of St. Clair’s grasp and stalking through the room, dark eyes lingering on every cowering figure she passed.  “Your workshop’s over there.  I only tossed them about over here.  Like a bunch of fucking rag dolls.”

Bo emerged as she wandered further in, his body protecting the woman in the chair behind him and the source of the music.  Amaline came within an inch of the servant, lifting a finger, and angling it to the right.  Without his consent, Bo’s body slid out of the way as if on a bed of ice.  The man inhaled, bracing for the worst, but all Amaline required were a few good inches to unmask the singer.

In a chair next to a lamp sat a girl curled up, head down and face scrunched up.  She wore only a light summer dress of white, a pretty contrast against her ochre skin.  When she realized the fireworks were over, the girl’s gaze peered up and met with Amaline’s.  The unfiltered rage brewed as she watched the girl unfold and give a tiny laugh.

***

“Okay, so you’re going to say ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you’ to which I’ll respond 'try me’ and we’ll have a dramatic stare down and then you’ll tell me anyway. So let’s skip all that, and you can explain what the hell happened,” Amaline growled.

“You’re well versed in the cliche,” replied Auralia with a nervous titter.

Amaline grunted, causing Auralia to jump and give a sharp squeak.  “Explain.  Now.”

Holding up her hands, Auralia tried to calm her breathing and her mind.  St. Clair edged up behind her friend with a disapproving stare and arms folded.  “Okay okay.  So, while you two were out getting food and other things, I was cleaning and lonely and bored.  Bo was out as well, as he usually is, so I just starting, well, ... singing!  It’s what I do.  It’s my only firm grasp on this world and my true nature and I couldn’t help myself.  I have to practice as much as possible, so I began singing an aria to myself, and forgot that others were outside and could hear, and halfway through I had this group of people at the door.  Oh!  They were knocking so loudly I could barely hear myself.  So I went to open it and ... and ...”

“And?” Amaline asked through gritted teeth.

“And I did.  And they just started streaming in!  I can’t help that song is my ability.  I can’t help how it lures people to me!  They just kept coming and coming, begging me to finish.  By the time I was done with the aria, they had me backed against the wall in this very chair, praising me and exclaiming how my voice was beautiful and entrancing, and how I should sing another.  Soon Bo was rushing in trying to clear folks out, but they wouldn’t leave without another song.  So I sang another to satisfy their indulgence, but that just brought more and ... well ...”

“Well?” asked Amaline.

“Well?” followed St. Clair, eyes squinted in disbelief.

Auralia shrugged and offered a meager smile for her own reassurance.  “And?  That’s when you came.  I felt you, but, well, what else could I do?”

“Fucking *stop*, that’s what!  Oh my fucking god, are you fucking serious right now?”  Livid at this point, Amaline leaned her small, yet intimidating frame over Auralia, who yanked her knees against her chest and curled up again, tensed for the smiting her new roommate appeared ready to offer.

“Now now,” St. Clair said, clasping her hands around Amaline’s arms covered by a thin, stripped sweater.  “There was no malicious intent here.  The girl just doesn’t know how to reel in her power.  That voice is a force of nature and she’s had no instructors or Superiors to guide her ... magical charms.  She needs but a little guidance.”

Auralia peeked up from her ball, fluttering her eyelashes as St. Clair coaxed the woman away with slow, steady movements.  Amaline allowed this the singer noted, rubbing her forehead with one hand and massaging her temples.  “What did we tell her when she first arrived?  Why did she not listen?”

“I believe,” St. Clair began with an even tone, “We told her to avoid singing loud enough for others to hear.  To avoid these exact same situations we outlined when she first arrived.  Why she would sing an aria and not something a bit more subdued is beyond me, but I’m sure Auralia will use this newfound wisdom for next time.  Won’t she?”  St. Clair fixed a tempered stare in Auralia’s direction, a stare suited for a mother admonishing a child who should have known better.  The effect was disconcerting, as Auralia chewed on her bottom lip and played with the edge of her skirt to release the tension in her body.  

“Yes,” she replied.  “It won’t happen again.  I *promise* you all.”

Wriggling out of St. Clair’s grasp with a gentle shake, Amaline combed her loose brown hair back with a sigh.  “Fine.  But if this happens one more time, I swear by your gods, my gods, every Celestial that may still walk this physical plane and the Waywards that worship them I will rip those chords out of your throat, and feed them back to you through a tube.”

Auralia gazed at the woman before her, a figure made of sheer might and uncompromising ferocity, and gulped.  This was not a person she wished to anger again.  “Okay, I promise--”

“... by shoving it up your ass.”

Pausing, Auralia swallowed that last bit of information like a cumbersome chunk of meat that threatened to clog one’s esophagus.  She shivered and inhaled and set her unsteady feet down on the bare floor, still littered with scraps of clothing from her hapless admirers.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“You damn right, yes ma’am.  Now clean this place up.”  With that, Amaline took off back towards to the door, gathering the groceries, and putting them away in the cabinets.  Auralia gathered pieces of furniture and set them back into place while every now and again Amaline shooed away a twitching victim of her violence by grabbing them at the collar and tossing them towards the door.  The woman’s strength was superhero-like and caused Auralia to shudder with every body flung towards the exit.  The singer would not dare distract the woman from her routine as she exhaled her frustration via storing food and other goods.

