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mulders-too-large-shirt · 5 months ago

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s3 episode 9 thoughts

i have so much to say. i just copied and pasted my notes, and my thoughts were COMICALLY long. but it was SUCH a good episode so i have a LOT to point out. even more than usual, somehow.

(screams to let it all out and then tries to take a deep breath and gather myself)

okay. OKAY FUCK. okay. whew. we start from the top. the very very top, in which i click on the episode. and so begins an emotional rollercoaster.

this episode description mentions a train. as does the one after that!!! am i in for a two parter?!?! well, if so, at least i am prepared with this information, so i don’t get a massive shock like with duane barry! (author’s note: i was right!)

a train. huh. would love to ride one of those someday. unfortunately i’m american. we only really have cargo ones hanging about. but their noise is deeply familiar and comforting to me regardless.

(little did i know that this was the very kind of train to be featured in this episode!!)

camera opens on tennessee! children are riding bikes to watch a train. ah, good to know the desire to stop doing other things and instead watch a train go by is universal.

now it’s night at the train. is some graffiti action going to take place? the music is getting weirder as we look at the top of this train, and it appears we are in for no ordinary graffiti moment as some cars pull up.

and these people are from japan! in tenneseee! boarding the train…? which is full of science stuff!! this is odd on many levels.

(japan to tennessee… whew, that’s a long flight. give these men some caffeine now!)

caffeine seems to be ignored because they are in surgery looking gear cutting something open. and green stuff flows into a jar? hey. not liking that.

they are cutting into what looks like, in my opinion, some guts.

until people run in and start shooting!!! really truly shooting and killing everyone!!! what!!! what the hell!! who are these guys!! are they with cig man??? holy fuck, if that WAS an alien autopsy, way to ruin the scientific method with bullets in the lab!!

and they are zipping an alien into a bag!! so it was!!! the blatant disregard for learning here!! it’s appallingly american! who are these people?!!

bum bum bum bum… woo woo woo woo wooo wooo… woo woo woo woo WOOO woo… intro time.

mulder has his feet up on the desk. fiddling with… something. scully opens the door and he tells her to come on in, with the face of a man who is scheming. he has it all dark like a movie theatre!!!

LMAOOOO he ordered a video from a magazine of an alien autopsy. and that must be why he looks like a kid in a candy store. $29.95, plus shipping!!! THAT IS A LOT!!

she’s like, you literally cannot see what they are operating on. and she says it’s hokier than the one they aired on fox news. which means i have to google a few things to learn if that actually happened. actually i don’t want to even know.

he mentions the green goo and he says “it’s widely held that aliens don’t have blood, scully” <- girl how would she know that. also you literally almost died FROM alien blood. so explain.

they’re arguing the merits of what makes an authentic alien autopsy tape, and then he points out how the people burst in with guns right before the film cuts off. well, that could make it look more authentic, or less!

some guy in allentown got the tapes so they’re visiting LMAOOO road trip road trip!!!! to a very old looking house.

the studio is called “rat tail productions” okayyy. i kinda like that. but it’s all boarded up so they have to try and break in.

and they find a dead body!! that is still warm!!! what is going on!!!

someone else enters!! and mulder chases after them and jumps the fence yelling that he is a federal agent. zooooom that is a speedy man.

and just when it seems mulder has the guy, he starts kicking and punching and BOOM! down goes mulder. until he shoots something nearby to show he isn’t playing.

mulder is wet from falling into a bunch of garbage… king. and the language barrier is being a barrier!

(sidenote i’m surprised they didn’t make mulder learn another language in school or for the fbi?? like actually really shocked. you’d think he’d have at least one other one, or a few basic phrases, under his belt. idk, where i’m from higher education in humanities related fields requires language learning, but he somehow escaped)

mulder is pretty despite being covered in garbage and bringing a man to a police station

scully says they can’t find an interpreter! this is not really shocking because they are in pennsylvania.

“well look at this… a beacon in the night” says mulder whilst smiling, and who is it he glances upon but SKINNER?!?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?? are they in trouble?? does… skinner know japanese??

(mulder asks and he does not 💔)

skinner says they have to let the guy (kazuo sakurai) go because he is a high ranking diplomat. so if you’re a diplomat can you just… walk away from a murder scene and that isn’t a problem?? at all? i did not think it worked like this.

skinner asks what they’re doing and mulder says he’s tracking down a “video piracy thing” LMAOOOO least convincing lie ever.

skinner tells him to go back home, and then very purposefully brushes into his shoulder before walking away. yowch! that has got to sting. mulder looks like he just got caught and is trying to charm his way out of it

scully rightfully points out that this makes no sense, and asks if he wants to drop it, but mulder says he paid his $29.95 and he is gonna get his answers!!!

LMAOOO he “forgot” to turn in the suitcase kazuo was carrying. it has a list of members of a ufo society with a local woman’s name circled!! was she gonna be their next target…?

he tells her to get a motel and he is going to go back to D.C. and be “a good boy” for skinner… LMAOOO, and he’ll show the files to his besties

back in D.C., and woah, mulder looks like a real slut with his hands on his waist and his jeans and tucked in turtleneck sweater. i am NOT complaining. just merely observing. it’s kinda giving that one photo of the rock. i see where he took his style inspo from.

so the lone gunmen say that the japanese were looking for a sunken ship from wartime, and it looks like they found it, but they brought it to virginia? very weird. maybe they did not find a sub… but something else.

the diplomats are heading home. or not. because someone is beating up kazuo! huh?! WHAT!

scully on da scene in allentown pa. serving. knocking at a door of the person whose name was circled in the files.

but the person goes to answer the door and she says they know her. she’s like umm not sure about that?? until another person comes to the door and says “oh my god… she’s one” WHAT??

(is this like a secret society of people who were abducted or like. are they trying to scam her or something?)

she looks super freaked out. she’s trying to explain that she’s here for murder investigation reasons, but the lady in pink (penny) is calling and saying everyone needs to come over right away. this will surely make scully even more stressed.

they ask her if there was some unexplained event that happened last year. and also to please sit down. so you KNOW things are about to get wild.

mulder is asking about the ship that allegedly was returning through panama. and the boat was stopped! but then kept going? the guy he’s asking to look into this does not seem to be pleased to discuss this subject.

scully is freaking tf out but trying to gently explain that she does NOT KNOW THESE PEOPLE. but they’re talking about being taken to “the bright white place” and that she was only taken once, but these other women were taken many times. WHAT IS GOING ON.

they ask her about regression hypnosis and she’s like i do not want to talk about this. (and yes i even TRIED IT) and she looks around at all the other women and it is creepy. SAVE HER… save them all.

mulder is running away from the guy he asked for the files from. he’s always going somewhere. looking at a boat. looking at another boat. is he gonna sneak on the boat? YES HE IS. HE IS JUMPING ON IT. elbowing a window open to get in. this is a wild man!! he will break into your boat!!!

he’s going through drawers looking for stuff and i’m thinking, oh man i really hope the boat doesn’t start heading out to sea… he has nothing to survive on. and we’ve seen them kill people, so don’t say “accidental” boat abandonment with a guy on it is out of the realm of possibility. but it IS the boat he was hoping for. and now he’s sneaking about its underbelly.

NO! he has been caught. the boat is being swarmed by men with guns. he seems too tall to hide…. but he did!! AND HE JUMPS INTO THE HARBOR LMAOOOOO, NOOO, THE POLLUTANTS!!

back to scully. i was so caught up in the boat espionage i had forgotten about scully’s dilemma. and they say that she won’t remember what happened to her for a while. cut scene to her being blowed up again like we saw in s2.

and she is really freaking out now, because they point out that they all have the mark and she just wants to learn about this murder, damn it, not unpack trauma!!

but betsy, who she came to see, is dealing with very severe cancer. and they say that what she is dealing with is going to happen to all of them. WHAT??? “we’re all dying because of what they do to us” OH MY GOD??? she has tears in her eyes. WHAT!!! what.

back to the boat. do i look like i give a damn about the boat!! no!! but mulder is crawling- at night- from the harbor. so did he stay there all evening or….

so he’s once again on the run. and soaking wet. please take a shower, my friend. you know not what they do in that harbor.

he sees people pulling in to the warehouse nearby!! with guns!!! and we see him sneak by!!! no, mulder, consider going home and not getting caught!! but what if he finds something that can help scully…? and oh my gosh, he doesn’t even KNOW she’s slowly dying yet. oh my gosh wait i need to sit down (said by the girl who is literally sitting)

the orchestral score is popping off, too. he peeks in a window and sees a giant… thing? being gassed. with cameras out and about. like a blimp looking thing.

somehow he gets a change of clothes. and he goes home but his apartment door was unlocked! so he has his gun. is it skinner?

IT IS!! whew! that was best case scenario, so it was just wishful thinking on my part, but maybe i really am deeply attuned to this show. skinner is sitting there in the dark. we see some photos on mulder’s desk but they kinda just look like random places. one is some sort of field? and the other is a house, i think? not recognizable to me. but back to the plot at hand.

skinner tells him to put the gun down. sort of like you tell a dog to drop it. he obeys. aww, he is a good boy for skinner, like he mentioned earlier.

so skinner has some tea; kazuo’s body was found in a canal!!!! he didn’t make his flight!! and they government thinks he was killed over his BRIEFCASE!!!

mulder plays dumb. then he admits that scully has the briefcase in her car. he seems like he’s trying to play it cool but skinner is NOT having it. “this is bigger than me, you, or the FBI, agent mulder” okayyyy king of being vague. and he says he is not getting involved!!! woah!!!

so mulder goes to… a senator!!! yes, the senator we saw very briefly a few times before, whose name is richard matheson? i didn’t really understand that in the past, but maybe it was building up to this. richard says to return the photos, but mulder says he’ll be entangled in a murder investigation, which he cannot afford because he is so close to the truth!

this senator claims to be telling mulder the truth about what is going on. and he explains what happens in tennessee, how the japanese doctors were murdered doing a secret thing.

“what am i onto here?” , he asks. “monsters begetting monsters”, says the senator. ohhhhhhh that does not sound good.

(i hope he exposes the alien people and the torture and they blow up all the people that hurt scully and the rest of those women and then hold hands)

he’s back in his office with his glasses on. and i would be glad for a glasses mulder win under normal circumstances, but my heart is sick over scully. i take what i can get when i can get it, though, because he is a beautiful man in glasses.

SCULLY’S BACK!! and she is still freaking out. she relays the news that she might be dying, and he looks up at her so innocently and says “but you’re fine, aren’t you scully?” OHHHH BABY. BABY. GROWN MAN. BUT BABY. OHHHHHHH MY HEART. MY HEART ITS MELTING. MY EYES ARE TEARING. “but you’re fine, aren’t you?” oh lord… he cannot lose anymore people.

she is terrified- “am i? i don’t know, mulder” NOOOOOOOO MY BABY. STOP. DO NOT DO THIS TO HER.

he pulls up a photo and she says she knows someone in it, but that guy has been dead since 1965. mulder seems to find this difficult to believe, but last episode he was suggesting that someone was bleeding another person’s blood, so i feel he of all people should be open to this idea.

(oh…. they’re using unit 731 for the storyline here. and they have done that in the past as well but. wow. awful lot of baggage to dredge up there. very very painful and unhealed wounds)

((and i guess before they have done similar things involving nazis, right, remember victor? and his experiments? even if it was done before though, it doesn’t make it any less chilling to me. i’m not sure how i feel about using real horrific war crimes as plot points in an alien show))

but my reckoning with history aside, mulder says that four of the men in that photo were in the alien autopsy video. and they were murdered.

“murdered for what? or murdered by whom?” oh scully, you deserve none of the suffering that the world has given to you. NONE OF IT. if i were mulder, i would hug her and never let go ever. ever ever.

he thinks they’re still trying to make an alien-human hybrid, but she still isn’t buying it, even after everything; she needs proof. she says believing is the easy part, but he disagrees. “you think that believing is easy?” he asks, and it hangs in the air.

oh, i want to linger in that space forever. the tension it creates, the things it reveals about him. how belief is centered on hope, how he has to fight for it, that it doesn’t come as natural as breathing as he might have you thinking. it’s hope for a better future, it’s hope for righting old wrongs, it’s looking where no one else will go find the answers. it’s about getting family back. it’s about fighting and sneaking and learning and even killing to get what you need to know. but it’s never easy.

FUCK. I’M LIKE GONNA JUMP UP AND DOWN. THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!!!!! THIS IS THE STUFF!!!

they hold eye contact for a bit, until she sighs and breaks it (fuck me, i’m emotional) and he points out that they DO have proof, as he reaches for her arms- the spy photos were tracking a ship that pulled a UFO out of the ocean, and the UFO is in that warehouse that he saw earlier!! that thing i said looked like a blimp!!!

he says the US has a secret railroad. i yearn so desperately for accessible transportation. if the government said tomorrow, yeah, we have a secret rail system, i’m not sure how i’d react. perhaps relief?

there is very very very charged eye contact.

okay, bringing the thingy from her neck to a guy who can understand it. it’s a “micro processor”, and there are a few companies that make them. and they are being used for many things. so was it made by ordinary people, and not alien tech…? who is doing the torturing and testing…? and to what end???

it’s all women in that room… is it for alien breeding purposes… oh, i shutter to imagine

back in west virginia!!! mulder has a leather jacket on and a dream as he climbs up into some sort of railroad building’s roof. his hair blows dreamily in the wind as he busts out some binoculars. if he were to be caught, he could probably convincingly claim he was a birder. i understand they go through a lot to find their birds.

people are showing up. they’re speaking japanese and getting what looks like a LIVING ALIEN onto the train? mulder is on the move. the train is taking off. is he gonna play subway surfers irl and try to jump on that thing? yes, he is SPRINTING. but he realizes he cannot outrun a train.

back to scully cam. she is watching footage. a japanese surgeon is taking off his surgical gear and she recognizes him!! OH MY GOSH SHE RECOGNIZES HIM FROM HER TESTING! NOOOOO!!! NOOOO!

she answers the phone like she wasn’t unpacking horrific information and mulder reports from west virginia. and she points out that she recognizes the doctor… but not from the video tape. NOOOOOOO. realization crosses his face, and i’m sure only adds fuel to his fire to get on that damn train.

so mulder is trying to catch up with the train. a handsome japanese man is being followed by the dude that killed the other guy earlier. AND NO!!!! the killer just killed the handsome japanese man and locked him in the bathroom. then adjusted his hair???

mulder JUST misses the train. perhaps this is for the best?

scully going home. WHY IS X THERE?!?!?!? he’s telling her to tell mulder to get OFF OF THE TRAIN. she rightly is suspicious but he is NOT playing around.

mulder is about to leap on top of the train when he gets the call from scully. and he asks who told her what he was doing and to stop it, and like me, she is also probably realizing she doesn’t know this dude X’s name.

and he jumps on the train!!! but loses his phone in the process!!!!!

TO BE CONTINUED!!!!

WHAT THE HELL.

okay, my yelling aside, THIS is when the show is at its best, imo. THIS is the blueprint for me. character driven. heart of the plot. reveal after reveal but vague enough to keep me wanting more. the government is evil and every conspiracy has more conspiracies. getting to know what is ACTUALLY going on in snippets. skinner is there. this episode truly had it all.

EXCEPT an ending, of course, because now i have to WAIT to watch the next part. SO TRULY DIABOLICAL!

no no, i jest, i can take a cliffhanger most of them time. i just better not have ANY distractions tomorrow.

whew, so much to unpack. i think there are two things that are sticking out the most to me here: scully’s terror and mulder’s belief.

her not knowing what to believe is true about herself and the world she has studied so carefully, being surrounded by strangers who claim to know her, that know things ABOUT her, and who tell her she is going to die slowly and horribly. how she tears up when she learns this. how she tried so hard to get control over the situation by pivoting to the murder case, only to be denied. how the reigns of control slip from her hands, and it is left to fate. and how horrific that is. how she cannot handle processing what was done to her, but is forced to, by seeing this guy who did unspeakable things to her again. how she says she needs proof. as if she’s biding her time, waiting for a full answer so that the reality of what she has gone through can sink in. if there’s never proof, maybe she’ll never have to process it.

and mulder, who thinks that belief is hard. who has sacrificed so much of his life to belief, put himself in danger countless times to find the truth that everyone around him either denies or ridicules him for. how he has little more than his work, because he needs there to be hope. if belief is terror for scully, to him it is a source of possibility. how they’re both wrapped into the same tragedy with entirely separate takes on what it means and how to proceed but whatever is bringing them together keeps weaving them tighter and tighter.

AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH. i could scream.

i actually typed all of that, took way more notes than usual, and STILL feel like i’m barely scratching the surface. i feel like i need to give a lecture on this subject matter to even sort of drain the giant well within me of feelings regarding them. his face, how he insists she has to be okay, right? right? and her terror when she admits she doesn’t know.

now. i hate to say it, but i have seen vague spoilers about what happens in the next season, involving illness. and i have a feeling i’m gonna cry like a baby because i’m so messed up just by this. maybe it’s a sensitive topic for me, or maybe i’m just too deeply attached to these nerds and need them to be happy.

but the depth of my feeling is indicative of how amazing this episode was. it was fast-paced, but not too fast to follow. it explored our character’s hopes and dreams and fears. the dialogue and acting was excellent. how much can be said with just eye contact, and then it breaking, is stunning. i want to know what happens next, and despite my eagerness, i am too disciplined and sleepy to go onto the next episode.

(i have some thoughts that i need to gather and articulate at a later time regarding the use of unit 731 as a plot point, but they’re still loading, and frankly it would be better to make a post just on that subject once i can figure out how to verbalize them and if i feel that i can confidently tackle the subject matter)

goodnight world, i’m gonna scream.

#this took so much longer than usual but it was worth it because WOW i’m shocked #but now i need sleep so pretend you don’t see any glaring typos #and i hope you can feel my enthusiasm from behind the screen #juni's x files liveblog #3x09 #the x files #txf

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inkrabbit · 4 years ago

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Started out as a sort of hc in my group chat, turned into a drabble. Dark AU for Legion where Dan is a sociopath. TW for blood and death.

Word count: 1,346

“It's done.”

“Excellent work, my love! I knew you could do it! And so efficient, too.”

The praise makes his heart race, the heat rising to his cheeks as a smile spreads across his lips, foolish and giddy. He wasn't used to being spoken to this way, his old gang having belittled him every chance they got. But being apart of DedSec – oh, who was he kidding? Running the odd jobs for their leader, Dan, had been a pleasant change. The soft and gentle tone of the Irishman, those sweet smiles he would give him. It wasn't any secret he had fallen for the man quick, smitten by his pretty words and gentle touch. The way he would hold him as he fixed his wounds, and how he would always offer him the first jobs.

Of course he had accomplished each one flawlessly. Dan would send him on jobs that regarded the Kelleys, whether it be getting information on them or stealing some sort of equipment. He never had a problem doing it. Why would he? He didn't exactly feel any remorse ratting out the gang that had kicked him around ever since he was forced into it. And if it made his leader happy, then he was all for it.

“Let's celebrate! Top of Buckingham Palace?”

“Sounds great.”

“It's a date, then.”

The fluttering feeling that had started in his chest has started to flourish throughout his body, coursing through his veins and making him feel warm all over. Buckingham Palace should've been close by, and his feet are carrying him in the direction of the building before he knows it. His mind is swarming, heart racing as he sees his destination in the distance. Normally he would've gone back to the safehouse and been congratulated there. But to be meeting Dan, away from everyone, to celebrate? Well, it was a dream come true.

It's easy enough slipping past the guards and calling for one of the cargo drones to come scoop him up. The sight around him is beautiful, the leaves swaying in the gentle breeze that moved through the garden. Dan's sitting on the edge of the palace, his suit almost looking black, save for the parts that the moon's glow highlighted. His legs are hanging down, elbows resting on his knees as he stares out at the garden before them.

