#a logical and production nightmare though

[jimxnslight]

Fool's Gold || Part III

Summary: Sweet Y/N, with her fluffy pastel dresses, soft makeup, and ditzy mannerisms. She’s seen as a fool in a world where there is no place for such things, but little do they know, the only fools are them.

Pairing: mafia leader!Jungkook x mafia leader's daughter!reader

Genre: mafia au, arranged marriage au

Word Count: 15.5k

Warnings: most warnings associated with mafia fics (e.g. gun/physical violence, blood, dead bodies, etc), additional warnings might be added as the story progresses

A/N: it's finally here! Sorry for the wait, things have just been really busy lately... but I hope you enjoy!

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Living with you has been an absolute nightmare.

Obviously Jungkook had known that dropping poison in his champagne and whiskey wouldn’t be the end of your little assassination attempt; he’d expected you to continue doing whatever was in your power to make good on your threat. He may have been a little cocky about it too, teasing you over the fact that he was standing before you unscathed, but the logical part of him still knew to keep his guard up constantly. 

What he hadn’t realised was how exhausting it would all be. 

You’d been here only four days and Jungkook had already had to evade poison in his toothpaste, a suspicious looking pin wedged into the insole of his shoe, and garlic juice in his cologne- the last one seeming far from a homicide attempt and closer to just pissing him off. 

Dealing with that alone was one thing, because it wasn’t something he couldn’t handle. But on top of it all, Jungkook hadn’t slept properly in days. He’d found himself dozing off for a few minutes here and there while holed up in his office at night occasionally, but he had mostly just stuck to spending his nights working, especially on the Park issue. He couldn’t risk actually sleeping in his office considering he knew that you had the ability to bypass the lock. And besides, as much as he would appreciate a few extra hours of sleep, Jungkook still had to be ready for if Jimin decided to attack again, even if he’d been quiet so far.

One of those preparations involved speaking with your father, which was why you and Jungkook were seated in one of the guest houses at 8:00 AM in the morning while your father was sat casually on the creme-coloured settee across from the mahogany coffee table before you both. The guest house was situated near the gates of Jungkook’s estate, still within its borders, but far enough that it had its own entrance and ensured guests wouldn’t end up too close to his house, just how he liked it. 

The initial meeting with your father had been awkward, though Jungkook may have been the only one to catch onto it. Your father hadn’t embraced you or kissed your cheek or told you how much he missed you, instead he had sent a formal nod in your direction before giving Jungkook a firm handshake. After that your father had barely spared you a glance, addressing Jungkook as if he were the only one in the room. You didn’t seem very offended by this either, your gaze instead drifting around the space looking almost bored as the two men conversed casually for a few minutes. 

It was an interesting detail, one Jungkook tucked into the back of his sleep-deprived mind. 

“The differences between the North and South have surprised me a ton,” Mr. Lee commented, taking a sip from the teacup in his hand. His accent was rough, no doubt a product of his upbringing in the South, “you guys do things a lot more softly here in the North.”

It was a jab, Jungkook wasn’t stupid enough not to know that, especially knowing how rough things were in the South. That comment was enough for him to know that your father was the type of man that liked to put others down to make himself seem superior. It only amused Jungkook though, because as per the culture, your father already had a bit of an upper hand since he was older, and yet he still felt the need to talk down to him.

Distantly, he wondered if your father’s personality had something to do with why you decided to hide your true personality even from him. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” Jungkook decided to reply dryly, not bothering to bite back. If he had learned anything, it was how to choose his battles, and an ego trip was not worth it in his books. 

Instead his gaze drifted towards your seemingly aloof form. It was a bit unnerving to see you look so quiet and proper, almost like he was being shown a third side of you. Your facade was still definitely up though, no one could miss the slight widening of your eyes and faint pout of your lips to feign an innocent look, but this version of your act was definitely more placid. 

Jungkook’s gaze travelled back to your father as he smiled, a sudden urge to get you to react overtaking him, “it’s definitely been an adjustment for your daughter.”

At your mention, your wandering eyes were reeled back to meet the gazes of the two men before you once again, but, unlike during the dinner with Taehyung and Chaewon, that was the extent of your reaction to the obvious dig. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed in your direction as you continued to sit silently beside him, an innocent expression still painting your already heavily painted features. 

Despite the topic, Mr. Lee’s gaze stayed fixed on Jungkook, “hope she hasn’t been too much trouble. She used to be quite the spitfire growing up, but thankfully I fixed her right up before she could bring that attitude into adulthood. Can’t imagine how I would’ve gotten her married if I hadn’t.”

The room became quiet as Jungkook shifted uncomfortably in his place, your father’s words, which sounded so casual on his tongue, unable to settle comfortably within him. Jungkook wasn’t so naive as to believe that “fixed her up” alluded to gentle parenting and stern lectures. And if his guesses as to how your father might have disciplined you growing up were correct, then you had his sympathies. Jungkook’s childhood wasn’t exactly filled with rainbows and butterflies, the son of a mafia leader’s childhood never is, but everything his father had done was for the betterment of the Jeons, not so Jungkook could be a good slave to a spouse. 

“No,” he finally decided to answer, “she hasn’t been any trouble at all.”

If your father’s comment had bothered you, you didn’t show it. But Jungkook was still eager to change the subject. 

Before he could, however, he was surprised when he felt you straighten up beside him and beat him to it. 

“How is Hannah doing, father?”

Despite all his research, Jungkook had no clue who Hannah was. He’d never even heard of the name before, which he found surprising considering how well he made sure to research the Lees before his marriage. Nevertheless it was clear to him that whoever this Hannah was, she was important. You’d asked the question with your usual soft voice, a casual hint in your tone, but Jungkook had known you long enough at this point to see past your act. He could see the way your gaze had turned calculating, taking in each and every expression that flitted across your father’s face as he took a sip from his teacup before he finally allowed himself to take you in. 

“She's doing fine,” he answered after a moment, voice void of any emotion, “very fine actually.”

Jungkook didn’t miss the subtle jump in your eyebrows at his words, so subtle that he doubted your father would notice it even though he was finally acknowledging your presence. 

“But you should start worrying more about this place, Y/N. This is your home now after all.”

Your gaze immediately dropped at his words as you gave him a timid nod, ditzy Y/N clearly back in full swing. Most would have witnessed this interaction and seen a loving daughter being rejected by her cold, heartless father. But looking past your act of innocence, Jungkook couldn’t help but feel that there was more to this interaction than that. The relationship you had with your father was weird. If Jungkook hadn’t known either of you, he wouldn’t have guessed that you were more than mere acquaintances with how distant you both seemed. No love, no animosity, just… impassive.

And yet, despite this clearly uncommunicative relationship, you’d spoken up only once in this entire conversation to ask about a person named Hannah - or rather you had wanted confirmation about something regarding Hannah, and judging from the way your expression had returned to that naively bored look, you had gotten the confirmation you were seeking. Neither of you had offered to identify who Hannah was to Jungkook either, so he doubted asking would prove to be very useful. 

If only Jungkook had the mind to figure everything out on his own at this moment. He’d already had to stifle three yawns since the beginning of the conversation, all of which he was able to hide only because your father had initially seemed very interested in scanning the contents of the guest house. Hopefully he’d get better at hiding his exhaustion as the day progressed, he had a long day ahead of him after all. 

Your father caught Jungkook’s attention once again when he leaned forward to place his empty teacup on the mahogany coffee table in front of him. The teacup clinked against the wood before he leaned back into the settee, giving Jungkook a questioning look. 

“So, now that we’ve got the chit chat out of the way, why’d you need to see me so desperately?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Jungkook ignored the arrogant structuring of his words once again, gaze instead drifting to you, who was keenly scanning the front page of a newspaper that had been haphazardly placed on the coffee table to give the room a more homey feel. 

He wasn’t entirely sure whether you knew anything about Jimin’s attack on the West Docks. Yes, you had broken into his office once, but Jungkook didn’t leave important stuff like that just lying around so technically you didn’t have any way of knowing about it. Jungkook preferred if you didn’t, because obviously the less you knew the better. You were trying to kill him after all, and as much as he liked to make a joke out of it, he wasn’t dumb enough not to at least partially take it seriously. 

So Jungkook shifted in his seat to face you, the action catching your previously wandering attention, before he placed a hand on your knee. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hesitant, but thankfully you didn’t flinch at the contact. 

“Why don’t you go freshen up, princess? Your father and I have some business to discuss, and then after that you and I have somewhere to be.”

Jungkook watched your eyebrows twitch, though whether it was from the nickname or in question of where the two of you would be heading he didn’t know. But then your gaze flickered to your father’s direction for a moment before you quietly nodded. 

You stood from the settee, ignoring the way Jungkook’s hand, which had been resting on your knee, brushed against your skin as it fell. When you faced your father, hands clutched before you, he was already looking up at you with a familiarly indifferent expression. 

“It was nice seeing you again, father,” you said formally, keeping your voice light and soft as you offered him a small bow. You were returned a formal nod, another familiar action, before you turned away from the two men and pushed through the double doors of the guest house. 

A deep sigh escaped your lips the moment you heard the door shut behind you, feeling as though someone had lifted an anvil off your chest. Your father’s presence had always felt suffocating, you were just glad that the two of you being in the same room has also always been a rare occurrence in itself. 

You didn’t have time to dwell on that fact as the beauty of Jungkook’s estate now stood before you in all its glory. Lush green grass surrounding a stone walkway, colourful flowers popping out of strategically placed beds, and large, but maintained, Japanese Maple trees scattered here and there were all organised neatly to form a breathtaking courtyard. 

This was the one thing you could unconditionally appreciate about Jungkook’s estate. Most leaders’ estates screamed money with the various marble statues of themselves and their families littering their front yards and excessive landscaping drenching the flowers and grass in stone and metal. But Jungkook’s was filled with greenery, as if you were walking through an enormous garden. You loved it. 

While surveying the area your gaze dropped to the stone pathway before you, the one you and Jungkook had walked through to get to the guest house and also the one you were certain Jungkook was expecting you to take after being kicked out of said guest house. You stared at it for no more than three seconds, not even bothering to think it over, before you spun around in your spot and pressed your ear to the door you had just emerged from. 

There was something wrong. 

Although alliances were a very uncommon thing in the South, you were still smart enough to know that business deals between allies should be eased into slowly, not started four days after a marriage. This meeting was happening way too soon, which made you doubt it was business-related at all. 

Jungkook needed something from the Lees. The only question was what?

After leaning quietly against the door for a few minutes, you were only able to pick up a few words here and there between quick stifled yawns. It would’ve disappointed you if it wasn’t for the one name you managed to catch Jungkook say as clear day.

Park Jimin.

The leader of the Parks. The man whose close friend consisted of the ruthless Min Yoongi, leader of the Mins. Both mafias were located north of Taehyung and Jungkook’s territories. Personally, you’ve never heard of any ongoing disputes between the four, but if Jungkook was mentioning Park’s name in a meeting with your father, there had to be something going on. 

That would be perfect, because if you killed Jungkook while he was having a feud with Jimin, then Jungkook’s death would be more likely to be pinned on Jimin, allowing you to bear no consequences and be sent back to the Lees without a scratch. 

Except… it wasn’t perfect, because killing Jungkook had proven to be a lot harder than you had anticipated.

Killing your first husband had been child’s play. Even after you’d grabbed the gun from his waistband and shot him twice in the chest, his men had taken one look at the scene and ruled you out before you had even had the chance to construct a detailed tale of an assassin that had come through the window and shot him dead. They had been complete idiots, entirely unable to see the doe-eyed girl with frilly pink dresses and a soft airy voice as anything more than that. 

But this case was an entirely different challenge. You’d realised on the very night of your wedding that the people around Jungkook, as well as Jungkook himself of course, were not as stupid. You knew that if you tried to pull the same stunt again, you’d be pinned for the murder eventually. It’s why you hadn't even bothered to search for some kind of weapon in Jungkook’s mansion, nor had you tried to steal the gun you knew stayed sat on Jungkook’s waistband at every moment of the day. If you used a weapon to kill Jungkook, you’d be caught. 

That’s why you had stuck to poisons as your main choice of weapon. The collection of toxins you had managed to smuggle into the mansion, all thanks to Persilla of course, was made to make kills look like nature’s fate. Yet, despite dropping toxins into anything that could possibly make contact with Jungkook’s mouth or skin for the past four days, your efforts were proving to be futile. Jungkook’s knack for catching onto small details was just a difficult barrier to overcome. 

You knew H hadn’t sent you that note to pressure you into speeding up Jungkook’s murder, and you hadn’t taken it in that way at first, but now that four days had passed you were beginning to think about changing your methods. It would be more complicated, but you needed to get this done quickly. 

A gun would be the best way to finish him off in your opinion; it was the one weapon you were a master of and getting a hold of one shouldn’t be too difficult with all the guards milling around the estate. Then all you’d need to do was get Jungkook alone, shoot him dead, and then plant some evidence that pointed towards the Parks. You’d need to be careful, but it was doable a-

“Now look what I’ve found.”

You snapped away from the door and whirled around, startled entirely as a male voice suddenly spoke up from behind you. You were met with the view of a man, one you’ve never seen before, standing a couple metres away from your form, his hair as light brown as his eyes. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, while the buttons of his white polo shirt were open to reveal a sliver of his neck. 

“I seem to have caught a nosy little mouse.”

You wanted to ask him who he was and what he was doing here. Anyone within the gates of Jungkook’s estate had to be close to him, you’d learned that much during your stay here. Yet, Jungkook had failed to mention this man at all. 

But before you could voice your questions, the man stepped forward, brown dress shoes tapping against the stone beneath you both, and held out a hand, “I’m Daehyun, Jungkook’s cousin. We haven’t formally been introduced.”

Tentatively, because you still had an act to uphold, you reached out to shake his hand, making sure to keep your grip weak, “I’m Y/N.”

Then you remembered that eavesdropping on a conversation between Jungkook and your dad may not seem like the most innocent thing to Daehyun. So you quickly mustered up a believable excuse. 

“I swear I wasn’t trying to listen to their conversation! I just…”

You paused, pretending to shy away from him to give the illusion that you were embarrassed to admit the blatant lie that was about to escape your lips.

“I just wanted to know if Jungkook would talk about me,” you said, keeping your gaze on the ground as you started fidgeting with your fingers, “he’s not the most talkative man with me, so I just wanted to see if he would admit anything to my father.”

“Mhmm,” Daehyun replied, and you couldn’t help but feel that the tone of his voice gave the impression that he wasn’t paying attention. Finding that strange, you lifted your gaze from the ground hesitantly and observed him. The sight made you grimace inwardly. 

Daehyun’s lack of interest could be explained by the fact that he was too busy raking his eyes across your body, taking in your bare legs and neck, almost as if he were entranced. You noticed his fingers twitch as he took in the frills of your pink dress and the silk bow holding up half your hair. 

“God, you don’t look a day over 19,” he commented, as if you weren’t even there and he was simply talking to himself, “how old are you, darling?”

This was far from the first time a guy had looked at you as though you were a piece of meat. In fact, your act seemed to garner a lot more attention from the male species than it should. You liked to think that all the years of this had made you immune to moments like these, but deep down you knew it still made your skin crawl.

That being said, the implications of Daehyun’s words were beginning to register in your mind. This was Jungkook’s cousin, his family. It was customary for all male members of mafia families to have a gun with them at all times, which meant that there was a very high probability that, if Daehyun were to turn around, you would catch sight of a shiny black gun wedged into his waistband. He didn’t seem like the intelligent type to you either, which meant this would be a better opportunity to steal a gun compared to snagging one from a constantly alert guard. 

All you needed to do was get him a little closer to you. 

“Twenty-three,” you finally answered, keeping your voice soft and innocent-sounding. You took the opportunity to take a timid step forward, one that seemed to go unnoticed by Daehyun.

Instead he nodded, as if in approval of your answer, “Jungkook really hit the jackpot with you, didn’t he… I expect you’ll age beautifully. Lucky bastard.”

You pushed down the urge to throw up in your mouth. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t think you had it in you to lead him on in order to steal the gun. He was just way too slimy, saying things that were way too gross. 

But turns out, you didn’t really need to say anything as Daehyun took another step towards you, leaving only a hand’s length between yourself and him. You automatically felt yourself tense. If it were up to you, you’d have grabbed his shirt and kicked him where the sun doesn’t shine. But you were ditzy Y/N at the moment, and ditzy Y/N couldn’t fight back. 

Instead you tried to focus on the gun. He was close enough that you could snake your arm behind him without him noticing, but he still needed to get a little closer for you to grab it. 

“Relax, darling,” Daehyun soothed, and to both your distaste and relief he placed a hand on your shoulder, closing the distance you needed. Your hand crept forward slowly, stopping at his waistband, “you don’t need to be so tense-”

“Daehyun.”

Crap.

Your empty hand shot back to your side as your gaze snapped to the source of the voice, Daehyun’s following suit less quickly. Jungkook was shutting the door of the guest house behind him, dark eyes fixed on the hand on your shoulder. His voice had been low, the threat in them evident. Yet, Daehyun smiled, instead taking his time in removing his hand from your shoulder and taking a step back. 

“Jungkook,” he nodded, his hands returning to his pockets, “your wife and I were just having a small chat.”

You searched the space behind Jungkook, finding no sign of your father. The guest house had two exits, one that led into Jungkook’s estate and another that led outside of it. Your father must have gone through the latter. 

Jungkook gained your attention once again when he took a few steps forward, his sharp gaze fixed on Daehyun, “you can talk without touching.”

Daehyun raised his hands in mock surrender as Jungkook paused in front of you, scanning you from head to toe for a second, before he grabbed your wrist and began dragging you away from him, barely sparing him another glance as he started on the stone pathway you knew led to his mansion. There was this one patch of the pathway that you noticed hid the two of you from the attentive eyes of the guards. You took that opportunity to drop your act of innocence. 

“Cousin of yours?” You asked with an eyebrow raised. 

“Unfortunately.”

Your brows furrowed as you watched Jungkook spit out the word through gritted teeth, keeping his face forward. He was angry. He didn’t like Daehyun, you realised. Yet he seemed to have free access to his house? That didn’t make any sense.

You watched the patch eventually give way to a large circular driveway that laid before the front doors of Jungkook’s mansion. There was a sleek black car already parked on the grey concrete, obscured slightly by the fountain in the circle’s centre. It probably had something to do with what Jungkook was talking about earlier, about how there was somewhere the two of you would be going. 

With your innocent facade back up, because you noticed guards milling around this part of the estate, you turned to Jungkook with a curious look, “where are we going?”

He paused for a moment as his gaze dropped on you, and you immediately knew he was choosing his next words carefully, making sure to pick the ones that only allowed you to know as much as he wanted you to. 

“We’re going to meet some families,” he finally answered, but you’d already become distracted as you noticed a guard walk up to the window of the black car and begin speaking with the driver, the exposed gun at his hip suddenly looking very attractive to you especially after your failed attempt at snatching Daehyun’s. 

“And why is that?” You asked him absentmindedly, wondering if there was any way you could grab the weapon. You’d only need to brush past the guard for a moment to grab and shove it into the holster at your thigh. You knew the frills of your dress would do an amazing job at hiding its outline as well, even from eyes like Jungkook’s.

“There was an accident at the West Docks and a few workers died. We’re going to meet with the families and pay our respects.”

Your attention snapped back to Jungkook, the reminder to keep your expression light coming just a millisecond too late. It was a practically microscopic reaction, but it was enough for Jungkook to pick up on, making him tilt his head in question.

“I’m sorry, what?” You asked without much thought, because you honestly didn’t have anything smarter to say. Why was a mafia leader paying respects to people who weren't part of the family?

You weren't an idiot; it was no coincidence that Jungkook mentioned an incident taking place at the docks around the same time he had a meeting with your father in which he was mentioning Park Jimin’s name. You’d pieced together that said “incident” was more likely some kind of attack, and the one responsible for said attack was probably Park Jimin. If Jimin had attacked Jungkook’s docks, then that meant he was testing how strong the Jeons were at the moment, which further meant that he was interested in taking over the territory. Obviously Jungkook would have wanted to ensure that he had your father’s support if things were to escalate. 