“Best to be tidying up, sweetness,” said St. Clair, heading back towards her shop with a serene shake of the head.  Auralia looked towards Bo for help, but he was out the door and around the corner before she could blink.  Auralia could not see herself withholding the arias in her heart for longer than a week, so she would need a place to practice without causing so much distress and panic.  She figured one of her two roommates might be able to help, but for now it was Jazz standards and silly little pop songs until such a location could be arranged.  Auralia knew her voice was dangerous, but hadn’t conceived of the danger being so *close*.

She straightened the living area with a swiftness, not eager to invoke Amaline’s rage to such a point where she dined on her vocal chords through an orifice meant for expelling for the sake of her art.

[lolcat76]

There's this Hallmark movie called I Married Who? where Kellie Martin wakes up the morning after her Las Vegas bachelorette party accidentally married to a famous movie star and I'm not saying you should write it as a Bill and Laura AU I'm just saying I WOULD NOT STAND IN YOUR WAY

@okaynextcrisis, I can’t see Bill or Laura being amovie star, but sweet Billy deserves to have some fun, right?

Of all the messes she’d cleaned upfor Billy, this had to be the worst, and that was saying something.

He was a sweet kid. A sweet, stupidkid. A sweet, stupid kid who couldn’t hold his damn liquor and couldn’t say noto a pretty girl, and that’s why she was waiting impatiently for him in thelobby of the Wynn at 8am.

He called her in a panic four hoursago, waking her in the middle of a wonderful dream about a cabin on acrystal-clear lake and a world without cellphones, and she was half-tempted toquit before she answered his call.

More than half when she found outthe reason for the call. He was a sweet, stupid kid who’d gotten married inVegas. Dammit, Billy. He’d promisedher that he was going up to his suite right after he finished his drink, andthat was the only reason she’d left him unattended at the pre-awards VIP party.It was late, she was tired, and she had a book that promised a much betterevening than babysitting her client. Even if he was her favorite client. Sweet, stupid kid.

She didn’t get paid enough forthis. She didn’t even want to ask for the details, but she had to so that she could fix it.

“Her name is Dee, and she’s beautiful,but Laura…I didn’t mean to get married.”

Of course he didn’t. He didn’t meanto get a very visible tattoo of a starlet he took out on one date, or get in abar fight with a surly costar at the opening of a club in Hollywood, or getarrested for public drunkenness after the Golden Globes, but he didnonetheless, and she was always the first person he called.

Every time she answered a phonecall from Billy Keikeya, she was reminded of how happy she was to not havechildren. And reminded that she could probably retire off of what he paid herafter each spectacular screw-up and never look back.

Still, he was a sweet kid. Shedidn’t want to leave him high and dry, married to some stranger and probably onthe hook for more alimony than even he could afford once the girl’s parents gotwind of just who exactly theirdarling daughter married in the middle of the night in some seedy Vegas chapel.

She could just picture them, fadedflannel, beat-up pickup truck and shotguns at the ready, chasing Billy down theStrip and demanding that he do right by their daughter. Oh, she needed a raise.It was going to be a long morning.

She hoped the worst she’d face wasangry parents. It was Vegas, though, and Billy was a stupid kid, and she’d lefthim alone in the hotel at midnight with a fistful of bills and absolutely nocommon sense. He might have met some wayward bachelorette party bride withsomething to prove, or he might have taken home an escort.

She did not get paid enough for this. Laura was supposed to get him to thehotel and make sure he made it to the MGM Arena in time for the People’s ChoiceAwards. She was not supposed to bail him out of a quickie marriage.

And yet, here she was. Laura wasmore than a little shocked when she met the happy couple in the lobby for breakfast,Billy clutching the girl’s hand. She was pretty and had a ready smile, but sohad the last 20 or so women who had staked a claim on her client.

Of course, the last 20 or so womenwho’d spent some time with Billy didn’t bring backup, but this girl did. He wasglowering over Billy’s shoulder, as well as he could given that he was a goodsix inches shorter than Billy, but he sure as hell was making his point withthose piercing blue eyes of his. He was sizing her up, and she could tell thathe found her lacking. She smoothed down her skirt and pasted her PR smile onher face before she caught herself.

It was 8am, and her client was apain in the ass, and why was she mentally apologizing to this man? He should beapologizing to her.

“Bill Adama,” the man said, holdingout his in a polite greeting.

He didn’t look like an angry father,or a greasy Vegas pimp. He looked like a battle-weary soldier, his pants andshirt pressed in precise angles.

He didn’t look like a pimp,exactly, but it was Vegas. In thistown, khaki pants with well-pressed seams were hardly a measure ofrespectability.

“Laura Roslin,” she said as shetook his hand, shaking it firmly. “Billy is my client.”

“Dee is mine,” he said.

So he was a pimp.

“She has an interview and a photoshoot today, and she’s…not looking her best. Also, I had a very carefullyprepared list of topics to discuss, and a new husband wasn’t one of them.”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t a pimp. Did strippers have interviews? Was she being anasshole for questioning whether or not strippers had interviews? Probably, yes,but she had to look out for her client, since his starry-eyed stare at Deeindicated that he was most definitely not looking out for himself.

Wait…Dee? Her job didn’t leave hermuch time to watch television, but on second look, she was sure that sherecognized Dee… Anastasia Dualla, the girl who was starring on some low-rated cableshow. Zombies, or vampires, or something. It wasn’t Stranger Things or Game ofThrones, but it was enough to earn her an invite to the whatever choiceawards Billy was attending this weekend.

She recognized Dee, and then sherecognized the man with Dee. Oh, God. She was on some Disney Channel show. Fora second, Laura fought back a laugh. Her job may suck, but at least she didn’thave to explain to an army of tweens why their squeaky clean star got marriedin Vegas.