“Glad you actually showed up, Josh,” His voice is as gentle as ever, that smile sending chills down his spine.

“Of course!” He steps onto the edge of the palace, slowly walking over and watching the man stand up. Those hazel eyes are piercing and cold, but they practically hypnotize him when he holds his gaze. Standing tall, Dan reaches out, a gloved hand coming up to gently brush his knuckles against Josh's cheek. It's electrifying and he leans into his touch, smile forming on his freckled face.

“Always so good to me,” Dan purrs, leaning down slightly so his face is right in front of his. His hand trails down, index finger curling underneath his chin and keeping his head in place so he wouldn't be tempted to look away. “Tell me, love, why is that?”

“Y-you seem to know the answer,” He can feel his face heating up. The Irishman had never been this close before, the smell of his cologne making his head spin. A soft hum reverberates in Dan's throat.

“I wanna hear it,” The husky tone is so commanding and powerful, the growl making his knees weak. His swallows thickly, blue eyes still locked with hazel as he opens his mouth.

“I like you,” The response seems to please the man before him, lips curling into a smile as he chuckles softly. Releasing his hold on his chin, Dan takes a step back, turning so he's looking back out at the garden with his hands folded behind him. Josh stands next to him, scanning the area. Though he was almost the same height as his leader, he always felt so much smaller.

“Why do you like me?” Dan asks, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “What makes me so... differentfrom the other operatives? Is it my position?”

“What? No!” He almost laughs at the accusation, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. He supposed there was no beating around the bush now. The man knew, and had seemed to know of his feelings for a while. He wondered who in the group didn'tknow about his little crush on the man. “I just... like you. You're very nice and... well, you treat me a lot better than the Kelleys.”

“Is that so?” His heart jumps when Dan grabs his shoulders, turning him once more so he's giving him his full attention. The smile on his bearded face keeps him silent, Josh's lips parted ever so slightly in anticipation to ask the flurry of questions running through his mind. Those questions fall away when Dan starts moving his hands, gently gripping the back of his neck as the other comes up to cup his cheek. He's leaning into his touch once more, the cool material of his leather glove sending a chill up his spine.

“What makes you think I'd feel the same?” The grip on the back of his neck tightens, his breath hitching in his throat as he starts to squirm against the man's hold.

“Dan...” Those cold eyes grow darker, his once sweet smile turning wicked as the hand once holding his cheek slips down to his throat. Josh reaches up to grab the man's arms, trying desperately to pry him away as he starts to panic. He can't breathe, and he's staring at the man with pleading eyes, feeling tears well up.

“Ya think someone like me really needsa partner?” Dan's losing his once sweet tone, voice getting lower as he starts to laugh. He's applying more pressure, and Josh's vision is starting to darken, everything becoming blurry as the tears slip down his cheeks. “No. All I needed was someone to do a job for me, and you did that. And now, you've outlived your usefulness.”

A surge of air flows through him when Dan finally releases his throat, shoving him back. Tripping on his own feet, Josh falls backwards, coughing as he tries to gulp down more air. He's scurrying back, heaving as he stares up at the man stalking towards him.

“Dan, please,” he cries softly. He can feel his body tremble, curling in on himself. Dan only gets closer, crouching down and staring at him.

“I bet you would've lovedto have gotten to know me,” he purrs out. The glistening of the blade makes Josh whimper, and he turns away, screwing his eyes shut. But a hand reaches out, harshly grabbing his face and forcing his head to turn. He can feel the tip of the knife run along his jawline, and he's soft begs over and over for him to stop. “You and everyone else in that group. Ya just don't get it, do you? You're just a means to an end, love. Everyone is.”

It's a quick motion and for a second, Josh almost doesn't register what's actually happened. But when he notices he can't breathe, and his neck feels wet in the cool night air, it finally hits him. His hands fly up in a futile attempt to cover the cut around his throat, eyes wide as he falls back. He's starting to choke on his own blood, feeling it pour over his lips and roll down to his jaw. Everything hurts as he lays there, and he wonders if the night is what's making him colder. Dan walks around to his side, towering over him with a small smile.

“Thank you for your contribution, love.” It's the last thing he can make out as his vision fades to black, feeling his strength rapidly deplete.

#au!Dan

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good-rwbyaus · 4 years ago

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Au blake opens up her own bookstore

Blake’s Book Trade - mod lilac -

// Bit of an experiment with this one. Going to try and make this more of an open AU and thus more receptive to influence by asks. So unlike other AUs I’ve written, this could end up making a lot of things out of order depending on the asks I get - or invalidate other pieces that are written in this AU. I don’t know. Never tried this before ahaha. Though if people prefer the general fic format where I do things with actual direction, feel free to comment.

As with the rest of my writings, here is the “nail” post. - lilac

1. End of One Dream

“Goodbye,” Blake whispered as she swung her blade at the train latch. She watched as Adam - her friend, her mentor - reached out quietly but stayed on the cart he was on; she already knew he would choose the mission over their friendship. He and the train vanished into the distance, much like her dreams of the future.

She was just tired of the fighting. After working with the White Fang for so long, she could say one thing for certain; the humans who hated them would continue to hate them, just as the Faunus who hated humans would continue to hate humans. All she did was perpetuate a cycle, a cycle she didn’t know how to stop.

Because Adam - and the current leader of the White Fang - might very well be right. Violence might really be the answer. Because no one cared about the Faunus plight until the violence happened - until the White Fang drove up the costs for mistreating Faunus, both physically and monetarily.

No. Going back to the White Fang was no longer an option for her. She can’t handle what the group has become - what she’d be expected to do.

Becoming a Huntress had no charm for her either, for Hunters and Huntresses didn’t just hunt Grimm. They hunted the enemies of Mankind and by extension the Kingdom, and it was very easy to declare someone an enemy.

So in the end, she had nothing. No cause to fight for. No direction to go.

...What was she going to do now?

-----

2. Under the Sun

Rain poured onto her as she wandered through the streets of Vale. She’d been in a daze since Forever Fall; one moment she’d been surrounded by trees and train tracks, and now she’s surrounded by buildings and vehicles. How she survived the forest in her insensate state she wasn’t quite certain.

Ring ring.

“Welcome to Tukson’s Book Trade, home to every book under the su- Blake,” said a familiar voice, “You came ba-”

She lifted her head in shock and saw a familiar face – Tukson – the handler she and Adam met before taking on the Forever Fall job. Her eyes glanced over at all the books and shelves around her. How she got back here, she didn’t know. Why she was here, she wasn’t sure either.

Before she could apologize and run out the door, she could feel a pair of gruff hands rest upon her shoulders and gently guide her to a seat behind the counter.

“I’ll be right back,” Tukson said as he disappeared behind a set of doors.

She watched him leave quietly, watching the double doors swing, before she turned around and took in the view beyond the store counter. The shelves and tables lined with tens of hundreds of books. The faint silhouettes of people walking amidst sheets of rain. The tiny bell on the door that had long stopped shaking after her passage. She could smell the dusky scent of old texts lingering about.

Her body relaxed for a moment before she tensed up again.

What was she doing here? She shouldn’t be here.

She should leav-

Everything went dark and then bright again, causing her to stiffen in shock. It took her a moment to realize that a thick, wooly blanket had been placed over her head and back, its comfortable warmth making her unconsciously wrap herself deeper into it. She didn’t realize how much the chill seeped into her bones until just now.

“Here you go,” Tukson said, handing over a small white, almost dainty teacup over, “Sorry if it tastes bad. It’s been a while since I made this.”

Almost automatically, Blake took a sip of the hot beverage. And she couldn’t help but immediately scrunch up her face. It was bitter, really bitter.

“Yeah, Ma always said I couldn’t make tea to save my life,” Tukson loudly guffawed, “It’s warm though. It’ll help stop you from getting a cold.”

She took another sip, and the warmth in her belly did make her feel a little bit better.

“Umm… thanks,” Blake choked out, a bit surprised as to how hoarse she sounded. Her hand brushed against her wet eyes. Had this been all just rain or had she been crying this whole time?

The older faunus nodded his head, quietly letting her regain her bearings. The silence did make her feel a bit better, even though she knew it was temporary. Tukson was after all one of the White Fang’s handlers in Vale - knew more things about its seedy underworld than the average Huntsman. The probing she would face was inevitable.

“I thought something had gone wrong,” Tukson said, finally breaking the silence, pulling a small stool by her side, “Adam poked his head in to tell me the mission was complete. And that you weren’t going to return. Then he just walked out without a word.”

“...I left,” she started.

“I quit. I just...”

Adam’s cold uncaring reply echoed in her head – to set the bomb charges despite people still being on the train.

Blake held the cup of tea in her hands, shaking, “I just can’t...”

“Can’t see yourself fighting the good fight anymore?” Tukson finished with a patient smile.

She lifted her head in surprise, lips open to ask the unspoken question.

“I used to live in Vacuo,” Tukson perched himself on the tiny stool he set for himself. “I fought and killed to protect my village back when the local Huntsman academy was still setting up shop.”

“It had been easy to tell myself I was doing the right thing when I was the only thing standing between the raiders and my friends and family,” he continued as he lifted his head in pride before lowering it again with a sigh. “But…”

“…I couldn’t really do that when I fought as part of the Fang,” he spoke softly, “all I could see was that I was robbing and terrorizing humans for the hope that some good would come out of it,” he shook his head, “It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Before I was the protector, but then I became the raider, the aggressor…”

He shook his head.

“ -So I finally told them I couldn’t fight anymore. Old battle injuries if I recall,” Tukson continued, “But they couldn’t just let me quit, since I knew too much about our operations. So I became one of the handlers at Vale instead.”

He glanced over at her and then at his store and then back at her. He grinned.

“You must love books very much.”

“Yeah. I do,” Blake said quietly, curling deeper into the warm blankets, “How can you tell?”

“When I realized what I’d become and wondered what I was going to do from then on, “ he looked up at the ceiling in remembrance, “I went back to Vacuo. Not back to my village, but just stayed in the endless desert, pitching up tents, hunting small game, surviving off cacti…”

He glanced over her and smiled.

“I suppose it’s because when you get lost it’s natural to search for someplace familiar.

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

3. My Answer

They both sat in comfortable silence. Tukson had replaced the blanket on her with another, somewhat apologetic that he didn’t have anything for her to actually dry off with. The teacup in her hands had long been sipped empty.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why a bookstore?” she asked, finally asking the question that she’s been wanting to ask.

Tukson chuckled.

“I guess the bookstore is my answer.”

Blake stared at him in confusion.

“Knowledge... makes you free,” Tukson explained, “It’s harder for people to chain you down when you know that’s not the way it should be. Every time a Faunus comes in and picks up a book – even if it’s as simple as a basic language primer - I know I’ve contributed to our plight.”

He lifted his head, back a bit straighter and smile proud.

“When I see a mother pick up a fairy tale whose lessons are of tolerance and acceptance, I know I’ve made the world a little better.”

“When I see a kid whose eyes are too tired - too old - for their age coming in and asking for a recommendation, I can give them something that shows that the world still has some light in it.”

“None of these things are world-changing on their own, but I can see the good I’m doing. And if I give it a hundred, a thousand, tens of thousands of times, I know that I’ve made Remnant a better place with means I could accept.

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

4. Message

Maybe she’d been charmed by that simple description of Tukson’s occupation because as soon as Tukson finished his passionate monologue, she immediately asked if he was hiring before realizing how absurd she sounded.

Tukson had been kind enough to bring her out of the rain and give her such available advice - not ratting her out to the White Fang was already a big enough favor - and now she was asking to be a further burden on him. But as she was stammering her apologies and thanks and goodbyes, the older man had good-naturedly accepted her request.

“You don’t have to go. I’ve been meaning to get an assistant to run this place actually. I want to go back to Vacuo to see Ma, tell her I’m doing okay so having someone keep an eye on the shop will make things easier.”

After realizing she somehow landed the job that was simultaneously not one she expected to have and the one of her dreams, she had profusely thanked him - told him she’ll meet him bright and early tomorrow morning to report for her job. Just had to quickly find lodging and proper clothes that didn’t make it look like she was going for a fight.

Before she could leave to do these things though, she heard her now employer speak out one more time.

“Before you go, Blake. Just...” Tukson paused before smiling, "your friend’s an idiot with more pride than sense, but he did try to protect you in his own way. At least let him know you’re okay.”

---

That was why she’s now in this cheap studio, mulling over a message she’s read forty, probably fifty, times over. She’d been in the wrong, abandoning her partner - her mentor - behind on the message. The White Fang were a band of brothers and sisters in the end, and she effectively spat on that in her moment of pique.

Maybe Adam didn’t want anything to do with her now.

But Tukson was right.

She should at least let him know that she was okay. That she was sorry. What he’ll do after that, whether it be ignoring her or telling her off, would be up to him.

Nervously, her finger hovered off the send button.

She closed her eyes and pressed down.

Adam. I’m sorry. For not being able to go on. For leaving you behind. In hindsight, I was the one being dramatic. But I just don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I can’t continue on fighting this fight, knowing that I’m taking lives in the name of peace. So I decided not to be part of the White Fang nor become a Huntress. I’ll just find my own way.

I know you hate humans. You showed me part of that reason, so I don’t have the right to tell you what you can’t or shouldn’t do. But I’m afraid for you, Adam. I know all this fighting and bloodshed isn’t you. This isn’t the guy who mentored an idiot kid in the way of the blade all those years ago or patiently listened (with maybe some eyerolling) when she read her stupid fantasy books at you. You’ve always looked out for me, for everyone in the White Fang. You’ve always protected us. You’re a hero, and I don’t want to see you turn the villain.

If you ever need to talk, you can reach me on this scroll. I’ll always care about you.

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

She never received an answer back.

#gorillageek27 #rwby #rwby fic #rwby au #blake belladonna #blake's book trade #adam taurus #tukson #mod lilac #also no there is no adam ship sorry #don't even know if adam is redeemable at this point but hey au

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thatringboy · 3 years ago

Text

The Day Before Halloween - Supernerds

I had some people ask me how Matrix became a superhero so I decided to write out part of his origin story! Also, last name reveals for Oliver and Matty

Word Count: 2,306

Warnings: Blood mention

Matthew Oeste was a superhero, but not a usual one.

He had no flashy powers, striking physique, booming voice, nothing that would make him stand out. He learned from a young age that firewalls on the internet didn’t apply to him. Passwords? Nonexistent. He had the entire digital world at his fingertips and he could control it all with a thought.

Matthew didn’t ever plan on becoming a hero. He kept his head down, helped his parents around their bodega, got good grades and lived a normal life. He refused to cut his hair when it started growing down his back, went to prom with a pretty girl, got a scholarship for a two year degree at a local university and floated through life without many problems. With his powers, Matthew could easily rise to the top of the advertising and marketing world, being able to monitor trends all across the globe at once.

His parents always told him that the hardest part was not changing things. It was a cheesy line that they had stolen from some superhero movie, but Matthew thought about it often. Every time he checked his phone, he could feel his mind wanting to slip within the cyberspace and roam around, so he learned not to. Even if the digital world was usually much more interesting than his real life.

For the most part, Matthew’s life was also superhero-free. Sure, there was the resident team of superhumans that lived in the city, but the young man was never swept up in a battle that flattened city blocks, he didn’t participate in online forums about which hero was the coolest, he didn’t pay attention to which villains got arrested and which escaped prison. For the most part.

There was one incident in his childhood that always popped up in the back of his mind from time to time. He was either nine or ten, it was October 30th, he had just walked home from fourth grade and was thinking about how Mama and Papai had saved up enough money to get him a brand new superhero costume for Halloween. This year, little Matthew was going as “Cyclone”, the resident leader of the city’s heroes who enforced justice with his magnificent wind powers.

He had skipped into the Oeste’s corner shop with such a wide smile, happy to show his parents how well he had drawn himself in his costume. It was a very excellent stick figure, his teacher had said, the best she had ever seen. He was a little worried about telling his parents about how he broke two hair ties during recess, but he had also found two whole dollars on the street that could go towards paying for more. He was a big boy, a freaking fourth grader already! He could pay for his own dang hair ties!

Matthew had waved to the young cashier who’s name he could never remember and immediately went to the backroom so that he could pull out his drawing and get it ready for presentation.

While he worked on smoothing out the paper on the small plastic table he often did his homework on, Matthew heard a noise from the alleyway outside, the only thing separating him from where the dumpsters sat and the bodega’s backroom being a door that was only locked at night. Matthew got up and balled his small fists before stepping over to the door. He had superpowers, he could fight off whatever raccoon or rat was digging around in the trash no problem!

Would you want to fight a fourth grader who could change the tv channel with a thought? I didn’t think so.

Matthew slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open before jumping out of the doorway with the scariest face he could put on.

Sitting on the street, curled up next to the dumpster was a boy only a couple years older than Matthew, unkempt hair falling in his face and arms wrapped around his frail form. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in over a week.

The younger boy dropped the hero act and ran to his side with a worried face. “Hey, are you okay?”

The older boy flinched and tried to scoot away from the child approaching him, but just pressed further into the dumpster. His clothing smelled of sewage and he had a blood stain on his cheek. Whether it was his blood or someone else's, Matthew couldn’t tell.

The younger boy thought for a second before digging the two dollars out of his pocket. “Wait here!”

He ran back inside and slapped the crumpled bills onto the bodega counter. “How much food can I buy with this?”

The teenager working the cash register gave the little boy a smile before pointing to a bag of chips on one of the shelves. “Two bucks can get ya one of those.”

It would have to do. Matthew grabbed the back and ran back to the backroom before locating a towel and wetting it in the backroom’s sink. He jogged back outside to see the older boy hadn’t moved at all, his breathing was slow and labored.

“I got you some chips! I would have gotten you some clothes, but mine are all too small for you. Sorry.” He offered the bag to the starving boy.

The older boy snatched it from Matthew’s fingers and tore it open before shoveling the bbq potato chips into his mouth with such ferocity that Matthew was impressed that he didn’t hurt himself.

As he ate, Matthew got a chance to rub the damp towel across his cheek like his own Mama would when he scraped his skin if he fell. The blood came away and luckily, it wasn’t from a wound. Well, lucky for the boy, not for whoever the blood belonged to.

“I’m Matthew, what’s your name? Do you go to school around here? Do you need my Papai to call your’s?”

The older boy didn’t answer him, opting to dig his fingertips into the chip bag to scoop up the crumbs. As Matthew worked, he ended up shifting the old jacket the older boy wore and noticed that he wore a faded orange uniform underneath it. Printed on his breast pocket was a single word and some numbers that Matthew didn’t understand.

[CHAVEZ #10824006]

“Is your name ‘Chavez’? That’s a funny name, my substitute teacher was named Mr. Chavez today, but you two don’t look alike.” Matthew continued to wipe the blood away. He had watched enough Fast N Furious movies with his parents to know that the uniform belonged to a prison, but why would a little boy be wearing one?

Chavez crumbled up the bag and tossed it aside before slowly getting to his feet, his worn sneakers digging into the pavement. He was over a head taller than Matthew when he stood up straight.

“Thank you.” He whispered to Matthew.

The younger boy opened his mouth to say something, but he heard his mother call his name from inside the bodega.

He spun around and cupped his mouth with his hands. “I’m out here, Mama!”

She appeared in the doorway and looked around the alleyway behind her son. “Meu filho, were you feeding the street animals again?”

“Huh?” Matthew turned around and the older boy was gone, the balled up chip bag discarded on the ground.

Matthew still went trick-or-treating in his new costume after that, but he threw his drawing away and never wore the costume again. For the next week, the little boy had nightmares about the boy named Chavez in the dirty prison uniform, but he could never figure out why. After that day, Matthew stopped paying attention to superhero news, stopped drawing himself as a hero and stopped making up scenarios in his head where he used his powers to throw bad guys in jail. If locking up kids like Chavez was part of the heroing job, then he wanted no part of it.