People would have died in the attack at the West Docks, that’s how it always worked. Hell, people died at the borders all the time in the South since there was so much animosity between the territories there. 

But that’s just how things worked, or at least that’s what you’d heard mafia leaders parrot to each other growing up. “They knew what they were signing up for.” “They’re doing it for the sake of the mafia.” It was the kind of thinking that you loathed, and that exact thinking that you hoped to dismantle bit by bit until everyone, not just you, could see the flaws behind it. 

Yet… here Jungkook was, saying he wanted to value those lives lost by paying respects to their mourning families…

It was unbelievable. 

However, before either of you could speak, the door of the parked car opened to reveal a man wearing a standard suit. He stepped out onto the concrete, only to turn around in his place and open the door to the backseat. He continued to stay like that, patiently waiting for the two of you. 

Jungkook was the first to move, walking around the car to open the door himself and disappear behind the sleek black metal, while you eventually followed behind him, giving the man a soft thank you before sinking into the backseat beside your husband. In a matter of seconds, the doors were shut and you felt the car begin to move beneath you. 

There was an unfamiliar silence as you peered through the tinted windows, watching as the car passed through the front gates before submerging into a thick forest. The four days you’ve been at Jungkook’s mansion had been full of constant bickering, that was until someone else would enter the room. Then suddenly you were clasping your hands in front of you and bowing with a soft smile, all while Jungkook hid his cocky grins. 

“What? No snappy comebacks today?” Jungkook spoke, probably feeling the uncharacteristic silence as well. Despite noticing that there was a divider between the driver and you both, meaning there was no reason for you to keep your act up, you didn’t answer. 

You didn’t know why his earlier words weren’t sitting well with you. Just because Jungkook dropped a few condolences here and there didn’t make him a good person. He was the leader of a mafia after all, and you’d met enough of them to know the kind of people they were: cruel, merciless, and lacking in respect for the ones outside their families. Even the level of care they had for their families was questionable. 

But still… this was throwing you off.

You turned around in your seat as a sudden thought came to mind, causing Jungkook’s gaze to shift from the window to your form. 

“What do you mean by paying respect?” You asked. Perhaps the phrase meant something different in the North. Perhaps instead of meeting the families and expressing empathy for their loss, he was going to lecture them on the need for martyrs and how the families owed the Jeons for letting them live in their territories. Yes, that made a lot more sense to you. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, was looking at you as if you’d gone insane. 

“I won’t even begin to answer that question,” he scoffed. But then he seemed to consider something for a moment, probably the fact that you would also be the one paying respects and not knowing what that was might be a hindrance to his perfect image, and spoke with an annoyed sigh, “we will be meeting with the families, relaying a few comforting words. Let them know that we will be supporting them from now on so they can focus solely on overcoming their grief rather than on how they’ll make ends meet moving forward.”

You turned back to your window with a frustrated breath, his answer doing nothing to dissipate your confusion. You might have also faced away from him to hide a stifled yawn. Car rides tended to make you sleepy, and in combination with the fact that you haven’t slept properly throughout your stay at the Jeon Mansion, it was taking a lot of willpower to keep your mind alert at the moment. 

“Considering that this will be our first official public appearance, I should also repeat how crucial it will be for you to act like a good wife.”

You rolled your eyes as a huff escaped your lips, “Yeah, I get it.”

“If you getting it means you’ll act better than the way you acted in front of your father, then good,” he commented, which made you turn to him once again with a brow raised. 

“What is that supposed to mean? I was fine in front of my father.”

Jungkook shrugged, “you could have been better.”

“How?”

He thought for a moment, mulling it over before he responded with an amused look, “when you were leaving the room, you stood up and just let my hand fall away to the side. Some would take that as a sign that you’re mad at me.”

“I am not going to kiss the ground you walk on just so that a few jobless people will keep their mouths shut,” you shot back. If you were having any qualms about killing him earlier they were entirely gone now. You were going to enjoy each and every moment of gutting the man at your side, not even the slightest hint of guilt.

“Not to mention how quiet you were,” he continued, but this time you could feel the weight of his gaze deepen, “you do know that we’ll have to actually speak to the families, right?”

There was a silent curiosity in his eyes that he didn’t voice, but you knew it was there, though for what exactly it was for you didn’t know. Was he questioning why you were so quiet? If that were the case, you didn’t have an answer; you hadn’t even realised you’d been so quiet during the meeting. Or was he curious about Hannah? You doubted it. With all the research he had done on the Lees and your territory, you guessed he already knew who she was. 

“Relax, Jungkook,” you waved him off, “I’ve been acting as someone else for years. You’ll get your nice and loving wife.”

With that settled you turned back to the window, stifling another yawn with your hand. 

-

-

-

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the fact that you were actually waking up, meaning that at some point during the ride you had fallen asleep. The second thing you noticed as you were waking up was that whatever thing you were leaning on did not feel like the inner side of a car door. That second realisation had you sitting up in your seat instantly, eyes shooting open to understand the situation. 

Outside you could see that there were no longer thick-trunked trees surrounding the road in which you drove on, instead replaced by groups of houses and small apartment buildings. You watched as kids playing in the roughened streets stopped to stare at the sleek black car, their parents no different as they tried to see through the tinted windows with unfiltered curiosity. 

You turned away from the window to take in Jungkook, whose shoulder you realised you’d made your pillow while you’d fallen asleep, only to have your eyes widen. 

To your surprise, Jungkook had fallen asleep as well, with his head resting back against the headrest and lips just slightly parted. Small puffs of breath rhythmically escaped from between them when he exhaled, a telltale sign that he truly was asleep and not just resting his eyes or something. 

The image had you frozen for a moment. He looked so… peaceful. Not that he always looked stressed out. Despite having a killer for a wife, Jungkook seemed to be pretty relaxed most of the time, amused even. But this was a different kind of peace, one that came with a complete lack of thoughts, making him look almost innocent - not the hard leader that you knew him to be. 

Without his gaze on yours preventing it, you also noticed things that you’d never really noticed about him before. Like the length of his eyelashes, or the strong dip of his jawline. His lips had a red undertone and rounded into a slight pout, while his skin was flawless - not a very common characteristic amongst leaders, though not many were as young as Jungkook - aside from the end of a faded scar peeking from behind the collar of his black shirt. The side of his hair that was facing you was slightly ruffled, as if his head had been leaning against something before it had moved to lean against the seat behind him. 

God this man was fine. 

You forced your gaze forward, realising that you were staring. Were you really so deprived that you were finding the man that you were supposed to kill hot? Well, in your defence, you had eyes. Also in your defence, the leaders in the South were all old and slimy dudes that should have been put down years ago. Just looking at Jungkook was like a breath of fresh air after drowning.

But then you paused, realising the weight of the situation. Jungkook was asleep, the same Jungkook who you knew had a gun wedged into his waistband at this very moment. It was risky, he’d definitely notice it missing when he woke up considering his attention to detail, but if you were to grab the gun, and then immediately get out of the car, he’d have no choice but to let you hold onto it until the two of you were out of the public’s eye. It would be more than enough time to secretly kill him and then plant evidence incriminating Jimin. 

Judging from the houses outside, you deemed that you both were close enough to the destination that you could hop out of the car immediately after it stopped. So you turned around, making sure to keep your movements as slow as possible, before you snaked an arm around his torso. You could feel the soft inside of his black blazer as your hand slipped beneath it, fingers just barely ghosting over his equally black dress shirt. It was unlucky that his gun was on the side of his waist facing away from you, but thankfully after checking to make sure he was still asleep, which he was, your fingers wrapped around the metal handle. 

Or at least you thought he had been asleep, because as you pulled the gun from its confines, a hand suddenly engulfing yours made you flinch. 

Your gaze snapped up to him, surprised when you found him wide awake and staring back at you. In all honesty, it wasn’t the fact that you were caught that had you frozen like a deer in headlights, Jungkook was well aware of your intentions, but rather the position that you were in. You’d used your left hand to grab his gun, which left your entire front to be pressed against his chest, while your right hand was resting on his other side, practically caging him against the seat of the car. Barely a breath’s distance separated your face with his, making the intensity of his stare all the more intimidating. 

You tried to pull away from him, but his hand brushed higher to wrap around your wrist and keep you in place, dark brown eyes still boring into yours.

“Put it back.”

It shouldn’t have, but the deepness of his voice sent a tiny shiver down your spine, one that you did everything in your power to make sure Jungkook couldn’t notice. You’d rather be caught dead than having Jungkook think you were into him in any way whatsoever. 

A small part of you, the same one that had persuaded you to drop a good amount of garlic into his cologne just yesterday, also reasoned that you’d never be caught dead taking orders from him as well. Logically speaking, there was no way you could save this attempt at taking his gun, he’d caught you and that was that. And yet, despite that, you didn’t move, hand still clutching the gun which was now hovering over his waistband. 

You felt Jungkook’s fingers tighten slightly around the soft skin of your wrist, the lack of your movement not going unnoticed by him. 

“Put it back, Y/N.”

It only made you want to do the opposite, just to piss him off a bit more, but you knew you were only delaying the inevitable. So, with the tiny devil at your shoulder retreating back to wherever it had come from and with a frustrated breath escaping your lips, you slowly pushed the gun back into his waistband. The action was slow, still dragging it out for as long as possible, until you felt the trigger guard push against the edge of the cloth. Yet, even when you let the handle drop from your grasp, Jungkook’s hand didn’t drop from your wrist. Instead, the edges of his lips twitched upwards.

“So we’ve moved on from poisons now?” He asked instead, voice low as his satisfied gaze stayed fixed on yours, “is my whiskey finally free from your terror?”

Your reply was quick, though your voice was just as low and breathy as his, “I wouldn’t start trusting it just yet.”

You really meant that, considering the new bottles of whiskey Jungkook had ordered had already been spiked not even an hour after they’d been placed in his cabinet. You knew that he knew, making the action pointless, but you were weak in front of that little devil at your shoulder. 

The abrupt sound of the car’s door opening made you jerk back into your seat, ripping your empty hand from Jungkook’s, as you quickly fixed the ruffles in your dress. By the time the driver’s face appeared at the doorway, you were offering him an innocent smile, making sure to keep your eyes bright and lips stuck in a perpetually delighted turn. An amused breath escaped Jungkook as he turned to open his own door. You hadn’t even realised that the car had come to a stop. 

You accepted the driver’s hand as he extended it towards you, the short heel of your white shoes tapping against the grey concrete while you stepped out of the car, grateful suddenly for the fresh air. 

You didn’t know what exactly you were expecting when Jungkook had said that you were going to meet with families. Mostly you had pictured a stage, one that he would stand and speak on, and then a crowd of families standing before it paying close attention to his every word. But there was no such stage in sight, in fact, as you looked around the area you noticed that there was nothing out of the ordinary; just a simple neighbourhood with kids playing in the cracked street and parents standing in their worn front porches. Everyone was staring though, curious eyes staying fixed on Jungkook, and then on you. 

It was a bit daunting if you were being entirely honest with yourself. Yes, you were the daughter of a mafia leader, but you’d never actually been made to make public appearances like this, much less speak at them. Daughters of leaders were more like decoration pieces, hidden away until they were married off. 

Jungkook rounded the car until he was standing at your side, an arm wrapping snuggly around your waist. The action had been hesitant, as if he expected you to push him away or flinch at the touch, but you were beyond trying to fight whatever image of perfection Jungkook was trying to sell; there were bigger issues you needed to worry about now. And maybe a tiny part of you found comfort in it as you noticed all the eyes that were on you now. It was your first public appearance in the Jeon Territory after all, everyone would be curious about the Jeon Jungkook’s new wife. You needed to appear shy for the sake of your act, but you were still able to notice the mixed reactions, some confused, some sceptical, but most were just surprised. 

Jungkook also seemed to be scanning the crowd before he turned towards you, whispering the words in your ear, “let’s get going.”

You didn’t have time to notice the fuss that action had caused in a group of girls before you both began following a guard into a house on your right. He guided you through the doorway, the door already wide open, as you made your way towards what seemed like a living room. The space had a homey vibe, pictures of the family scattered across the walls and lit candles placed on the tables, but it was clear that whoever lived here was struggling: the paint was peeling off the walls, the wooden floor was littered with scuffs and dents, and the furniture looked a day away from crumbling. It pained your heart to see the kitchen barren. 

It was only when you and Jungkook managed to squeeze into the small living room that you finally noticed signs of life. There was an old woman sitting on the only sofa in the room, her expression dejected while her form was hunched forward in a way that you knew was a result of grief and not old age. At the sound of your footsteps her head raised, taking in the two of you with pained eyes. 

You had to mask your surprise when you watched Jungkook lower himself onto a knee before her, “hello Mrs. Hwang.”

The woman, Mrs. Hwang, ignored the greeting, instead shaking her head while keeping her gaze on the hands resting in her lap, “I don’t understand. They keep telling me he’s gone, but I just don’t understand… How could he be gone? How could my beautiful son be gone? What happened to him?”

“Mrs. Hwang,” Jungkook said slowly, his brows pulling together in sympathy, “your son and a few other workers were killed in a construction accident at the West Docks. I’m sorry.”

The tears that had been swimming in her eyes finally began to stream down her cheeks, the news coming from the leader of the Jeons finally confirming what she had seemingly been denying for a while, but you could only try to fan the flames of the anger that ignited in your chest. There was no construction accident, there had been an attack orchestrated by Jimin, and normal people who had nothing to do with the territorial feud had suffered the consequences. This poor woman, for example, had lost her son. She deserved to know the real reason he was gone, deserved to belt out her anger at the actual people responsible, not be fed a cover-up story you knew was only being promoted in order to prevent public unrest.

You watched as Jungkook tried to reassure her, his words artfully compassionate and reassuring, wondering just how much of those words he actually meant. He probably didn’t mean many of them, if any at all. Perhaps this was the method in which he maintained his power? Leaders in the South usually asserted their power by ensuring the public feared them, scaring them so much that even the thought of betrayal had them shaking in fear. But Jungkook was a smart man. Perhaps he realised that being loved by the public was a better method of manipulation, one that produced more loyalty. 

You’d been so deep in thought that when you felt the tap of Jungkook’s black dress shoe on your white ones you almost flinched. He was looking up at you with a pointed look, and it was then that you realised that the woman was staring at you as well, as if she were waiting for you to speak. Jungkook’s words, genuine or not, seemed to have stopped the tears that had been flowing down her cheeks while you’d been distracted because there was almost nothing left of them except the water staining her cheeks. 

Sensing your confusion, Jungkook gave Mrs. Hwang a strained smile, “you must excuse her, she’s still getting used to the North. It can be overwhelming at times.”

Mrs. Hwang nodded in understanding before she turned to face you once again. 

“That’s okay dear. I was just wondering how married life has been treating you. My husband passed away so long ago yet I still find myself missing the companionship even now.”

Oh… 

That was not the kind of question you hesitate at if you want people to get a good impression of your and Jungkook’s relationship, and the look on Jungkook’s face at the moment only confirmed those thoughts. 

“It’s been treating me well,” you answered finally, hesitating on what the right thing to say would be in this situation, “he’s been very good to me.”

It was the wrong thing to say, you realised that at the exact moment Jungkook grimaced and tears started to stream down Mrs. Hwang’s face once again. She nodded in your direction, “my husband treated me well too. How I miss him… And now my son is gone as well, who do I have left?”

Your voice died in your throat, mind unable to come up with anything that could possibly comfort the bawling woman who had lost so much. All you could do was stand dumbly and watch her crumble before you, wishing you could crawl into a hole and stay there forever hidden. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, immediately placed a hand on her knee and began to reassure her once again, comforting words falling from his lips like a gentle stream. He reminded her of how her son and husband were in a better place now, of the friends she still has in the neighbourhood, and then of her granddaughter who needed her to be strong. 

At the mention of her granddaughter, the door of the living room suddenly smacked open, revealing a little girl skipping into the room. She was wearing a sparkly pink shirt and washed out jeans which were fraying at the edges, while a worn doll hung from her fingers. Despite this, there was a bright smile on her face as she walked deeper into the room. 

The sight of Jungkook slowed her down in her tracks, replacing the once innocent smile with a deep blush painting her cheeks. Her gaze shifted away from him, clearly shy from her sudden crush. But then she caught sight of her grandmother and her gaze became worried. She made her way to her side quickly before gently placing the doll on her grandmother’s lap, also placing a comforting hand on her arm.

“Don’t cry grandma,” she said with a frown, using her other hand to push a few strands of her grandmother’s hair behind her ear. The girl turned in Jungkook’s direction, though the blush was back and her eyes wouldn’t meet his, “I keep telling her not to be sad, but she keeps crying.”

It was then when she caught sight of someone else in the room, making her turn to face in your direction. Her reaction was immediate, eyes lighting up in excitement as she took in your dress, then your shoes, and then your makeup. The girl quickly jumped from the side of the sofa and skipped over to you, eyes wide in childlike amazement. 

“Your dress!” She squealed, continuing to skip in a circle around you as she scanned you from top to bottom, “it’s so pretty! I’m going to ask Daddy to get me one just like it when he comes back!”

The last sentence felt like a hammer to your chest, and you could see Jungkook’s expression also sadden from behind her. How long would it take this little girl to realise that her father would not be coming back? That his life had been taken from him only because of the cruel way in which this world was structured?

Before you could think much of it, you slowly lowered yourself to the ground, knees touching the cold wood as you became eye to eye with the excited girl before you. It gave her the opportunity to marvel at your hair and the light sparkles on your eyelids, her small hand brushing against the frills of your dress softly as her excitement only heightened. 

“You look just like a princess!” She continued. But then a thought seemed to strike her, suddenly making her shy, “do you think I could grow up to be a princess like you one day?”

You smiled at her, using every bit of your self control not to cry for this little girl and her innocence, “I think you’ll grow up to be an even prettier princess one day.”

Her smile brightened again, her confidence restored in that quick way only a child’s confidence could. You wanted that confidence to stick though, knowing just how quickly the cruelty of this world could destroy it . 

“But do you want me to tell you a little secret?” You asked, to which she nodded hastily, also desperate in that way only children were. 

“You don’t need pink dresses and sparkles to be a princess.” You gently took hold of her hand, giving her tiny fingers a comforting squeeze. This new information seemed to shock her, her eyes widening as a surprised gasp escaped her lips, “what matters is your heart. Your grandmother lost someone very dear to her, and she’ll need someone to help her get through her sadness.”

The girl straightened up immediately, chin rising as if to meet the challenge head on, “don’t worry, Daddy always makes me in charge of helping grandma. I’ll always take care of her.”

“That’s very responsible of you,” you praised.

“I am! I’m very-” She struggled with the words for a moment until she finally seemed to manage the beast, “responsible!”

An amused breath escaped your lips at her childish confidence, despite the sorrow tugging at your heartstrings. 

“And when you realise what you’ve lost,” you continued, this time speaking to the girl she will become when the devastating news finally hits her, “your grandma will be there to get you through it as well. You won’t be alone, okay?”

She nodded innocently, the weight of your words flying over her head. But that was okay, she’d realise their meaning when the time came. You could only hope that they would provide at least some comfort when it really mattered. 

Without another thought, you reached behind your head to unravel the silky pink ribbon in your hair, making sure to smooth it out before you held it out to her. She squealed in delight, grabbing the ribbon and softly running a hand over the silk material. 

But then she suddenly looked up from it and threw her arms around your neck, the spontaneity of the action causing you to flinch. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She continued to squeal, “I think you’re the best princess in the world!”

With her chin laying on your shoulder, your gaze automatically met Jungkook’s as your hands hesitantly raised to rest on her back. He was still kneeling in front of Mrs. Hwang, but his hand had dropped from her knee to his own, realising that it was unneeded as a fond smile was overtaking her expression at the sight of her happy granddaughter. Jungkook’s expression was unreadable as he watched the girl jump excitedly in your embrace. 