Oh, God. Bill Adama. She knew those blue eyes, that was for damn sure. They’dmet before, years ago, when she was still an assistant and he had just landedhis first major client at CAA, and he’d hated her on sight. He’d gotten herfired two weeks after she’d landed her first job on a desk.

That’s what she got for correctinghis grammar in a press release. Still, he owed her a thanks for not making anass of himself in trying to get coverage for Kara Thrace’s first starring role.He may not have known how to use a comma, but she sure as hell did.

It was probably a good 15 years toolate to ask for a thanks at this point.

***

She shouldn’t be impressed becauseBill Adama knew divorce and annulment laws so well, but she couldn’t deny that she wasmore than a little bit relieved. Billy had an appointment with a rep from TomFord for his fitting in an hour, and how sad was it that she was scheduling the termination of his marriagearound a fitting for his tuxedo? Her parents would be rolling over in theirgraves if they could see how the college education they scrimped and saved forwas being put to use.

She could see Bill asking himselfthe same thing as they sat on the conference call with their clients’attorneys, working through the finer points of Nevada law. If she rememberedcorrectly (and she did, which was why she was so successful), Bill’s father hadbeen a top trial lawyer in LA back in the days of OJ and Ramparts.

Bill had a full notepad of notes onBilly and Dee’s marriage. She shouldn’t be impressed, but she was.

He managed to negotiate ashort-term annulment with a few arguments and a little bit of fanfare. They’dhave to show up in Clark County courts in a few weeks, but after a few words infront of a judge, it would all be over with.

If Billy could just let it go. Helooked downright panicked at the thought of an annulment, never mind the factthat he hadn’t let go of Dee’s hand since Laura had first met them in the hotellobby.

Sweet, stupid boy.

She’d demand an extra bonus andmaybe reservations at Half Moon Bay to make up for this shitshow. In themeantime, she shoved Billy out of the judge’s chambers, reminding him that hehad places to be and nominees to read.

It was a little more uncomfortablewhen it was just the two of them waiting in the hallway for the judge’sassistant to make an appointment for the follow-up. She shifted from foot to foot, tryingdesperately to remain calm, cool and collected. He didn’t remember her, and shedesperately wanted to keep it  that way.

“Do you want to read over the paperworkand make sure the commas are in order?”

Damnhim.

“Maybe I do.”

Bill dug through his pockets untilhe found a red pen. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Oh, he was good. She took the penfrom his hand and used it to mark through the annulment agreement. Alimony, no.NDA, yes…oh God yes, please don’t let anyone find out about this.

Just friends, yes, in the pressrelease. Laura had been just friendswith enough of his one-night stands over the last few years; he could agree tothat for her sake.

He could, and he would, because hewas getting fitted for a tuxedo, and she was signing his name in a Clark Countyjudge’s chambers. She needed a raise.

The judge tried to choke back alaugh as he waved his assistant over to collect the papers. She should havegone to law school; if she could still quote chapter and verse of statemunicipal codes, the judge wouldn’t be laughing.

If she could still quote chapterand verse of state municipal codes, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be in a nice,cushy office with walnut paneling, not staring down Bill Adama in the judge’schambers.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy you adrink.”

Isn’t that how they got in thismess in the first place?

She wanted to shrug his hand offher shoulder, but it had been a long day, and God knew she could use a drink.He was buying, so she wasn’t going to say no.

Besides, he still owed her anapology. If a misused comma derailed this annulment, he’d owe her a lot morethan an apology, but a couple of fruity drinks in the Wynn’s well-stocked barwent a long way to making it up to her.

***

She woke with her pulse pounding inher ears and an undefined, but still somehow clear memory of screwing up spectacularly.

The Advil on the nightstand wouldcure her headache, and she reached out to find the small plastic bottle and theglass of water that she was sure she’d left on the bedside table before she’d passed out the nightbefore, but it would do nothing to erase the arm that was wrapped around her waist.

Advil could cure her headache, butit wasn’t going to help the fact that she wasn’t alone in her bed.

Or that she was definitely surethat she wasn’t wearing underwear.

Or that her left hand had a certaincheap gold accessory that wasn’t there when she’d left the judge’s chambers theday before.

Dammit, she wanted a simple thanksfrom Bill Adama, not a legal commitment! She tried to ease herself out of hisembrace, intent on finding her phone and calling her own attorney, but strongfingers on her hips pulled her back under the covers.

“Not done sleeping yet,” Bill muttered.

She wanted to throw his arm offher; she wanted to scream at him for having the gall to sleep in her bed whenshe more or less remembered telling him to beat it after a couple of fairlyspectacular orgasms a few hours before. She wanted to forget she’d ever come toVegas this weekend.

Mostly, she wanted to be cool, calmand rational Laura Roslin, but she was comfortable swaddled in strong arms andoverpriced hotel sheets, and she was warm with Bill Adama breathing softly intoher neck.

Cool, calm and rational LauraRoslin had a list of things to do for the day.

Naked, happy and tousled LauraRoslin had a man at her back who was slowly stroking her stomach and humming inher ear.

What the hell, it had been yearssince she’d had to clean up her own messes, and Billy and his Disney bride coulddo without her for the day. She laced her fingers in one of Bill’s roaming handsand wiggled herself a little more closely against him.

Not done sleeping at all, if shehad anything to say about it.