It wasn’t until he was all grown up, almost twelve full years later, that Matty looked into what happened to Chavez after that fateful meeting behind his bodega.

He was lounging in bed with Oliver after working out together and neither had the energy to do anything else for the day after they had showered. Oliver was reading a book with half of his body laying against Matty’s, his head leaning against the younger’s shoulder like he was a human pillow.

Matty had his phone in one hand and the other was tangled in Oliver’s hair, slowly petting the supervillain like he was a large dog lying on him.

“Hey, Ollie?”

“Hmm?” Oliver shifted so he could turn his head and look at his lover, setting his book down on his chest.

“What’s your last name?”

The supervillain pressed a small kiss to Matty’s jaw. “Why d’ya need to know?”

“You wanted help in finding what tribe you’re from, right? If I plug your family name into a database then the search could be easier.”

“Aight,” Oliver went back to his original position and pulled his book back up. “Chavez, Oliver Chavez.”

A common name, but it was a start. Matty gripped his phone and shut his eyes, his head falling back onto the pillow as he let his mind sink into the small device. He couldn’t actually see anything in this mode, but Matty could visualize a keyboard and a search engine appearing before him.

He didn’t have to move a muscle before his lover’s name appeared in the search bar and his mind dove deeper into the internet. But before he could move to plant the name into an ancestry tracking site, a news article from twelve years ago caught his interest. Matty willed the article forward to read the title.

NATIVE AMERICAN SUPERHUMAN FOUND GUILTY OF CITY-WIDE BLACKOUT & DEATH OF MAYOR

Oliver Chavez, an undocumented superhuman from the Docks District, has been charged with the murder of the late Mayor Murbenks on Tuesday, October 21st.

The image the article used of Oliver Chavez was hidden under several paragraphs describing how a superhuman with electric powers caused a city-wide power outage during when the old mayor was getting his heart operated on. The picture of the superhuman in question showed that Oliver Chavez was a young boy wearing a scared expression on his eerily familiar face.

The memory of the day behind the bodega flooded into Matty’s mind and jerked him back into his body, the feeling of his lover reading on his chest grounding him when his heart beat faster with the rage boiling inside of him.

Not once did the article mention the boy’s age. All the article spoke about was how the boy used his powers to overload the circuits in the power plants and caused power to go out in the entire city. Oliver Chavez was thirteen and all the article spoke about was that he was a Native American who grew up in the foster system and was from a poorer district of the city.

Matty opened his eyes and leaned over to press a kiss to Oliver’s hair, causing the older man to hum softly as he turned the page of his book. “That was quick, what'd ya find?”

“Found out that I was hungry, that’s what. Mind moving, big guy?”

Oliver grunted and groaned as he sat up, his muscles sore from his work out, but happy to let his partner slide out of bed and make his way to the door.

Matty took his time walking to the lair cafeteria and picking up two backs of bbq potato chips before heading back to Oliver’s bedroom and sliding back into his original spot, smiling when Oliver sat back up to let him back in.

The ex-hero dropped one of the bags onto Oliver’s chest and pulled open his own. “There ya go, Chavez.”

Oliver frowned and moved the bag out of his line of sight. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

Matty sighed and popped a chip into his mouth. “Funny, you didn’t ask for anything the first time I gave you some chips either. You just said ‘thank you’ like a polite little boy.”

The supervillain closed his book and set it aside, sitting up and twisting to make a confused face at his lover. “When did this happen? Am I forgetting something?”

The ex-hero snorted and gave his boyfriend a loving smile. “You don’t remember? Day before Halloween, a little over a decade ago, Chavez No.10824006? A little Portuguese kid giving you some food and cleaning you off?”

Matty watched as Oliver clearly raked his mind for the memory and how his eyes slowly widened in realization. “Holy shit, the little fucker in the stupid jacket was you?!”

“Hey, my Mama got me that jacket!” Matty pouted.

He let out a noise as Oliver’s large arms wrapped around him and he felt the weight of his lover fall on his chest. “Damn, I guess you’ve really been saving me since day fucking one.”

Matty hummed and kissed the top of Oliver’s head again with another smile. “I guess I am. But truth be told, your last name is kinda boring.”

Oliver lifted his head up with a cocked eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm, I think you’d do much better with mine instead.”

It took the supervillain a hot minute to run what Matty had said through his brain. When he did, Matty relished in the way his face burned and how he pushed his face into the ex-hero’s chest with a whine. “Matty-y-y-y, you fucking ughmmnm, that was smooth as hell.”

“I know.” He kissed Oliver’s hair again and attempted to pull his arm out of the embrace so he could grab his chips and pop them into his mouth with a satisfying crunch.

#maybe i'll write out how matty met his ex and became a superhero another day #also i'm loving how quickly oliver and matty became domesticated gays who coexist cutely #Oliver's love language is physical touch and Matty's is words of affirmation btw #supernerds #ocs #my ocs #writing #my writing #original writing #original characters

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kn1ghthawk · 4 years ago

Text

Good Dogs and Bad people

He couldn't go home, not back to sanctuary hills, not yet. He was already under the powerlines of the raiders camp and from up on the hill he could see some sort of building surrounding a power line. It was a sign of something being built after the bombs, a sign of life, not death. Picking down the hill assent hard and he soon found himself in a familiar army shuffle for only a few second before he felt something horrible grab him by the chest and made him go down in a tumble into the dirt. He fumbled and punched himself with a stim right in the chest, but it didn't help, it wasn't a wound. It hadn't burned like this since anchorage, hypothermia, the cryotanks. Fuck. Not counting the fucking roaches chewing down to the bone, a skeleton takes about ten years. And however long it took them to grow that big he was on ice for at least a year without people watching for problems after the others left, he only popped out from malfunction. He could have died on ice so some frostbite in the lungs is better than dead. No running until a real doctor gets a look, if there even is one. Finally crawling back to his feet, he walked to the building on the horizon. Just before the farm itself he saw something wonderful, a melon, he hadn't realized how hungry he was until he was already on his knees and bashing it open on the vine. A hand scooped up the pink pulp and crammed it into his face just as he heard the cocking of a gun. “I know they're good, but we don't take kindly to thieves. You damn well better have some caps for helping yourself without asking.” With a hard gulp, he pointed to the bag with his sopping wet hand and stayed looking at the wall of what was becoming obvious to be a ramshackle farmhouse. There was a rustle of fabric and a zipping sound followed by a retching cough. “Goddamn you, you killed... raiders? Wait, those raiders up north a spell? You, did us a favor taking them out. Oh hell, have the melon, on me! Just tell my dad you bought it. Actually, go talk to my dad anyways, he might have another job for you if you don’t mind killing these bastards.” The sound of a metal clicking, but no gunshot, hopefully meant the hammer went down smoothly as a young woman circled around into view. Vic took the peace for the chance to dig back in, making a proper slopping mess of his face as he ate a few good pounds of warm watery mash before sitting back and coming up for air. By then a man named Abernathy came around the corner and a few words were exchanged and Vic was lead through the house to the roof where he could make out an all too familiar satellite dish to the east. He knew Olivia, it was where he was stationed for six months when he came back from overseas, a cushier position as he was being discharged with honnors. He could sit and listen for Chinese broadcasts while they sent the nested boy to the front on rotation. The straight path from here to there had him passing across the red rocket, a place he had just gotten a mechanic job from leaving the army completely. They were happy to get a vet like him on the board for the sweet government bonus. It seemed like a good place to get himself situated on the way to do something dirty. It was one thing to stop the torture of the animal and fighting in self defense, but this wasn't his daughter, this wasn't Nora, this was being a killer for cash. Could he bring himself to do it? Stopping off at the rocket ended up being one of the best decisions he ever made, not only did he find a wonderful dog in need of someone, he managed to clear out the ugliest fucking things he had ever seen. Well ugly cause they looked like crawling tubes of that same blistered blubbery flesh the cow and the guy looked like. They were like some kind of giant rat with two full sets of teeth he did NOT want to let them get too close and clearing out the cave underneath rewarded him in some good but disturbing ways. He took the better part of a whole day clearing out everything from everywhere he had the strength to do so. There was enough of the machine shop and tools left for him to to what he needed to tidy up and tear apart any of the raiders gear and keep what he needed. He had two of the 10 mm pistols, 2 batons, a shotgun, and three homemade guns out of pipe and boards. He took the best parts of the three to make one and the bits he used with the other full ten to improve just one of them. He now had a pitiful rifle and his better ten in a holster on his right leg armor sewn directly into the leather plate.

It reminded him of the lead-lined leather training armor the army used, to get soldiers used to uncomfortable heavy weight and constraints of movement. Real combat armor wasn't as bad as the leathers, but the idea was to make it overly difficult so the real thing seemed so much lighter and maneuverable that the solider benefited more in the field. But as the pip boys Geiger started clicking, he might want some lead lining sooner than later. He didn't even remember when he passed out at the office desk, but the fact he woke up still here helped cement the insanity of the situation. He was going to go kill the bastards who killed a little girl who stood up to them, yes, bastards, children of unmarried mothers, sons of bitches and whores, dehumanize them. They aren't real people, its easier to kill if they aren't real people. * Keeping northeast was easy, passing across concord on the right from the hill, something to sweep back around to later. The closer they got to the dish, he took a moment to stop and pull out the rifle to start with seeing if he could get a better assessment with the scope and maybe drop a few with pot-shots. It ended up not being needed as those same ugly rats were already attacking the few scouts outside. The bad news is they were already alert and fighting, the good news is that it wasn't a human enemy so they were not looking for someone in blue suit taking them out. The one up high was the only one he had to concern himself with as the other apparently threw a grenade too close and took himself out with the ugly beast. He hit her in the leg which managed to make her loose her balance and fell down the stairs, gravity broke her neck for him. He waited a few minutes to see if backup would be coming, but nothing new emerged. Either they didn't hear in the bunker, or explosions were so common that it wasn't warranted. He seriously hoped the former for the sake of people, otherwise, what was the point of living without humanity? Slipping inside it was just like how he remembered it, except for the obvious disarray that seemed to ruin everything without maintenance. The check-in desk was still operational, on a hunch, he tried his old access but was denied, he had to hope for an easy win but that didn't seem to be the plan. He heard voices to the left so he started there, Spotting one through the window with a dog on the walkway. If his dog's prowess proved anything, the dogs were more dangerous than the people who could get a good shot off if the dogs had them busy. So he took a breath to apologize to the canine and took them out with the first shot. While the owner was still sweeping, he shot them in the shoulder and send them back into some rusted railing that gave way to let them fall below. Now they were on full alert which was going to make this a lot more painful. He moved for the bathroom quickly after switching to pistol, knowing only one entrance would limit their choices but rounding the corner put him face-to face with another shotgun. The distance was too far away for effect as they blasted buckshot harmlessly, he returned fire with the more accurate weapon and put three in the chest. Apparently he wasn't the only one with the same idea as someone came running out of the bathroom with a tire iron. Since they were running, he shot them in the leg to make them stagger and let the momentum do his job for him as they crumpled against the wall with a sickening pop against the pipes.

With the sounds of gunfire now obvious from up high, he would have to fall back and try from around and below, perhaps even taking on any few people sent to circle behind his position. His suspicion proved fruitful as his crouched position on the stairs put him right at head level for another raider, the belts holding the cloth hood help keep it a monstrosity as the pistol pops and he moves on, now finally hearing voices of alert. He moved down to the hallways to the locker room and just barely managed to get to cover from the counter top as he saw a barrel of a mini gun bobbing through the doorway. He took a breath and changed his magazine as his pet started to snarl with hackles raised. “Just a fucking dog?” He heard a woman's voice and popped up to empty his fresh set before she could spin up the heavy weapon in defense. As soon as it was spent, he dropped the empty clip and slammed the half spent back in to take on anyone left which happened to be a screaming raider with a rifle he was more focused on using like a spear with the fixed bayonet. The dog leapt, biting into the rifle which added too much weight for him to keep the attack and exposed him to two shots that made him fall next. Fire flashed up Vics side as he took a hit to the hip, spinning him around to see a raider who had come behind him, most likely circling around the generator while he was busy with the other two. He only got one more shot before the gun ran dry. The dog gave him the precious second for Vic to pull out the rifle and fire off a wild shot into the belly, then a second and a third before they fell. He was hit and the dog was hit, but they were both alive. NO more noises, no more shouting or gunfire. Six against one and he felt he was finally finished. He fell back against the counter and took out another stimpack, putting it in near the wound to aid in pushing the round back out and one more for the dog as well, even if it was a bad graze, he didn't want to risk infection. While he tried to catch his breath to let the shock come an go, the dog licking his hand idly before it found a teddy bear to play with. When the bear was flung about, an army helmet came off its chin that banged against the locker that made Vic roll off the counter to hit the deck, only to look up at a panting companion who seemed to wonder what the human found down there. “Bad dog.” Was all he said before getting to his knees and rubbing the dogs ears. He started to do as he had done before, stripping down all the weapons and armor of the raiders while reloading his guns, coming up and down the walkways and remembering how it used to look. The odd thing was not finding the locket on anyone, an easily pocketed keepsake. That lead to going through every drawer in the the desk and cupboard with growing frustration. Had he been sent on a suicide mission or just sent out to kill some random people? It was then that he realized he hadn't checked the fuel storage, which brought him to a door in mid attempt of being picked. This brought him back before it all went to hell, a locked door is how him and nora had met. His dad had been a locksmith that fixed clocks on the side, they often fought about taking up the family business but he still knew how to twist a tumbler. It is what let him open the door for a lovely brunet stuck out in the rain and got his foot in the door for a date. The problem was the screwdriver being used to hold down the barrel was a Phillips and not a flat-head. Opening the toolbox revealed the hidden locket. Mission accomplished, but curiosity had the better of him as he tried his luck to see what was left in the locked room. There was oil on the floor and in the air, not to mention the squelching hiss of not just one of those damn roaches but it was glowing all on its own in the dark. He fired off a pot shot that hit it but sparked the vapor in the air into an intense firestorm for a few seconds as various things hiss, popped and exploded. But from out of the flames came a roach as big as a card table, seeming unfazed by the fire. Panic set in as he fired three, then three more, then the rest and it still closed the distance to bite his ankle. He could feel the cut and the blood filling his boot as he went to the bayoneted rifle leveled at him earlier and stabbed down hard, again and again as it screeched and fluttered, managing to get the blade between the wings with its shell out of the way and split it down the back. Nauseating muck exploded out the back like a boot the size of a Buick had been dropped on it as it lost the ability to move and bled out. Idle twitching was all that was left as he fell back on his ass and took to treating the wound, the boot would work as a shoe for the walk home, but it needed a patch badly, same for the armor that saved him from loosing the foot entirely. He could limp, but he couldn't run, not that he could before coming down here anyways. He used the tire iron to make an L-brace and tied it off with a harness of belts to keep his ankle straight while searching the rest of the room, he found one last solider had locked himself in to wait it all out, but he didn't seem to count on the fumes doing him in. At least they had the whole keyring for opening upstairs.

He looked around and took what he needed before deciding it was time to reunite the family. As a cruel joke, he put the mini-gun on one of the locker doors with all the other weapons and used it as a sled to drag the weapon over hill and dale to the farm. If he was in full health he could have shouldered it, but he really didn't want to put that strain on his ankle until he had time to patch it up proper. He made it back to the rocket and stopped there for the night, unloading the weapons and breaking them down when he noticed something, The rifle he killed the big bug with had a series of scratches carved into its side with what he guessed were names:

Rad: III III III Blood: III Bloat: III III III Sting: I Mire: III On the other side of it carved into the wood was the words “dies bugs die”. Not a motto he could fault really, after his experiences so far with just one kind of ugly-bugly. Still, there was something in the quality of the wood and the way it was kept until now made it noticeably more sturdy so he spent part of the night taking apart all of the previous rifle bits to set up this newest rifle with the greatest pieces so far and a few simple adjustments he was capable of at the moment. It reminded him of his time recovering from his first flash wounds, he had been with his fellows on the front lines when someone from the treeline hurled a core into the encampment and someone shot it in midair. He only had time to assume the fetal position behind a steel shipping crate. The fission fire gave him third degrees across the side of his face and all of his right arm that had the nylon fibers melted onto his skin like napalm met a candle wax. While he was in recovery, he had optioned to use his recovery time to get schooled and make himself a better mechanic before being redeployed. He ended up in something of a M.A.S.H. Meets motor pool. As a first degree mechanic, it was his job to run 10 feet behind the real commandos in armored infantry and fix them if they fell, swapping out one limb set for another if it got damaged or destroyed. He even rigged a few high powered magnets to his own chassis to magnetize the frame so his tools stuck on the surface in easy reach. Any parts broken or bent he would ship back behind the front lines and request a new one. Now he is where all those parts went to, the limbs and bits would arrive in a truckload, they would spend hours knocking the pieces back into serviceable repair and ship them back out again to whoever made the requisition for new pieces. Not every part made it back to its first owner or battalion. But if the stars aligned, he would take any custom paint or tucked in photos and put it in the order going back out that way to try and get any sort of lucky charm where it needed to be. If there were no power armor bits to work on, laughable as that was, he would lend a hand to the gun nuts. Mostly the work was to strip broken modules down to base bits and fill crates with small mods like stocks or scopes for the soldiers to fit for themselves. It was good work that let him learn more practical applications and effective recycling that he got to use now of all places to pick apart old broken boards with bars belted to it into something far more effective. * He got some good rest and in the night the Shepard even brought him a second tire iron to make a splint on both sides of the repaired boot. He still needed a doc for the limp, but he would walk for the day. On the way back to the farm, he found out what blood and bloat stood for on the rifle. Clearly the mosquitoes the size of motorcycles and the fat flies that squirted wiggling thorny maggots were not going to be the other bugs he would meet. He made it to the farm just before sunset with the good news that the day ended with justice done. Now he had, maybe not friends yet, but people who knew him for a good deed. He gave over the raider leaders heavy weapon to the father so he could defend their farm more easily, just leveling that cannon would make the next raider think twice. The mother was willing to trade some things and explained to him the caps system this new world used. Since they all had a set number of crimps and were no longer being made, it gave the idea of a limited number of hard to reproduce items. If the paint was too damaged or a hole shot through one or cut in half, they were made worthless by anyone else. Everyone was mostly back to the barter system more than carrying bags of lightweight caps or coins. “Well what do you do with any of the old paper money in registers or on dead people?” “Same thing you would do with a good piece of cotton: Save it for the outhouse and wash it off for next time.”

#fallout 4

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reddielibrary · 6 years ago

Text

Riding Lynda Carter

Prompt: young eddie falling over and breaking his leg in the barrens and richie has to find a way to get him out and to a doctor

Written by: Alexis | @quixoticquest

Word Count: 4288

*click title to read on AO3

For the last twenty years since he had moved away from Derry, Richie had left a majority of his childhood crap at his folks’ place. There wasn’t any real purpose for it in LA. But recently he had an encounter with his past again, and the people in it. Now just seemed like as good a time as any to revisit those old keepsakes, go through what he wanted to donate, or keep.

Keep in preparation for moving in with his boyfriend, that is.

“Yikes, this inflatable pool has got to go,” Eddie stated, gripping the great rubber monstrosity with both hands, shielded by yellow gloves.

“Aw, why?” Richie whined, for no other reason than it was fun to be contrary. “That’ll make a great centerpiece for our dining room table. Just gotta find one big enough.”

Eddie trashed the pool, eyeing his boyfriend the whole way into the black garbage bag. Richie just smiled and carried on flipping through a box of pictures from some party or another.

“Hey, what’s this?” There were only so many things that Richie expected to find in his parents’ garage besides his dad’s tools and rat poop. Imagine his surprise when Eddie dragged a big hunk of old wood out from behind Went’s workbench. A set of rusty, crusted runners hooked under the cobweb covered slab, which meant it could only be one thing.