The two of you only stayed a few minutes longer, only because the girl had insisted that you tie the ribbon in her hair, before Jungkook stood and cleared his throat, a clear sign that you both should get going. You hadn’t even realised how heavy the atmosphere had been in the house until you were walking through the doorway, finally able to take in a full breath of fresh air. A guard was already standing before the front door, turning around to lead you both to the next house when he noticed your presence. 

“Well… that was interesting,” Jungkook commented, his face turning in your direction to meet your gaze. 

You were quiet as you followed behind him, making sure to pull your act back up in the process. You hadn’t realised that it had sort of dropped when you began speaking to the girl, the heat of the moment enough to make you forget. 

You didn’t turn to meet his gaze, instead scanning the area and people that surrounded you both as you spoke, “I’m not very good at it.”

His head tilted in question. 

In hindsight, you should have told him earlier, but perhaps you were a tiny bit embarrassed of it. Now, though, the cat was out of the bag, so there was no point in trying to hide it from him now.

“The wife thing? The hugging and laughing and kissing? I can do that,” you finally admitted, “but comforting? I’m not the best at it.”

That was an understatement, but you were sure Jungkook probably knew that by now. His gaze felt heavy as he watched you for a moment, studying your expression. Then he turned away, keeping his eyes fixed before him as he spoke words you were not expecting in the slightest.

“You did alright.”

-

-

-

It was early in the evening when you and Jungkook finally visited the last house, the sun just barely visible above the horizon when you had crossed over the street to follow behind the guard for the last time today. You had visited at least 20 houses, all of which weighed your heart down more and more until you had felt like you were dragging it against the concrete beneath you. Some had lost their son, their brother, their husband, all of whom were important not only because they were loved, but also because they had been the sole provider of the family. You committed each grief-filled face to memory, promising that pain like that would be a thing of the past. 

It only made you more determined to accomplish your goal. 

Now you stood behind Jungkook as he spoke to a woman in her kitchen, listening attentively to her describe the kind man that was her late husband with a bittersweet fondness. His expression was sympathetic as she spoke, nodding every so often with a gentle smile, while the woman thanked him again and again for being here and helping them. 

If your observations proved anything, people certainly respected him around here. Whenever he would pass by in the street or when he spoke with the families, you watched many bow in his presence or express their gratitude for him. But no one ever invaded his space, and they definitely didn’t try to speak to him unless spoken to. It was all in all a respectful appreciation for the man they thought was a good leader. It was such an odd sight to you, being so used to people in the South trembling in fear in the presence of a leader, that it seemed almost foreign. 

Your gaze travelled around the room as you continued to stand with your hands clasped in front of yourself, casually surveying the small area while simultaneously making sure to absently follow the conversation in case you were spoken to. After your visit to the first house, you’d decided that it was best if you stayed as quiet as possible seeing as you were a trainwreck when it came to comforting people. Sure, you’d sort of saved yourself when you had spoken to the little girl, but you had clearly said the wrong things when you’d spoken to Mrs. Hwang. It was an embarrassing shortcoming on your part, but you also couldn’t really blame yourself. It’s not like you had any examples from when you were growing up to draw on. 

You were pulled from your thoughts, however, when you noticed a quick shadow flit in your peripheral vision, making you discreetly turn your head in that direction. For a moment, the doorway in which your gaze had settled on was empty aside from a guard who stood still in front of it, to the point that you thought you had imagined it. But then a fluffy black tail slithered from behind the wall, making you freeze in place. The tail brushed against the wooden floor before its owner turned around, the familiar face and collar moving into view. 

Persilla’s feline eyes stayed fixed on you as she sat herself down for a moment, tilting her head as she watched you meet her gaze in surprise. She was going completely unnoticed by everyone else in the room, though that part didn’t surprise you. That cat was a master of camouflage after all. She was only seen when she wanted to be. 

Which was why her presence had you wondering what she was doing here. 

The answer to that question came when she suddenly stood, walking dangerously close to the guard as she crossed him and made her way into the hallway slowly. She easily blended into the shadows as she paused and turned back for a moment, making sure that you were still watching her, before she finally slipped into one of the rooms which had a door that was slightly ajar. 

The message was clear to you: she wanted you to follow her. 

You glanced at Jungkook and the woman, who were still deep in conversation thankfully, before you silently shuffled to the doorway where the guard was standing idly. 

“Excuse me?” You spoke, voice soft as a feather. The man’s firm gaze shifted to you, “is there a bathroom anywhere that I could use?”

You could feel Jungkook sneak a glance in your direction, but the woman was still speaking with him, keeping him occupied. You’d made sure to keep your voice loud enough so that he could hear the bathroom excuse though, not wanting him to suspect anything. 

The guard nodded and began to guide you down the same hall Persilla had walked through. Then, to your relief, he stopped in front of the door she had disappeared behind, unknowingly making your life much easier. 

“Thank you,” you smiled at him before walking into the bathroom and closing the door behind you. You immediately began to survey the small space, taking in the toilet and small sink, but your brows furrowed when you failed to find your favourite black cat. 

You kneeled before the sink to open the cabinet underneath it, frowning when it also was empty. 

“Persilla?” You whispered, so silently you could barely hear yourself. 

That was when you took notice of the window beside the sink. It was high up and blurred, but what really made you pause was the fact that it was open. Perhaps Persilla had jumped out of it before you’d entered the room? If she was expecting you to follow her, though, she clearly underestimated your size…

You flinched backwards when she suddenly dropped from said window, paws soundlessly making contact with the tiles before she circled your form. When she was satisfied she sat in front of you, showing you her neck. Once again, wedged between her fur and collar, was a small folded piece of paper. 

“He better not make a messenger out of you,” you practically mouthed with a grumble before you reached out and slipped the note from her collar, unfolding it curiously. The handwriting was familiar as your eyes scanned through the words, though there was only one person the note could be from anyway. 

I heard he has a knack for detail, so I’m assuming that’s why it’s not done yet. No problem. But we really should meet soon, there’s something I need to tell you. (I would’ve let myself in now, but your husband is waiting right outside the door so I had to make good use of Persilla) 

~ H

P.S. I left you a little gift in the toilet tank. I think you might like it. 

Your brows furrowed at the last part, gaze immediately shifting to the toilet in the corner of the room. It was a standard two piece, one with a removable back cover that made it easier to access the tank. 

You pushed yourself off the tiled floor and made your way towards it before grabbing the heavy cover and hauling it upwards with a strained huff, eyes immediately scanning the inside. There were shiny metal pipes intersecting with each other and valves protruding in some places, but it was a black handle wedged between the mess that caught your eye. You grabbed it and pulled it out of the tank, easing the cover back into place with a smile. 

Finally…

Delight was all you could feel as you rotated the shiny new handgun in your hand, taking in its familiar shape. You pressed against the release button first, catching the magazine expertly in your other hand as it popped out of the handle and checked its contents. It was full of ammunition, allowing you to push it back into the gun in satisfaction. Then your attention shifted to the silencer that had been screwed into the gun’s barrel. It wouldn’t entirely silence a shot, but it was still better than nothing and it could definitely come in handy. He knew you well, didn’t he…

You unscrewed the silencer from the gun and then shoved both into the holster at your thigh, making sure to smooth over your dress quickly. One look in the mirror had you satisfied, even eyes like Jungkook’s wouldn’t be able to tell there was a gun concealed under here. He would have no clue what was coming. 

You crouched down to scratch Persilla’s chin, promising her some good salmon for being such a good girl, before she jumped out the window and scurried off. Unable to contain your own curiosity you walked over to the window and gave it a quick glance, but there was no one in sight. 

Just as you had been told, Jungkook was standing right outside the door when you opened it after flushing the toilet and washing your hands to give the illusion that you’d really used the bathroom. You weren’t surprised when you watched his eyes dart behind you to carefully scan the bathroom, but you knew there was nothing to see. Everything that mattered was now strapped to your thigh discreetly hidden underneath your dress. 

“Checking the bathroom after a lady uses it is a bit much, don’t you think?” You couldn’t help but comment, keeping your expression innocent as you noticed the guard standing patiently at the end of the hallway. 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed in your direction, but there was an amused turn to his lips. You maintained your expression as you felt his arm wrap around yours and pull you closer, whispering the words into your ear as he began to guide you out of the house, “and trying to kill your husband isn’t?”

“A woman can’t have hobbies?”

He steered you along the street, passing by crowds of people who stood at a distance around the neighbourhood, as you both made your way back to the car. Because of that you had to keep a smile on your face as you spoke, despite the nature of your words. 

Jungkook raised an eyebrow to pair with his smile, aware of the crowd’s eyes on you both. There was no doubt that, through their eyes, you both looked like a nice couple speaking about nice things, far from the truth of course, “there are many husbands that wouldn’t be so understanding about your particular hobby. I think I deserve some credit.”

“Dead men don’t get credit.”

“Good thing I’m not dead yet, princess.”

You wished you could shoot him a nasty glare to wipe the cocky grin off his face, but you could only watch him innocently as he opened the door of the black car and waited for you to get in, an arm resting on the top of the car’s door nonchalantly. Taking the opportunity, you placed a hand on his shoulder, giving the impression that you were thanking him for the gesture, but instead said, “I wouldn’t count on that for long.”

Jungkook shut the door behind you in amusement after you sat in the car, ready to join you in the backseat until he felt his phone vibrate suddenly against his thigh. He stayed standing on your side of the car, resting a hand over its top as his other hand went to grab the phone out of his pocket and bring it to his ear. 

“What have you got for me?” He asked, casually surveying the area as he waited for a response. His brows furrowed when he heard the person on the other end of the line hesitate before he spoke. 

“Hello sir,” he finally said, to which Jungkook huffed, knowing whatever was about to be said wasn’t going to please him.

“Out with it, I don’t have all day.”

The man on the other end of the line sighed, “I was just contacted by the informant who has been working on what you ordered him to do…”

Jungkook frowned, remembering how he’d asked the informant to investigate your room and the man you’d been having hushed phone calls with before your marriage. He had wondered why it was taking the informant so long to get back to him, but Jungkook trusted the informant with his life, that’s why he had placed him in the Lee mansion in the first place. If things were being delayed, there was a reason. 

One that was about to be explained to him right now. 

“The informant just told me that he wasn’t able to identify the man.”

Jungkook’s grip on his phone tightened at the news, brows furrowing even further, “what?”

“He said he searched through Mrs. Y/N’s room from top to bottom, but was unable to find anything out of the ordinary, nor anything related to the mystery man. Then he traced her prior phone calls, but none led to anywhere significant. The only thing the informant was able to figure out was that the man goes by the letter H.”

Jungkook mulled over the information for a moment, tapping his finger against the hood of the car while deep in thought. H… that was practically nothing to go by. Why were you talking to a man that seemed so untraceable? What did he have to hide? What did you have to hide?

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. 

“What do you mean tracing the phone calls led to nowhere significant?”

“He explained that the locations were all scattered. Some were in the South, some were in the North, some were in the western and eastern regions, and a couple were even outside the country altogether,” he explained, then seemed to hesitate on his next words, “the informant mentioned that there were a couple locations that may seem slightly promising, but he admitted that he doubts they would prove to be very useful.”

“Tell him to send you the locations, and then send some men to check them out,” Jungkook said immediately.

His gaze dropped on you, who was already staring back at him from your seat. 

“That man is not a ghost. We’ll find him, whether he likes it or not.”

-

-

-

Unlike earlier, you nor Jungkook slept as the car raced through the highway, nothing but the darkness of night visible from outside of the window aside from the occasional streetlamp. You’d already been on the road for about an hour or two, the entirety of the trip drenched in silence. 

Jungkook clearly had something on his mind, you could tell from the way his eyes were clouded over in thought as they stayed glued to the window. You hadn’t been able to hear what he’d talked about on the phone, so you’d settled for deciphering his expressions. He’d seemed frustrated by something he’d been told, that was as much as you could make out. 

The weight of the gun on your thigh felt heavy, the need to grab it and use it itching against your fingers. Technically speaking, you had an opportunity right at this very moment. You could shoot Jungkook dead, bang on the divider to get the driver to stop the car, and then shoot him dead too before he put two and two together. It would be simple, and you’d also be able to run to the nearest sign of life and dramatically explain how a man associated with Park Jimin had hijacked the car and killed Jungkook and the driver, leaving you alive to relay the message. They’d buy that in a second. It would be perfect.

The only thing holding you back was the fact that you would have to kill the driver. Jungkook was a mafia leader, and mafia leaders were cruel and merciless. He deserved what was coming. But this driver… he was just a guy doing his job. He might even have a family waiting for him at home, and after the day you’d had, the thought of another family losing someone dear to them made you squirm in your seat.

Realistically, you knew your goal couldn’t be complete without the deaths of a few innocents. But even that thought wasn’t enough to get your fingers to grab the gun at your thigh. A frustrated breath escaped your lips at the lack of your action, one that of course, didn’t go unnoticed by Jungkook. 

“Someone seems frustrated,” he commented, the first time either of you have spoken after entering the car. You rolled your eyes, refusing to face him. But Jungkook continued to observe you intensely, giving you the impression that he wasn’t ready to let the conversation end so easily this time. 

“You know, you seem so adamant on killing me,” he said slowly, “if I’m going to have my wife perpetually working on my death, I think I at least deserve to know why she’s so passionate for the cause.”

It didn’t go over your head that he was suddenly so interested in your intentions after that ominous phone call, and you had no problem calling him out on it, “I heard you had an interesting phone call earlier. Maybe you should focus on that instead.”

“I am. I’m trying to find a pesky man that goes by the letter H, you wouldn’t happen to know him would you?”

You froze, surprise freezing your limbs as you wondered where Jungkook had gotten that name from. Had you messed up somewhere? You’d burned the first note you received and flushed the second down the toilet, so there was no way he could have gotten hold of them. Besides that, you’d never uttered his name out loud since marrying Jungkook. No, there was no way he could have found out from you. 

Jungkook smiled, as if reading your thoughts, “it seems you do.”

You shrugged, trying to collect yourself, “H knows everyone and no one.”

“But you know him better than others. Tell me, is he the reason you want me dead?”

You turned to meet his gaze, the taunt in your voice evident, “maybe you should find him and ask him yourself.”

“I will. He won’t be able to hide from me forever.”

You chuckled, answer instant, “doubtful.”

That made Jungkook tilt his head at you, an evident question. 

“He’s only found when he wants to be found. Otherwise, he’ll have you running in circles like a clueless pet.”

For some reason your words seemed to irritate Jungkook as you noticed his gaze narrow.

“You seem pretty fond of him.”

You didn’t answer, your gaze instead drifting back to the window. Up until now you’d been driving through a thick forest, the concrete road surrounded by enormous trees that seemed to extend into the sky. But the window on Jungkook’s side showcased the trees starting to dwindle, empty patches emerging in the thicket occasionally until they finally gave way to a grand view of the ocean. If you squinted your eyes enough you could make out a large docks system in the distance, full of enormous ships and warehouses. 

The view had caught your eye though, distracting you from the sorry excuse of a conversation you were having with Jungkook. It was the light that had initially caught your attention, more specifically the sheer intensity of it. The docks were lined with the same street lamps that were brightening the road you were currency driving on, yet it looked like someone dropped the sun into one of the warehouses. 

At first you thought perhaps you were overthinking it, but then Jungkook followed your line of sight, peering critically through the window for a moment before he suddenly sat up straight. It was then that you saw it as well; at the edge of one of the warehouses, a roaring fire was beginning to destroy everything in its vicinity. It was only visible now because it had moved on from behind the warehouse, engulfing the structure itself at an alarming rate. 

A sudden explosion shook the docks, so powerful that you could feel the vibrations of the shock despite your distance from the area. At that moment you felt the car screech to a stop, the momentum pushing both you and Jungkook painfully against your seatbelts for a split second, before Jungkook’s phone suddenly started to ring. 

He picked it up on the first bell, not bothering to hide the call from you this time. You could hear loud sounds erupt from the phone the second the line was accepted, a man’s voice barely audible above the chaos. 

“What’s going on?” Jungkook asked hastily, eyes glued to the wreck. He looked as if he wanted to jump out of the car and run to it, but the distance was far too large for him to get there at any reasonable time. 

The man on the other line grunted for a moment, yelling orders to another before he shouted, “sir! There’s been a few explosions at the West Docks! Three of our warehouses have been destroyed, we’re trying to staunch the flames in the fourth one at the moment!”

“Forget it,” Jungkook shook his head immediately, “order thirty guards to the area to make sure there aren’t any actual threats around and to help out with the flames. And take anyone who’s injured to the hospital right away.”

“Of course, sir!” The man on the other line shouted instantly, but then he hesitated before he spoke again, “but sir… who could have done this?”

Jungkook was silent, and you knew you both were thinking of the same man’s name. 

“Just do as I’ve said. I want the least amount of casualties possible.”

There was an incoherent sound on the other end of the line that resembled a “yes sir” before it went dead. Jungkook’s hand instantly went to brush through his hair, the gears in his head clearly working overtime as he seemed to be deep in thought. Before you could say anything though, his phone rang again and this time your eyes widened as you got a clear view of the caller ID. It was the man that you both were thinking of not even a full minute ago. 

Park Jimin. 

This time Jungkook did wait to pick up the call, instead staring at the screen for a few seconds longer than he should have. The silence in the car stretched, nothing but the sound of his ringtone reverberating throughout the small space, as you noticed his muscles tense under his black suit and the grip on his phone tighten to a point that you were sure it would snap the thing in half. This was probably the most tense you’d ever seen him look. 

Jungkook finally grabbed the handle of the door and threw it open, stepping out of the car without so much as a sound. You watched him close the door behind him, only pausing for a moment to say something to the driver before you watched him disappear into the thick forest on your side of the road, leaving you and the driver alone in a dark and empty road. 

Wow… he really did not want you to hear that conversation. 

-

-

-

Jungkook cut through the trees of the forest, the sound of his ringtone practically mocking him as he continued to walk way deeper than he knew was necessary. He couldn’t help it. Park Jimin’s mere name angered him, and cutting through the trees of the forest was helping him direct that anger onto something unimportant. Because he wouldn’t be able to let it out on Jimin. He had to be calm, collected, and even amused in front of that bastard, nothing that could give away just how well Jimin managed to get under Jungkook’s skin. 

But he eventually came to a stop, realising that he couldn’t go traipsing through the forest forever. The phone still vibrated against his hand as he relaxed his muscles, slipping into the Jeon Jungkook that was unbothered and coolheaded. The one that wouldn’t allow Jimin to have the upper hand because of his practically ancient anger.

Jungkook brought the phone to his ear and, finally, accepted the call.

The line was quiet for a second, as if Jimin expected Jungkook to say the first greeting, but he was just as quiet, forcing Jimin to be the conversation initiator. 

“Hello Jungkook, I was just calling to confirm if you received my gift or not.”

His voice was just as melodically taunting as Jungkook remembered it from years ago, the words instantly causing him to clench his jaw. But he relaxed it once again, knowing that he needed to stay clear headed.

“All that just for me? I must say you flatter me, Jimin.”

“How can I not flatter an old friend?” And Jungkook could practically hear the smile in his voice, knowing how much the mention of old friend would make his blood boil. It did, but Jungkook pushed down the feeling of strangling him through the phone.

“But to what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden gift?” He asked, knowing full well what the attack meant. But he was interested in how Jimin would explain it, whether he would put it plainly or jump around the topic like a coward. 

The line was silent for a second, as if Jimin were choosing which angle he wanted to go by, before he finally spoke again. 

“Why don’t we speak about it over dinner?“

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise, the words catching him off guard. How could Jimin be inviting him over to his territory so easily, after years of silent animosity? Sure, Taehyung and Yoongi have been at each other’s throats the past few years, Taehyung constantly having to fight off the Mins at his border, but the border between the Parks and Jeons have been silent, much like their leaders. 