[antics-pedantic]

RALLY CO. #4: THE GATE TO WITHIN, PART 3 / FINALE

Esmerelda was double-checking the impellet guns. They had plenty to take down several cryptids back home, under less pressing circumstances. But here in this subterranean world, they had to make every shot count. Likeminded, Tycho was carving spearheads and tying them to sticks with twine. He’d also figured to knot some grass together into ropes. Katrina was trying to focus on using her telepathy to reach Solomon and inform him of the situation. 

“Anything?” asked Felix, as she kept watch. She’d mostly just spotted some pterodactyl-like creatures flapping their wings, swooping by without noticing the adventurers below.

Katrina just shook her head. “I do not know if I am blocked or if we are too greatly out of range, Felix. I’m so scared.”

Felix didn’t speak. She just put her hand on Katrina’s shoulder for a moment, before moving back over towards Ez. 

“Any plans yet, fearless leader?” asked Ez. Felix flinched.

“We find one of those gates. One of them has to lead back to the surface. No matter where we end up, it can’t possibly be as bad as being lost down here.”

“And if it doesn’t?” said Ez. That was when Tycho stepped up to pass them the spears.

“I’m with Felix on this one. We’re on uncharted territory here. We have no idea who or what else lives here besides them beasties. We book an extended stay an’ we’re as good as mincemeat.”

Felix glanced down at Tycho, who gave her a nod. 

“Felix, c’mon. Let’s you an’ me take point this time. Ez, ye think yer brave enough to defend yourself an’ Katrina while me and Felix talk shop?”

Ez scoffed.

“Then go on monkey boy! I don’t see an accordion, so try not to disappoint Felix with your little dance, will you?”

Tycho just scoffed. Felix waved him along. They wouldn’t stray too far from Katrina and Esmerelda, but they needed to talk.

“She’s got doubts. I can tell.” said Felix.

“You an’ me both, Basra.” retorted Tycho. “She’s been known t’be real vexing.”

“No, I mean—she knows I’m not 100% about where to go or what to do next. And I don’t blame her, Tycho.”

“You’ve led us just fine so far.”

“Maybe by luck.”

“Yer a bloody detective! A damn fine one in the making, as Mr. Solomon Callahan used to praise ye! Out of yer element ye might be now. But lots of fellers who ain’t got half the wit you do have scraped by. I says ye’ll do ‘em all one better, ‘cause you’re not just any sleuth. You’re the take-charge flatfoot what organizes our little outfit. And I suppose it only helps ya leaps and bounds to have me around. I may not know all there is to this damned labyrinth, but I’m ready to learn—and my foundations have always been in the ways ‘o life in the wilderness.”

“… Thank you for your confidence, Tycho.”

“No better gut feelin’ t’follow than Gallagher family guts. Let’s rejoin the others and see about navigatin’ these burrows.”

As they did, the familiar—instant stress source that was the sound of gunfire. And something like water, but with an almost metallic quality. As they approached, the group took care not to be spotted: For they had come across Ruprecht Mueller and Dieter Leistung. 

“Mein Gott in Himmel!” cursed Dieter. “Whatever it was, it damaged the gateway!”

“Enough of your panic, Herr Leistung!” spat Mueller, before gesturing to a group of uniformed soldiers. “The spirited young folk of the Arkavalian infantry have come to support us! We’ll need to find another one of those contemptible gates around here. Or perhaps, convince this chap’s lot to assist us, ja?” 

“Arkavalia?” said Tycho quizzically, looking to the others after he was finished peering over the jutting stone he used for cover. It was Katrina who looked shaken to her core. 

“A smaller nation, tucked away within Europe. Before I properly moved in with Solomon, there was much news of dissent and disarray there. And then in newspapers, Solomon and I learned a new political party had taken power.”

“Seems they want to expand their borders…” said Ez. “I may not be leading an army behind me, but I wish I could do something about tinplated varmints like those.”

“Perhaps we can.” said Felix, waving for the others to follow her. “It’s a small enough operation that if we can get the jump on them, perhaps we might be able to foil it. They don’t seem well versed enough in this territory, and if we can capture them then Arkavalia’s tyrant masters will have been set behind a thousand steps! Who’s with me?”

With a nod from the others, Rally Co. tailed after the Arkavalian troop as quietly as they could. Tycho had fashioned together some sticks and foliage. Something large enough, whose shadow from overhead would be both large and accurate enough to a similar creature he’d observed passing overhead earlier. Katrina could handle making it glide with her telekinesis, fast enough to produce a blur. On Esmeralda and Felix’s timing, they launched it in a divebomb swoop, throwing the Arkavalian troops into a panic. A cover that Esmerelda and Felix could use to pull away two inexperienced troopers lagging behind the rest of their band. 

Dual *CRACKS!* went off as Felix and Esmerelda were forced to knock the two out cold immediately. Their impulse was not to fight, but rather to try and cry out. Alert the rest of their ilk to their disappearance. 

“That was close.” said Felix. “Quickly: search their things, and then throw them back to the rest without their guns.”

“That’ll give them quite the fright!” chuckled Esmerelda. “Suppose we’ve shaken them up enough that they couldn’t tell between us and that pterodactyl off-shoot?”

Katrina was quick to it, helping Felix search for whatever they could. Each soldier had a very standard set of equipment: Rifle, knife, rations and a canteen of water, that sort of thing. They had also been provided each a compass, but theirs were going haywire down here in the inner world. But what redeemed the search, was a small attachment: Still in its little wrap and packaging, with a small set of instructions detailing how to attach it to an existing compass. 