“Oh, shit. That.” Richie rushed over, tripping over Eddie’s trash bag as he yanked the old sled away from him (and boy was it heavy!). “This we can burn. I mean there’s no way to throw it away responsibly and with global warming running rampant it won’t serve any purpose if we donate it.”

“Wait, I remember this.” Eddie gasped, eyes flashing brighter than Richie expected anyone else pushing forty. “Your Flexible Flyer, from ‘87. I can’t believe you didn’t take better care if it. Don’t you remember, Richie? Oh my gosh.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Richie grumbled, staring ruefully at the dreaded sled. That was one memory he wished not to keep.

***

Patience was not a virtue Richie Tozier possessed, but today, he was actually giving it the old college try. Watching Mrs. Kaspbrak fret and dote over her nylon-clad son, pulling buttons and zippers and strings until he looked like a bright red Michelin Man, was its own kind of torture. Richie couldn’t groan, couldn’t sigh. He couldn’t even laugh when Mrs. K asked if Eddie had remembered his thermal underwear (though he would definitely tell Bill and Stanley later).

One wrong move, and he’d be sent off without Eddie for the rest of the day - maybe the rest of winter break. Who knew when Derry was going to get another perfect eight inches of tantalizing snow again? Probably on a school day in February for the jerk principal to keep class in session.

“I want you back before it gets too dark, you hear me?” Mrs. K commanded, while Richie struggled not to fidget in the doorway. And here he thought he could avoid all this consternation if his mom called and asked the night before. Like they were six and still needed to schedule playdates.

Eddie nodded, with a good deal of swishy noises between the hat, earmuffs, hood, and scarf all competing to swallow up his face.

After a drawn out goodbye session full of wet cheek kisses and smeared lipstick stains, they were off, stepping through the snowtracks Richie had already made on his way to the door.

“You don’t have to pee, do you?” he asked Eddie, when they were out of earshot. “I dunno if I can wait any longer if you do. You might have to take one for the team and shove a bottle up your pants.”

Eddie made a noise that sounded like a lot of hot air against wool, his mouth muffled by his scarf.

“Pardon?” Richie asked, cheesing.

Eddie growled, shoved his scarf down, and ripped off his hood. “I said shut up, Richie,” he snapped, wiping his mother’s lipstick off his cold-nipped cheeks.

Walking was a lot faster when they reached the street, where the snow had been scraped away the night before in preparation for what the perky blonde weather lady on channel five was calling the biggest snowfall of the season. It certainly seemed to be true, with the fluffy white stuff climbing up Richie’s legs to chill his shins. Perfect weather for playing (so long as Eddie’s mom decided to be reasonable).

“Check it out,” Richie gushed, shuffling backward to pull his brand spanking new Flexible Flyer out from the bushes where he had tucked it away. Had to hide it before he got to the Kaspbraks’. No way Mrs. K would let Eddie participate in any winter activity more strenuous than a snow angel, if she knew about it.

“Wow,” Eddie exclaimed, all bright-eyed excitement as he bent toward the sled to glide his mittens over the red runners and smooth, finished wood. “This is so awesome, Richie! Is it the newest model?”

“Yeah, Santa really pimped me out this year.” Richie grinned smugly from behind his glasses, and crossed his arms - best he was able in his stiff, puffy snow jacket.

“Did you name it?”

“Her , Eds, her. You know what Bill says. And yes, I did. Wanna know what?”

“Well, that’s kind of why I asked, stupid.”

“Her name is Lynda Carter,” Richie proclaimed, patting the flat seat of the Flexible Flyer with his gloved hand, “because she’s fast, and strong, and the minute I saw her I knew I wanted to ride her all day long.”

Eddie must not have been a fan of Wonder Woman, because he levelled a dry glare at Richie. “Gross.”

“Get your own sled if you don’t like it, Eds.”

“I can’t!”

Eager to put Eddie’s house far behind them, Richie grabbed the rope on Lynda Carter and started off on their winter trek, Eddie in tow. The number one spot for sledding in Derry was behind the library, where the slope was flat and steep and teeming with every stupid idiot from school, pushing into one another and taking forever to get back up to slide down again. With that many people, the snow was bound to get worn through too.

“The library’s in the other direction, Richie,” Eddie pointed out, shuffling along behind Lynda.

“I know,” Richie chirped. Their walk was pretty slow-going, but there wasn’t much he could do dragging a sled with almost a foot of snow on the ground.

Eddie made a flabbergasted noise that sounded like his voice had been caught in the back of his throat. “Then where are we going?”

“You’ll see!”

It didn’t take very long to see. Richie was still trying to master the art of anticipation, but one thing he did know was that if he told Eddie where they were headed, he ran the risk of derailing his whole operation. Sometimes Eddie could be just as persnickety as his own mother.

In no time, toes chilled through boots and two layers of socks, they arrived at the road up to the Kissing Bridge. Richie waited like a good little boy for a car to pass before he crossed the street, but Eddie yanked him back by his collar and nearly choked the life out of him.

“The Barrens?” Eddie demanded, while Richie lamented (not even a hundred feet away from their glorious destination!). “You wanna sled in the Barrens? It’s all trees, Richie. You’ll break your sled.”

“Lynda,” Richie whined. “And I can steer clear of trees! Don’t you have any faith in me, Eds?”

When Eddie stared him down silently for too long, Richie waved his arms and relented.

“Okay fine, we can go to the dumb old library.”

“Good,” Eddie stated, grinding his heel into the snow to turn around.

“Where everyone else is gonna be,” Richie went on.

“Probably!”

“Bumping into each other, hogging the slope.”

“Oh well!”

“Waiting like sitting ducks for when Henry and his chuckleheads come and ruin everything.”

All Eddie’s forward momentum ceased. Bingo.

“I think we could take ‘em though,” Richie went on, patting his scrawny bicep through his coat. “A little fisticuffs never hurt nobody - well, just so long as you can dodge some punches, otherwise your mom’s gonna have a hissy-”

“Just cross the street already!” Eddie shoved both hands into Richie’s back, and he grinned triumphantly toward the heavens as they headed to the Barrens.

The slanted plane of land leading down into the trees was a lot steeper than Richie remembered from the summer. Maybe it evened out toward the bottom, he wondered. Not all the snow would stick to the top of the slope, and fell to the end of it, to create a bigger cushion, all because of gravity. That was just basic physics, after all.

“How ‘bout here?” Richie asked, stopping after they’d walked on for a few minutes. “Looks pretty clear to me.”

“Richie, there’s like seven trees all down that direction,” Eddie said, motioning toward the pristine blanket of snow laid before them - or it would have been pristine, if not for the spindly trunks shooting into the sky.

“Uh, I count five,” Richie retorted, hauling Lynda over the bridge barrier. “And I told you, I can steer past them. All I have to do is lean a little. It’s barely steering.”

If Eddie meant to say something back, he floundered, helpless while Richie went about settling Lynda where she wouldn’t slip too soon, and mounting with the rope in his hand. When Eddie didn’t come sit his stupid butt down immediately after, Richie waved him over.

“I don’t know about this, Richie.”

“Come on, Eds! What are you, a pussy?”

Eddie’s eyes flared indignantly. Richie was doing a damn good job with his kicks in the right direction today.

“I am not a pussy.” Eddie dropped onto Lynda with a creak of wood.

“You can put your arms around my waist if you want,” Richie gushed.

“Just shut up and push off!”

Richie did just that. Lynda and her load slid through the snow with amazing agility, gaining speed as the incline disappeared behind them. Richie yanked on the string and wrenched his body around the thick trees scattered across the hillside, usually in the nick of time, to the tune of Eddie’s shrieking. Richie matched him in volume, only he was laughing instead.

They came to a gradual stop at the bottom of the slope, grinding into the snow-covered field that banked off into the stream where the sewers emptied out. A couple more feet and they might have been skidding across the frozen, rocky water.

Red-faced and panting, mostly from shouting their lungs out, the two of them climbed off Lynda, just a little eager for a surface that didn’t move and rumble beneath them. Richie grabbed onto the rope again, while his stomach let loose their butterflies, and his joints relaxed from being clenched so hard.

“See? That wasn’t so bad!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air.

Eddie wasn’t hyperventilating, or curled up on his side in the snow - a good sign. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, while Richie did his best to look mock offended. “You steered alright, Richie. If we do it from that spot every time we should be good.”

“See? And you doubted me.” More smug than he deserved to be, Richie slung an arm around Eddie’s neck, nearly tripping him. They hauled Lynda back up the slope, and did it all over again.

“Should we have a philosophical debate, like Calvin and Hobbes?” Richie called over his shoulder as they tipped off their starting point.

“I dunno if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters,” Eddie went on as they whizzed through the trees, “what do you know about philosophy?”

“Lots!”

“Well I don’t.”

“Then I’ll teach you, and that’ll be the debate.”

“Second, you don’t want to be like Calvin and Hobbes when they sled, Richie. You know at the end of every comic, Calvin and Hobbes start arguing, fly through the air and-”

A thick crack sent the Flexible Flyer - well, flying - arcing over a shallow rock ledge Richie had managed to avoided before. The two of them lost their grip far too easily, airborne for a half a second that felt so much longer. Long enough for Richie to register his dad would kill him if he broke Lynda.

The impact threw him flat into the snow, harsh and hard, the icy powder biting into his face as his frames dug into his skin. The wind got knocked out of Richie for a moment, and he squirmed, choking, until there was air in his lungs again, and he could sit up without dying.

If it wasn’t Lynda, then he was definitely toast for his specs, he decided, when he pulled them off his face to find thin cracks splintering the glass. Richie whined, more bummed out than sore, really, and lumbered to his feet to survey the damage on his beloved sled.

“Ow ow ow.”

Pausing in his literal tracks, Reddie shuffled in the snow to find Eddie hunched over in on himself. He was breathing hard, tilting back, and forth.

“Asthma?” Richie asked, wide-eyed as a new panic set in.

Eddie shook his head, eyes screwed shut. “I landed funny on a tree root. Over there. I think I sprained my knee.”

“Lemme see.” Richie knelt down beside him, hovering hesitantly. Eventually he worked up the nerve to grab Eddie’s leg with his gloved hand - only to reel back, when Eddie howled louder than he’d ever heard before.

“That hurts!” Eddie snapped, tears dotted along his eyelashes.

“Holy shit,” Richie breathed, wary. “For real, Eds?”

“You think I’m making it up?”

“Well you’ve freaked out about smaller stuff!”

“I’m freaking out because it hurts so bad!” Eddie swore, mouth twisting up on itself as he fingered his knee. He whimpered, a small, scared sound. Richie had never heard anything like it before.

“Maybe we should take you to the doctor,” he said, forcing a single logical thought into his head.

“No!” Eddie’s head flew up, eyes wide. “No, I hate the doctor. They’re just going to call my mom and she’s gonna pitch a fit, and I won’t be able to hang out with you guys ever again! If we go to the pharmacy we can get stuff to make a splint. I can hide it under my pants and pretend I fell at home, later.”

“I don’t have any money, though!”

“Neither do I!”

“Then why would you suggest the pharmacy?!”

Richie thought long and hard, jarred by every pained noise that left Eddie’s mouth. No Mrs. K, no doctor, no pharmacy. Where the hell were they supposed to go?

A new idea dawned on Richie, and he gasped. “Wait, we could go to my parents’ house. They know how shitty your mom is, they’ll know what to do.”

Eddie stared at Richie, suspicion written across his distraught face. “You think so?”

“Yeah, my dad could probably figure something out. He’s a doctor.”

“He’s a dentist, Richie.”

“Everyone’s a critic, ain’t they?” Glancing around, Richie eventually spotted Lynda through his broken glasses, and went to retrieve her where she had capsized. Wasn’t broken, thankfully - but that was the least of his worries.

“I can pull you out on the sled,” he explained, situating her rightside up, before returning to Eddie, beckoning with his hands. “Come on. You can prop your leg up.” The nerves must have been getting to Richie, because he finished off with his best cowboy. “Don’t you worry, little lady, doc’s gon’ be ‘round to patch you up real soon.”

Eddie stared glumly, only to wince and his as he moved to get on the sled a second later. Richie’s guiding arms could only help so much. Each noise was like hot and cold, in regard to how much pain was being inflicted. A small breath was cold, and screaming OW OW OW was hot hot hot.

They eventually got Eddie set up with his leg propped in front of him, the other tucked under his butt. Like that, there wasn’t any room for Richie, but he had to pull anyway.

“Hold on tight,” he chirped, heaving the flimsy rope to drag Eddie, and Lynda, out of the Barrens.

There was no reasonable way to leave the way they came, which meant they had to take the long way out, following the more gradual incline of the land, past the sewer. Hauling over snow-laden grasses, rumbling across stones embedded in the ground, Richie really put his arms to work. He thought just Lynda had been bad - add a hundred pounds of injured pipsqueak, and it was downright torture. His knuckles ached in their grip, and the muscles in his arms seared. But hey - at least his knees were in tip-top shape.

“What did I tell you?” he mentioned at some point, huffing for breath as his heart worked itself into a tizzy behind his ribcage. Now that D in gym class made perfect sense. “We didn’t hit a tree, did we?”

Eddie’s pained groan was answer enough. Eventually they got themselves up and out of the Barrens, back into Derry proper, where the path was even and flat. Still, there was a whole neighborhood to traverse before they reached Richie’s house.

“You gotta admit, it was pretty fun, right Eds?” Richie asked hopefully. The silence behind him was deafening. All he could ever hope for, at any point in his life, was a reaction. Struggled noises didn’t really fit the bill. “And someday, we’ll laugh about this. How you hurt your knee riding Lynda Carter.”

“I’m not laughing about it now,” Eddie grit out.

“Well, we could laugh about something else.”

“No jokes. My stomach hurts.”

“Jeez, your knee hurts, your stomach hurts, there’s always something with you, isn’t there?”

Wondering, maybe for the first time, if he had gone to far, Richie decided he was better off shutting up - also for the first time.

They finally came upon the Tozier house, and Richie picked up the pace for the home stretch, boots grinding into the asphalt road as he hauled ass to his own front lawn. He went up the driveway, and “parked” Lynda in the yard (which Mom had said not to do, but desperate times and all that). Eddie grunted and grimaced all the way up, even with Richie taking one arm over his shoulder and his own hand around Eddie’s waist, so he could limp his way to the front door.

Before they could even make an attempt at the porch steps, though, the door flew open. Richie’s mom stood there in her thick Christmas sweater, a rag from some abandoned chore in her hand.

It didn’t take much to assess the situation, with Eddie propped up on Richie, his leg suspended in front of him.

“Richard, what did you do?”

“Eddie hurt his leg!” It’s not my fault rose to the tip of Richie’s tongue, but he swallowed it back. He wasn’t a hundred percent on that statement yet. He was pretty sure the anxious feeling rattling around in his skull was some form of guilt anyway.

Mrs. Tozier helped Eddie inside, over to the couch in the parlor no one was supposed to go in unless guests were over. Without any hesitation, with what Richie could only call Mom Mode fully activated, she took his boots off and rolled the leg of his snow pants up as gingerly and carefully as possible.

Richie’s eyes flared wide, his pulse picking up at the sight of the bulbous purple bruise spread across Eddie’s knee. He flicked his gaze into the corner of the room, where everything was much less grotesque.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Tozier murmured, trying not to touch Eddie’s knee too much. The red spread across his freckled face had little to do with the snow now, Richie figured, but Eddie set his jaw all the same.

“I think it’s broken. We’ll have to call your mom, Eddie. She can drive you to the hospital.”

“What? No!” Richie and Eddie said - almost in unison.

Mrs. Tozier gave each of them a look (the one for her son slightly more scathing). “We can’t do anything here, Richie. Eddie, you need a doctor. You need to get an X-ray, and probably some kind of cast.”

“Then what if we take him to the doctor?” Richie asked.

“They would still have to call Mrs. Kasprak,” his mom answered, almost exasperated. “And we don’t need to be at the hospital right now. I’m sorry, Richie. Eddie is his mother’s responsibility, not ours.”

She moved to leave, only for Richie to fling himself at her, clutching around her waist.

“You can’t do that, Mom! Mrs. K is gonna ruin his life! He’s going to be stuck with her big fat ass all winter break and not be allowed to leave the house!”

“Richard! Language!”

“It’s fine, Richie.”

Who would have thought it would be Eddie to stop the commotion. Richie paused, still latched onto his mom like a baby koala.

He expected Eddie to look so small and sad from the couch, what with the latest turn of events, but the opposite was true. He sat up, leg out, expression hard. If his knee weren’t busted, Richie thought he might shoot up and march right over.

“I gotta go to the doctor with my mom, that’s all there is too it.” Eddie huffed, fingers fiddling in his lap. “We tried, but if my leg is broken then I can’t really hide it. Thanks for getting me out of the Barrens, though. You really helped me out there.”

“The Barrens?” Mrs. Tozier demanded. “You brought your sled to the Barrens? What’s wrong with you, look what happened! Not to mention how much we paid for it, not for you to go crashing into things!”

“It was my idea, Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie chimed in, lying as easily as he would to his own mother. “I told Richie we should go play in the Barrens. It’s always so crowded behind the library. I thought it would be more fun.”

Richie stared at Eddie in disbelief. Eddie stared back, confident, despite the pain that twitched on his face.

Behind them, Mrs. Tozier sighed. “We’ll talk about this later, Richie. Right now, I’m going to call Eddie’s mom.”

She slipped right out of his grasp, striding away, into the kitchen. Richie stood there defeated. He hadn’t felt sorrier in his entire life.

Mrs. Kaspbrak came soon enough, spittle flying as she shrieked. Not just at Richie, but at his mom, as Eddie waited by, face turned away. She took him away, far away, to the hospital - and after that, home. His piss poor excuse for a home, where he stayed until school was back in session. Richie got grounded for playing in the Barrens for about the same amount of time.

He never rode Lynda Carter again.

***

“I felt so fucking betrayed by my mom that day,” Richie explained, shaking his head, laughing when the memory took a somber turn he had not been prepared for. “I couldn’t believe she did that. But I guess, in the end, I sorta betrayed you more, huh?”

“What?” Eddie asked, face twisting up.

“I delivered you into the hands of the enemy! I told you you wouldn’t have to go to the doctor or your mom and look what I did. I was a real snot-nosed brat.” Richie stared at the sled - Lynda - accusingly. As if she had made the decision to go play in a dangerous place.

Suddenly, Richie’s gaze was jarred by Eddie’s hands, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Don’t be stupid, Rich. We were kids.” His gaze turned a little soft. “I broke my knee, we couldn’t just avoid the hospital, as much as we wanted to back then. It was a mistake, yeah, and definitely your fault-”

“Thanks,” Richie said, voice muffled by the squish of his cheeks as he stooped down in front of Eddie.

“But I still agreed to it. And I turned out okay.”

“But your mom. I just wish there was something me or my parents could have done-”

“There wasn’t.” Eddie shook his head. “We were kids, we were at the mercy of everything. We didn’t have control over anything except where we went to fucking sled. And I was my mom’s responsibility, even if she was shitty about it. Not yours, or your moms.”

“Funny,” Richie mumbled. “My mom said something like that, I think.”

“Probably because she was an adult for way longer than you.”

“You callin’ my mama old?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, and tilted forward. Their lips met, easing Richie’s troubled mind. His boyfriend was right, anyway - there was little they could have done back then. You couldn’t exactly call CPS on a mom keeping her son home about his broken leg.

“Besides,” Eddie said when they parted. “Mom’s in a retirement community, and it’s just you and me, now. Together forever.”

Richie gasped, delighted. “You’re right! That means you’re my responsibility.”

Eddie frowned. “That’s not what I-”

“Worry not!” Setting Lynda down, Richie clutched his arms around Eddie and swooped him into a dip, his boyfriend yelling all the while. “I will protect you with my life, fair sir! The evil, wretched, corpulent Sonia-beast can never touch us again!”

Richie pulled Eddie in for a sweet, enveloping kiss, the annoyed noises eventually dying down until there was nothing but soft lips, and an eased conscience.