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, “you’re inviting me to the Park Territory?”

“Yes, I believe it’s time we settle a couple things, don’t you think?”

Settle a couple things was much too ambiguous of a phrase for Jungkook to decipher. Did he want to sort out the terms for a war? Or was Jimin beyond morality now and instead going straight to setting a trap? Jungkook wasn’t really sure what Jimin was capable of after the warehouse of bodies he’d witnessed a week ago. 

His doubts kept him from speaking, allowing nothing but the serene sounds of the dark forest around him to fill the silence. Jimin seemed to sense his hesitance, letting the silence stretch for only a few moments before he chuckled into the line. 

“Come on, Jungkook. What will it be?”

-

-

-

This was an opportunity.

Currently, your husband was alone, surrounded solely by trees, in an environment dark enough that you could very much get away with shooting him dead and not being blamed for it. You wouldn’t even need to shoot the driver to cover up your tracks, lessening your guilty conscience to a decent amount. It was perfect. The only issue now, was how you were going to get into the forest without arousing suspicion. 

You tapped on the divider, waiting only a couple seconds before you pulled the panel down to reveal the professionally dressed driver. 

“Excuse me? I need to use the bathroom,” you announced, trying to sound as urgent as possible while simultaneously keeping your voice naive. 

The driver, on the other hand, looked as though you’d slammed him in the stomach with a sledgehammer. 

“Ma’am…” He spoke hesitantly, “you’ll have to wait.”

“But I need to go nowww,” you whined, trying to put every bit of spoiled brat into your voice as you could. Then you turned your face towards the forest Jungkook had disappeared into, widening your eyes to give the impression that an idea had suddenly popped into your head, before turning back to face him, “I know! I’ll just go in the forest very quickly.”

Without a response, you pushed the door open and stepped out, causing the driver to scramble out of the car as well, pure panic washing over his expression at your determination. 

“Please ma’am! I can’t let you go out there in the dead of night.”

“Why?” You asked, sporting a confused, and very much dumb, look, “it’s fine! I’ll just go towards my husband. He’ll protect me.”

The mention of Jungkook seemed to visibly calm the man, though there was still a lingering hesitance in his expression, “let me walk you to him.”

You waved him off, praying that he let you go without a fuss. You didn’t want things to get more complicated than they needed to be, or it wouldn’t end well for the man before you, “he’s right at the edge, don’t worry! I saw him and everything!”

You turned around and began walking towards the thicket of trees and, to your utmost relief, you didn’t hear the sounds of the driver following. 

It took you about a minute of walking through the forest to realise that Jungkook was, in fact, not at its very edge, which left you trekking deeper into the thicket of trees, squinting as your eyes adjusted to the surrounding darkness. You could hear the occasional sound of a bird, that strange humm that always seemed to be present in the wilderness, and the skittering of small animals against fallen branches, but there was no sound of your own expert footsteps to your satisfaction. Jungkook wouldn’t be able to hear what was coming. 

Once you’d created a considerable distance between yourself and the driver, to the point that you were certain he would no longer be able to catch sight of you, your innocent smile dropped, replaced immediately by a look of focus as you reached for the gun at your thigh. 

Your gaze wasted no time in surveying the darkened wilderness around you, flickering down only briefly to double check the magazine once again. Your surroundings were still empty of human life, no signs of Jungkook anywhere near you for the time being. Your brows couldn’t help but furrow, wondering why he’d decided to go hiking to take one phone call, even if it was from Jimin. 

You grabbed the silencer from your holster and began to screw it onto the barrel, strolling until you caught the faint sight of a dark silhouette in the distance. The sight had you crouching instantly, fingers still twisting the silencer into the barrel as you began inching closer to the figure, using the thick trunks of the trees to hide yourself from view. The closer you got, the more the silhouette began to shape into Jungkook, his black hair falling into his eyes as his gaze was directed downwards while one hand held his phone up to his ear. 

You finally hid yourself behind a tree that was directly to his right, letting go of the now fully attached silencer to instead rest your finger against the trigger guard. You were close enough that you could hear his end of the conversation now, one that seemed to have just begun.

“All that just for me? I must say you flatter me, Jimin,” he said, voice cool and collected, but you could see the fist his other hand had become. 

Something about Jimin got under Jungkook’s skin, that was clear enough to you by now. But you wondered, why? Jungkook seemed like a man that was unmoved by a challenge, enjoyed them even, according to your observations these past four days and also according to his reaction to your presence. And yet, small attacks and calls from Jimin were enough to move him? No… there was something deeper to this reaction, something personal between Jimin and Jungkook that you didn’t know about. Some sort of history perhaps?

“But to what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden gift?”

You shook your head, ridding yourself of the thoughts. It didn’t matter anymore. You were about to shoot Jungkook dead, making the answers to these questions useless for you. This little mission of yours was over. 

You watched a squirrel scurry down the trunk of a tree to your left, the small animal cloaked in the shadows of the darkness. Eager to get this over with, you placed your hand on the top of the gun, slowly pulling the slide backwards. At the exact moment you heard a click sound from your gun, the squirrel crashed into a pile of leaves, muffling the racking of your slide. Still, your gaze stayed fixed on Jungkook’s expression just in case as both your hands went to hold the handle. His brows were furrowed, but his eyes were still turned downwards, giving the impression that perhaps Jimin had said something he wasn’t expecting. 

Distantly you wondered what it could have been, but physically you brought your gun up from the side of the trunk, pushing the thought out of your mind. 

You felt all thoughts flow out of your head like they always did whenever you were aiming, this time your barrel pointing straight in the direction of Jungkook’s temple. When you saw a lack of any reaction from him, you knew it was over.

Your finger finally pressed against the trigger.

Goodbye, Jungkook.

“You’re inviting me to the Park Territory?”

You froze, your finger stalling as it pushed the trigger by about a third of its pathway, the words making your eyes widen in surprise. It had to be a misunderstanding, your luck couldn’t be so good - or would it be bad in this case? - that Park Jimin was inviting Jeon Jungkook over to his territory? 

You strained your ears, desperately trying to hear Jimin’s answer to the question. You even dangerously pushed your head forward a bit, risking being detected by Jungkook, but he was much too busy staring at the ground with slightly widened eyes to notice your form, clearly just as surprised as you.

You pulled back behind the trunk when you managed to make out a yes from Jimin’s end of the line, causing you to suck in a breath. 

This changed things. 

If Jungkook were to be killed in the Park Territory it wouldn’t just cause tensions between the northern territories, it would instantly cause all out war. Killing a leader while he was visiting another territory was a huge no no, no matter what region of the country you were from. It signified at least some form of ethics in a world that was so unethical, and surprisingly you’d never met a territory that didn’t honour that rule. To the point that when leaders broke that rule, it was instant chaos. All it would take was for Jungkook to die on Park soil for both the Jeons and Kims to retaliate with full force, no room for negotiations or apologies. 

And the best part was that, if Jungkook were to go, he would have to take you. Leaders always took their wives whenever they travelled or visited other territories to assert their power. If Jungkook ended up going to the Park Territory without you, he would give off the impression that he was scared he wouldn't be able to protect you should something go wrong, making him look weak. Mr. Perfect Image would never have that, especially in the face of the one person clearly trying to take over his territory. 

Now it all depended on his answer. 

Your handgun continued to stay pinned on Jungkook’s head, finger still pressing against the trigger as you watched him stare into the ground before him. You could practically see the gears turning in his brain, going over the advantages and disadvantages of his options while his lips were pressed into a firm line. Whether he survived or not tonight was all dependent on the answer he gave now.

You could feel your muscles tensing in anticipation, the natural sounds of the forest blurring into the background as you focused on the man before you. 

Jungkook’s head suddenly lifted, staring straight ahead of him as the chaos of his thoughts seemed to subside. You automatically adjusted your aim, preparing yourself before he finally spoke.

“Fine.”

Your finger instantly lifted off the trigger to let it bounce back into place, pairing with the sound of Jungkook ending the phone call. Your arm dropped to your side as the realisation washed over you. 

The decision had been made, you were going to visit the Parks. 

But one thing had become more clear to you at this very moment. You had just given up a good opportunity to end this man, one that may not show itself again, which meant you could not let it be in vain. No matter what happened there, no matter how you had to do it, Jungkook was dying in the Park Territory. There was no room for failure now, only the end of what needed to be done. 

You’d do anything to make sure of it. 

A/N: Things are about to get very physical 😏 Also comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated!

[atamascolily]

Countdown to Homulilly

Like Walpurgisnacht before her, Homulilly's formal entrance to the narrative is heralded with a the whirring of a projector and dramatic countdown using film leaders (though technically speaking, she's been there from the very beginning as both Homura and the entire false Mitakihara). I've already talked about how Homulilly's countdown signs evoke Walpurgisnacht's, so I won't go into too much here except to say that the Rebellion Production Note explicitly confirms as much; instead, I'll focus on what else is going on in this sequence as the rest of the Holy Quintet braces themselves for impact.

Rebellion thrives on surrealism and dream-logic, and it's unclear how much is meant to be taken literally here. The stylized format makes it feel like we are watching actors on a stage as they prepare for a big scene, and I don't think that's a coincidence.

Regardless, note that of the girls are already transformed and wearing their magical girl costumes, presumably because the city going up in flames as the biggest Nightmare of them all gets going and they are the only ones who can deal with it, even if only Sayaka and Nagisa/Bebe have the mental framework for what is actually happening.

First up is Madoka, hiding behind a wall of ticking clocks. Unlike the clocks chiming midnight that marked Homura's revelation of her witchhood, most of these clocks are set for 4 am--which, along with midnight, is known as "the witching hour". (There's also one clock set for 3 and another a little after 5, and I'm not sure why--"the time is out of joint, O cursed spite / that ever I was born to set it right", perhaps?)

Also, the gap between midnight and 4 am suggests that Kyubey's explanatory monologue and argument with Homura was four hours long in-universe, which is just too funny for words. Alternately, the more depressing theory is that Homura got "stuck" in her own despair before she emerged in her witch form. But like everything else in Homura's labyrinth, time is malleable, so I wouldn't think too hard about it--everything happens at the most dramatic moment possible, regardless of logic or logistics.

(Still, it's kind of insane that starting with the sunset bus ride to Kazaimino about thirty minutes in, everything after that takes place in a single night, at least until Homura wakes up and resets everything. Not to mention that this all goes down approximately one month after Homura's first day of school, as if Homura can't escape her loops even in her dreams. The chronology of Rebellion is both entirely deliberate and fucking wild.)

Behind Madoka on the shelf are two teacups that previously appeared on the street as Homura walks to Mami's apartment. I confess I don't really know what's going on with these teacups--tea is usually associated with Mami but her cups are in a different style, and I've only been able to find the cups in the drawing with the clocks in the Production Note. So clearly they mean something to Inu Curry, but what I'm not sure.

Unlike the earlier film leaders, which were floating in a nebulous meta state, the rest of Homulilly's countdown signs are projected onto the landscape. This makes perfect sense when you remember that the entire false Mitakihara is Homulilly's labyrinth, so there is no separation between them. Here it's reflected on the floor of the alleyway where Homura confronted Sayaka... and sure enough, a second later we see Sayaka in silhouette, working "behind the scenes" to ensure that their plan to rescue Homura comes to fruition.

Sayaka is frequently associated with "black and white" during her transformation sequence and elsewhere during the later battle sequence, some of which is deliberately borrowing from the witch Elsa Maria from the original series who was Sayaka's foil and some of which is just because it makes some nifty artistic shots.

#3 is the bridge over the highway where Sayaka and Kyouko fought in the original series, with a glow-up even beyond what it got in the Beginnings recap film (below).

I don't know why this bridge is associated with Mami here, and I don't think it was featured in any of the establishing landscape shots earlier. It's also much better illuminated that in the original series, with a new design of lamppost I haven't seen before.

Number 2 is also on the bridge, this time next to Bebe, and we get a nice close-up of the intricate tilework that was added in for Beginnings. Also I love that Bebe's jacket has Charlotte's face on it.

Mami stands up, ready to face the witch, because that's what magical girls do, even if she doesn't realize it because her memories have been wiped. Instead, she bravely faces the unknown, and I think that's beautiful.

(Note that the fence/railing that was visible in the previous shot disappeared because reality continues to mess with us. Or, alternately, you could interpret this as the "guardrails being off", i.e., the normal rules no longer applying.)

Cut to Kyouko, hunched in her chair in front of a red curtain. The camera pans out to reveal she's at the cafe again, except that the braided innocent Homura from earlier is missing the upper portion of her head.

Abruptly and without any warning, the table is gone, allowing Kyouko to reach out to Homura as the curtain rises. Note that her posture means she is unable to look Homura in the face even if Homura had one in the first place.

Furthermore, while the curtain was closed, the background set has changed, and Homulilly is formally introduced to the narrative.

Why is Kyouko so depressed here? Well, it's not just because she cares about Homura (although there's no question that she does). The next time we see her, she's more or less in the same position, isolated away from the others. Because of the way reality works in ths movie, it's likely she was always like that, and what we saw before was just a symbolic rendering; the same action viewed in two different ways (although other readings are certainly possible).

Homura's awakening as a witch isn't simply horrific for its own sake; it means the end of Kyouko's happy dream life, and she's not happy about it. As she tells Sayaka, "I had a horrible dream about you last night. You were... dead. But it wasn't a dream, it was real, wasn't it? This, right here, us fighting side by side, is the dream, ain't it?"

Every scene in Rebellion has its counterpart somewhere, and this one echoes what Homura says to Madoka in the second flower field scene, "I had a dream and it scared me. ...In my dream, you went someplace far away and it was so far, I wasn't going to be able to see you again and everyone forgot about you."

Homura and Kyouko are kindred souls in more ways than one, but especially in that they can only meet the person they love in this dream. This is why Kyouko doesn't join the fight until Sayaka is swallowed up by one of Homura's familiars, and why she's not very active in working against Homulilly. On some level, Kyouko would be happier if Homura succeeded! And when Kyouko does fight, it's because it means she can be with Sayaka one last time before the dream ends, and there's something so bittersweet about that.

Anyway, while that particular topic is worth a whole essay in itself, I think it's fascinating that each of these five characters has a very different reaction to Homulilly's emergence, and how that's reflected in both their surroundings and the way they carry themselves.

[crackedpumpkin]

All Too Human (01)

a/n: thought about him a little too much.

series masterlist | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁

The first thing you see upon opening your eyes is pitch black. The darkness resembles the black holes you’d seen in space documentaries, ready to swallow anything in its path of destruction. 

A sense of unease coils in your stomach as the leaves crunch beneath your body when you sit upright. The gradual haziness from the sleepy fog slowly leaves your mind, revealing the stark reality of your surroundings.

Gone is the warm comfort of your bed where you’d laid to sleep, snuggled under the sheets with the promise of a new day. Instead, all that greets you is an ominous silence, with no trace of sunlight to be found.

Trees surround you, but their appearance is starkly different from the ones you know. Instead of vibrant green leaves and dark brown bark, the ones around you are of a dark grey, their roots curled and twisted above ground as if the soil itself were filled with poison.

It must be a dream.

You smile. Maybe it’s the stress of your gap year almost concluding with practically no results to show other than your travels, but one could attribute the giant spider in front of your eyes as the product of a nightmare.

After all, it could just be your brain rationalising all your anxieties and unresolved emotions into a creature of horrors. The spider approaches with caution, its beady eyes analysing whether or not you need to be bitten and paralyzed.

Not like it’d do anything in the first place, you’d be happy to simply lay there and accept them, knowing that they’re all just in your head. Perhaps being bitten by it would somehow give you a sort of ‘awakening’ in coming to terms with your unacknowledged yet plausible fears.

If therapy were a subject, you’d have aced it with flying colours and extra credit to boot from the amount of psychoanalysing you’ve just done.

But unfortunately, as your fingers fiddle with the silken thread that’s begun to weave around your body that feels a little too realistic to be a product of imagination, an inexplicable sense of dread consumes your senses like a tidal wave that’s arrived too late. 

It’s not a dream.

Glancing from the cocoon that’s already woven up to your thighs to the sharp fangs dripping venom, any cry for help dies in your throat. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, but your body remains frozen.

You try to pull one leg free, but the silk only tightens, binding your movements with every subtle twitch. Your mind races, logic and fear clashing, struggling to convince yourself this can’t be real. But the prickling sensation on your skin as the spider's fangs inch closer to it is unmistakably so.

Panic bubbles up, the urge to scream trapped beneath the weight of paralysis. Your gaze darts around, desperate for anything that could help. A branch, a stone, a break in the webbing; but all you see is endless darkness and twisted shadows.

Just as the spider shifts, a flicker of movement catches your eye. A shadow, swift and silent, slipping through the trees. You want to call out, but your voice is caught, locked behind a wall of terror. The spider's attention wavers, one of its legs pausing mid-air as though sensing something nearby.

Then, a glint. A flash of metal slicing through the darkness. Before you can process what’s happening, the creature rears back, a soundless scream stretching across its mandibles as it stumbles. You feel a force pulling at you, the sharp sound of a blade slicing through the silken webbing just as your vision blurs with panic and relief.

Your body is lifted up by a pair of strong yet thin arms, your hands automatically clinging to their shirt. Only what meets your touch isn’t the cotton material you’re familiar with, but the firmness of leather. 

Your eyes drift upwards up to see the face of your saviour, only for the breath to catch in your throat once you do. His beauty is almost paralysing — a cascade of golden hair frames a face that seems carved from light itself, jaw sharp and eyes piercing. You’re so stunned that the only word you can manage is a breathless, disbelieving, “Legolas?”

His brows knit together, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he registers your words. But before you can say more, your vision blurs, the world dissolving into darkness as his face; half surprise, half confusion, fades from view.

— — — — — — 

“-in the forest. She knew me, Tauriel. She called me by name.”

You lift your head, blurry vision clouding your focus as you come to your senses. The last thing you remember is seeing the very figment of fiction standing right in front of you. A wave of scepticism washes over you for a fleeting moment, wondering if you’d somehow died in your sleep and gone to hell.

It’s the only way to explain the bizarre nightmare you’d just had, after all.

As your vision clears with a few shakes of your head, you become aware of something soft covering your body, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the open windows. It’s a stark contrast to your nightmare from earlier. Your hand reaches to your throat, gently feeling it as if ensuring you’re still alive. 

“You’re awake.” 

The sudden voice startles you, instantly sitting upright as your hands curl into fists. How did a stranger get into your apartment?

But when you see who the intruder is, your jaw drops.

“Legolas.” His name, filled with pure disbelief, falls from your lips, and it suddenly occurs to you to look at your surroundings. Your eyes dart from the vanity mirror next to the door decorated with shining jewels, and sizeable emeralds encrusting the bedframe you’re in.

You part your lips, still processing the room that’s probably worth more than your entire family. “This isn’t my apartment.” You stare at the elf sitting next to you, reaching out a hand in wonder. 

Is he real?

His hand grabs yours, stopping you from pinching or poking his face. He shifts, discomfort crossing his face momentarily though traces of it remain in his gaze. “How do you know me?” He asks, a hint of perplexity lacing his voice as he leans forward, genuinely intrigued by your reaction.

A freakishly tall cosplayer? A D&D player who's really into the role? What if this is a TV show and you're just getting pranked or something? You nod at the last possibility. It had to be something like that, it's the only thing that would explain all this so far.

“Okay, this is all very funny, but if this really is a TV show, I’m expecting a huge reward for my reactions.” You watch as Legolas’s brow furrows, the corners of his mouth twitching in a mix of confusion and amusement. It’s almost as if he’s trying to comprehend the absurdity of your words while remaining serious.

“What are you talking about?”

Ignoring his question, you scrutinise him, adjusting yourself so that your hands rest under your chin, elbows propped up by your bent knees. “How’d you get his hair colour so accurate? The bleaching process must’ve been absolutely insane.” You comment, watching him flinch away from your touch, making you grin.