“We’ve got it!”

At those words, Tycho and Katrina helped to lift the two soldiers up, throwing them back to their lot as Rally Co. scurried off. Seeking hiding spots until they could work the devices they acquired.

X

Meanwhile, back on the surface world…

“I don’t like this, Funske.”

“Enough of your bellyaching, Jansen!”

Two Arkavalian agents in plain clothes disguises were in some other part of Arcadia. They had observed the lost-gate they had painstakingly assembled fail utterly. When that occurred, they were told to reconvene with other operatives in the city and determine which gates were still operational in order to retrieve their wayward infantry expedition, and perhaps something more. 

The meeting was held at the uppermost levels of a building in the business district: Some powerful shareholders and stock traders were sympathetic to the Arkavalian regime, and saw fit to aid its clandestine efforts with the many resources they possessed. 

“Funske, Jansen.” said another agent. “We received your phone call, and the succession of dialing the others occurred as we practiced.”

“Excellent.” said Funske. “We can confirm our attempt at building a gateway has been disabled from the other side. Master-Agent Mueller is still on the other side. Otherwise, everyone else is here.”

“Splendid!”

“Fortunate.”

“Efficient!”

“Haha!”

“Wait. Who was that just now?”

“Who was who?”

“I am on third.”

“Base?”

“Seat!”

“You fools!” spat Funske. “We are infiltrated! Find the interloper at once!”

The agents all searched together, but had no luck: In fact, by the time it was too late they had discovered the doors into the place were locked-- Or rather, were barricaded from the outside. And then, mocking laughter echoed from just about every direction: Their time had run out! 

Sidearms and a couple of shotguns were produced. Makeshift melee weapons would be made of the office chairs and so forth. Sweat slicked the brows and hands of these scheming agents. Each and every single one of them jumped and jolted when they heard a sound beneath the conference table. The only recourse was to poke holes through the heavy wooden furniture with a cacophony of gunfire. 

“Haha-- hahaha!” cackled Funske. “You are naught but an upstart! We do not fear this country or its foolhardy cowboys!”

The only response was the *FSSSSH!* of punctured canisters. A smokescreen filled the room as they all fell into unconsciousness. All save for Funske, who was dragged out of there by one mitten-hand of a round, clay construct, as Blockhouse’s other hand waved through the smoke, and closed the door behind himself. They went up to the roof, where Solomon Callahan awaited with a bucket of ice-water, splashing it on the spy. 

“The gates. You’re tampering with dangerous forces.” scolded Solomon.

“W-We are well aware!” said Agent Funske, halfway dazed and the other half desperate to run. “I do not fear you! Perhaps you are not a complete charlatan, occult detective… but my nation needs me. It has trained me to defy torture, to dispose of targets discreetly! Force my back to the ledge, but I will not--”

Funske barely registered that he had been yanked from Blockhouse’s grip. The lime-green, glowing lenses of the Junker’s flight goggles gave him an unblinking quality, his lips the only view into how he felt, and it was a hard line that uttered no plea for negotiation. Solomon and Blockhouse were trying to pull him back.

“W-Wait, I’ll talk!” exclaimed Funske.

“I don’t need useless variables like you mucking up this equation.” spat Junker. “You had your chance to talk. And you squandered it like the rest of your miserable life, fascist! I’m going to toss you off this damn ledge, and if you’ve got a cyanide capsule-- then you may die that death too.”

“And a thrashing he deserves, we’ll see to that!” exclaimed Solomon. “Listen here, you filthy so-and-so: It won’t be long before our mystery man recalls a method of leverage, by way perhaps of judo, and forces off myself and the construct. Speak quickly!”

“Lest ye take it to the grave…” said Blockhouse, ever the somber sardonic. 

“Arkavalia has discovered a world within the one whose surface we dwell!” cried Funske. “And the gates are a means to travel to that space-- always have, according to the supreme lorekeepers of our research commission. We thought we could use it to plan sudden, unforeseen invasions of our enemies!”

“You’d need a bigger gate for all the tanks and troops. Show us where your most powerful gateway is?”

“Okay, okay!”

Junker got free at last. Not by force, but he had relaxed. Still, he kept his eyes on Funske, more than ready to tear him apart. But instead he entrusted Blockhouse to keep tabs on this fiend and his ilk.

“I’ve got to go prepare something in the event we have… big trouble.” said Junker. “Follow Funske and don’t let him lead you astray.”

“You can count on us--” said Solomon. But that earned what passed for a glare from those goggled eyes. Ever-watching, ever-judging. Only Blockhouse was exempt from that.

“I wish you could stay, old chum.” sighed Blockhouse.

“If only wishes could be granted so... freely. Comfortably, with an air of trust.”

And with those final, bitter words Junker disappeared into the night. Solomon and Blockhouse started to restrain the other Arkavalian agents for capture, save for Funske who would show them a path to their friends.

X

The strange instrument the group had acquired the means they needed to get the advantage over their militaristic foes. Tycho and Katrina had collaborated to figure out Subterranean travel using Tycho’s talent for navigating the outdoors, and Katrina’s telekinesis to map short stretches ahead to figure out which tunnels and under-plains to traverse.

“Has anyone noticed another gateway around here yet?” said Esmerelda. 

“Still ongoin’, shyster!” snapped Tycho. “I don’t see ye formulatin’ no kinda way to make this process easier.”