Hell. Maybe one day, Lynda Carter would ride again.

#reddie #reddielibrary #writing team #prompt fill #quixoticquest

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loribabz865 · 7 years ago

Text

Sideways

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*A Caryl story.

By: LJ Michaels

(Written during season 8a)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The black SUV rolled to a stop, closely followed by the Buick sedan. In the SUV, Daryl glanced at Carol and she shrugged. They had been told the area near the Target store was overrun with walkers, but there weren’t any in sight. Garbage and loose paper drifted on the breeze as they stepped out of the SUV, weapons ready.

Daryl caught Aaron’s eye and nodded. He and Michonne stepped out, readying their weapons as well. The group looked around carefully, but still nothing moved. Rick had wanted to be part of the run, but Judith had come down with a cold. Aaron had volunteered to take his place.

They waited a moment, knowing it sometimes took walkers a while to respond. The stillness made Daryl uneasy in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. No one spoke, but they all turned toward the boxy brick building. It could be a bonanza for the communities, or it could be empty save rats and cockroaches.

Daryl spoke first. “We’ll go ‘round the left, you two take the right.”

“Any trouble, just whistle,” Michonne added.

Carol felt Daryl’s uneasiness as they moved down the front of the building. Softly, she asked, “What is it?”

He shook his head, looking for anything out of place. “Dunno…seems off.”

“It does,” Carol replied, “Maybe we should….”

About halfway to the corner, they heard a pained shout. Michonne. Daryl turned and bolted, Carol following closely. Rounding the other side of the store, they found walkers corralled behind a flimsy fence that was collapsing - fast. Aaron was struggling with Michonne as the walkers began to surge toward them over the sagging fence. Daryl ran to help Aaron with Michonne, who was bloodied but semi-conscious.

“What happened?” Daryl growled.

Aaron shook his head, looking bewildered. “I-I don’t know, a…a trap, I think.” He paused to get a better grip on Michonne. “She stepped on a piece of wood, it snapped, and the fence…”

Michonne groaned, “Broke. Flipped and….hit my…head….” She sagged between them.

Carol stepped behind the three of them, taking out the closest walkers. Aaron and Daryl half-ran to the vehicles, supporting Michonne between them. They reached the SUV and got her into the back. Aaron got in and started the vehicle as Daryl ran back to help Carol.

As he reached the corner of the building again, Daryl realized he hadn’t heard any shots for several seconds. He nearly collided with a wall of walkers - but no Carol. Terror tore at his heart, but he turned away and ran back to the SUV.

“GO!” he shouted as he jumped in next to Michonne.

“What about Carol?” Aaron floored the engine as he swung around.

“Didn’t see her,” Daryl replied, “We’ll have to come back.”

Aaron tried to catch Daryl’s eye, but he was tending to Michonne’s wound. “Daryl…are you sure…”

“Yes!” he snarled, then quieted for a moment. Softly he said, “Would’ve seen if they’d taken her down.”

“Okay,” Aaron nodded, “We will be back.”

“Damn right we will.”

Michonne opened one eye to glance at Daryl. “Damn right.” She drifted away again.

*************************

With Michonne in the infirmary, Daryl went to his room to throw a few days’ worth of supplies into his pack. ‘Throwing’ being the operative word. He was furious with himself, and sick they’d had to leave Carol behind. He didn’t know what he’d do if anything hap….but that thought stayed unfinished. No time for that now. He hoped Carol might be able get away with the sedan they’d left.

As Rick entered the room, he caught Daryl muttering under his breath. Daryl had not said a word as he flew into the house and up the stairs, ignoring Rick’s questions. “What happened?”

Daryl turned and his intense glare took Rick by surprise, making him fall back a step.

“Tell me!”

“It was a trap,” he growled, turning back to his pack. “Probably the goddamn Saviors.” He threw a couple of t-shirts into the mess he’d started. Pausing for a moment, not wanting to say Carol‘s name out loud. “She…we had to leave her...” Daryl’s voice shook on the last word.

Calmly, Rick asked again, “Tell me what happened.”

Daryl sighed shakily, and told the story as simply as possible, zipping the pack as he finished. “I’m going back with Aaron. Now.”

Rick shook his head. “No, with me.”

Daryl looked at him in surprise. “What about Lil’ Asskicker? And Michonne?”

Rick shook his head, “Judith’s fever’s gone done and Carl’s been able to handle her. Michonne just needs rest. She wants me to go.”

“Okay. Ready in ten?”

“Yeah.” Rick turned and headed to his room.

Daryl went down the stairs to the SUV and tossed his pack in. He ran to Aaron’s house as Aaron stepped into to the garage, duffle bag in hand.

“Rick’s coming with me. You can stay.”

Aaron sighed, his eyes growing wet. “You sure? I can still…”

Daryl shook his head, “We got it.” He turned to leave. “Keep an eye on Michonne and the kids.”

“I will. We will.” Aaron went back inside to inform a grateful Eric that he’d be staying.

**********************

Carol

As the walkers closed in on her, Carol nearly fell into a gap next to an old door lying on the ground. She took stock and realized the door was on a hidden metal track. Sliding it open further, she saw a short ladder, but the hole was less than five feet deep. She tossed the rifle in and jumped down, standing right away to slide the door closed.

In the near-dark, waiting for the walkers to clear was as frightened as Carol had been since everything started. She nodded to herself in the gloom. Yes, everything. She checked the rifle, but is was jammed and useless. She hated the dark. The shuffling and snarling overhead went on for what seemed like hours, but the sliding door did not give her away. She was lucky it had been partially open when she’d needed to hide.

Carol had no idea how much time passed, but incredibly, she found herself dozing off. It was dark, she was tired, and she let herself sleep. When she woke, shivering, Carol waited and listened for a long while, huddled into a ball in the corner of the hole. It was silent above her. Leaving the rifle behind, she climbed out and headed to the sedan. She had heard Daryl shouting, and knew they would be back for her, but sitting and waiting was not an option. Whoever set the trap could be back any time to check on it. She got into the sedan, but it only made a grinding noise that would probably bring the walkers back.

Giving up on the car, Carol took a few steps toward the highway and nearly kicked a .45 on the ground. She recognized it as the one Daryl had been carrying. Carol picked it up and turned it over in her hands, feeling tears prick at her eyes. How the hell had things gone bad so fast? She found the gun was loaded, so she tucked it into her belt and kept going.

***

Carol woke during the night next to a campfire, confused and groggy. She didn’t remember starting a fire, or…a man was sitting across from her. He watched her for a moment, and then smiled slowly.

“You’re awake.” His voice was smooth and pleasant in contrast to his rough, long-bearded appearance.

Carol scrambled to sitting position and immediately regretted it. Her head gave a sickening throb, and she reached up to feel a rough bandage above her ear. Wincing in pain, she gave the man an accusing look.

“Wasn’t me,” he said, raising his hands. “Found ya like that.”

“Where?”

He grinned again. “So ya can talk.”

“Of course,” Carol frowned at him. “Well?”

The man shrugged. “Ya had geeks all around so I put ’em down and got us the hell out of there.”

Carol shifted slowly, mindful of her painful wound. Squeezing her eyes closed, she thought hard…and remembered walking away from the Target toward the highway. Then… nothing. It had been getting dark, and she was considering staying in one of the houses near the road. She looked up at the man. “Was I near the highway?”

“Yep, on someone’s lawn, actually.” He yawned and ran a hand down his face. “Saw you running from them and then you fell and hit yer head.”

Carol shook her head carefully. “I don’t remember running…or falling.”

“Not surprised,” the man said, gesturing to her bandage. “Took quite a hit.”

Reaching up to the bandage again, Carol sighed. “I…I’m Carol.”

He nodded briefly. “Ed.”

Carol looked at him sharply.

“What?”

“Nothing. Used to be married to an Ed.”

Ed nodded. “Well, since you seem okay, I’m gonna get some sleep.” He began to settle into his blanket. “Your gun is behind ya, so don’t worry. Won’t try nothin’ with ya.”

Carol checked and found the .45, still loaded. She slid back down slowly, tucking the gun close to her side.

In the morning, Carol found she could barely stand without feeling nauseated and dizzy. Ed saw how unsteady she was, and helped her get to a spot in the woods to relieve herself. He moved away to give her privacy.

Back at the campsite, Ed gave Carol a bowl of a thin gruel that had very little flavor. “Just some watered-down grits.”

Carol nodded and ate it slowly, feeling a little stronger as she went. “Thank you.”

**************************

Daryl

Daryl was mostly silent on the drive back to the store, answering Rick’s questions with grunts or nods. Rick gave up and left him alone to drive. A few miles from the store, they began seeing walkers staggering in the streets.

Finally, Daryl spoke, “Make some noise like we planned?”

Rick nodded. “Yeah. Probably the best thing.”

Daryl honked the horn, giving it a good long blast, and put the SUV into reverse. He revved the engine loudly, turning to look behind as he backed down the street. Rick watched the walkers turn slowly in their direction, the deep instinct to follow sound kicking in.

“Gonna swing around now,” Daryl said. “How far out?”

“At least….ten miles?”

“Alright.”

***

Back at the Target store, Daryl took point with Rick close behind, both of them watching for signs of Carol, her rifle, anything. The walkers had cleared out, but they kept an eye out for possible stragglers. They had peered into the windows at the front of the building, and it seemed intact. The supplies would wait.

“Anything?” Rick asked.

“No, too many walkers.” Daryl was intently scanning the trampled grass.

“I’m going to call her, okay? Just once.”

“M’kay,” Daryl replied, not looking up.

“Carol?” Rick said in a low, carrying tone. “You here?”

Pausing, Daryl then looked around at the tall weeds next to the building, hoping against hope Carol would just…pop up. But she didn’t. Only silence greeted Rick’s call. Disappointed, he resumed searching. At least he had not found any blood or her weapon. He believed any sign would be in the area where they stood.

Rick moved closer to the building, and his boot struck something that made a hollow sound. He looked down and spotted what looked like an old stable door lying in the grass.

Daryl was immediately at his side. Glancing at Rick, they reached down and tugged on the side. The door didn’t budge. Daryl ran his hands over the weathered wood, seeking a latch or a hinge, pushing lightly on the edge….and the door slid sideways a few inches.

Rick put his hand on Daryl’s shoulder and shook his head. “Trap,” he mouthed to Daryl, and they backed off. Each of them went to one end of the door, getting their weapons ready. Once in place, Rick nodded and they slid the door wide, aiming into the hole.

When nothing emerged after a few seconds, Daryl leaned forward for a quick look, but saw nothing. Rick leaned forward slowly, and took a longer look with Daryl. A short ladder led down to the bottom of the hole, where they saw a rifle in the dirt.

Rick looked at Daryl. “Was that hers?”

Daryl nodded. “Least we know she made it out.”

“Yeah….yes,” Rick looked up and glanced toward the far end of the building. “Let’s go around. See if we see anything. I’ll get the rifle.”

With Daryl leading and watching the ground, they made their way around the store. Rick scanned for signs of any walkers - or anything else - approaching. There was nothing.

Reaching the SUV, Daryl rested his hand on the hood, thinking. “Rick, I think you should go back.”

“No, Daryl…I can’t leave…”

“You need to get back. For your family.”

Rick sighed. “You are my family.”

Daryl sighed and ran his hand though his hair. “Michonne’s hurt….Judith and Carl need you.”

“Let‘s look until dark.”

Daryl wouldn’t meet his eyes. “My fault she’s out here.”

“Don’t do that to yourself, ” Rick pleaded. “Every time we go out, any of us, we know the risks.”

Daryl shook his head. “I knew something was off. Carol…” He swallowed hard. “She felt it, too.”

Rick put his hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

Glancing up, Daryl held Rick’s eyes for a moment. There was no doubt Daryl would rather die than leave right now. “I’ll help you until tomorrow, then I’ll go back.”

“Okay.”

**********

The following afternoon Rick returned to Alexandria, and Daryl continued his search alone. He worked in circles going out from the Target store, finding a recent but cold campfire. He followed a trail away from site until it disappeared into an area thickly carpeted with pine needles. Daryl would not give up without finding Carol…or at least some evidence of what had happened to her.

After a few days, Rick returned to find Daryl and give him some supplies. Rick didn’t bother trying to convince him to give up.

“What next?” Rick asked, “Any idea which way she…”

“Just gonna keep looking,” Daryl interrupted, pulling items out of the box of supplies Rick had brought. “You stayin’?”

“A day or two, yeah.”

“Everyone okay back home?”

“Yeah, Judith’s on the mend. Michonne is on her feet and fussing that you need to come back.”

Daryl shook his head. “Can’t. Not yet.”

“Wasn’t even going to try.”

********************

Daryl continued this way for nearly two weeks, slogging through swamps, washing up in clear streams, and eating the supplies Rick brought. He never stopped thinking about what he could have done differently at the Target…and how empty his life would be without Carol.

Walking through the edge of one swamp, he was deep in thought about all the things Carol had been through, and all the times he’d felt useless and unable to help. He hated it, but part of his brain was trying to tell him that finding her was becoming less likely every day. He looked down and saw drops of water on his shirt, thinking it was starting to rain…and then realized tears were running down his face. Why had it taken him so long to realize how much he loved her? Needed her? Maybe now…maybe now it was too late. Leaning against a stunted tree, Daryl covered his face and sobbed.

********************* *********************

Carol

Watching Ed put out the campfire and pack his gear, Carol asked, “How is it you’re out here alone?”

Ed stopped what he was doing, but did not look at Carol. “Been by myself most of my life.” He shrugged. “Tried living with a few groups, but it just…didn’t work.”

“There was a time when I wanted to be alone, and then I was for a while.” Carol reflected on ordering everyone away from the little house near The Kingdom…and then Daryl had shown up. And then she found out about Glenn and Abraham…and Negan.

“Yeah?” Ed picked up his gear and turned to her.

“Finally figured out I needed my friends more than…anything.”

He smiled a soft smile that made his dark eyes shine. “Maybe one friend that’s more than a friend?”

Carol couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from turning up a little.

Ed extended his hand to her. “Let’s get you back.”

As he helped Carol to her feet, she said, “You can be part of Alexandria, too. I don’t think anyone would have a problem with that.”

“Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Like I said, I’ve tried but it doesn’t work out.”

“Maybe it would be different…”

“Carol,” Ed interrupted, “I can’t.”

She gave up trying to convince him.

The trip toward Alexandria was slow and frustrating for both of them. It took Carol several days to get her balance and strength back. They ran into walkers in small groups that Ed was able to put down, but one large herd kept them pinned down for three full days. They had taken shelter one evening in a large house, and woke to find walkers all around the structure. It took the next few days for the horde to move on, and neither Carol nor Ed could tell why they’d clustered in that area in the first place.

Carol constantly worried and wondered about Michonne…and Daryl. She knew he would be out of his mind and doing everything he could to find her. This gave her some comfort, but it meant he was also out in the woods - most likely alone. He could take care of himself better than most people, but still….she worried.

On the final night before they reached Alexandria, Carol was tried once more to convince Ed to at least get supplies and meet the friends who had become her family. Ed again refused, and he took first watch.

When Carol woke at dawn, Ed and all of his belongings were gone. She looked around quickly, but there was no sign of him. Carol sighed and began to pack up. She made her way back to the highway, keeping an eye out for walkers and humans alike.

Ed watched from a distance, as he had all night, and was sorely tempted by Carol’s offer. He sighed and turned back the way they’d come. No group ever wanted a pariah like him after they discovered he’d been the leader of a group that once helped the Saviors.

Late that evening, Carol arrived safely at the gates of Alexandria, only having to put down two walkers on the way. A delighted Tara welcomed Carol back with a huge hug and a few tears. Eric had arrived for his watch, and he slid the gate closed and latched it.

Smiling at the two of them, Eric said, “Aaron will be so glad to see you.”

After Tara released her, Carol asked, “He’s okay? And Michonne? Is she…”

“Fine! They’re both fine.” Tara sniffed and wiped her eyes.

Carol swallowed hard. “What about…” She couldn’t say his name.

“Daryl’s been out looking for you. Rick helps when he can.” Tara hugged her again. “They’ll be so glad, too.”

Nodding, Carol kept herself from bursting into tears of relief. Tara took her to the infirmary, despite Carol’s protests that she was fine. Tara found the almost-healed wound on her temple, and Carol explained how she’d fallen.

After she finished checking Carol over, Tara asked, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, thank you, I‘m good.”

“Okay. Good night.”

Carol trudged to the house, more exhausted with every step. As she quietly opened the front door, a light came on in the kitchen. Michonne appeared and hugged her fiercely.

“So great to see you,” she whispered. “I thought you were Rick, though.”

“He’s with Daryl, right?” She spoke softly, knowing Carl and Judith would be asleep.

Michonne released her, nodding. “Yeah. Should be back in the next day or so.”

“Okay.” Carol felt more exhausted with every second. “Is my room open?”

“Of course!”

*********************** ***********************

Daryl

Not long after his minor breakdown in the swamp, Daryl reached a rendezvous point to meet Rick. He was a few hours late, and found Rick in the car, fast asleep. Daryl tapped on the window, and Rick started and looked at him blearily.

Yawning hugely, he got out of the car and stretched. “Still nothing?”

Daryl opened the passenger door and threw his pack and crossbow in the back. “Nah.”

“Coming back now?”

He nodded. “For a bit.”

Rick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look…Daryl…I hate to say this as much as you’ll hate to hear it, but….maybe it‘s time…”

“No!“ Daryl slammed the car door and leaned against it, looking at the ground. He glanced at Rick for understanding, and shook his head slowly. “If it was me, she‘d….”

“Never stop.” Rick finished, rubbing his face with his hands. “Let’s get back.”

They arrived in the early morning hours, Daryl scrunched up asleep in the passenger seat. He’d been having bad dreams as they drove, mumbling and thrashing. Rick heard Carol‘s name more than once. When Rick put a hand on his arm, he immediately calmed.

Rick woke Daryl after they went through the gate and drove up to the house. They entered quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. Michonne, however, had been asleep on the couch and greeted Rick as soon as the door opened. As they embraced, whispering to each other, Daryl made his way upstairs.

After Daryl had gone into the bathroom, Michonne told Rick about Carol’s return.

“Why didn‘t you tell Daryl?” Rick asked, stroking her cheek.

“I’ll surprise him tomorrow.” She grinned mischievously. “Carol, too.”

***************** *****************

Carol

Despite being exhausted, Carol woke shortly after dawn. She was anxious about Daryl and Rick still being ‘out there’, so she gave up on getting any more sleep, started a pot of coffee, and went out to the garden. Picking up a hoe on the way, she began to whack at the few remaining weeds between the rows.

Persistent things, she thought to herself. Stubborn…like me. Like all of us here. Gotta be… She worked methodically up and down the rows. It was simple work, and it felt good to get out some frustrations as she watched pieces of the weeds and bits of dirt fly in the wake of her efforts.

Carol wasn’t aware of how much time had passed, but she realized her back ached - and she was thirsty. Standing up straight, she stretched the muscles in her spine and arms.

Tara approached and handed Carol a bottle of water. “Hey, why don’t you take a break?”

Carol nodded as she finished a long drink. “Okay.”

“Over here,” Tara walked toward one of the huge oaks trees nearby. “Tell me what happened while you were gone.”

Carol followed, leaving the hoe behind, taking a seat at the base of the tree. She took a smaller sip of water, thinking. “Well, Ed helped me.”

Tara’s brows rose.

*************** ***************

Daryl

What woke Daryl was the smell of strong coffee, and he sat up in bed with a groan. It smelled like what Carol made…but that was wishful thinking. He took a long shower, letting the hot water loosen the muscles in his back and shoulders. After getting dressed, he made his way to the kitchen and poured a steaming mug of the fragrant coffee for himself. The house was silent, so he wondered who’d made it.

As he took a sip and started toward the stairs, Daryl heard footsteps on the porch. Instinctively, he moved out of sight and waited. The front door opened, and he heard Michonne’s voice.