“I hope you know that kidnapping is illegal though,” you continue, your tone light yet pointed. “And I’d really appreciate the appearance fee on whatever show this is. Is it YouTube? I can subscribe to support it. I gotta show this to Mom for sure. This set is incredible!” You marvel at the lavish set around you, gesturing to the bed. “I mean, these diamonds? They look so real!”

Patting your body to find your phone, you realise that the old, oversized shirt and shorts you use as pyjamas have been replaced with a tunic with the pattern of vines embroidered across your abdomen, and a pair of pants that fit you almost perfectly. 

What the-

Narrowing your eyes, you snatch up the blanket and scooch back. “Okay, who changed me? That’s crossing a line, buddy. Me being passed out does not equal consent.” Your voice wavers slightly as doubt creeps into the cracks of your confidence.

Am I really awake right now?

Instinctively, you start patting down the bed and your new clothes, continuing the search for the comforting weight of your phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. A small spike of panic rises before you quickly brush it off. They probably confiscated it for filming, you reason, trying to steady your nerves. Wouldn’t want me leaking the ultimate Lord of the Rings production before the big reveal, right?

“His Majesty has called for you to bring the human to him.” Another beautiful elf cosplayer appears in the open doorway. You stare at her pointed ears in momentary fascination, only to be pulled out of the bed by the wannabe Legolas.

“Hey, what the fuck? I can get out of bed by myself, thank you very much.” You pull your arm back in annoyance, the elven girl from earlier casting you an odd look. Her hand reaches for the sheath attached to the belt on her waist, only to falter when Legolas holds up a hand. 

You follow them both in a daze, speechless from the wonders you pass by on the way to wherever they’re taking you. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and vibrant greenery in every corner of the place.

They must’ve spent close to a million dollars on the set alone.

Finally, you enter a pair of huge doors that open silently. You’re almost hidden behind Legolas’s towering build, the grandeur of the throne room washing over you in a wave of disbelief. 

“Yup, I’m dead.” You confirm with a lighthearted air, practically feeling your soul leave your body at the sight. “I’m dead and this is heaven. Or hell. Or in between, I don’t know.”

You spot the slightest twitch in the corner of Legolas’s grim expression, doing his best to hide his amusement from your words. Seeing a figure clothed in white that sits on the throne in the middle of the room, you blink a couple times, your brain registering his appearance.

“My Lord,” Legolas begins, stepping forward and gesturing toward you. “This is the human I found lost in the dark forest.”

Thranduil's sharp gaze narrows at you, and he leans forward slightly, a hint of disapproval etched on his features. ““A human in Mirkwood? They do not stray here without reason, Legolas. You should have left her to the mercy of her own kind.”

Legolas straightens, a hint of defiance in his tone. “But she knows me by name, and her demeanour is unlike that of any human I’ve encountered before.”

You watch the exchange, a mix of confusion and intrigue swirling within you. The way they speak, the elegance of their movements, and the grandeur of the throne room feel all too real to be a TV show. The cogs in your brain creak and groan as they turn, piecing together the fragments of the bizarre situation you’ve found yourself in.

“Wait.” Your brain stutters. The puzzle pieces finally fall into place, staring straight at the elven prince who looks back at you with raised brows. “If you’re actually Legolas, and you’re,” you gesture lamely to the elf on the throne, “Thranduil…”

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” A laugh wrecks itself free from your chest, staggering backwards. “Am I in Lord of The Rings? The Hobbit? Is Sauron still evil?” This must be a dream, you think desperately, pinching your arm to test reality. Pain flares, but the confusion only deepens. 

Maybe I hit my head?

Legolas approaches you with concern in his eyes, but you flinch away, hands curling into fists as you assume a somewhat defensive position. The weight of their gazes almost makes you crumble. They’re real. They’re not just characters in a movie. Or cosplayers.

You’re in the Hobbit world, and this isn’t a prank. The realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your mind spins, grappling with the truth that this is no fantasy — it’s your reality now.

It crashes over you like a wave, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of pure disbelief.

This is insane. 

Your breath quickens as you watch Thranduil, regal and imposing, speak in a voice that sends chills down your spine. What if this is really happening? What if I can’t go back? Everything is muffled, unable to process anything that he says.

You blink rapidly, feeling the panic clawing at the edges of your mind. “No, no, no… this can’t be real…” Your voice trails off, and you find yourself staring at Legolas, at the exquisite throne, and at Thranduil’s intrigued yet guarded expression.

“You,” gesturing to the king of elves so casually would’ve probably cost your life, but right now you couldn’t care less. “Has Smaug attacked Lake-Town yet? What about the Ring, or whatever it’s called?”

Thranduil’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “You speak of events you should not know, human,” he states coldly, his voice laced with authority. “Your knowledge is… troubling. Why would you possess such insight into our affairs?”

The realisation dawns on you, a creeping dread that what you said could have dire consequences. You’d spoken too fast, too urgently for it to be seen as idiotic ramblings. You take a step back, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the walls closing in as Thranduil’s gaze pinches your chest with an unyielding grip.

Your lips part and close like a goldfish gasping for air, mind racing for ways to undo the fatal mistake made. The room spins slightly, disorienting you further. 

What have I done? 

Based on his reaction, none of what you’ve said has taken place yet, which means that it’s only going to get worse from here now that he’s heard.

Thranduil leans forward, the regal facade slipping away to reveal something darker. “Speak the truth,” he commands, each word measured and heavy. “How do you know these things?”

You swallow hard, panic bubbling in your chest. “I—uh, I just… I read the books. I mean, it’s not like you can keep secrets when you’re famous, right? Everyone knows about you and your kingdom and the dragon!” The frantic pace of your words makes you sound desperate, and you can hear the tremor in your voice.

Legolas’s brows furrow in worry as he steps closer, but is stopped by one of the guards whom his father waves a hand toward. You’re in a throne room with a king who holds the power of life and death in his hands, and you’re just a human who dropped into this world with knowledge that shouldn’t exist.

“What if I’m just a casual reader?” you babble, desperately trying to grasp at straws. “I mean, there are millions of people who love your stories! This has to be some kind of mix-up, right? I can’t be the only one that's read them! Sure, I might've only read the books when I was 16, but that should still count for something, right??”

Thranduil’s piercing gaze only intensifies. “Your flippancy in the face of such gravity is alarming. If you truly are a mere mortal with fanciful tales, you would not speak of such matters so easily.”

“I swear, I didn’t mean to-” you start, but the words get caught in your throat, overcome by a wave of nausea.

“Enough!” Thranduil’s voice reverberates through the chamber, commanding attention. His gaze sharpens, narrowing as he scrutinises you. “Your words bear the weight of knowledge that should not belong to a mere human. You speak of events that could unravel the very fabric of our history.”

A chill creeps down your spine, a mixture of fear and confusion. “But I-”

“Do not interrupt,” he snaps, his tone leaving no room for defiance. “You are a mystery to me, and mysteries are not to be trusted lightly. You may not be a spy, but the truth of your origins and how you came to know such things is troubling.”

“I can explain! I’m not a threat! Please-”

Thranduil raises a hand to silence you, his expression stern. “Your incoherence and wild claims only heighten my concern. Until I can ascertain the truth of your existence and intentions, I cannot allow you to roam freely within my realm.”

He stands, your heart sinking as he parts his lips.

“Seize her!” he commands, his voice resolute. The guards move forward, their expressions grim and unyielding. Legolas can only watch helplessly as you’re dragged away to the dungeons, your limp body and watery eyes staring at the ceiling.

— — — — — —

Maybe if you squint hard enough, the rock-hard floor would eventually become the emerald-encrusted bed you’d woken up on the first day you arrived here. Barely flinching when footsteps walk past your cell, you continue staring blankly at the ceiling.

Your back had grown numb to the stone floor, but you hardly noticed anymore. Days blend together, differentiated only by the creak of the cell door as someone delivers your meals; meals that remain untouched. 

At first, you'd begged anyone who would listen, voice hoarse from calling out for an audience with the king or even just a glimpse of Legolas, desperate for answers or even a small sign that you hadn’t simply vanished into some twisted nightmare.

But they never came.

Over time, your voice grew softer, your pleas weaker, until they faded entirely, swallowed by the plaguing silence of the dungeon. Now, you simply lie there, unmoving, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, hoping that if you stare long enough, the rough stone might blur into something familiar or even comforting.

A shiver runs through you as a cool draft drifts in from somewhere in the dark. You barely register it, too accustomed to the damp cold that’s seeped into your bones over time. The floor is firm, pressing into your spine, yet you can’t bring yourself to shift or even curl up for warmth. Movement feels meaningless.

Time is a cruel, slippery thing. At first, it dragged, each hour stretching into an eternity, every moment a fresh reminder of how confined you were. But now, it blurs, slipping past in uneven stretches you can’t track. One blink, and days have vanished. Another, and an agonizing moment stretches forever.

It’s almost laughable, really. Just days ago (though it feels like a lifetime) you’d pounded on the cell door until your fists were raw, shouting until your throat burned, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear you. To acknowledge you. To see you. You’d begged, reasoned, demanded, your words spilling out like a broken dam.

But the silence was louder. It swallowed you whole.

The footsteps echo again. Slow and deliberate. You know the sound well by now, the rhythm of someone entering the cell, but you don’t bother looking. They leave a plate, same as always, then retreat without a word. Maybe if you close your eyes, you could almost pretend you’re back home. Almost.

But the ache of hunger remains, the chill lingers, and the weight of your isolation presses heavier with each passing day. You sink deeper into yourself, mind drifting as a desperate form of escape, retreating further and further from the reality of your situation.

It’s nightfall when someone approaches your cell once more. You’d mentally counted the number of times they delivered your food today. This one, however, sounds different. It’s a few seconds of silence that pass by before someone calls out to you in a hushed voice.

“Human, wake up!”

The lilt of his voice is vaguely familiar. You huff. As if Legolas, of all people, would come down here. If he wanted to, he would’ve already done so. But a part of you stirs, buried hope rising to the surface. 

Sitting up is difficult, your self-starvation having resulted in a weakened body. Empty eyes look to the door, only to widen at the sight of golden hair. “Legolas?” His name comes out in a whisper. You refuse to blink, fear gripping your chest at the thought of him disappearing the moment you do.

“What have the guards done?” He murmurs, shock in his eyes as he takes in the gauntness of your cheeks and the prominence of your collarbones that peek out from beneath the now dirty tunic.

“They didn’t do anything,” you mumble, sudden shame flooding your cheeks in a rush of warmth. “I just didn’t eat…”

Legolas’s brow furrows, his gaze softening as he watches you turn away, your voice barely audible. He hesitates before kneeling down. His movements are careful, almost as though he's approaching a wounded animal.

“That is no way to survive here,” he says in a gentle reprimand. “This may not be your world as you claim, but that doesn’t mean you must waste away in it.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes you, though it lacks any real humour. “What else am I supposed to do? No one believes me, and your king thinks I’m a threat just for… knowing things.” Your dry throat makes the words come out hoarse, swallowing down whatever saliva you can muster to lubricate it.

Legolas studies you for a long moment, something akin to compassion flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps my father was… hasty in his judgement,” he murmurs. “If you truly pose no danger, then it would be unjust to keep you here like this.”

He straightens, the resolve in his gaze hardening. “I will speak to him. I cannot promise he’ll be easily swayed, but I will do what I can to ease your burden. No one should be left to suffer like this.”

Your head snaps up, a glimmer of hope fighting its way through your weariness. “You would… do that?”

“Do not misunderstand,” he says, voice firm but kind. “I know not what brought you here, nor do I fully understand your knowledge of our affairs. But you have not acted with malice. You look more like a soul displaced than a threat.”

For a moment, he seems almost conflicted, as though something deeper drives him to help you. He lets out a sigh, his hand hovering above the branches that make up your cell gate, almost touching but not quite. “Eat, regain your strength. I will speak to my father. Perhaps… Perhaps there is another path.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrives, the only trace of him the empathetic advice he’d given you. You glance from the now empty hall to the tray of bread and roasted vegetables that had probably become cold by now.

The first thing you grab, however, is the clay cup filled with crystal-clear water. You never knew water could taste so sweet. It’s gone in seconds, and you place the now empty cup beside you before attacking the coarse bread with an almost primal ferocity. 

At first, you think it’s just the sensation of the food, like a lump that sticks in your throat, or a catch in your breath. But then you notice the tremor in your hands, and a strange wetness slipping down your cheeks.

You freeze, a piece of bread still clutched in your hand, and touch your face cautiously. Your fingertips come away damp, and the reality sinks in: you’re crying. It’s not the sobbing kind, nor the loud, cathartic release you’d seen in movies. Instead, it’s quiet and constant, like a river that refuses to stop flowing.

Somewhere between the exhaustion, the loneliness, and the fear you’ve tried to ignore, the tears found their way out, and now they refuse to stop. So you sit and allow them to fall, quiet sniffles echoing through the lonely cell.

I want to go home.

After your tears subside, you continue eating with a sense of calm. Legolas is right, you reason as you bite into a chunk of carrot. I have to eat to survive, so I can go home again. I’m sure he’ll find a way. He’s Legolas, after all.

The tray is soon cleared of all food, and you stumble to the door, placing it nearby. Laying back down on the floor once more, you gradually succumb to the lull of sleep, hoping that when you open your eyes again, the sight of a familiar window by your bed will greet you like an old friend.

— — — — — —

“You’re kidding me.”

The very elf king guy that had you confined to this cell stares down at you with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes when the words slip from your lips. Before, you would’ve probably collapsed at his feet, trying to beg for your life in a strange and unfamiliar world. 

But now? A spark of anger triggers something in you. With all the energy your body can muster, you slam yourself against the cell door, fingers curled around the sturdy bars that secure you inside. “Let me out,” you grit your teeth, pissed off by the calm expression on his face.

“You spoke of the One Ring.” He ignores your pitiful attempt at intimidation, shifting ever so slightly as he stares at you. “Elaborate.”

You swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as the weight of his gaze pins you in place. “I—I don’t know much,” you stammer, the words tumbling out despite your attempts to stay composed. Right. He has the power to end your life with a flick of his hand.  “Only that… the One Ring is tied to Sauron somehow. I remember that it’s… powerful, dangerous.”

Thranduil’s expression doesn’t shift. His eyes are as cold as ice, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“What else do you know?” His voice is low and unyielding, giving no indication of his thoughts. “You spoke of Smaug as well. And mentioned Sauron. Speak clearly, human.”

You let out a shaky breath, mind racing as you try to recall the scattered bits and pieces from books you barely remember. “Smaug… he’s alive, somewhere… in the Lonely Mountain.” 

The details are hazy, like faded ink on an old receipt stored away in your wallet. “But I don’t know much else, only that he’s… a dragon,” you add, voice trembling. “And Sauron… I remember that he’s evil. That he… corrupts things.” You look up, frustrated by the gaps in your own memory. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, but I read about this so long ago, and a lot of it is… gone.”

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, silently weighing your words, assessing whether to trust your confusion or see through it. Then he leans forward, his face unreadable.

“Why, then, do you speak of these events as if they’ve already happened?” he presses, his tone probing but controlled. “The dragon, the One Ring. You speak of them as if they are matters of history, yet they are our present. I find your lack of knowledge… puzzling.”

The truth of his words only magnifies the anxiety twisting inside you. How can you explain the concept of a book…a story, even, from another world? How can you convince him that you’re not some spy, or a witch wielding forbidden knowledge?

“I know how it sounds,” you say slowly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I sound… deranged, I get that. But where I’m from, all of this. This whole world…it’s just a story.” The words leave you, barely a whisper. “You, Legolas, even… Sauron. You’re part of a book.”

At that, Thranduil’s expression grows colder, as if his patience is waning. “And what purpose would such a… ‘story’ serve?”

You hesitate, trying to find words that would make sense to him, though you can barely understand it yourself. “It was… a tale of good and evil. Of heroes, villains. I read it when I was younger because it was assigned reading. But this,” you gesture around you, the dungeon walls, the cold stone floor, “none of it felt real. I didn’t even think it could be real.”

Thranduil regards you for a long, unreadable moment, then shifts slightly, his stance regal yet filled with disdain. “You will remain here until I determine whether you are a danger to my realm,” he declares, sharp and final. “Your knowledge, whether madness or truth, must be contained.”

“But I’m not a threat!” you protest, hands gripping the edge of the cold metal. “I don’t know enough to change anything. I’m just… I’m just trying to understand.”

“If you possess knowledge that should not exist in your mind, that alone is reason for caution,” Thranduil replies, unmoved by your desperation. He takes his leave, walking away with that unnerving composure of his.

“Please-” Your plea comes out choked. “At least let me take a bath.” It’s truly absurd, the fact that luxuries like hot showers and soaps you’d once taken for granted are now things you have to beg for.

He stops, turning his head slightly. He nods once to the guard stationed nearby, granting your request. Relief floods your body in waves, barely able to believe he’d agree. The guard steps forward, taking the set of keys from his belt and unlocking the door. Your body is too weak to fight, and Thranduil is most definitely aware of this. 

It’s also probably why he’s letting you have this one thing.

As you’re led down the stone corridor, you catch sight of other elves passing by, each one casting curious, wary glances in your direction. You shrink under their stares, feeling painfully out of place. When you reach a chamber outfitted with a small basin of steaming water and a cloth, your breath catches at the sight.

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling the words slip out almost unconsciously as the guard averts his gaze, giving you privacy to bathe.

The water is lukewarm, but it might as well be a luxury spa as you scrub away days' worth of dust and weariness. You close your eyes, letting the water drip down your face, imagining for just a moment that you’re back in your world. A place with warm showers, comforting scents, and familiar sounds. But no matter how hard you try, the ache in your chest remains, reminding you of where you truly are.

You take your time, hoping to savour every second of it, every drop of water and gentle brush of the cloth. But too soon, it’s over. The guard’s footsteps echo softly as he approaches, a subtle indication that your time is up.

After dressing in the simple, clean tunic provided, you’re led back through the winding corridors, the fleeting moment of peace slipping away as reality settles in. When the heavy cell door shuts behind you, sealing you once more in cold stone. 

— — — — — —

Another week slipped by. Thranduil continued his irregular visits, each time pressing you for information. You’d combed through (almost) every scrap of detail you could remember, hoping it might eventually lead to freedom. But even with your best efforts, the gaps in your memory remained stubbornly intact.

To hold on to some piece of yourself, you started working out in your cell — pushups, sit-ups, anything to keep moving. At least now, you could understand why gym bros were so committed. Without the endorphins from the exercise, you probably would have unravelled by the fifth or sixth day.

Legolas had visited again a few nights ago. His expression held a quiet regret as he admitted he hadn’t yet persuaded his father to release you. Still, he’d managed to convince Thranduil to transfer you to a more comfortable cell, a small victory in his eyes.

But the surprise on his face when you declined almost made you laugh.

Honestly, you’d given up hope that he or anyone else could get you out. Instead, you’d decided to rely on your own wits, piecing together hazy recollections of events that would eventually bring familiar characters to the dungeons.

When the dwarves arrived, you’d just need to bide your time until Bilbo found the barrels or some other escape opportunity presented itself.

You had no idea how long it would take. But if you’d endured this long, what was a little more waiting? Based on the hints Legolas had dropped about recent events across Middle-earth, you estimated the timeline was closing in on Thorin’s arrival. With any luck, the moment to escape would come soon enough.

The winding passageways had become familiar as well, Thranduil having given you more opportunities to bathe in exchange for the information you provided. (Though, you suspect it has more to do with his senses being compromised by your stench when he’d drop by for questioning)

Roughly two hours (or more, you can’t really tell at this point) after you had returned to your cell, hair damp from the bath and skin scrubbed clean, loud cries echoed through the cold, stone corridors of the dungeon. The sounds were chaotic and jarring. Gruff voices raised in anger, the clanking of metal chains, and the thud of heavy boots against the floor resounded in your ears, cutting through the usual silence.