“I don’t think slapping duct tape over your mouth will qualify, much as it should.” retorted Esmerelda. Felix stood by Katrina, making sure to protect the psychic in the event of any surprise dangers. A couple of times, the Arkavalian troops had nearly stumbled upon the Rally Co. group, and Felix was always quick to find a hiding spot before they scurried along with great haste to make some more distance. 

Eventually, they stumbled upon the remains of some once-great structure. Within which, an antechamber housed damaged carvings and items reduced to rubble. All that remained was a section of the building that seemed to host a larger variant of the lostgates they had used to get to this strange place. 

“The Arkavalians must have entered through this gate.” said Felix, inspecting the area. “The damage resembles the caliber of bullets they used earlier in shooting that poor Subterran inhabitant. I also see bootprints and a few discarded things like canteens and walkie talkies.”

“An’ this gate’s big enough for a whole brigade o’ them blighters!” exclaimed Tycho, stating the more obvious. “Leads right back outside into the larger hollows. They could get vehicles and artillery in. Maybe they won’t be able to wipe out all the beasts, but they could learn to get around ‘em, keep ‘em at bay… maybe even direct ‘em to their advantage. Nobody could attack underground bases like this so easily.”

“Aye, they could run many foul experiments, or perhaps hold prisoners without hope of rescue!” said Esmerelda. “A nightmare in the making…”

“And those that lived here are in danger of losing everything…” said Katrina, wiping a tear from her eye. “The artifacts here have been damaged so badly. The terror they inflict is… it is most awful!”

“There is nothing to lose, and only everything to gain!”

Just then, Ruprecht Mueller had arrived with his soldiers in tow, keeping Duke Luke and Dieter Leistung close so they would not escape either. 

“Step away from the gate, children.” said Ruprecht. “You may have eluded me before, but you’ve got no clay construct to protect you now.”

Rally Co. were prepared to move, but did not for fear of a hail of gunfire erupting for anything more than a nervous twitch. Duke Luke was gradually turning from fear to a twisted sense of excitement, as he hopped forward.

“Yessirree, Mr. Muller sir! Start with their leader-- the junior detective! The rest will break down at the sight of her corpse once it’s riddled like swiss cheese.”

Of course, before the guns could be fired, the Earth around them began to quake.

“What?! A tremor?!” cried Mueller.

“No, worse sir!”

A trooper had turned away to begin firing their submachine-gun upon an evolutionary off-shoot of one of the best known of the dinosaurs.

“Semper fidelis tyrannosaurus!” yelped Tycho, trying to get the gate to work. 

“Ever-faithful, terrible lizard?” said Esmerelda. “I didn’t know you practiced latin!”

“Anyone practiced opening one of these blasted gates?!” exclaimed Felix. “If not, then make for the nearest burrow!”

The whole Rally Co. team raced out of the ruined structure and into the underground plains, trying to find the nearest wall-tunnel they could scramble into. The tyrannosaurus off-shoot had knocked several Arkavalian troops aside with a swing of its tail. Just then, the larger lostgate had activated: Duke Luke was sprinting for it to escape the great monster. Felix didn’t want to waste a moment in pursuing him for his secrets of the Golden Shadow and the assassin’s whereabouts. But that was second to evacuating her team-- her friends. 

“Everyone, through the gate!” she ordered.

“What do you suppose is on the other side?!” said Esmerelda. 

“Dear sweet life!” cried Katrina. “I’ll not argue with Felix-- I believe someone from the surface has done it to save us!”

Just before they could make a move through, something with a spinning propeller tore through the gate, swooping into the spacious underground plains, and some of the larger tunnels when the Arkavalians and subterranean wildlife tried to attack, by tooth and bullet. Likewise, the unmarked aircraft belonging to no nation returned fire, performing expert aerial maneuvers in order to maintain the plane’s continued operation. Certain nothing else would come through the portal, the Rally Co. group dashed through to find themselves within a warehouse whose doors had been open to the outside, revealing the Arcadia harbor. 

“Fortunate development!” cried Blockhouse, who had just been in a hurry to open the doors of the warehouse, likely for the plane that had just gone through the larger lostgate. “I’d feared gravely for the lot of you!”

“It’s good to see you too, Blockhouse.” said Esmerelda. “Soon as we’re all home I’ll have to take a look at the composition of your clay. It can’t possibly have been that long since you shielded us from that chem laboratory explosion!”

“But who was that… that sky daredevil that appeared?” asked Katrina. “Will they be alright?”

“Plentifully!” said Solomon, walking back into the building with Duke Luke in tow. “As soon as they’re back through the gates, we’ve got to dynamite this whole blamed thing! Hurry along, everyone!”

The motion was seconded across the board: The group was far too frazzled to argue. In a haze of smoke, the unmarked fighter plane eventually zipped back through the larger lostgate, some smoke rising from a spot it was damaged. Tycho was setting the last explosive charge when he saw the bloodied maw of the tyrannosaurus off-shoot halfway through the gate, about to clamp down on him. Or at least it would have, had Blockhouse not stepped in with a haymaker punch, forcing the monster back into its domain as the two hurried away to watch the fireworks from a safe distance. 

“Now!”

Esmerelda hit the detonator. The larger lostgate was done away with. Sighs and hysterical laughter were exchanged, until the group glanced up to see the unmarked fighter plane making one last pass: They could see in the cockpit was none other than The Junker! And surprisingly, he had offered the group a thumbs up before flying off into the night. 

“I thought I’d lost you all!” exclaimed Solomon. “Blessed be this day. Is everyone alright?”

“In dire need of a shower, perhaps sir!” groaned Esmerelda. “Shall we all get along then?”