“Daryl, you up?”

Stepping out from the hallway, Daryl answered, “Yeah.”

Michonne started at this sudden appearance, and then hugged him tight. “Glad you’re back. Got a….surprise for you.”

“Ain’t got time. Need to get ready…”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Daryl sighed and took another sip of coffee. “Alright.”

He followed Michonne out of the house, still holding the mug, hoping this ‘surprise’ wasn’t to show him tomatoes or cucumbers in the garden. Didn’t have time to waste on such things with Carol missing. As they rounded the corner next to the garden, Daryl suspected that’s exactly what was happening. Michonne stopped and pointed toward the neat rows of vegetables, and Daryl was about to turn around and go back to the house when his gaze stopped and he looked through the garden to the base of a tree…..

Carol. Daryl froze, the mug of coffee sagging.

Michonne took it from his limp fingers before it could spill, grinning as she walked away.

Daryl was afraid to move, afraid he was imagining her after all this time. Carol laughed at something Tara said, and this broke Daryl’s paralysis. He took long, shaky strides toward them, nearly stepping on the hoe lying next to a row of green beans.

Tara glanced up. “Hey, Daryl! Uh, glad you’re back.” She stood up and began moving away. “Got to do some…stuff…er, laundry.”

Carol’s wide blue eyes met Daryl’s, swimming with sudden tears.

Daryl half-knelt, half-fell into Carol‘s lap. Air rushed into his lungs as he gasped for the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding since the moment she’d disappeared. Resting his head on her chest, he could hear her heart beating as wildly as his own.

Trembling, Carol slid her arms around him, whispering softly into his hair. “They said…you were looking….”

His voice low and rough, Daryl said, “Almos‘ gave up.” His hands curled into her clothes, and in a choked voice he whispered, “but I can’t do this…without you.”

“Neither can I,” Carol whispered, and lifted his chin with her fingertips. She brushed the hair from his face, wiping tears away. She paused then, until his smoky blue eyes met hers. He smiled faintly. Carol smiled back, and knew she was ready. “I love you.”

Daryl’s eyes grew wide, his face turning pink. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

“It’s okay,” Carol soothed, “I just needed you to know.”

“Okay,” Daryl managed in a whisper. He lowered his head to her chest again. “M...Me, too.”

They sat that way for several moments, Carol stroking Daryl‘s hair, but neither of them speaking.

Daryl suddenly lifted his head again, focusing on the pink scar at her temple. Shakily, he touched the healed skin. “What…who did…this?”

“Did it to myself.” Daryl frowned in confusion, and Carol laughed softly. “I fell running from walkers. A man found me and….”

They were interrupted by Judith’s squeal. “Cay-ul!” The little girl was toddling her way toward them with Carl close behind.

“I tried to keep her from…sorry.” Carl looked embarrassed.

They turned in time for Carol to catch Judith as she tripped on an exposed root. “Hi, sweetie!”

“Seedie!” She snuggled up to Carol for a moment, and then turned to Daryl. She reached one chubby hand out and tugged on his shirt pocket. Daryl leaned in and put his arms around both of them. Judith looked back and forth between their faces, noticing the tear tracks. She gave Carol and Daryl each a wet baby-kiss. “All bedder.”

“My turn,” Carol gave Judith a nuzzle and a soft kiss on her cheek, making the girl giggle and squirm away. Carl picked her up and headed toward the house, glancing surreptitiously back at them.

Once Carl and Judith were a distance away, Carol reached up and put her hand on Daryl’s cheek. “Now you.”

His face reddening, Daryl leaned in hesitantly and met her lips with his own.

*********************** ************************

Right now there’s a war between the vanities But all I see is you and me The fight for you is all I’ve ever known So come home….

One Republic

This artwork greatly inspired me - ALL credit to that wonderful artist!

#caryl #caryl love #caryl fiction #twd fiction #Carol x Daryl #Carol Peletier #daryl dixon #rick grimes #michonne #carl grimes #tara #aaron #eric #lj michaels #ljmichaels

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whatdoyouthinkmyjobis · 7 years ago

Text

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: Inspired by events in BTVS 7.17 “Lies My Parents Told Me.” Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Chapter 33: New Man

Spike’s heart pounded against his ribs, begging for a break. His lungs burned, each breath large and deep, like he was trying to inhale oceans. He ran until sweat dripped into his eyes. He wiped his forehead and stared at his fingertips glistening in the sunlight.

Having run from the house in a t-shirt, the cool winter air nipped at his damp skin until goosebumps peppered his arms. He was still on the outskirts of town surrounded by houses and one mission-style Catholic church.

It clearly not being a day for bursting into flames, Spike entered the church and found two old women praying at the altar. He couldn’t smell them over the incense. Usually, old women reeked of creams, ointments, and god-awful perfume. The stench was part of why vampires avoided the elderly.

He stole a seat in the back at stared at the twisted body hanging at the front of the sanctuary. Like any good Victorian Londoner, Spike had been raised in the church, Anglican specifically, but the idea of God escaped him. Why would anyone, let alone the son of God, sacrifice themselves for him? Who believed he merited a second chance?

An elderly priest leaned into his pew. “Can I help you, my son?”

“Yeah, thought I’d start the new year off right with God, but I seem to ‘ave forgotten my prayer beads.”

The priest smiled at him. “You may borrow mine.” He pulled his rosary, a simple design of dark wood with a brass cross, from his pocket, and dropped it in the vampire’s hands.

The vampire did not burn.

All Dean could understand from the girls screaming at each other was that someone’s something had gone missing. Buffy and Willow were doing their best to calm the situation when he and Sam decided to seek out the quiet of the still-wrecked Impala parked in Buffy’s driveway.

“Maybe it was a mistake not telling them about Lucifer,” Dean said, bunching up a blanket to use as a pillow.

“Trust me, Lucifer isn’t comforting news. Besides, I think they’re still riding the high of burning those Bringers; plus, most of them are starting a new school Monday. Probably shouldn't add to the emotional cocktail.”

“Are you done touching the feelings?”

Sam shrugged. “I just remember what it was like to be a teenager-by-day, monster-fighter-by-night. Add to that, they’re far from home, have cultural barriers, and are all pretty new to this. They’re not going to be insta-buddies. Besides, it’s not like we didn’t have stupid fights when we were kids.”

“We’d have had fewer fights if you weren’t so stubborn.” A light rain began to patter on the car. The clouds gave the sunset an eerie glow.

Sam tapped the front bench seat, staring at his fingers like they were giving him a message in Morse Code. “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Water is wet.” Dean’s joking did nothing to ease the anxiety on his brother’s face.

“According to Slayer lore--”

“Here we go.”

“--the first Slayer was created by combining the ‘heart of a demon’ whatever that means, with some teenage girl. Good news is, nothing happened to Buffy when we did the exorcism so--”

“The fuck?” Dean shot up, ignoring his sore body while his blood boiled. “No. You do not just move on from that statement. Were you fucking experimenting on my girlfriend because you thought she was fucking possessed?”

“I didn’t think she was possessed, but that’s what the lore says,” Sam said, innocently. “If I thought she was dangerous, I would have told you.”

Dean knew the look on his brother’s face, and knew he wasn’t sorry one bit. He tamped down the desire to sock Sam in the jaw. “Don’t fucking put on that innocent puppy face with me! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking she’s a vessel, too, and I wanted to know what ‘heart of a demon’ meant because clearly it’s not literal demonic possession.”

“Fuck no it’s not!”

“God, take a breath, Dean. You’re turning purple.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” he yelled. “For once in my life, I feel like I have a fucking life. There is this amazing woman who actually gives a rat’s ass about me for more than one night -- hell, she loves me for christssake -- and you’re pokin’ at her to find out what makes her tick?”

“I didn’t want to tell you because, crazy idea, I thought you’d lose your shit,” Sam snapped.

Dean’s ribs reminded him they were still healing as he tried to take deep breaths. “You have no right.”

Scratching his head, Sam sighed. “Dean, how many comic books have you read? How many horror movies have you seen? Whatever the Slayer is, there’s an origin story, but it’s not the story that’s in the lore. I just want to know why there’s a monster-fighting superhero here, but not at home.”

They glared at each other, jaws clenched, nostrils flaring, for a minute before Sam asked, “Do you want to know what I’ve found?’

Dean didn’t, but he did. He leaned back against the seat and tried to relax.

“Remember how I was looking into possession? It looks like there are only a few types of people who can be possessed -- Slayers, vampires, and witches -- and each has special conditions under which it can happen. We know when someone gets bitten by a vamp, they lose their soul and the demon takes their corpse for a ride. Given what we just did to Spike, that one pans out. But the lore says the Slayer is also possessed by a demon, and that just doesn’t hold --”

There was a knock on the window before Buffy opened the door and climbed in the seat with Dean. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m super jealous of the calm in here.” Damp from the drizzle, she nestled against her boyfriend.

Dean was happy to be holding her no matter what his brother thought. He kissed the top of her head, eliciting a contented sigh.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Sam asked.

“Shut up,” said Buffy. “Today’s been weird, okay?”

“Girls okay?”

“Okay-ish? No one’s talking to Lili, but I’m too worried about Spike to care.”

After being freed from the demon parasite that had been riding him for over a century, Spike had run out into the daylight and disappeared. At first, Buffy had been practically giddy. They had taken something from the darkness, but as the day wore on and Spike did not return, she poured her nervous energy into scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom and snapping at anyone who came near. It was like waiting to hear news from the surgeon. Someone had been opened up, but was the operation successful?

“I’m sure the poofy’s fine. He’s probably sulking in a mausoleum somewhere.”

“Or he’s being tortured by Lucifer again,” she said.

“Is he even still a vampire?” asked Sam. “I’m not sure the vampire and the demon are separate here.”

Dean glared at his brother. Not that he shared Buffy’s concern, but the last thing he wanted to do was compound her worries.

She drew little patterns on Dean’s chest with her fingertips, a habit when she was mulling an idea over. “If Spike is okay, if the exorcism managed to get rid of the demon and save the man, I was wondering if we could head to Los Angeles after all this Lucifer stuff is over and maybe --”

“I guess we could ask him,” Sam said, pointing to the end of the driveway where a pale figure paced back and forth in the rain.

They got out of the car as Spike walked by, shivering in his t-shirt. “Got a bloody clown car going?”

“Where have you been?” Buffy asked.

“Around.” He shuffled his feet and bounced, trying to get warm. “Can go all sorts of places in the daylight now.”

Dean tossed him a blanket from the backseat. “You can probably catch cold too. Let’s head in. It’s dinner time.”

The next day, Sam straddled a chair across from Buffy’s desk as they listened to the gaggle of girls on the other side of the cubicle wall. The school’s bewildered guidance counselor was trying to organize the flood of unexpected transfers whose papers Dean had faked.

I can’t believe this is working! Buffy mouthed. Having all but six of them in school all day was a relief.

“I wish we were in the same classes,” Cloé complained in Spanish.

“Chiquita, we’re two grades apart,” Gabi laughed.

“Why couldn’t they lie about that too?”

“It’s only seven hours, and look, we have the same lunch and study hall. Ooh, we have Sam for study hall. He’s cute.”

“Ew, he’s old,” protested Cloé.

Sam pretended he hadn’t heard them and asked Buffy, “Ready to jump back into ‘My parents don’t get me’ and ‘My teachers are so mean?’”

“God yes!” She twirled a pencil in her fingers. “You do remember how unvacationy vacation was, right?”

Sam patted the angry scars that ran across his abs. “I have my holiday souvenirs. Can’t wait for spring break.”

Being back at school was surreal. Sam was about to dive back into nearly eight hours a day helping teenagers and teachers with research, organizing the books, and updating files. Yet his Clark Kent hours bore a sickly green edge today. Caring about the state of the biography section seemed pointless when Lucifer was out of his cage and lurking near the school.

Killing the Turok-Han and a handful of Bringers had been spitting in Lucifer’s eye. Disarming his vampire sleeper agent was stomping the Devil’s toe. Any moment, he could send something new their way -- tormenting visions of the dead, an army of vampires, drunk clowns with knives. Different world. Different rules.

Just then, an unsmiling Principal Wood showed up, eyeing them with suspicion. “Glad to see you’re all up and at ‘em after your accident.”

“Couple of regular Christmas miracles,” said Buffy with a nervous smile.

Wood nodded before turning to Sam, all friendliness gone from his face. “Mr. Winchester, I was hoping to catch you before the bell. Would you mind stepping into my office?”

They walked through the remainder of the girls waiting for a student guide for their first day. Wood assumed his seat and stared at him over steepled fingers. The clock ticked louder than the bustle of students on the other side of the wall. He’d been in enough principals’ offices and interrogation rooms to know this tactic. Sam stared back.

The bell rang.

The clock ticked.

Opening a file, Wood said, “You don’t need to worry about the library. I was able to find a substitute.”

Sam continued to stare.

“I got bored over winter break, decided to investigate. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Winchester, but something’s always been a little off about you. You swept in out of nowhere right when we needed a new librarian, waving your freshly printed Stanford diploma. You know Mr. Espada the chemistry teacher? He went to Stanford, too. His diploma doesn’t look like yours.” Wood slid copies of both documents across the desk, but Sam ignored them.

“I thought, ‘Maybe they changed the format.’ After all, he graduated a few years before you. But it gnawed at me, so I dug a little further and found Tiffany Tusing. Remember her?”

Judging by the giant smile plastered on Wood’s face, he was about to hit a home-run.

Sam continued to stare.

“Tiffany Tusing died in a car accident in 1993, which I am surprised we didn’t know before seeing as you’re using her social security number. Do you care to tell me why you used the social security number of a dead girl and falsified records to secure a position as Sunnydale High’s librarian?”

“I like books.”

“Suffice to say, as of right now you’re suspended while I investigate further. I will call you when it’s time to clean out your desk.”

Jada was excellent with a knife. Dean sat at the kitchen counter watching her chop vegetables with fury. If she ever decided to throw down against the monsters lurking outside, she wouldn’t be half bad in a fight.

“I still can’t believe he suspended you! Your reviews have been good. He hasn’t complained at all. What is his problem?”

“It’s personality clashes wrapped in politics. I’m sure it will be cleared up soon,” said Sam as he put salmon fillets on a baking sheet. Their fake identities obviously weren’t on the list of supernatural weirdness he’d explained to her.

“Want one, Dean, or are you having dinner with Buffy?” Sam asked with a smirk.

One glance at the fish and Dean curled up his lip in disgust. “Nah, she’s busy with the girls.”

“Girls?” Jada asked brightly, clearly happy to think about something other than how much she hated Principal Wood.

“Remember how I said there’s trouble at Buffy’s?” Sam asked.

“And the trouble is girls?” she repeated with an eyebrow raised. “Little girls or big girls?”

“Too many girls!” Dean grumbled. “Anyway, I think I’ll leave you to your whatever the hell you call that and take this leg out for a spin.” Tired of feeling useless, he had insisted the doctors x-ray his broken ankle. They were shocked to see it had healed in half the normal time, but Dean -- finally cast-less -- scooted out of the hospital before they could start running tests.

“Oh, okay, have a good time, Dean!” Jada waved at him with a smile. She was in comforting mode. He hoped Sam remembered to put a sock on the door.

Full of fries and a cheeseburger, Dean grabbed his beer and sauntered over to the pub’s neglected pool table. Before they’d decided to stay in Sunnydale, he and Sam had hustled pool at every bar in town to keep themselves in beer and scratchy sheets. Enough time had passed, they should be able to do another round. They could at least hit up nearby Santa Barbara. Keep the Potentials in cereal and whatever else a houseful of teenage girls could need.

Halfway through his second rack and third beer, someone said, “You’re pretty good.” At the other end of the table stood a tall, dark man with a goatee and shaved head. He was smiling, friendly.

After Buffy had told Dean about the extensive stalker file she’d found in the principal’s office, he had decided to look Robin Wood up. Brooklyn-born, he moved to the suburbs of Los Angeles after his mother was murdered when he was four. Always athletic, he played baseball and tennis all through school. He’d graduated in the middle of his class at UCLA, and spent several years in Teach for America before heading back to school for an administrative degree. On paper, he seemed like an all-American, up-from-nothing success story. Standing before him now, Dean didn’t like whatever secrets were behind Wood’s shining eyes.

“Wanna play?” Dean asked.

Wood whistled low. “Pretty sure you’d play me out of house and home.”

“Nah,” said Dean, racking the balls, “I only swindle my friends. You new to town, mister, uh?”

“Calvin! Name’s Calvin. Yeah, just moved up here from LA.” Wood extended his hand for a shake, but Dean left him hanging.

“That so?” Dean took the opening break shot, sinking two solids.

“Liking the small town life. Quaint. Calm. What about you, buddy? Lived here long?”

“Few months.”

“What brought you here?”

“Work.”

“Really? What do you do?” Wood asked, clearly determined to keep up his cheerful ruse.

“Exterminator.”

“Exterminator? Are the pests different in Sunnydale than where you’re from?”

“A bit.” Dean sunk two more balls. He was half finished before Wood even started.

Without a clear shot, Wood chose to bump his ball in Dean’s way. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Wood pursed his lips and nodded his head. “You’re not the most sociable guy are you?”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” Dean growled.

“You don’t even know me.”

Dean flexed his fingers. The principal was an inch or two taller than him, with the thick arms of someone who’d spent time punching a bag. But bags didn't hit back.

Dean’s phone rang. Keeping his eye on his new friend, he answered, “Hey Girly. What’s up?”

“I’m done with training. Mind if I come over?” The bubbly tone to her voice indicated patrol had gone well.

“Sounds good.” He hung up and bumped into Wood’s shoulder, smirking. “It’s been fun, Robin. Let’s not do this again.”

Wood banished from his mind, Dean paced his room as he waited on Buffy to arrive. She hadn’t been over since Christmas Eve, and he was still pretty beaten up then. Though he’d spent the last week at her place, they’d barely had any time together.

A satisfied moan came from Sam’s room.

The pressure in Dean’s jeans was painful, so he went to the window to distract himself. He could just make out Orion’s belt through the bright lights of town. Buffy, not knowing where the mythic figures started and stopped, had claimed the cluster of stars making Orion’s shield as her own. The Slayer’s Heart, she called it. It was sappy and silly, but it was theirs. He wanted to share the sky with her.

Turning his face from the heavens to the street, Dean’s smile faded. A blue 1997 Dodge Stratus, the same car Robin Wood drove, was parked across the street. Dean was lacing his boots to confront the principal when Buffy opened his bedroom door.

In an instant, she was in his arms, her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the wall. Their kiss long and deep reveling in their perfect fit. “Missed you, Girly,” he said as he moved to kissing her neck.

A moan rose from deep in her throat as she played with his hair. “I can’t stay long -- twenty minutes tops, but I had to see you.”

He set her on top of his dresser and rubbed her leather-clad thighs. She knew those pants drove him crazy. “You’re smiling like you had a good day.”

“Mostly. You’re out of your cast. Spike came out of the basement and tried to feed himself; Alma had to teach him how to cook. Both Vi and Keisha staked vampires tonight. That’s three successful trainee patrols in a row.”

“I miss patrolling with you.”

“You, mister, are distracting with those kissable lips.” She sucked on his bottom lip like he was her favorite candy. “And that deep, rumbly voice. God, when you talk dirty--” She tugged off his shirt, a wolfish hunger in her eyes. “Other than the little things like Lucifer being out there doing God knows what and Wood suspending Sam--”

“Ugh.” Dean shook his head. “That jackass is outside.”

“What?!”

“Wood. I went down to the bar for dinner, and he was there trying to chat me up. Now he’s parked outside.”

Buffy dashed to the window. “I see you!” she yelled, pointing at her eyes and the car. It pulled away, disappearing down the block.

“Well, he just jumped up my priorities list,” she grumbled, the smile leaving her face for the first time.