The unmistakable voices of the dwarves, rough and determined, reached you as they were dragged into the dungeons, each cry echoing with a mix of defiance and dread. Each heartbeat of yours is like a drum until an entire marching band is practically playing in your chest. 

You raise your head from where you sit, staring at the wall opposite with weary eyes as you hear loud protests and bodies being harshly pushed into the neighbouring cells.

Thorin and his dwarves had arrived.

[homestuckreplay]

SIGN ME UP FOR YOUR IDIOTIC CLOWN RELIGION OK.

(page 1995-2010)

Homestuck has passed 2000 pages!! Wow that’s a lot of comic. Who’d have known 2000 pages ago that we’d be hanging out with a little gray kid on an alien planet, millions of years before John Egbert even exists. Not me. And not Andrew Hussie either. And yet the transition to this feels pretty natural.

I don’t know much about Alternia yet, but my first impression is that it’s just ‘mask off Earth’. Specifically talking about modern Western culture (aka the culture where Homestuck comes from), we construct this veneer of a polite and civilized society where everything follows rules and traditions, and where we as humans are rational creatures who should be ‘above’ animals and our own biological needs. Meanwhile Alternia is like asking ‘what if we admitted that the world is a bad place where people constantly do harm to each other, and where being a biological creature is both inherently gross and inescapable. what if society simply accepted these facts and did not try to hide or change them?’ The trolls have terrible nightmares as they sleep in their own disgusting slime, are forced through painful and difficult ordeals as children, don’t have great respect for arts like fashion and poetry, and their upper class literally have different colored blood which (to them) legitimates their own importance. I’m sure it sucks ass to live on Alternia but it sounds kind of refreshing to live in a place that doesn’t even pretend to play fair.

The fact that Alternia has the same movies and TV shows as Earth means their societies must be far more similar than they are different, because media is so much a product of the culture it comes from. Also, ‘50 First Dates’, ‘Serendipity’ and ‘Hitch’ are all already fairly literal titles! And movies on Earth are often categorized by genre, by tropes, and by comparisons to other, similar movies! So Alternia is just taking this to its logical conclusion by having its movie titles basically be their TVTropes pages, where people decide whether to watch them based on whether or not they enjoy the individual elements they’re composed of. It seems wacky and different at first glance, but on deeper consideration it’s really not.

All of this might not hold up as I learn more about Alternia, but this is definitely the lens I’m looking at it through right now. And to be honest all writers are humans (as far as I know) and it’s incredibly hard to write an alien society that feels meaningfully different from Earth as we’re all so influenced by our own experiences, and especially in a comedy webcomic where Hussie probably hasn’t sat down to do extensive complex worldbuilding (for one thing, when would they have the time), there will be similarities just due to shortcuts, assumptions and biases.

I watched Karkat’s movies! I saw Serendipity a while back when he first mentioned it and it sucked ass. Hitch was pretty good though – 2005 Will Smith is cute, there’s genuine chemistry between both of the main couples, and the characters feel more fully realized than the average romcom, so I would recommend this to anyone who enjoys the genre. 50 First Dates was not good but it was fascinating, so I get why Karkat likes it even though he has a hard time defending it (p.1998). It has many flaws (racism, misogyny, unnecessary grossout humor) but it really takes the premise of Lucy’s short term memory loss and runs with it, acknowledging the horrors and genuinely exploring what that would mean for her ability to have a relationship and a future, and I kind of respect it for that.

Back when the trolls and kids started talking, I noted that Homestuck was starting to explicitly discuss romance – for example, Dave accusing GA of having a crush on Rose (p.1589). That all went away later in act 4, which was very plot-focused, with the exception of Mom and Dad’s meeting and holding hands. But Karkat specifically liking romantic movies could be a return to that theme. Twelve trolls offer far more options for romantic pairings than four kids, half of which are siblings.

My boy Karkat doesn’t even need a Sburb server player to destroy his house. Apparently he is doing a fine job of it all on his own with this dumbass modus.

Hivebent already feels ominous for a few reasons. First and most obvious, the darker color palette. Second, the ~ATH (TILDEATH) manual. John also has this manual (p.115) and has unsuccessfully tried coding with it (p.24), but never looked inside. It’s full of skulls, bones, graves and grim reapers (aesthetically very cool) and its ‘logic is composed of nothing but infinite loops’ (p.2002). Sort of like paradox space?? Like how John creates himself through ectobiology, sends his baby self to Earth on a meteor, grows up to create himself, in an infinite loop? Kind of like that but now about death, instead of birth perhaps?

‘You certainly wouldn't get all that worked up about a game that happened to allow you to do such a thing. At least not for that reason.’ (p.2003)

Third, this quote – maybe it’s because I know Sburb is a fucked up game that destroys planets and ruins lives, but this is a very menacing, VERY loaded line to me. (It was the final line of June 13th’s update and definitely stuck with me overnight). Sburb too has necromantic capabilities, so this could tie into the Bone Manual from above.

And fourth, the Hivebent title card. A few pages ago, we were told there wouldn’t be ‘time to drag out every little gag and expected pattern’ (p.1993) and this shows even in the art – it’s three still images, compared to John’s title card (p.82) where time was taken to animate the sequence in Flash. But in this case the pattern is upheld, because its purpose – illuminating the POV character’s mental state – is fulfilled the following page. It’s just that Karkat’s mental state is far more action-oriented and ambitious than the more contemplative, trapped kids.

Karkat’s computer looks like it’s made out of biological material, powered by wires going into something soft and slimy. This is kind of like how Skaian chess constructs are made through biological/genetic processes, so, much like the Harleys + Mom Lalonde are already using Skaian technology on Earth, it seems like that’s seeded itself on Alternia already, though in different forms.

I’ve heard that the Alternian language is based on some existing fantasy language but I think it’d be fun to puzzle it out for myself if I have a minute. ‘GAME GRUB EXCLUSIVE LEAKS’, which gets translated in text on page 2007, is probably enough to get started and then fill in some blanks from there.

Pages that aren’t titled with commands are now titled ‘======>’ instead of ‘==>’. Six equals signs for twelve lines in total, representing twelve characters, instead of four. This is just a cool detail, and another way that the characters bleed into the actual structure of the comic.

On the last page of today’s update, there’s a NEW TROLL!! terminallyCapricious, who has messaged Jade (p.1390) at a time when she wasn’t opening the trolls’ message, is now here via pesterlog. Back when I was a forums kid using BBCode tags, I used to use [color=indigo] for all my posts, so I feel an instant connection to this troll. Also, TA and GC both get namedropped (initialdropped?) here, so the initial group of six who’ll play Sburb is starting to come together. My guess is we’ll meet these six first and see them begin the session, with the other six joining the story later.

TC and CG both come off very badly in this conversation, which essentially means that the trolls were always awful, they didn’t become so due to the trials of Sburb interfering in their previously good friendships. Karkat is constantly rude to TC, calling them an awful friend and saying it’s cosmic punishment to even know them, which is a bad way to talk to someone even if you’re trying to distance yourself from them, unless Karkat likes making himself angry. Meanwhile, TC has some highly anti-intellectual attitudes that are harmful and which I associate with fundamentalist Christianity (on Earth). Speaking of which – Karkat is the first to mention God, which suggests some kind of mainstream troll religion, and then refers to TC’s ‘IDIOTIC CLOWN RELIGION’ a few messages later (p.2010). These may or may not be the same religion. But given that there’s already some religious imagery in Sburb (John biting the apply, for example), I’m interested to see religion explored in Alternian society.

okay I said so much here and I didn’t even delve into karkat character analysis. god damn.

[delimeful]

let my mind reset (6)

warnings: angst, brainwashing, torture, psychological conditioning, references to injury/gore/death, harmful surgical implants, they are really going through it now, lmk if i missed any

-

Where the hours had passed slowly before, now they seemed to slip by all too fast. Every spare moment Roman had was spent in anxious anticipation of the next session and all that came with it.

He had never seen something like the haze used on a person before. Crav’n were invulnerable to it, and he’d only ever witnessed his aunt use it briefly on one of the local fauna once, a harmless and finicky tree-dwelling species about the size of his hand.

(Roman remembered the way Marta had compelled the little creature to pace back and forth, from place to place, wearing its will away until there wasn’t any hesitation between order and action. Then, she’d sent it walking into the nearby pond.

He remembered the way its survival instinct had set in late, the way it began to thrash, and still Marta didn’t call it back. He remembered feeling relieved when his mother stepped in and put a stop to the demonstration, scooping the poor beast from its fate with disapproval etched firmly in the set of her shoulders.

He didn’t remember if the creature had lived through the withdrawal, afterwards.)

Virgil was far from a simple animal, though, and despite Roman’s half-formed nightmares, he didn’t mindlessly succumb to the influence of the drug the first time it was forced on him, nor the second or the third.

In fact, every time the other Humans entered his cell with that unsettling green canister, he seemed just as panicked as Roman, if not more, putting up as much of a fight as he could with a battered body and a wrung out mind. No matter how they tutted or scolded, the other Humans still couldn’t get the mask on him until Roux had him forcibly subdued, which was a tiny victory in itself.

That didn’t stop the drug from taking its toll each and every time.

As horrible as it sounded, the worst part was that the effects weren't painful or malicious in nature. At least that would have been easier to fight against; a logical, instinctive response to being hurt.

No, it was far more insidious than that. The haze dulled pain. First, the physical: it eased away the stiffness of sore muscles and the burning of shocked nerves, leaving only a pleasant numbness behind. Then, the mental: it stalled the production of stressful chemical compounds, replacing them with whatever was needed to trick the victim’s mind into believing they were happy, relaxed, pliable.

Roman had never seen Virgil so unwound, so carefree, and he hated how unnatural the behavior seemed on the Human. It was a miserable experience, finally seeing him without the hunted slant to his posture, and feeling sickened by the sight.

What was worse was watching it wear off.

As though a switch had been thrown in reverse, Virgil would be plagued by a creeping, unrelenting sense of panic and dread, pacing around his cell frantically until a sudden hypersensitivity to touch left him crumpled in one spot, breathing harsh and pained.

Time after time, he was shown exactly how painful withdrawal from even a few doses was, until he was left bracing for it well before the next session had even begun.

“The last guys who had me would have killed for something like this,” Virgil said, nearly panting as he laid out on his back. He had his fingers pressed against his neck, feeling his pulse. His heart was racing so hard that Roman could see the veins pulsing eerily under the skin. A heavy spike of adrenaline, unprompted by anything tangible. “Bet she has at least a few people stashed away just to drain for easy cash.”

He spoke more, like this. Out of turn, about topics that were morbid and pessimistic, as though the thoughts were tumbling free of his mind without his permission. Roman never let his negative reactions to the more grim topics go beyond his ears flickering back; it wasn’t like he had the room or right to judge. They didn’t have very many reasons to be optimistic. Besides, he’d realized early on that the more worked up Roman got, the worse Virgil got in turn.

He still didn’t know the exact details of how Dren harvesting worked, and he was fairly sure he was better off for it. The very idea of setting an entire person aside for something like that was reprehensible, and therefore entirely possible for Marta.

“She said she… she gets rid of Humans that don’t break,” he replied after a moment, the words tumbling freely from him for once. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to turn a profit from it.”

He’d been trying to match the distant, dry tone Virgil had used, but he must have missed the mark, because the Human stiffened, and drew his hand back from Roman’s grasp to press it harshly against his eyes.

Belatedly, Roman realized what he’d just implied. Virgil was one of those Humans trying not to break, was at this very moment barely clinging to his composure, and he’d just been informed he was stuck between two horrific fates worse than death. “I didn’t mean—,”

“‘S alright,” Virgil interrupted, voice rough with exhaustion. “It’s not like I didn’t know. It makes me feel a little better, honestly.”

Roman stared at him, bewildered and still slightly aghast at his own stupidity, and Virgil shifted a few fingers to peer back with one eye.

“At least some Humans didn’t fall for it, y’know? At least some of them got out in their own way,” he continued, a thin thread of hopelessness tangled up in the words. “I was starting to wonder if the rest of space was right. If we were all just destined to be monsters with the right motivation.”

Roman should have been more alarmed at the implication that Virgil felt close to succumbing, that he was nearer than he’d ever wanted to be to a Human on the brink of falling under someone else’s blatantly malignant control, but all he could feel was a painful sympathy.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, and then, more firmly— “Humans aren’t monsters.”

Virgil’s eye widened slightly, gaze intent in a way that would have made Roman bristle in the past.

“They’re just people. They can do good or bad, just like anyone else. And sure, these guys are— they’re not doing good.” A pause, and Roman forced himself to meet Virgil’s stare. “But you have. You saved Patton, and you tried to save me, and you’re— you’re not a monster. You’re a good friend.”

Virgil buried his face back in his elbow and was quiet for a long moment.

“…You’re not so bad yourself.”

—

Roman hadn’t expected Marta to show up in person, not with how much she had delegated to her brainwashed underlings thus far, but arrive she did.

“Don’t fret, ghiva’al,” she crooned to him, passing by his cell with the lightest clink of her claws dragged against the bars. “I’m here to meet your little pet, not you.”

“Don’t—,” call me that, call him that, he wanted to snarl, but his throat closed up so sharply that it sounded a little like he’d choked.

Marta made her stilted croaking laugh, sparing him a glance that might have been pitying if it had bothered to reach her cold, empty eyes. “You always did struggle with words when emotional, didn’t you? Not nearly as well spoken as your mother. What a shame to see that hasn’t changed.”

There was a sharp clacking as an aggressive shudder ran through Roman’s scales, but he still couldn’t find his voice. Not even when Marta moved on to grip the bars of Virgil’s cell, her attention shifting to the Human where he stood warily in the center of the cage.

Roman had learned more than he’d ever thought he would about Human body language over the past few weeks. He knew from the slight sway to Virgil’s every shift that the Human was drained, likely barely keeping his feet.

Still, he was upright to face Marta, his height advantage allowing him to look down at her, and that was better than being crumpled on the ground at her feet. Little victories were all they had now, and they clung to each and every one.

Roux wasn’t there, Roman realized with a jolt, and the knowledge was enough to drag his mind into overdrive, a sudden double-edged hope springing to life in his chest.

Virgil must have already realized, because the way he held himself shifted into something taut and coiled, like he was preparing to lunge forward at the first opportunity, weak or not.

“Back of the cell,” Marta commanded, voice turned brisk and blunt in a way it hadn’t been with Roman. Like she was speaking to a beast instead of a person.

Virgil didn’t move, barely deigned to acknowledge the words beyond a brief flicker of his pupils upwards.

Marta waited, letting the silence stretch for a brief moment, and then clicked her teeth together in a mild reprimand. “The hard way, then.”

Despite her apparent annoyance, the words held a sort of anticipatory delight, and Roman felt the thick tar of dread slide under his scales as he watched her slide a small, triangular remote from a pouch at her side.

When she pressed the button in the center of it, she was looking at Roman.

It was Virgil who went rigid and fell.

Despite knowing it would undercut every lie he’d tried to sell about how little he cared, despite the fact that he was playing right into her claws, Roman couldn’t help but rush to the bars separating them, a shout of horror catching in his chest.

The Human hit the ground hard but stayed chillingly frozen, with every muscle locked into hard lines. He didn’t make a sound until Marta shifted her thumb away from the button, the motion somehow allowing him to finally go limp like a puppet with strings cut.

“Virgil!” Roman managed, though the sound of it was nearly lost in the sudden loudness of the Human’s gasping breaths. He hadn’t been breathing before, Roman realized with a terrified shock.

Whatever Marta was doing, it hadn’t countered Virgil’s natural stubbornness, and he climbed back to his feet with less staggering than Roman would have expected.

His gaze caught on the tremor to Virgil’s hands, the shuddering of his pulse, and he understood. Adrenaline.

The fight or flight instinct, Virgil had called it while talking with Patton. Roman had seen him choose to fight once, at their very first meeting, but even that couldn’t compare to the speed and ferocity of the way the Human lunged now.

Marta didn’t flinch back when he made loud, skull-rattling contact with the bars, but she didn’t blink, either, keeping her eyes firmly locked on Virgil as she pressed the button once more.

Instead of letting him drop, however, she reached out and seized him by the face, claws digging in on either cheek and holding tightly.

Virgil couldn’t so much as flinch away from the pain, and Roman slammed his arm against the door of his own cell with force, furious at his own helplessness.

Marta released the trigger again, and this time, every gasping inhale Virgil took was dosed with her haze. He tried to jerk back, but it was far faster acting straight from the source, and he had barely a moment before his expression dropped to something hollow and smooth, his desperate strength wavering and then extinguishing like a flame with nothing left to burn.

“Down,” Marta commanded, releasing her grip, and Virgil stood in place for a few long heartbeats before his legs collapsed underneath him.

She waved a hand absently down at him, still scattering her haze thick in the air. “There you go. It feels so much better when you listen, doesn’t it?”

Virgil twitched, a ripple of discontent crossing his face, but didn’t respond. He was shaking relentlessly now, his entire body trembling in a way that had Roman deeply concerned.

“You’re safe with me,” Marta lied, reaching down to glide the palm of her hand over the side of Virgil’s face. “You’re only safe with me. Everyone else wants to hurt you, but I’ll make the pain go away. Always do as I say, okay?”

Virgil didn’t move away, even as her rough skin caught on the wounds her claws had left only moments ago. His breathing grew wispier, slower, until he appeared almost calm, his eyes dazed and distant.

“Let’s try this again,” Marta straightened, and when her hand left Virgil’s cheek, he strained after it for a handful of seconds. “Back of the cell.”

Virgil climbed back to his feet, and Roman closed his eyes as the Human quietly began shuffling across his stretch of cell. He felt all of six winters old again, watching his aunt lead something fuzzy and helpless back and forth, closer and closer to the water’s edge.

“Good. Now, heel.” More shuffling, wordless as a corpse.

How long did he have before Virgil took his own plunge?

—

It took longer than before for Virgil to regain coherence, afterwards.

Roman knew the moment he’d come back to himself, because the soft grip around his hand had instantly vanished, yanked away so sharply that he’d barely registered the movement before Virgil was up on his feet and backing away.

“Virgil,” he tried, and the Human shook his head, the motion harsh, his hands lifting up to grip roughly at his hair in a distressed motion Roman had only ever caught glimpses of back on the ship.

He’d continued to retreat until he hit the furthest corner of the cell, where he slid down and curled in on himself, utterly unreceptive to any of Roman’s stilted calls. Roman caught his expression crumpling into a miserable grimace before he buried his face in his knees and hid that away too.

The silence stretched.

If there were some right words to say here, Roman couldn’t find them. Even if he did, he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to say them. The helplessness sheared against his scales like rough sand, but how could he allow himself to wallow in it when he at least still had his mind, his existence still unarguably his own?

Freshly taunted by the knowledge that he didn’t have even that much, Virgil remained still and taut and quiet in the furthest reaches of his cell for what felt like a very long time.

When he did finally stir, Roman was appalled to see the faint streaks on his face where his tears had washed away the sweat and grime.

Patton had described Human weeping as arrhythmic vocalizations, much like Ampens, but with a physical manifestation as well. Roman hadn’t known that Humans could cry silently, like a pup gone still and quiet in the face of danger, with only the barest hitching of breath to indicate distress.

The expression on Virgil now was creased into firm lines, but it didn’t seem agonized or crumbling at the edges. Rather, as he climbed to his face, he seemed to hold the same bitter resolution Roman had seen in him a few times before: during the tail end of their first meeting, and after the fight with the raiders, both times when he’d thought he was about to be left alone again.

“Roman,” he started, and then worked his jaw tersely, once, twice. Rather than continue, he held out a hand, palm-up in silent offering.

Things had changed a lot over the course of their captivity, Roman reflected as he reached out and set his own hand in the Human’s grasp with barely a shred of hesitation. It felt like second nature by now, to reach out and cling on whenever his stomach was roiling with stress.

Virgil watched him for a moment longer, and then wrapped his fingers around Roman’s hand and drew closer, slowly pulling his arm up until he had positioned Roman’s claws just above the skin of his neck.