“I want a cream soda and a hoagie is what I want.” said the frowning Tycho. “And lots of naps between each bite. Pull up the radio or the television to my bedside!”

But as everyone shuffled towards Solomon’s roadster to begin the journey home, too exhausted to even consider any sort of follow-up on this case the next day, the ever-inquisitive Felix walked at a pace matching her mentor.

“There are more gates like this. We’ve not seen the last of that strange realm?” said Felix. Solomon just nodded.

“I’m afraid so. But if we should ever need to traverse that mysterious place, I’ll not have you do so without being packed more preparedly than the finest expedition. And perhaps, with reinforcements of some sort!”

Felix chuckled. Solomon smiled, but then he took on a serious demeanor for just one more spiel.

“Now Felix… I recognize that fellow The Junker has been appearing prominently. I’m not certain he’ll address me given my reputation and semblance of authority… but if he communicates with any of you, will you keep me updated? Ah! Blockhouse too of course.”

Without a second thought, Felix had nodded in agreement. It was only after that gesture that she realized she had put a great deal of trust into Solomon at a time when he had been acting oddly about the group. Not that his enthusiasm was out of place, but it seemed as if mentioning the mystery man fostered doubt in the older occult detective.

“And once he’s out of shock, we’ll grill that mercenary you’ve captured for his information.” said Solomon. “Another step closer to that Golden Shadow and his wily assassin. Malika would be terribly proud of you.”

The suspicions would have to wait. Felix had finally gotten hold of a much desired lead on her dreadful opponents. Every step forward now had to be taken carefully, wary of danger yet quick to snatch up opportune clues. 

X

Leistung had finally eluded Mueller and his men. 

It was not difficult to find another one of the smaller, regular-sized gates that individuals could pass through. But he needed something like what that fighter plane used earlier. Not so much for an invasion, but ideas formulated in his head that only colleagues could confirm with their greater geological expertise, and powerful patrons could bring to life with a steady flow of funding. A chance to carve something out… not to invade Subterranea right away, but to hide a veritable wonderland where his research could finally achieve its full potential. 

Now that he was back on the surface world, it was time to put this newborn plan into motion before the jackbooted ranks of Arkavalia, the nuisance of Rally Co., the terror of The Junker-- any human hindrance really, could stand in the way of this new frontier. 

FIN

[nathanrufo]

Thoughts of Experience

A new U2 album is out - Songs of Experience - which can mean only one thing: it’s time to dust off this old tumblr account so I can post my thoughts on social media without annoying my non-U2-loving Facebook or Twitter friends too much. And believe you me, nonexistent reader: I have thoughts on this new album.

As you may recall, I really liked Songs of Innocence. Some of my takes were laughably wrong (I was way too wrapped up in “The Troubles,” which is a pretty song but not “one of the best U2 songs ever.”). And, after a few years, I will admit that Songs of Innocence seems to me a much less quality album front-to-back. I find myself skipping a decent number of tracks (California, Cedarwood Road, Volcano, Sleep Like a Baby), and the bonus tracks don’t do anything for me (except Invisible, which is a hidden track). I still think “Iris,” “Raised by Wolves,” “This is Where You Can Reach Me Now,” and “Every Breaking Wave” are great songs, some even U2 classics, and I even love “Song for Someone” when I’m in the mood. But, it’s a much more uneven album for me.

After SoI, there was a lot of uncertainty surrounding the band. I waited for months, and then years to finally hear the follow-up/sequel. Every interview was, “It’s almost done” - in true U2 fashion. Truly, I had no idea what to expect from the album. My hope was that, after revisiting their post-punk vibes in SoI, that Songs of Experience would reflect more of the Unforgettable Fire-Joshua Tree-Rattle and Hum timeframe (my personal favorite U2 - ephemeral, moody, music that envelops you).

I can say that, aside from a few songs, that’s exactly the type of music that U2 went for on this album. I’ll say up front that my initial reaction is that I love this album, and I think it’s probably their best and most consistent work since Zooropa, if not Achtung Baby. Lyrically, there are two very obvious and somewhat intertwined underlying themes: 1) Bono’s musings on his own mortality after having what was apparently a huge health scare; and 2) the U.S. election of Donald Trump. I think both of those probably served to push the album back a bit from what they’d originally expected; but at the same time, the album came out 3 years later, which is short for late-stage U2 - so I think they also wanted to be timely.

The songs, lyrically, are simple - some may say too simple, too on the nose. I mean, some of the titles are “Get Out Of Your Own Way,” “Love Is Bigger Than Anything In Its Way,” “The Little Things That Give You Away.” There’s very little double meaning there. Bono talks in the liner notes about how, after he had his health scare, he got the advice to “Write as if you’re already dead, and you only have this last chance to tell everyone how you feel and what you think.” I think that’s very evident when going through the album. A dead man doesn’t have the luxury of playing cutesy with ironies and creative titles; he needs to get his point across well enough that people will understand even if he’s not around to explain it to them. (If he were in an Indiana Jones movie, his advice would be “Pick the wooden cup!” - a less interesting, but far more useful bit of advice than the cryptic clues often offered).

It’s obvious that this lay heavily on Bono’s mind; along with the thoughts of what kind of world he’d leave behind. The anti-Trump message is obvious, even when he’s not being obvious about it (which he does - a lot - sometimes cringingly so).

So lyrically, while this might not be the most artistic of Bono’s word choices (though to be honest, many U2 lyrics have been too “artistic,” to the point of meaninglessness), it’s certainly the most earnest.