“I was gonna pay him a visit tomorrow.”

“Don’t kill him.”

“That’s not Plan A.”

Sliding his hands under her sweater, he cupped one of her breasts. The tension melted from her face as he kneaded her body. “Right now, Plan A is to see how many times I can make you come in twenty minutes.”

“Challenge accepted,” she purred, pushing his pants to the floor.

Robin Wood lived in a small, well-maintained bungalow six blocks from the high school. The inside was sparsely decorated in cheap furniture from I’m Totally Normal Monthly. The warehouse plastic smell of newness still hung in the air. The kitchen drawers were full of kitchen supplies. The living room drawers were full of typical homeowner paperwork, DVDs, travel mementos, and one picture -- an old white man with his arm around a young black boy. The office was equally boring with proposals, budgets, and books on child psychology and educational theory.

It felt like a set.

In the bedroom, an old steamer trunk and a bookcase stuffed with old leather books sat at the foot of the bed. Like in his own room, the trunk was full of stakes, holy water, crossbows and any other weapon a vampire hunter would need. The extensiveness of the collection told him Wood wasn’t new to hunting -- and if he wasn’t new to hunting, maybe he knew who Buffy was.

He grabbed a book from the shelf and started reading.

After a couple of hours, keys jingled in the door. Not working late tonight. Dean listened as Wood walked around the house with the casual care of someone not suspecting an intruder. He lightly laid his finger on the trigger of his gun and aimed it at the door of the bedroom.

Wood entered the room and betraying only the slightest surprise, raised his hands. “I thought you didn’t want hang out anymore, Dean.”

“I believe in second chances. Haven’t decided yet if I want to shoot you, so I’m gonna put this gun down. You’re gonna go for the machete you keep by the door, but I already moved it. And I think you know fucking with me would hurt.”

Dean held up a book, a journal more specifically. “At first, I guessed you were a hunter with a Slayer fetish. Got all these Watcher’s journals to jerk off to. Explains why you’ve been stalking Buffy so hard.

“Then I get to this.”

He read from the first page, “‘She came back. After surviving her Cruciamentum -- while pregnant no less -- I encouraged Nikki to hide. I made all the arrangements and was ready to face the Council when they discovered the truth.

“‘But I should have known Nikki Wood couldn’t stay away from a fight. She returned with her infant son and went right back into the dark, stake in hand.

“‘Her son is sleeping soundly in a makeshift bed beside me while his mother is out saving the world. It’s not fair she was chosen. Not fair that so much will be taken from her. It is not the boy’s fault, and I fear what will become of Robin when his mother meets her inevitable end.’”

Dean snapped the book shut. “Your mother was a Slayer. So what, you have some oedipal crush on Buffy?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Robin said through gritted teeth.

“What do you want with Buffy?”

“I’d prefer to tell her directly.”

“You’re driving. Pretty sure you know the way.”

Buffy and her boss sat alone in her kitchen. He stared at his hands with contrition. She hadn’t been sure what to make of Dean’s call telling her he was coming by with the most-likely-not-dangerous principal. “I wish you would have just told me this up front instead of acting like a creepy stalker.”

“In retrospect, I see how my research looked more unwanted ex and less detective dossier, but Slayers aren’t Girl Scouts.”

She watched two dozen Potentials practicing fighting forms in her backyard as she mulled over Wood’s story.

A Slayer had a child. A Slayer was a mother. Buffy firmly rejected certain Slayer traditions. Being alone. Being on the outskirts of society. But being childless always made sense. Even if she and the baby survived the pregnancy, she would never see it grow up. It would never remember her.

She didn’t want her four-year-old son at her funeral. She didn’t want him dedicating his life to avenging her. She didn’t want another Slayer down the line to look in his face and say, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Wood sighed, “Can’t say I blame you. First Evil sounds pretty demanding.”

“Keeps me on my toes.”

Spike, his hair mussed from sleep and with dark circles under his eyes, emerged from the basement. “Sorry, I’m just ‘ere for eggs,” he mumbled.

Gabi, Cloé and Vi dashed through the kitchen, giggling. Gabi assumed her instructor’s station at the front of the group outside, while the other two found places in the crowd.

“You’re late!” Dani yelled, zeroing in on Cloé while ignoring the other two.

Cloé bowed her head, her shoulders slumping as if bracing for a blow. “I’m sorry, we --”

“I don’t care! This is life and death.” The other girls stopped their exercises and stared at the scene with a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Chum because you’re not going to be good for anything other than vampire bait.”

“Hey!” Gabi snapped. “I made them late. If you want to scream at someone you and I can do it later. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Dani curled her lip in disgust as she glared at Gabi. “Look, I’m in charge here--”

“No.” Gabi rose to her full height, a head taller than Dani. “Buffy is in charge. You’re not even number two. You want to take this inside or keep training?”

Looking back at the crowd of expectant girls, Dani pointed at Cloé. “Arms up, ladies! You call that a stance?”

Wood turned away from the scene, eyebrows raised. “At least I’ve solved the mystery of the flood of transfers. I’m assuming the Winchesters forged all of their paperwork?”

Andrew stomped in. “Spike, don’t forget to wash the pan when you’re done. I had to clean all of your dishes yesterday.”

Wood pointed at the two men. “Not Potentials.”

“No! This is Spike and Andrew. The First is after them, so they’ve been living in my basement.”

“Spike and Andrew.” Wood eyed Spike’s back as the former vampire plated his food. “Buffy, does this First thing have anything to do with this goat-face seal I keep finding in the basement?”

Andrew gulped. Spike turned to look at Wood, a burning intensity in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Spike asked.

“Robin Wood, principal at Sunnydale High.” Wood extended his hand, which Spike reluctantly shook.

“Wood’s mother was a Slayer.”

“Slayers have kids?” Spike looked the new guy over with renewed interest.

“One did at least. Nikki Wood. New York. 70s,” Wood said.

“Sorry, my Slayer ‘istory’s not so good,” Spike said, grabbing a fork and taking his eggs to the basement.

With a sigh, Andrew put Spike’s dirty pan in the sink. “You’ve seen the seal?”

“Yeah, someone keeps digging it up. I found a body down there once lying on top of it.”

Andrew avoided eye contact. “What did you do with it? Asking for a friend.”

“Seeing as this is Sunnydale, I buried the kid outside of town. Last time I found the seal exposed, I covered it in concrete, reburied it, piled supplies on it, and had the door welded shut.”

“Thorough,” said Buffy, relieved Lucifer wasn’t going to be able to pull any more Turok-Han from the Hellmouth. At least not soon. “You know if you want to help…”

“Much as I want to spend more time with teenagers, I think I’ll stick to searching for the vampire who killed my mom.”

“You’re certain it’s in Sunnydale?”

“Absolutely. Tell you what. I’ll lift Sam’s suspension. Not like I could have found a replacement librarian in the middle of the year anyway. What’s their deal, by the way? I couldn’t find anything on the Winchesters.”

Buffy chuckled. “The Winchesters are a different kind of wild story. If you want to know, come back and ask them yourself. After you figure out how to get on their good side.”

Spike leaned forward over the utility sink to get a closer look at himself in the mirror. He’d forgotten what he looked like. Too angular for Victorian sensibilities, but handsome for the modern day.

Hadn’t that been the entire problem? William Pratt was always too something for his neighbors, his mother, his adored. Too meek. Too earnest. Too emotional. William Pratt did not belong.

Now wasn’t much better. He wasn’t a vampire, but was he a man? He was stronger than average. A little faster.

Before Drusilla had turned him, he’d written longhand ledgers, a human calculator. What was he supposed to do now? Wash sheets at the Motor Inn, saving to get a crumby apartment? Worry about his cholesterol and toenail fungus? Not think about the murders he’d gladly committed?

No, whatever was in the mirror wasn’t a man.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asked.

His voice startled Spike, who’d been so absorbed in his reflection, he hadn’t noticed the arrival of his roommate. “I was just marveling at wot a ‘andsome devil I am. Cheekbones.”

“Some guys have it all,” Andrew said with a sigh as he settled onto his cot.

“Is that guy gone? Big black fellow?”

“Yeah, he left a while ago. Didn’t seem too happy.”

“Right, well, I guess I’ll see to that...thing that needs seeing,” Spike said, heading upstairs.

Buffy stood on the back porch, overseeing Dani and Gabi leading the Potentials in a series of martial arts exercises. Spike didn’t know much of trained fighting. Seemed to take the fun out of it, especially when it came to fighting a disciplined, organized, knowledgeable Slayer, the ultimate test of improvisation.

He decided to leave out the front door, but Sam and Dean were in the driveway repairing the Impala. Spike hadn’t seen the car after Buffy wrecked it, but from the stories, he was surprised it wasn’t in a junkyard.

“Hey, Spike,” Sam called, waving him over.

Dean rose from where he’d been crouched by the front fender. “Hit it, Sammy.”

Sam flipped the knob to check one turn signal then the other. Dean gave a thumbs up before disappearing in front of the car again.

“How’re you doing?” Sam asked.

At one point in the underground church, Sam had lost hope and began to confess his darkest deeds. He’d hunted down a demon named Lilith. “I wanted revenge because she’d killed Dean, but Dean was back, so it was really about me, wasn’t it? My power. My abilities. Me saving the day.”

“Did you kill the bitch?”

Sam had chuckled, a thin wheeze, at the question. “You know what I had to do to get strong enough to kill Lilith? I killed and drank a demon possessed pediatric nurse. I drank until she turned ashen. I drank until my stomach strained, and I told myself, ‘Greater good, right?’”

“You’re making me hungry.”

“Wanna know the irony? Me killing Lilith, that’s what unleashed Lucifer.”

And now Sam, far from the brink of death, sat in his brother’s car testing turn signals. A not-so-innocent human with demon-blood tainted veins.

Spike opened the back door and slipped into the back seat. He almost missed the blood lust. His demon had guided him, amping up his every dark impulse for over a century. Without it, he had all of the baggage of someone he knew and no idea where he was going. But he didn’t want to go back. “I feel like I just woke up from a coma, but it’s ‘alloween and I’m in a blimey gorilla costume.”

Sam squinted at him, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Metaphor needs work. Point is, I feel a little out of sorts with just myself rattling around up there.”

“It’ll take some getting used to.”

“Does anyone ever get used to humanity?” Spike asked, twisting his lips in a smirk to cover his sincerity.

“No,” said Sam quietly. “Some voices and faces always haunt you.”

“Like the nurse?”

Sam looked away in shame. They may both be killers, but only one of them had ever been proud of it. “Her husband never even knew what happened.”

“But sorry doesn’t change the past, no matter ‘ow many lives we get, does it?”

“No.”

“But life is just living, isn’t it?” Spike said. “The pain, the sex, the shame, the victories, they’re all part of the package.”

Finished with training, the Potentials began to flood the front yard, doing cartwheels and chasing each other. Enjoying the last bit of sun before nightfall forced them inside.

Giant grin plastered on his face, Dean sauntered around the car. “Baby’s ready to roll, Sammy.” His grin faded a bit when he saw Spike. “Dude, you’re practically glowing. It’s like you haven’t seen the sun in a century.”

Spike sighed. “Look out, George Carlin. A new wit has arrived.”

Dean shrugged. “We hid the beer in the cooler if you want one.” He left them to pick up his tools.

Sam smiled, soft and concerned, at Spike. “One day at a time. It’s going to be hard and weird, but I’m here for you. Call me if you feel like doing anything stupid.”

Spike was about to do something stupid. He paced in the pool of a street light in front of the little green bungalow. He wished he had a cigarette, but trying to smoke made him cough, his lungs burn. After sunset, he’d had a beer or three to convince himself his idea wasn’t suicidal.

What he did know with certainty: William Pratt would not have come. William Pratt would have wrung his hands, written at length, then waited in hiding until his mother handled the problem.

Damning evidence in hand, Spike would confront this head on.

He knocked on the door. Robin Wood answered immediately as if he’d been waiting on Spike to call. “I heard about your mum, and I, uh, I have information about her.”

Wood nodded slowly. “Meet me in the back, okay?”

New York in the 1970s had stunk of piss and cheap cigarettes. Between horny business men looking for fun in Times Square and a flood of punks wandering in and out of clubs, it was an easy meal. Not even having a Slayer in town did much to stem the tide of deaths.

Behind Wood’s house stood a dark garage with the door ajar. Spike peeked inside. “‘ello?”

It hadn’t taken Spike long to hunt down New York’s Slayer. Tall and lithe, Nikki moved with the grace and force of a prize fighter, exposing bone with her fists, sending teeth flying into the night. Spike watched her as she killed standard vampires without breaking a sweat. Once she tangled with two members of the Sisterhood of Jhe, throwing one into the other, impaling them at the same time when they were trapped in a dumpster. He was going to enjoy dancing with her.

A sting in his neck. Spike spun on his heels and knocked a shadow back against the garage door frame. Feeling woozy, he raised his fists.

Spike and Nikki had fought in the park a week before, a congenial how-do-you-do sort of fight. When he caught her in the subway, empty but for a few late-night party kids puking their guts out, he knew she was tired and ready to fold. With a smile on his face, he’d snapped her neck.

The door slid closed. Wood chuckled, “Feeling a little sick? My own mix. A little sedative and a little holy water.” The light blazed on, highlighting the cross-covered walls.

Wood, slipping on a pair of brass knuckles, stood between Spike and the door. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know you, Spike? British punk trash. About a hundred and forty. Lately, spotted with the Slayer. Strange since he killed two, including my mother.”

Spike dodged a punch. He may not be a vampire anymore, but he was still oddly quick. “What’s the plan then? Kill me and mummy comes back to you?”

They circled each other. A jab. A weave. The formerly cool principal was practically rippling with rage.

Wood lunged. Spike grabbed his arm and swung him into a table, knocking the air from him.

“She didn’t say anything when I killed her. No begging. No pleading. No final thoughts of you.”

“She died a hero, unlike you,” Wood growled.

“Maybe we died the same,” Spike said, ignoring the threat in Wood’s voice. “Alone, in the dark, running away from people who cared about us. Is that what bothers you most? Mummy’s good and dead because she kept picking us over you.”

Wood shouted, picked up a set of throwing knives, and began to use him for target practice. Thunk! The first blade hit the wall close to Spike’s head.

Thunk!

The sedative was pulling Spike down, his limbs rubber, his vision blurry. He twisted trying to dodge the knives, but one grazed his side, another cut into his arm.

Thunk! Thunk!

Once the knives were all stuck in the wall behind him, Spike dove at the principal’s legs. They rolled on the ground, trading punches. Spike jabbed Wood with his elbow and landed a cracking blow to his ribs.

“Show me your real face!” Wood screamed, rolling on top of Spike, hitting him over and over. Spike could feel his flesh tearing, the blood spilling out as vengeance pummeled his face and body.

Using every bit of strength the drugs had left him, Spike pushed Wood off and grabbed a cross from the wall.

Nothing happened.

Wood stared, dumbfounded. “But the Watcher’s diaries --”

“Were right,” Spike said, pointing to a plastic grocery bag he’d dropped by the door. “I killed your mum. Came here to apologize. But then you were a twat so I didn’t.”

Holding his breath and with his eyes still on Spike, Wood knelt down to open the bag. Inside was a long leather coat. His mother’s coat.

The garage door slid open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” yelled Buffy.

The principal, bleeding from a cut above his eye, rose and glared at Buffy. “This doesn’t involve you, Slayer.”

“You beat up one of my friends, you bet it involves me,” she said through gritted teeth.

Wood snorted, eyeing Spike with disgust as he slowly found his footing. “Friend? Do you even know what he is?”

“The vampire part or the killed your mom part? Yeah, I figured it out.”

Eyeing Spike with a little more curiosity than loathing, Wood asked, “Is he a vampire?”

“Was,” Spike said, trying and failing to stand. “You missed filling your life-long vengeance quest by about two days.”

“There’s -- there’s a cure?” Wood asked quietly.

“Only for very good boys.” Spike spit blood and grinned.

“Are you listening? Because I want to know if you can follow the simplest of instructions.” Buffy asked, her arms crossed and eyes blazing with fury. “ But here’s the thing, Robin, even if Spike were still a monster, he’d still be more of a man than you.”

Wood’s jaw flexed, his eyes dark and cold. “You don’t--”

“Did I say you could talk? If you come around me and mine again, I recommend crawling on your hands and knees.” Buffy helped Spike up and lead him outside.

“What were you thinking coming here?” she asked, shifting to support more of his weight.

The cold air sucked at the sweat and blood coating Spike’s skin sending a quick shiver through him. “You really think I’m a man now?”

“Well, Jeffrey Dahmer was a man, so the bar is low.” Buffy stopped and gazed at him. The moonlight glistened in her eyes as she gently touched the bruises on his face. “Do you think you’re not?”

“Thought making amends would be a good first step.” He held his breath while he took in the angles of her nose, her large sad eyes, the fluttering kiss of her fingers.

“You tried to kill me,” she said softly. “Then you helped me save the world. And now look at you with your soul without your demon. You’ve survived more and grown more than most men could dream.”

She shook her head sharply, the trance broken, and continued walking him down the block. “We need to get you patched up. Infections are totally a thing.”

He still craved her touch. “‘ow’d you know where I was?”

“Sam thought you were acting weird. I followed you.”

Spike hoped they weren’t walking far. As the fight drained out of him, the pain grew, his head throbbing, knuckles aching, one ankle sharp. “What do you think’s out there for an ex-vampire? Side show freakery?”

“You know what I want for you?” she asked. “I want you to find someone who could just know William Pratt, the man who has sacrificed himself for love over and over. Sometimes stupidly. Sometimes selfishly. Often perfectly.”

“You a fan of Pratt, then?”

Buffy shook her head. “Not for me, William. Be that man for her, whoever she is.”

With the stomach-churning taste of blood on his tongue, he chuckled. “You think love is in the cards for me?”

She half-smiled. “You’ve been a vampire, captured by the government, and been to Hell. I think you’re due for something good.”

They turned the corner where Dean was waiting in the freshly repaired Impala. Spike sighed but said nothing.

Buffy still picked up on his let-down. “You smell like a vampire Happy Meal. Probably better we don’t walk through town. You can crash at Dean’s. We don’t need the the girls knowing their principal beat up Crazy Basement Guy.”

“Is that what they call me?”

“Also Mystery Guy and Andrew’s Roommate.”