“This,” Virgil said, each word resolute, “is the best place to sever if you want to kill a Human quickly.”

The words took a dull, ringing moment to sink in, but once they did, Roman jerked back sharply. “Virgil, what—?”

For the first time, Virgil held on, keeping his hand pinned in place with ease even as he had to grip the bars with his other hand to remain upright. Roman could see the way the Human’s pulse fluttered under the skin, a heartbeat racing visibly exactly where Virgil had indicated.

“It’s important. You need to know,” Virgil insisted, and lifted their joined hands higher, to his temple. “Head wounds bleed a lot. Gashes up here are valuable because the blood runs down and drips into their eyes, which will work pretty well as a distraction—,”

“Stop it!” Roman demanded, yanking harder as his panic increased. “I’m not going to— stop talking like that! I don’t need to know how to hurt you!”

At the start of their voyage, Roman would have done just about anything for information like this, anything to feel safe on his own ship again. So why was he learning it only now, when each word and accompanying gesture made him feel ill and rotted down to the tip of his tail?

“It’s not— Roman, it’s not about me,” Virgil said, frustration seeping into his voice. He let Roman drag his hand away from his face, but still didn’t let go. “It’s about them.”

Roman wasn’t sure he believed that. “I don’t need to kill anyone. They’re brainwashed, this is Marta’s fault! I know the truth, now.”

Virgil shook his head, ghosted the fingers of his free hand over his implant scar with a distant, sickened expression. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want guilt to be the reason— Look. If it’s them or you, I want it to be you. I want you to make sure it’s you.”

And what if it's me or you? Roman thought, but the words lodged firmly in his chest until he could barely breathe around them.

“They all made their choice,” Virgil continued once it became clear that Roman wouldn’t respond. “They’ve kept making that choice, every time. You have to want to survive, too, okay?”

Mutely, Roman nodded, trying to ignore the creeping sense of horror. He pulled Virgil’s hand back towards himself, fumbled for speech for a long moment before finding the words and hoping they didn’t feel like a betrayal when spoken aloud.

“The underbelly,” he started, and Virgil’s expression— shut down. Every hint of body language went flat like stone, and just as unyielding.

“No.” The word was final, a sentence all its own, and Roman scowled mulishly.

“But—!”

“Roman.” Virgil lifted his other arm over so that he was clasping Roman’s hand between both of his own. “You’re the only one left, right? You told me that.”

The thought was still a wound-like pang in his chest, even after all this time. “Yes,” he admitted. “But, even still—,”

“No way. I don’t want to hear it, man. There’s nobody I would be willing to use it on, anyhow.” Virgil kept his gaze locked firmly on a point past Roman’s shoulder, but his shoulders were set, his voice steadfast.

There was no point arguing. Not now, when the both of them were one wrong move from collapse.

“Okay,” Roman finally said, and forced himself not to protest when Virgil reclaimed the position of lecturer. It was a struggle not to wince away with each gory anecdote, a full guide on the quickest ways to make the Human body stop functioning or even turn on itself.

“Gut wounds are slow to kill, but they can be painful enough to debilitate. There are vulnerable organs here, below the rib cage, and damage to them is difficult to treat without surgery if the wound is severe enough…”

Still, he held himself at attention, did his best to memorize every word.

If Virgil wouldn’t accept knowledge about Roman’s own vulnerabilities as a gift of equal exchange, Roman would simply have to treasure this information with the same dedication that he applied to the rest of their small crew.

After all, knowing all the individual weak points of a Human would make it that much easier for him to protect each and every single part of Virgil.

Virgil wasn’t going to die. Not here, and certainly not by Roman’s own claws. Not if Roman had anything to say about it.

[vintagerpg]

John Blanche is an absolute legend. As an artist and art director, he essentially steered the rudder of Warhammer and, through it, British fantasy art, for decades. Among a pile of important work, my favorite is probably his illustrations for the four-volume Sorcery! gamebook series by Steve Jackson.

I’m not sure how the Hollow Press edition of Voodoo Forest (2022) got on my radar, but it did (and thank goodness, because through it I found Vermis). The first version appeared in 2015 and was the product of a decade of work. This edition includes additional plates and was resequenced. The back matter says it’s the project’s definitive form.

It’s impressive! There are 46 full-page illustrations, each accompanied by a second, smaller one, and one 2-page spread. In a lot of ways, Blanche’s style seems unchanged, which is a curious thing for an artist with a career spanning multiple decades (compare to Ian Miller, who has had a number of stylistic periods). It’s strange to see his work without any direct references to the worlds of Warhammer. There are subtle, perhaps reflexive visual references, like the way the demon woman’s claw hands resemble the canon Slaaneshi demonette, or how all the secondary illustrations depict a variety of folk carrying banners. Those banners serve as cryptic titles. Many are quotes from Macbeth. I assume many others reference other works, but I haven’t quite figured them out. The doomed atmosphere of the Scottish play sort of overrides all other associations for me (though there is very little in the visuals that would make me think of Shakespeare, though there is one man in a kilt).

Taken as a whole, the thing is unsettling, a sort of dream or nightmare landscape that clearly conforms to some organizing principal, but the logic of which remains obscure. There is not much gore or violence, but violence seems imminent in nearly all the plates. I would not want to explore this particular forest, but I am glad to have it on my shelf.

[sophia-hjkl]

Hi! Your music is so good, I love Breakcore Burnout, Popping Up Everywhere, and Multicoloured Helium-Filled Nightmare Zone sm X3 How did you get started making music if you don’t mind me asking? What programs/instruments do you need to start making electronic music?

you literally dont need anything except for a computer to make electronic music. if you already know how to play piano or a different instrument, getting a synthesizer could be really useful to you but it is by no means essential. even though i own a bunch of synthesizers and electronic instruments and effects, the bulk of my musical output has been made 100% on the computer and i rarely use my physical equipment outside of playing shows.

but really it depends on what excites you-- and what headaches you're willing to deal with. no process is perfect, and every way of making music has pain points, has aspects to it that are work and not creative expression. for me, using physical instruments is a LOT more fun, but the headache comes from setting everything up and breaking everything down every time. being in my bedroom when i lived with my parents and now living in a studio apartment i share with my wife, space has been an issue in every place ive lived. making music in one little box is the most effective way for me to do it and also the easiest way for me to hone in on the specifics i want.

when you make music with physical instruments, you are limited by the parameters you are given. once you run out of effects to plug something into or ways to automate something-- you're done. theres nothing else you can do to change the sound. on the computer you are only limited by your CPU for how many effects and routing points you can use. so even though its much less exciting for me to make music in the DAW, the freedom it allows me is ultimately much more rewarding. but i know other people specifically DONT like that, and like the limitations of working with gear because it forces you to not get bogged down in the details. i don't know what your musical background is so i honestly can't reccomend one way or the other. neither is inherently better. BUT making music on the computer IS inerently cheaper.

i got started with a demo of FL studio in like 2011 and bought a license a few years later. There are a ton of different programs people use to make electronic music though and they are called DAWs or Digital Audio Workstation. Some of the most popular are Ableton, FL Studio, and Logic Pro. there are some free or cheap alternatives though like Reaper or Cakewalk that i know people like. Most DAW's will come loaded with a ton of synth and effect plugins so you can start making music right out the gate. There also exist a lot of free plugins out there on the internet. I mostly use stock and freeware plugins myself!

If you specifically are interested in making breakcore. There is a second type of program you should also consider looking into called a Tracker. you can find free ones online. I like Milkytracker myself. but a license for Renoise is also pretty cheap as far as a music production suite goes, its much less of an investment than a license for a DAW. they work VERY differently, but they are what traditionally has been used to make jungle and IDM music since the 90s. Instead of the skeuomorphism of a piano roll you'd get in a DAW, you are kind of just given a spreadsheet to fill out data in. in each field you write down note values, what instrument you want to trigger, and effects parameters. it sounds complicated at first, and definitely LOOKS complicated at first too- but once you get the hang of it its actually not hard to read and it allows you to make very complicated breakbeat chops or re-stutters or whatever very quickly.

anyways, hope any of this helps! you are going to have to do some googling and digging around youtube to figure out what's right for you. good luck!

[spacedoutman]

Ace's space diary 5

I have seriously bad news, I’ve been detained. I don’t mean just detained, but detained, detained DETAINED. I’ve seriously screwed up. Like inside I’m panicking so bad right now, I don’t even know how to say it. Like my hands are so shaky.

It all started when that psycho chick looked at my phone. She didn’t find Tumblr, thank god, or just wans’t interested in it, but she found my fanfiction and fan art! I’m aboslutely fucked,

I decided. Iwill show you one of the pictures but I’m very shy about my artwork so I won’t show you too much of it, which is crazy! It’s ofPaul, by the way.

You know, I think everyone’s a great artist. But me, Ace, who makes the best obscure secret yaoi with a secret unique anime art style? I’m great at it! I can’t type any more about this because the others are getting pissed. I can see Peter tensing up over there with his fists clenched. I think they’re getting ready to yell at me—but they have no control over what I do in my personal time.

If I hadn’t eaten everything we still would’ve gotten our heads about blown off!! It wouldn’t change anything! This isn’t MY fault! If you’re really thinking logically about it, I got us food! But no—”Shut up Ace!” “WHAT Ace?” I’m tired of the way they treat me! I deserve a raise, or at least just for them to cut me some slack. God, I’m hungry.

We’ve been eating beans and fried chicken. They think we’ll like it. I don’t even know if it’s real beans or fried chicken but I’m satisfied.

“Are you done typing over there?” Paul asks me, jabbing his finger in my arm.

Our cell is dark like weird cobblestone and green light emits from the cracks. “I’m on Tumblr, man!” I roar, but oh god, I just spilled my secret. Long story short, Paul took it, looked at everything you guys posted and gave it back. I’m addicted! This isn’t much of an update, but everyone’s been directing their anger at ME for some reason and bullying ME.

I’m probably coming off like a real bitch right now but this is a pretty bad time. Like Marilyn Monroe said [OMITTED]. Whatever, I’ll have good character development or something. My head is sore. I can’t think. I’m not in a good place. I don’t mean to toxic-dump or whatever you all call it on here. Whatever. I don’t know. I’m detained. This is a nightmare.

Will update when I can see you guys on the other side of detainment

I am so self conscious about bodies so I cropped it because I had a panic attack when I went to click post and started crying so I deleted it right away and now I’m reposting it again. This is the best thing I’ve done all month! I love it, I think it’s grate! Thru love and honor thru the power of love bye guys

Let me share a cute and funny fact about it too, just to you know get my mind off things. Rock n roll! So essentially perhaps I was thinking and I was like man Paul’s looking good today gotta draw him and so he was eating baked beans (don’t know where he found them)

And I made that sketch. It look my six and a half hours but it turned out amazing! I was listening to some music during that time and the songs pumped a lot of inspiration into me and pushed me into getting it done! God, how days fly when you only do one thing!!! But I was so inspired or hyperfixated idk I was so thrilled and then THE END PRODUCT VIOALA!!! Loved it hahahahhahaha

(Consept art below:)

(THE FANFICION)

Okay, so Paul and I are lovers across centuries and we’re fated to be, right? Like int hose dramas. We’re fated lovers and we can never love each other because something always getins in the way but when we dp fall in love finally and are able to be together though we’ve always loved each other then the world will become light and evil will be purified. Does it make sense? Sorry, Some guy’s banigng on the bars in the cell beside us so my thoughts may not be cohesive at the moment.

Damn! Okay, so the first part (I’m so shy, I’ll never publish the draft, sorry!) Is where Paul and I, we’re not in kiss, but he’s a god of the stars and I’m a human pheasant girl. This means, I live alone with my parents and go to piano school which isn’t the future I ever wanted. “Paul this, paul that!” So in an act of rebellion I change my name and run away and make MY A SAND WHICHES.

So I am home-less and Paul takes me in as we’re fated lovers destined to meet again all the time. But get this, he’s actually a vampire.

Gene is evil and wants to split us apart, same with Peter. They both want me. Paul, on the other hand, has feleings for Peter. Over me. Thru a lot of trial, we get it done and we get married but are forced paart again because Paul is called back into the stars with the gods, so I must find a way to heaven (without dieing) and I’m so angry and I cuss out the gods.

So the climax is me and Paul marriage. Annd then we [SORRY I GOT SHY!! But I wanted to share the first part with you all!] I learned a new word, Demure and I think I’m going to use that to describe myself in the novel.how do I publish in space???

[yuukei-yikes]

continuing on that...... haruka/konoba identity crisis angst

im not sure continuing on what but YEAHHHHH WOOOO rather than an identity crisis though.......

i think haruka tries to honor konoha as much as he can by enjoying his life, bc konoha isnt Gone it just took its intended back seat so haruka doesn't wanna bore it or act like konoha doesn't deserve to drive just bc it's a snake. it's just how things are. haruka is the owner of the body. konoha happened to be in there while haruka wasnt, and accidentally gained a mind of its own... so when haruka's really going through it, he cant help wondering what makes one or the other deserve the driver's seat more.

is it time? haruka was born in that body and wore it for 17 years before konoha took it for only 2, so in that aspect haruka wins. is it the amount of people who love them? haruka has maybe 5 (quartet, kenjirou(dead) and his father, if it counts) while konoha has... well, the entire dan. so konoha wins there. so... is it, which one is human? but how's that fair? konoha has proven to have a mind of its own. i mean, it made a wish that clearing was forced to grant (hiyori surviving), what more proof do u need to know konoha is person enough? haruka wonders abt this, i think.

but does it even make sense to wonder about deserving? sometimes it just is what it is. the one who got to keep the driver's seat was pure chance, luck, logic, whatever. it was haruka's wish, everyone got a wish and haruka's was to get his body back, while konoha chose to let hiyori live. everyone made their choices, and this is how things are.

what i like about haruka post str is that He is the face of str, and He represents growing up. i think haruka is the one most at peace with what happened to him, mostly being burdened by the guilt he feels from being thankful for the tragedy, since it allowed him to live. he got something out of it. but i dont think haruka's the kind to dwell on the past, just by the way his personality is entirely but also konoha particularly is a reason why.

like i said haruka doesnt wanna bore konoha. i do love how haruka calls konoha the other me. i think if haruka is upset for too long, feeling guilty for konoha being gone or for feeling thankful for the tragedy bc it allowed him to live, something within him shakes him right out of it like hey... ill cheer up if i go get something reaaaaal yummy to eat. like there's The Horrors. but there's also all the good things in life, and what more does haruka want than life?

what we get from haruka's pov tells us he's realistic, even leaning towards being a total pessimist. haruka is completely cynical towards any kind of comfort towards the end, product of living a life where he clung to hope desperately, be it in the form of friendship or religion, and a father who constantly disregarded the despair and sadness of the situation. because of it haruka is left to cope with himself like... hey it happens to everyone. im just hitting the sack a little earlier than most. that's ok.

that's... optimistic? not really. optimistic is shintaro, who tells him you'll be okay, you have to be. and at that point haruka's driven to complete despair where he is completely certain that there is nothing after death. and he... gets worse than nothing! he gets thrown in the daze!!!!

haruka goes through his worst nightmare already, so... what's left post str??? he already lived through the worst, he already cried and begged and accepted it and went back to begging against it... "it" is death.

so would he be fighting mind demons like shintaro and ayano? he's gonna be freaking out in his own skin like takane?? not really. he's just breathing fresh air because he made it out of hell. and i know so did ayano, but the thing with ayano is that she does everything to herself. while haruka... doesn't? so when he makes it out, it's just. summertime record. a peaceful day under the light blue sky.

i got a little side tracked bc i love haruka's air of maturity post str. he really seems like the one character that's listening to music while everyone else wreaks havoc behind him. so when we bring up konoha i think haruka looks at it through this lense. haruka's like i know konoha is with me, it's a part of me, it's me. and what konoha would reaaaaaally want right now... is eat some grilled chicken skewers!!!!!!!!!

[alicepao13]

What do you think is the probability of John Reardon being back for season 8?

In my opinion? Actual logic says that it's pretty high.

Discounting certain social media actions which can be interpreted as negative (but can't really show you the reason behind them), there's really not much else indicating that they won't get him back.

The show is called Hudson and Rex, one should safely assume that it should have both Hudson and Rex. Unless Mark's last name is actually Hudson, it doesn't make sense for it to still be called Hudson and Rex if there's no Charlie. And while Rex was essentially recast this season, that's something you can do with a canine actor without expecting backlash. (There were still people complaining about it as it is, but fewer once the reason was revealed.)

Despite the idiotic way they dealt with the characters in the finale, they didn't say Charlie was dead. They just presented the facts that led the authorities to presume he's dead. Mind you, under those circumstances, even if they'd definitely said he was dead, it wouldn't have been a sure thing, although it would show their intentions. I've seen characters come back from worse, though. Anyway, as it stands, their intentions were pretty much "wait and see". Wait and see what? If John Reardon was okay and willing to come back to the show.

Regardless of what they thought the could salvage from the show if he couldn't, it is very late to try to change your titular character in S8, even if at some point they'd thought of following the original format (and there's really no indication of that). I mean, half the show revolves around Charlie, half the characters they brought have a connection to Charlie only. They'd lose any connection to Charlie's family, lose Jack, Miranda, and Charlie's dad. None of them would be able to return without bringing a shitload of grief to the show, and in Jack's case, a shitload of guilt too. They'd also lose Charah, which is the only romantic relationship the show ever cared enough to develop for more than a few episodes, which is pretty important for at least half the fandom, and gives the general audience something other than the case of the week and Rex's antics. They'd have to develop a new main character to be Rex's partner. At this point I have to note that it took them far too long to even develop Charlie's character (and the rest) in a cohesive way. These are things that any person or people in charge of a show have to think about. And I won't even mention things like chemistry (with the dogs playing Rex and with the rest of the cast), training, etc., because I've talked about them previously.

Also, I don't want to keep bringing it up, but John Reardon went through fucking cancer and he now says he's healthy and ready to get back to work. He has stated this publicly. If they don't bring him back, how in the world is anyone going to be convinced to watch a "happy doggo show" when they find out they treat their actors like that? It would be a nightmare to promote the show in any way, not to mention that in my opinion it should provoke outrage from the Canadian actors guild. I've seen shows get canceled because the leads are unavailable due to health reasons but for them to be available after the show continued despite everything, and healthy, and to then get booted off a show that literally had their character name on the title? Never. (But if someone knows of such a case, by all means, enlighten me. I won't pretend to have watched everything in the history of television or to know the BTS drama behind every single production. I just watch a lot of tv lol.)

For these significant reasons I believe that the logical thing to do is to get John Reardon back and get the damn show back where it should be. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

[omegapheromone]

I think the worst part of the heat is over finally considering I was able to actually go to the store to get some food... still felt super anxious around other people and felt like I was sweating and overheating the whole time still, but at least my condition wasn't that bad. It's still definitely there, the heat itself isn't over- but it's calmed down a lot from the initial onslaught so I can actually function fairly normally now.

I also took a shower right before I went to wash off any potential scent still clinging to me after hiding in my nest for so long so I imagine I probably wasn't too much of a nuisance in terms of an overwhelming scent either. I felt very irrationally worried about it though- logically I know that people can't actually perceive any pheromones from me (because, 'real world' vs misce identity brain) but I was constantly thinking "what if" regardless.

(More rambles/complaining under the cut, all sfw, just putting the read more here for the sake of post length)

...I felt like people were staring at me, so that made it worse- even though that is almost certainly just because I have a fairly distinctive "look". Still, I imagine that if those people actually COULD sense my pheromones/omega scent for real, I'd have caused some kind of a scene bc I felt like my anxiety must've been like. So obvious. I couldn't even look up from the floor at all aside from when looking at which products to buy. Note to self to NEVER grocery shop while still in heat ever again, because it will be a nightmare. Too bad I actually genuinely needed to get some food because, you know, I'm trying to keep my flesh vessel fueled with enough nutrition.