So, I’ll go track by track with my thoughts. You obviously don’t need to follow along. (Spoiler alert: you don’t need to read this at all!)

1. “Love Is All We Have Left”

I love this to open an album. It’s moody and atmospheric. I personally love the use of vocoder - I think it adds to the song. I’ve seen old school U2 fans complain, but I think it’s great. Obviously straightforward lyrics.

2. “Lights of Home”

Another great song. Bono singing about death and dying; “Oh Jesus if I’m still your friend,/What the Hell/What the Hell you got for me?” Musically great, heavy; a big difference from the opening track. I love how the backing vocals drop in and out. This song would be right at home of How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, I think. I like the inclusion of the outro from “Iris” - the first of a few SoI callbacks on the album. This song was co-written with Haim, which is a cool tidbit.

3. “You’re the Best Thing About Me”

This is a song that I have mixed feelings on.  I absolutely love the verse; I especially love the bassline and how it interacts with with electronic flairs in the second verse. I’m not as enamored with the chorus or the breakdown in the middle, or the lyrics. Still, it’s a solid pop song.

4. “Get Out Of Your Own Way”

This is a song that could very easily fall into the wayward lyrical cutesiness of “Get On Your Boots” or “Elevation.” But in this song, I think it works - even the shoutout to “Lincoln’s Ghost.” I think this song is more political - the first really political one on the album - imploring Americans to stop shooting ourselves in the foot. “I can sing it to you all night, all night/If I could I’d make it alright, alright/Nothing stopping you except what’s inside/I can help you but it’s your fight, your fight.” The chorus of this could sound HUGE live. This is one that could fit easily on ATYCLB.

5. “American Soul”

I...am not in love with this song, to say the least. I like the Kendrick Lamar-beatitudes riff in the beginning. The groove for the verse is okay, and I like the reuse of the “Volcano” breakdown as the chorus; but the addition of the single guitar note seems a little out of place. This is the most egregious “Bono-ism” on the album, with “Refu-Jesus.” That’s a great play on words...if you lead up to it in any way. It’s presented seemingly randomly and it just doesn’t work for me. I’ve already started skipping this one on most of my listen-throughs.

6. “Summer of Love”

This song has a great vibe. It feels like an updated ‘60s song; Edge’s guitar reminds me of “Three Sunrises,” a song that I really like. The lyrics are great, too, a rumination on the Syrian civil war; “I’ve been thinking bout the West Coast/Not the one that everyone knows.” Apparently was a OneRepublic song that he gave to U2; they did a great job with it.

7. “Red Flag Day”

War. That’s what immediately sprung to mind when I heard the opening of this song. It would fit perfectly on War, from the subject matter to the post-punk vibe. Probably the closest they get to that era on this album, and they do it well here, though it’s not one of my favorites (just a style thing).

8. “The Showman (Little More Better)”

I’ve seen this listed as people’s favorite song. I don’t get that. It’s kind of an interesting, fun song; I do like Bono’s slightly-begging tone throughout, as if he’s begging you to love him, which is sort of the undertone of every showman. Still, to me it’s “just a song” - a decent album cut.

9. “The Little Things That Give You Away”

THIS. I said it on Twitter and I’ll say it again here - and I’m much more confident about this than I was about “The Troubles” - this is a top-10, if not top-5 U2 song of all time. It starts slow instrumentally, but Bono’s vocals soar from the outset. Eventually, it transforms into an epic, sweeping piece, full of hope and despair at the same time - a hallmark of a great U2 song. I heard this live on piano during the Joshua Tree tour and really liked it; but that version doesn’t do this song justice. I can imagine fans singing along with this like at the end of “Pride” or “Bad.” This is going to sound HUGE in an arena. Easily my favorite song on the album. It could slide right into the Joshua Tree.

10. “Landlady”

A really pretty, soulful, moody song. Maybe my second-favorite on the album. Lyrically, just as good. When I first heard it, I thought the “Landlady” was God in Bono’s eyes; but he wrote it for his wife, Ali. Either interpretation works, I think. I’m not a man of faith but I can appreciate it either way all the same.

11. “The Blackout”

One of the three that was released before the album. I really, really like this song until the very end when he repeats “When the lights go out” about 12,000 times. Overall I think it’s a great vibe and really reminds me of Achtung Baby. The pre-chorus is one of my favorite segments of the album.

12. “Love is Bigger Than Anything In Its Way”

Great, catchy song. I like the electronic melody. Simple, direct, but true.

13. “13 (There Is a Light)”

A nice, lowkey song to end the album. I like the repurposing of “Song for Someone.”

Bonus Tracks (Deluxe Album)

“Ordinary Love” has been around for a while. It was in the “Mandela: Walk to Freedom” movie and has been remixed a bunch of times. Lady Gaga sang it on tour with the band  (and she was actually great for it) and helped them produce this version. I like the song a lot, this version is okay.

“Book of Your Heart” hasn’t really made an impression on me one way or the other.

The string version of “Lights of Home” is really, really good.

The Kygo version of You’re The Best Thing...I couldn’t really get into it. Cool as a dance remix I guess.

Overall

Overall...I really, really love this album. I think it’s their strongest work since at least All You Can’t Leave Behind, and I think I like it better than anything since Achtung Baby. I would place it behind Joshua Tree, Achtung Baby, and Unforgettable Fire. Probably in the same stratosphere as War and All That You Can’t Leave Behind.

That’s it. Those are my thoughts. The end.