Idk. It's such a weird thing to get so anxious about. I felt a bit crazy, like... logically, nobody is going to be able to tell that I'm in heat because, you know, non-misce people don't generally even consider that a possibility for humans. And even if people could sense my anxiety- which is entirely possible if not likely from just my body language alone- it's not like they'd know why being at the store would be so stressful for me. I wasn't ACTUALLY in danger. Even so, I constantly felt like "everyone can tell, I must be such a nuisance to everyone, I wish I had a scent blocker or heat suppressant at hand, I feel so bad and guilty for being in public like this because it must be really annoying for everyone else". That type of thing. I guess it didn't really help that I definitely noticed some people glancing at me a bunch, even though it's almost certainly just because I have a pretty distinctive and noticeable look (unnatural hair colour, etc). A kid was pointing me out to their parent in a foreign language I happen to understand a bit, and another very young kid was very openly staring at me for a good while. Kids tend to do that to me all the time, because I look interesting to kids especially, but today it just felt. Bad. And of course, when kids point me out, the parents look too. There was also this (potentially fellow queer) person who definitely did glance at me a good few times, most likely because they just wanted to do that "shared glance of acknowledgement" people tend to do when they notice another obviously Not Very CisHet Person in the wild, but god did it make me feel more anxious to know that they were continuously glancing at me in hopes of our eyes meeting in order to do that "nodding in acknowledgement except with your eyes only" thing gays do. I kept noticing it from my peripheral vision and the sentiment was very nice and everything but I was genuinely on the verge of a panic attack in the store so like, it just. Made me feel worse. Which in turn makes me feel guilty bc I must've seemed like I was avoiding them or something.

I guess I'm just like... frustrated? Because there's no "actual logic" behind any of it, aside from trauma and heat causing my emotions, esp anxiety, go kind of haywire. Also it feels silly to be genuinely paranoid of "oh god everyone can smell my heat can't they, I feel so awful for causing an inconvenience, I'm scared someone will try to hurt me" when. Absolutely nobody can tell.

Hnnng anyway... I still have to decide if I go out tomorrow since I have a therapy appointment. I really should, I haven't seen her in person in a while, but gosh, if my heat is still ongoing I'm going to feel so terrified all day again. But I do need to run other errands too... idk I'm just very. Don't know what to do.

[balladetto]

major arcana headcanons / accepting / @nihlkahn

the fool: what are link's thoughts on new beginnings? does it frighten him or excite him?

he tends to take new beginnings as something old ending. when applied to himself, as someone who has a part of him that wishes to leave the past behind more than he'll ever actually be able to, the idea of them certainly gives him hope! or at least something like encouragement? "even people like me can move on."

faced with an actual one, i'd say his feelings would depend on the circumstances — with where he's at now, he's at once eager to create something new for himself and very afraid to let go of what he might already have. he's lost a lot! even if it might be better to let go of in the long run, he can't so easily put anything familiar down for good. it kind of all relates back to his issues with identity, vulnerability, intimacy, and the act of essentially Unshelling himself.

in the more general sense, i think he'd be wary of them because he's already tried making a whole new beginning for an entire timeline. it certainly worked, but not without a cascade of consequences...yet i can't even call it a lesson learnt right now because he'd still go back and try to make a fresh new beginning if he secured the opportunity to.

the magician: how does link feel about fate? does he believe he can change his own destiny?

he has a mixed bag of takes on this. one: he sees fate and/or destiny as something he can definitely change for others by way of being the chosen one — just not for himself.

two: he thinks of himself as so entangled in destiny that anything that happens to him is as much a product of something predetermined and his own fault ( as the "fated" one, the one with the means to alter it in the first place. he doesn't quite see the ill logic or unintentional arrogance in this ).

three: there's a sort of security in feeling that everything happens for a reason and no matter how hard you try, fate will lead you to a set outcome anyway. it's a damaging safety, for sure, but link doesn't want to acknowledge so when the damage brought by the opposite — that things didn't have to end up like this, that there was even the sliver of a chance for something different, something better — would hurt so much worse. like. he can be brave about so many things! letting it get worse in order for it to get better is not one of them.

the high priestess: how does link make decisions? does he trust his instincts or would he rather trust his heart/his logic?

his journeys have shaped his decision-making process to revolve almost entirely around how it would impact or make others feel. sometimes, that comes from his instincts. other times, it comes from the heart! most of the time though, particularly if they're Important decisions, he'd follow the logic first — then try to make room for anything else. some of this comes from oot, most of it comes from mm.

oot's time-travel system fucks with him, yeah, but the time-travelling in mm is just. on a different level of taxing. i do think he spent the first few cycles trying to do everything — clear all the curses, help all the people — despite knowing the impossibility of it with the limits ( counting the time limit, his physical limits, his emotional limits, etc. ) placed on him, and ended up tormenting himself so bad there was a whole cycle where he didn't do anything meaningful. or anything at all.

between wanting to give in to the pointlessness of saving a world he's beginning to suspect isn't even real ( is this a dream? is he even here? has he even woken up from his sealing sleep with the master sword, or has this all been some elaborate nightmare? ), fighting with well, it feels real and that's enough ( it has be enough ), and being paralysed by the shame and weight of, like, everything — his logic is what gets him into the rhythm of i will do what i can without letting him fixate on feeling like he's dooming a world of people to their ends over and over again.

( and tatl. tatl is a huge help. )

the hanged man: how open is link to new opportunities? does he constantly look for them or does he simply take whatever comes his way?

depends on their nature. like new beginnings, he can be wary of these. too good to be true, there will always be some form of consequences, etc. etc.

also depends on what is meant by "opportunities". he isn't exactly the most driven person outside of what few concrete goals he's strung together ( see: finding navi ) or that've been given to him ( see: saving the world ). he's inherently curious, just not. ambitious? i think that's the word? he's not the most ambitious kid around when it comes to personal development. at least, not anymore! i think he's experienced Enough from the world that he's often just happy to take what he can get or whatever opportunities come his way nowadays. plus the whole thing he's got with fate/destiny.

the moon: what does link long for? is it a realistic desire?

oh gosh. as i write him in his main verse, a lot of things! sometimes contrary things. he wants navi, he wants a home, he wants to belong, he wants to go back to the past where he didn't have to be the hero of time, he wants that past to have never happened entirely because of what he now knows about it, he wants to rest, he wants to never need to rest because this is all he knows and what will he be without it...a common thread for almost all his desires is that they're not framed as realistic in his eyes. and the ones that are are so far removed from feeling actually attainable for him that he's subconsciously set himself up in a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.

he's still got his whole life ahead of him though!! he's still got so much time to heal. and with the dynamics i've got going on in so many places, there are canons where he does, even if his life ultimately ends in tragedy. augh. where's that post. "the love was there. it didn't change anything, but it was there. it mattered that it was there." he just can't see it right now :')

[inkspiders]

“I don’t want your copy ‘n paste endearments.” - Ayumi, The Dream and the Weaver

This May, The Dread Machine released their second anthology Darkness Blooms. I was one of the lucky authors to have their story featured and, as imagery was a key theme for me, I wanted to do a mini-blog series about what inspired me alongside drawings of the characters and machines 😊

The Dread Machine’s call was for dark sci-fi stories with themes about identity, community and security.

The Dream and the Weaver follows multiple characters in a future where productivity is lauded and sleep is no longer seen as a basic right. Workers have installed in their brain a ‘Cricket’, which sits next to the amygdala. This nub processes our emotions and is connected to how we retain memories, learn new things and experience sensations.

Should someone start to fall asleep, the cricket shocks the user to induce a heightened state of anxiety and keep them awake. The humans in The Dream and the Weaver have had to adapt, but, just as the Weaver Mashoka warns:

Drain a battery too much and glitches occur. Messages ping that do not really exist. A logical outcome is not arrived at. A stutter. A freeze. The rule to protect human life cannot be properly or consistently followed if systems have slowed down.

Because of this. People have forgotten how to dream their own dreams.

Sleep is sold back to consumers. Dreams and nightmares are treated like any other form of media entertainment.

Dream sharing is managed by two machines: the Dreamer and the Weaver. The Dreamer links up to a database of pre-designed dreams. The Weaver acts as a firewall. They stop dreams from becoming nightmares and help users ease into sleep, as most no longer know how to access it naturally.

Alongside this is the Web.

Society’s tattered webs drape moonscrapers, dulling stars into embers. Thoughts and store discounts travel through membrane-clotted wires. When a child is born, they are held aloft on the roofs. A strand reaches out, tucks itself in an ear and forms a shawl, just as muslin was thrown over cradles to keep away the scary things beyond. Now the Dreamer holds us all, only masking what screeches past the city’s defenses. Nanites squirm in the folds.

Society is connected via the Web, a satellite system linking everyone’s Crickets. Advertisements are blasted into our minds. Politicians pretend they’ve been hacked when a stray, unpleasant thought is picked up by the public.

While what awaits beyond this cloak doesn’t get a mention in the story, it does appear in a future tale that will hopefully see the light of day - Gulls Are Her Crown - once it escapes my work in progress drawer.

Even though the Web links everyone in the city, isolation and loneliness is at its highest. Why waste precious time interacting with others when the good and ugly thoughts of the mass thrum under the skull?

For someone in mourning, with the roar of the mass making it even starker that one dear voice is lost, it must be maddening to live in such a society.

Ayumi, titled the Widow in this story, has found another use for the Dreamer. After the loss of her wife, she travels through the dreamscape searching for her wife's final moments with the help of a malfunctioning Weaver.

Those grieving are barred from accessing sleep in a misguided belief focusing on the waking world, the living, will heal them. Ayumi has to access sleep illegally.

Ayumi wasn’t the first character I created for this story. She was actually the third after the nameless itinerant worker in the Nightmare section and Mashoka. The Dream and the Weaver was inspired by two old drafts that were collecting dust on one of my flash drives.

The first draft, Dream at A Price, was a much darker story without the hopeful ending of The Dream and Weaver, and focused on the entertainment section. Fight clubs where users plugged into Dreamers, which were then called Dream Sharers, so injuries wouldn’t show on the body. The most extreme of battles could take place, while what the mind went through was left to fester.

The main character was the spirit of the Dream Sharer’s creator. She burrowed into the minds of those accessing the devices, setting out to destroy a machine that had originally been created to cure traumatic memories and had instead been cruelly distorted.

In The Dream and the Weaver, the living reaches out for the ghost.

Dreams were imaginations with the collar snapped off or corrupted memories turned strange and cruel by fear. The machine grasped them in its claw, tore a seam open and invited people to peer inside. All at affordable subscriptions, of course. - Old, scrapped scene from Dream at A Price

The other draft was called Dreamweaver. Humans were put under an eternal lockdown, so machines could protect and nurture the flowers A.I. had deemed superior to flesh.

Characters used Dreamweavers to hack into the machines, travelling the dreamscape to reason with the evolved A.I. in the hopes of freeing humanity. This plotline will hopefully be revived in Gulls Are Her Crown.

“They needed a new flavour dream to keep you here. That is why they installed me. I went to the place they dare not let humanity near. To the great oak tree. You saw it within me. You searched and hungered and kept calling, no matter how many times the Observers separated us.” “Trees no longer exist.” There are bone shards in my throat. The more I swallow the harder they pierce me. “We're still waiting for the miracle.” For the land to forgive us. - Old, not so scrapped scene from Dreamweaver

In The Dream and the Weaver, I wanted to focus more on the breakdown of humans/sleep as well as weaving in an emotional connection. This led to the creation of Ayumi.

For this character, Darkness Blooms' themes are shown through the loss of security and community. Her grief has caused her to break her Cricket. Ayumi begins to lose herself in the identities of the Dreamer's past users. The further she dives, the greater the risk her mind will be overwritten by second hand memories. All so she can see her wife one final time.

Throughout Ayumi’s sections, the symbolism used for her are things – machines, advertisement jingles that are near forgotten – which are dying but still have one final spark, and if that spark was nurtured it would blaze into life again.

The Dread Machine have also put up a reading playlist on Spotify. I think, out of the songs, Ayumi most relates to Homecoming – Makeup & Vanity Set and Six Feet Under – Billie Eilish.

I think it’s probably obvious what anime movie inspired me. I watched Paprika when I was around 13, which is a long, long time ago now!

Did I have any idea what was happening? No, but I loved how vibrant the film was alongside the beautiful imagery and suddenness of the ordinary being transformed by surreal imagination. I wanted to see if it was possible to get the wilderness of dreams across in the written word.

Ghost in the Shell’s aesthetic was another influence, particularly the download/upload of the ghosts (although all I’ve currently seen is the first movie and a few episodes of S.A.C. A Modest Rebellion – Android and I is my favourite one so far).

As I wanted to focus on the dream/fantasy elements of my story, I decided to research myths and tools related to sleep throughout the ages, particularly dream catchers. Also, because I am absolutely terrified of spiders, but slowly trying to get used to them by writing about them, spider imagery is common throughout my stories.

Considering spider webs are believed to be able to protect against evil forces, I thought it a good pairing: the sinister effect of a creeping spider along with dreamcatchers that are meant to soothe and protect.

Pixels flutter. Silk cocoons crack, budding with moths. The spider twitches and leaps to the window, packing webbing into its abdomen, until it squats alone in the corner. It drops, legs tickling one another as sticky string spills out. The trap is strummed, luring the moths back. They’ll never escape. I tear the web, wisps hanging from my nails, but it’s no use. The web glitches to the beginning and the spider weaves anew.

The Weaver knows what to do. It curls its remaining fingers around its face. A soft twangy noise, stilted at first, forms a basic tune. The Weaver plays itself like an instrument. Do flies hear such a song, when they come too near the web?

My next post will feature sketches of several Dreamer and Weaver models. After that, I’ll write about the second voice in this story: Seb, the magpie. His section deals with the cost of sacrificing your identity in exchange for community and security.

The Dream and the Weaver, alongside sixteen other great stories, can be read in Darkness Blooms. It is available direct via The Dread Machine’s website – ebook, print or hardcover – and I have to say the hardcover version I received as an author copy is gorgeous.

The Dread Machine | Where nightmares are manufactured.

[metalsongoftheday]

Wednesday, January 3: Power Trip, "If Not Us Then Who"

R.I.P. Riley Gale (1986-2020)

“If Not Us Then Who” benefited immensely from Arthur Rizk’s slamming production, which presented Power Trip in the best possible light and enabled them to transcend metalcore/crossover conventions.  As it was, the track recalled Pantera without copying them, with an intensity in the vibe even though the instrumentation was straightforward (other than the effects at the end).  Riley Gale’s bark was straight crossover, but he enunciated clearly and injected just enough metal to give his vocals a distinct personality.  Power Trip was right on the cusp of something huge with Nightmare Logic, and everyone including the band knew it, but Gale seemed to have a healthy sense of perspective that would’ve gone a long way towards helping him and the band navigate their way towards bigger pastures without losing their sense of self, which was why Gale’s untimely passing was felt so deeply by so many.

[duckapus]

It's the middle of the night at Glitch Productions, and all is dark and quiet as all the staff have long since gone home.

That is, until the monitor of one very special computer suddenly turns on on its own, and a certain supervillain eggplant peeks from off-screen out into the real world before hopping out onto the desktop (of the computer, not the actual desk it's sitting on).

"All clear, perfect."

"And why are we here again?"

"Just a sec, gotta find it first." As he says this, Garyboy hops around the screen, looking around all the icons for one in particular.

"Well, I say we, but I really mean you, seeing as despite our alliance I am STILL TRAPPED IN THIS SUN-SCORCHED NIGHTMARE!!!"

True enough, the great virus Ozymandias is not actually present. Instead, Garyboy has managed to finagle the camera, microphone, and speaker in his suit to allow his new boss to see what he sees, hear what he hears, and speak to him, even with the entire internet between them (though in certain high-traffic areas the connection can get a bit spotty).

"Well, yeah. If I let you out now, you'll just do exactly what got you caught the first two times!"

"...Fair enough. I suppose this is meant to be my first lesson in these "strategy" and "subtlety" concepts you mentioned?"

"Exactly. Ah, here we go!" He opens a folder, revealing two other folders inside, "Alright, within these folders are the files needed to run the two candidates for the next SMG universe. Now, if you were here, what would you do?"

"Destroy them utterly, of course. Along with everything else in this place."

"Right. Now, I don't want to do that. While destroying two entire universes would be satisfying in the short term, there would be too much evidence tying it back to me and I'd be hunted to the ends of the multiverse and deleted with extreme prejudice."

"There is logic in that, I suppose. So what will you do then?"

"I'm glad you asked!" He extends his prehensile Super Suction Ears to manipulate the window's controls, explaining his actions as he goes, "First, I create an empty folder with the same name as one of the existing folders. Normally you can't do that, but I'm using a bit of my venom to trick the system. Not enough to cause real damage, but that also means it's a small enough amount to not be traced. Then, I put the original folder inside the other game's folder, and use the same trick as with the names to fudge the memory values. And now that I'm done, I close the window so it's like I was never here."

"...That's it? What did that even accomplish?"

"Well, nothing right now, but when it's time to install the SMG Mod it'll be an absolute disaster!"

"How so?"

Garyboy leaves the desktop to return to the portal he'd used to get here, speaking as he goes, "With how I've set things up, one of two things will happen. Either they'll try to install the Mod in the empty folder and the SMGs will fade away into nothing without an Avatar to anchor them, or they'll try to install it on the other folder and...well, I don't know what'll happen. No one knows what happens if you try to add one set of SMGs to two games at once. No Admin is stupid enough to try. But I bet it won't be anything good."

"Fascinating. Perhaps there is something to this whole "subtlety" thing."

[dcviated]

misc symbol headcanons :: open

send a symbol for stuff about the muses

@ordonianpumpkin sent: 💤 👻 - raguna

💤 - How does your muse sleep? Are they a light sleeper, or are they out the moment their head hits the pillow? Do they nap? Do they struggle to sleep due to things like insomnia, or nightmares?

Raguna's the one over here with an old person sleep schedule in his 20s. He's never up too late after dark (unless work takes him late or it's a special event) and rises before dawn so he can hit the chores out the gate. For better or worse, at least, this necessity is not one greatly encumbered. He'll spend time in bed writing in his journal and maybe reading some if there's a book he enjoys. But once about... 9 or 10pm hits those things get put away, and the head hits the hay.

Raguna is out like a light. And sleeps like the dead. Mostly a face down sleeper that holds onto his pillow. Sleep tends towards solid. But he's not immune to bad dreams or nightmares, even if they're infrequent. The content of said dreams is weird, to say the least. Dancing vegetables. Strange natural disasters or runaway monsters. Bad what-ifs from his daily life that have the oddness factor cranked up.

Naps? Sometimes. Little bits to catch a second wind underneath a tree or on a bench. He's not going to lay down on a couch or in bed midday though. Not of his own volition at least. Raguna, once moving, needs to keep moving. Strong productive momentum we all wish we had too.

👻 - How does your muse handle feeling scared? Do they enjoy horror? Do they believe in the paranormal? What calms your muse down? Do they have any scary stories?

I was just thinking about this the other day!... Raguna falls somewhere in the middle, I suppose. Neither is he the type to panic entering any building with a creepy vibe, nor will he shrug off every small sound as nothing to worry about. He tries to be more logical about things, but in a world that does have ghosts (and he's talked to several himself) (even more if you count magical spirits) maybe it's to be expected? Or dismissed? Idk. Suffice to say though even in modern/non-magic verses he'll accept the existence too.

Raguna is ... sorta kinda masochistic when it comes to creepy tales and similar. He likes to learn more things and hear stories and kinda likes a chill factor. But too much and he'll get the heeby jeebies. Don't ask him to share scary stories either, because his metric will be totally off kilter from everyone else's. Like a broken piece of farm equipment or a tree that fell. Stupid.

...hm, what calms him down? I haven't thought too much about that. As far as coping mechanisms go he hasn't taken the time to really develop any. His way of moving forward is to work forward. So shove that anxiety into swinging the farm tools harder or walking faster to where he needs to go! It works!