Spike slapped his hand over his heart in mock horror and climbed in the backseat of the Impala.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Lili Alma Dani Vi Cloé Molly Lys Grace Wook Keisha Leticia Naomi Kate Gabi Jabulela

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#spn x btvs #buffy x dean #buffy supernatural crossover #spn fanfic #btvs fanfiction #btvs series #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #buffy summers #spike #robin wood #sam winchester #potential slayers #andrew wells #buffy fan fiction #dean x buffy #btvs x spn #hunters on the hellmouth #huntersonthehellmouth

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stormx49 · 7 years ago

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Modern Demons

Sot System, Planet Dessara: 2100 Hours. For once on this barren planet, rain falls from the darkened clouds; something that I've never seen the time I spent here. With red lightning flashing in the distance and the sound of thunder following soon after. "KRA-KOOOOOM!" Roaring wild like an untamed beast, the thunder made its presence known. But I won't back down, not until I confronted the past once and for all. I've come back to Dessara, and I want to see what changed over the last few decades or so, and while I could walk through the sands, I decided to take a different form of transportation. I cruised across the sea of sand using a hoverbike, leaving behind a trail of dust behind me as I looked around, seeing nothing more than droplets of rain splattering on the lens of my biker goggles and the occasional streak of lightning arcing across the murky skies. Can't complain about the temperature, it felt cool for once, preventing my snow leopard fur from poofing up from the usual intense humidity. I also felt the black hair flowing behind me, along with the bristles that covered my body. As I drove onwards, going at speeds up to 100 miles per hour, I saw more than the weather, but neon glows in the distance where Ciudad de Polvo used to be. Metal spires ascending above the Earth, how the times changed indeed. Wanting to see it for myself, I made my way closer to the City of Dust... guess that title's not fitting anymore but it's what I called it during my days here. And once I had arrived, I saw a toll booth at the entrance of the city; so I slowed down and stopped at the toll booth, looking at the man stationed there. His blue eyes matched my own as he looked at me, his expression conveyed his lack of passion for this job of his. "Please present your ID or pay credits to enter Cráter de neón." The Neon Crater huh? So that's what it's called these days... "Sorry sir, I don't have any credits, I have American dollars on me, will that do?" I asked the guard, and he shrugged at me in response. "Sure, we take dollars, that'll be 25 U.S Dollars to enter the city." Lordy is that an expensive toll... but I had to see what's going inside; so I dug into my right pants pocket and pulled out a twenty and a five, giving it up to the man. "Here you go, sir." I replied. Quickly swiping the cash from my hand, he opened the gate. "Thank you, enjoy your stay at Cráter de neón." I nodded and rode on into the city with the gate closing behind me slowly. I rode on the paved roads and looked at the surroundings around me; Feeling quite dystopian with holographic advertisements, promoting sex, drugs, and guns. Scents of smoke and rain filled my nostrils as rode on, soon heading up a holographic path, glowing red as I saw people on the curbs, either begging for money or waiting to jump someone and murder innocent people for whatever they had in their pockets. Ciudad de Polvo was always a seedy cesspool, it just looks like the city got a facelift to me, without any actual changes made. Though it was kinda disorienting to find the old places I used to visit, there used to a be a watering hole I went to, now it's just a stand where they sell cheap porn magazines. Then I looked towards the sky, seeing a red bolt of lightning hit a skyscraper; but in actuality it was an electric collector, powering up this city. I kept driving, keeping my eyes towards the road... should've kept my eyes on the camera as well though now that I look back on this escapade. At the time it didn't matter when in reality it should've. Finally, I got off the road and found what to be a nightclub, looking like it would belong in the 1980's. "Hellhole." That's the name of the club? Charming. Still, it was good as any place to stop and I needed a pick me up. So I parked near the entrance, near the glowing orange neon sign and turned the bike off. Pocketing the key in the right pocket of my black jeans, I hopped off the bike and got my paws wet on the pavement, not even the black gauze wrapped around my feet protected them. My leopard tail wagged a bit to become limber while I straightened out the green plaid cover on my left side, it was hiding something for self-defense. I didn't need my goggles, for now anyways, so I took them off and let them hang above my onyx colored sleeveless combat armor. Then I walked towards the door, but the bald bouncer man stopped me before I got a paw in the door. "Sorry, you're not on the list." He grunted at me. "I'm a paying patron, I need a drink." I replied, telling him the truth. "It'll cost you to get in then." Glad to see bribery hasn't been changed since the last time I wasn't here. Sighing, shaking my head, I'd rather comply then start something. "How much?" I asked. "60 credits, or 80 bucks." Oh for heaven's sake that's expensive. So I dug into my pocket yet again, pulling out four 20 dollar bills and gave it to him, in return he opened the door for me with a poo-eating grin on his visage. "Welcome to the Hole." He greeted as I walked inside. 105 dollars spent so far, out of 200 I brought with me, so that left me with 95 bucks. Hopefully, I have enough for a drink and my way back home later. My first step in and already I could hear synthetic music blaring above the levels of 11, it was an assault on the audio senses. I think the track was called Fakheet if memory serves correctly. Once I got inside, it was mostly shrouded in the dark; save for a few orange and red lights flashing about. People were dancing, at least, I assume they're dancing and not just flopping about the place like a fish out of water. It was like a rave, a normal sight during the '80s. I wanted no part of that, all I want is a drink and be gone. So I headed to the bar, where there were a few customers getting drunk off the gourd; I sat on one of the black stools and looked at the bartender, he too looked bored to death like the tollbooth operator. "Got anything non-alcoholic!?" I asked, raising my voice so that I can be heard. He nodded then went to the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of Coca-Cola, sliding it towards me. I grabbed it and pulled out my other 5 and gave it to him. "Keep the change!" For once on this planet, I got a smile, one that was actually genuine. I smiled back and popped the lid open by smacking the bottle against the corner of the bar top and began to drink it. Looking around as I listened to the beating of the bass, the lights were quite bright in the dark, I also the name of the club pulsating yellow. Despite being a high tech city, this wouldn't look out of place from the Terminator movie. As I drink, I wasn't aware of 2 guys coming in, but they weren't dressed in casual clothes; oh no. Clad in armor with glowing blue lights and gear insignias on their chests, it seems some things haven't changed since last I was here. Those cameras I passed by earlier, turns out they belonged to my mortal nemeses... The Blue Gears. Anthro hating scum, they were when I was stationed here on Dessara, and back home on Earth... looks like they never left Dessara and when they spotted me, they pulled out their guns; one being a Pharo SMG, the other being a sawn off shotgun. Looking at the mirror above me, things were going to become chaotic. When I saw the Gear soldier aim his SMG at me, I spat out my drink and leapt over the counter as the bullets began to fly, causing some innocent bystanders to be perforated by bullets, others fled the nightclub. Luckily I avoided being shredded (although the bottles of liquor got shattered), now it was time to go on the counter-offensive. Brushing the kilt aside, I grabbed my version of Storm's latest firearm: the Cicitar SMG. Pulling it from the sling, I loaded a 30 round mag filled with 9x19mm rounds into the grip, put the weapon on full auto and grabbed the charging handle, pulling it back and letting it go to put a bullet in the chamber. "SHHHICK-CLICK!" Time to let the bullets fly. Once the gunfire stopped, I felt alcohol pour onto my fur and my armor as I popped up, shoulder against the wire stock, aiming down the sights and putting the green glowing front post onto the SMG wielding Gear, then I pulled the trigger. "RAT-TAT-TAT-TATA!" Firing at a rate of fire at 650RPM, bullets exited the barrel while spent cartridges were ejecting from the front, and the Gear in front of me was gunned down, staggering backward with blood splattering against the wall. He won't be getting back up anytime soon. However, his partner in crime was still standing. In response, he unloaded both barrels into me, right at center mass. I was knocked back against the wall and felt a pounding in my head, but my armor took the pellets well, keeping my flesh from being penetrated, though one of the plates fell off, exposing the left cup of my green frilly bra. Down, but not out. I put my SMG over the counter, slightly tilting the weapon to the left and emptied the remainder of my magazine. Blind firing paid off it seems because the shotgunner got outgunned. Taking out the Gear caused him to collapse in a pool of blood. Panting, I got to my feet and looked at the corpses of the Gears. My gut told me that this was only the beginning, it was time to get the heck out of Dodge, so they say. As I walked over to their corpses to search for any extra supplies, I dropped the empty mag from my Cicitar and grabbed the spare mag from my right pocket, inserted into the grip and primed the gun before holstering it again. Once I got to the corpses, I pilfered both of them; and while the shotgunner didn't have anything, the SMG soldier had something interesting: a BP-02 "Pup" Grenade Launcher. A single shot, break open grenade launching pistol. I grabbed it and opened it, finding there was only one shot, but it was all I need. I closed the pistol, holstered it in the right hip of my jeans and headed out of the club, putting my goggles on the way. I quickly got on my bike, grabbed the key and revved it up, then dashing out of there. There was no way I can go back the way I came, if my hunches were correct, they barricaded the way out. However I knew a back route out of the City of dust, and towards the village I stayed at. So I drove towards the electric collector. However, I wasn't out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. More Gears were coming up behind me, riding their sleeker hoverbikes and armed with various firearms, they were out for my blood and fur, but I won't give either to their grubby, racist hands. "Let's bust this ghost!" I heard one of them cry out, the rest cheered in unison. ...Really? That's what they got? I swear this is like a really bad '80's action flick; cheap quips and all. I think they got a futuristic version of the lever action shotgun from the Terminator 2 movie, at least 2 of them for sure. They aimed their guns at me and fired buckshot at my way and they even did the one handed flip cock thingy. Now's not the time to nitpick at my current premise, I swerved to the side, avoiding the buckshot and tried to lose them, however, it proved futile quick, so I pulled out my SMG, and when one felt brave to get to the left side of my bike to blast me, I retaliated with full auto fire. Annihilating both the driver and the gunner, their sleek hoverbike began to wobble out of control and flipped over me, I barely avoided being decapitated by ducking, and watched the bike crash into one the gun shops. An explosion rang out, sending fire and glass everywhere. But this chase scene kept going on, and soon there was a tunnel up ahead, I turned the headlights on and jetted inside, with the Gear bikers following close behind. With only one light illuminating my way forward along with the darkness surrounding me, I needed to be on top of my game. Once more I had to swerve to avoid the oncoming gunfire, and one biker got up too close and blasted his shotgun at me from the right, my armor taking the blow with chunks of armor falling to the wayside. Wincing, the sound of tinnitus entered my ear; drowning out the sound temporarily. For his action, I gave the Gear Gunner a hard elbow to his face, causing him to fall off the bike and his lever action to fly up into the air. I pulled hard to the left, rode up the wall of the tunnel while holstering my SMG and once I was upside down, grabbed the shotgun with my left hand, flip cocked it and pointed it down at the driver. They can make their quips all they want, but as for me? "BLAM!" Actions speak louder than words. The Gear got a faceful of buckshot from above and he fell off his hoverbike, and as it rolled away, I rode back down towards the right, once again right side up. 2 down, I think 2 more to go if I recall. Maybe 3. Soon my hearing went back to normal, the ringing faded away as another hoverbike came up towards my right, rather than trying to gun me down, they tried to knock my vehicle off course. I felt the jolt of their bike running into mine, losing speed briefly. I threw the shotgun right at the rider, causing him to fall off and the bike veered out of control. With plenty of fuel in the tank, I pushed ahead, soon seeing a light at the end of the tunnel and felt a cool breeze where the exposed parts of my armor were; though I'm used to the cold. Exiting the tunnel put me near what looked to be flood control tunnels, with some stagnant water underneath the bike. It splashed up water on both sides of the bike, drenching my fur a bit but I could see a ramp quite a ways away, that was my ticket out of this place. But before I could escape, there was an ambush I had to contend with; some of the Blue Gears had some XMV-850 Miniguns set up, barrels spinning and ready to unleash a flurry of bullets at me. With a wall of lead coming at me, I had to react, I swerved left and right, avoiding turned into leopard carpaccio. No way can I deal with them all, only 17 rounds left in my SMG, and I was holding onto my 'pup' grenade launcher until I absolutely needed it. I had to get out fast, already I felt a bullet graze my left cheek, the burning sting caused me to grimace with crimson blood trickling down. Desperate times called for desperate measures. This hoverbike model I'm riding had some turbo boosters installed, in case I really needed to go fast. Might sound like a deus ex machina, but as I mentioned, had to do something to stay alive. I flipped open the panel on the right side and pushed the red button and twisted it forward. Responding to my action, the thrusters began to glow white hot, causing the boosters to turn on and accelerate my speed to over 250mph, allowing me to evade the oncoming fire with precision. Winds were blowing in my face, thank goodness my eyes were protected as I was heading for the ramp leaving a white trail behind me. I could barely hear one of the Gears shout at the other troops. "Get mobilized, Erika's going to escape!" He cried out my name, barking like a dog to his minions. It didn't matter, I rode up and off the ramp, heading over the laser grid fence and landed back onto the dusty roads with a thud. Thinking I was in the clear, I ventured forth, but I should've known they won't quit, not for one bit. Following the long, winding path, I began to make my way towards the Azures Village, I haven't seen it in forever and I wanted to see if the rumors were true. I eased off the turbo and the bike began to slow back down to its normal speeds. A brief moment peace help calmed my nerves, but it was just that; brief. Sounds of gunfire behind me and bullets whizzing past my ears kicked the adrenaline back up. There were at least 4 behind me, unloading their machine pistols; it was time to end these fun and games once and for all. With my grenade launching pistol tucked away in my pocket, I knew an old ambush point towards the northwest, so I veered off road towards a narrow chokepoint. The sandstone walls grew taller and the path growing thinner, I had to be careful to not let the bike scrape against the wall. Testing my navigation and driving skills in one, I was about half a mile out when I saw an uphill path towards the right, that's where I needed to go, Easily turning into the path, I climbed up the hill and onto the flat top above. From there I put the hoverbike on park. Pulling out the grenade pistol, I waited, that choke point was a dead end and knowing the Gears, they went right down into the trench, lined up like ants at a picnic. Normally I don't like killing others, but I did this for two reasons. One: The Blue Gears attacked me, and Two: they've taken so many innocent anthro lives, justice had to be done. I had to take it into my own hands... the last few years I avoided conflict, feared to face the Gears after what they did so long ago. But hiding wouldn't do anything then, and it won't do a thing now. Soon I can hear the Gears coming down the line, as predicted, they were bumper to bumper and going slow, in fact, I can hear them cursing about me. "Where'd the little bitch go!?" A female Gear whined. "Keep your eyes open, Erika can be anywhere..." Another Gear warned, but it wouldn't help. I aimed the barrel down towards them... I knew I said I don't make epic one-liners earlier, but I couldn't help myself in this case. I whistled loud down towards them, causing them to stop and look around. "Hey, Gears!" I called down to them, left index finger wrapping around the trigger. "Catch!" With a sharp pull of the trigger, I fired the 40mm High Explosive grenade downwards. "TIIIIING!" The high explosive rapidly descended into the trench, landing right in the center of the line of hover bikes, once the grenade impacted with a bike, it exploded with immense force. "BROOOOOOOOOM!" A plume of smoke and orange fire, along with shrapnel ascended high into the air, it was bright and temporarily blinded me, but once my vision came back, I looked down and saw embers flutter up towards the night sky. No one could've survived that, so I chucked the grenade pistol down into the trench and into the wreckage. With the deed done, I revved up the bike and resumed the ride towards the Azures Village, uninterrupted this time. Once upon a time, the Azures Village was a place of peace, tranquility, and love; with clean waters coming from the waterfalls up the cliffside, fresh fruit growing every day, it was home. The tribe who resided there were all anthros, and their elder, Thom Radmus, took me in like he was my father... my actual father. But of course the Gears had to try and eradicate the village, thinking this was an easy job; but they underestimated us. We may be timid on to the outside world, when we were provoked, however, we were viciously territorial and defended our village at all costs. There were times we nearly lost the Azures to the Gears... no thanks to my sister, Ayala. Regardless we prevailed time after time, but that was before the time Storm came to my village, it was a reunion, both good... and not so good. I was supposed to take Storm to the COABEL unit stationed there to be teleported home... turned out the Gears occupied the base and it was supposed to be an easy job. Turned out it didn't go that way, my sister lead them and succeeded in defeating me... putting me in a situation where Storm had to mercy kill me... It's still something that haunts both of us to this day. Though I've been resurrected since that day, I still have nightmares about what happened then. In order to silence the demons once and for all, I needed to go back to the Azures. However, since then... things changed. Liandri found the village and ordered genocide on the village, and while my kind bravely fought them off... they perished. Now the village is used for their Deathmatch arena, where millions watch the blood sport on live holovision. While the area's usually closed off to visitors, there was one spot that Liandri had opened up to me personally, it took a lot of convincing to the president of Liandri, but he eventually agreed to open the spot up. That spot is the mass grave up by the bridge over the waterfall, where the roars drowned out the sound the rainfall, at least the lightning finally stopped I made my way towards the graveyard. Along the way, I took off my goggles, tried to think of a speech to say to the fallen, and grabbed some flowers growing from the bush, being white roses that were blooming in full. The thorns may dig into my fur, but I didn't care at the time. Following the glow of the blue fireflies, they lead me to the graves. Carved in stone and standing tall with their names etched into their tombstones, there were at least 30 of them, some men, some women... and even some of them children, all massacred at the hands of the soulless, corrupt Liandri. Walking over to each and one of them, I dropped a rose over the mound of dirt, trying to hold back the tears. Once I got to the last tombstone, my knees grew weak and I collapsed, weeping with tears of sorrow flowing down my face; the rose slipped from my grip and onto the patch of the dirt. This was the grave of the man who took me in as his own, taught me to be strong, to believe in myself, helped me when I had PTSD induced nightmares... "Here lies Elder Thomus Radmus: 1945-2015 Leader of the Azures Village, Guardian of Peace And beloved father to those who loved him May he be free of the Hells on Dessara And reunite with our Captain: Erika Kinderington." It hurt... it still hurts... But I have to remain strong, for I am the last of the Nakotans... and now the last member of the Azures Village. I carry their memories with them, and I will fight for them, for Elder Thom, for Storm, for Phoibe... For them. Til now. Til the end of time.

#Writers Block Broken #Action Story #Story #Unreal Tournament Related #Sci-Fi

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ifishouldvanish · 8 years ago

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For Art and Happiness

Chapter 7: Two Women

Summary: A repressed Belle runs from home to pursue a life of freedom in a new city. To support herself, she turns to modeling for local eccentric painter, Ross Gold. Known as the Town Pornographer, Gold’s avant-garde work and lifestyle exposes her to the very ideas her father sought to guard her from. Rating: M, for sexual themes Tags: Sexual Repression, 19th Century, fin de siecle, Art History, Body Image, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Miscarriage mention, sexual anxiety This Chapter: Ross struggles to make peace with Cora’s departure. Valerie = Cruella Previous Chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[Read on AO3]

Ross knocks impatiently on the heavy red door of the Schäfer’s home. There’s some shuffling about on the other side before he’s greeted by Mary Margaret’s voice.

“Just a minute!” She calls from inside.

“Take your time.” He sighs with petty annoyance, much to quietly for her to hear.

The door swings open a minute later, revealing Mary Margaret with the baby in her arms. She looks exhausted, but happy nonetheless. Ross is certain Mary Margaret grew up with every expectation that she would have midwives and house staff to help her care for any children she might have. But that isn’t the life of an artist, certainly not ones like he and David. She waved goodbye to such comforts when she married him, and while he might pity her naivete toward life amongst the city's lesser half, he has to admire her heart. Mary Margaret chose love. Unlike Cora.

“...Herr Gold.” Mary Margaret nods, putting on an uneasy smile.

Ross wets his lips. “Frau Schäfer.”

“What do you—” She cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Hi.” She says, smiling more convincingly this time. “Why don't you come in? David's in the studio.”

“Thank you.” He nods curtly, stepping inside. He looks at the baby in her arms with a smile. “Hello, Emma.” He says, poking a finger at her belly. She babbles and reaches for him, and Ross smiles.

“Things have been a bit chaotic here.” Mary Margaret admits with a chuckle, starting down the hall. “Everyone’s been in and out, preparing for the exhibition.”

Ross doesn’t say anything, his smile slipping away as he follows her inside. He hasn’t put much thought into the exhibition, despite all of Cora’s encouragement. If he’s honest, he always thought it was a bit of a dog and pony show, and a pathetic one at that— at least as far his circles were concerned. His colleagues were all vying for approval from the artistic elites and the Academy. No matter where he went— London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague— there was always some new school of artists intent on showing the world the full potential of what art could be. But quite frankly, Ross never gave half a rat’s arse whether or not people thought his art was any good. As long as he was getting enough sales and commissions to keep food on his table, he was happy.

Happy enough.

Mary Margaret gives him another uneasy smile as they step into the studio where David is cleaning his brushes. He hears them walk in and smiles, walking over and planting an affectionate kiss on his wife’s lips, and another on his daughter’s head, before the two scurry away again.

“Ah, Ross!” David looks at Ross with a broad, genuine smile. “It’s been far too long. How are you?”

“Fine.” He answers listlessly.

“How's Cora?”

Ross clears his throat. “...Engaged to be married.” He says as he steps further into the studio space. He immediately turns his focus to the rows of canvases along the wall.

David's expression freezes as he tries to decide whether he should be offering his congratulations or condolences. “When’s... the big day?” He asks tentatively.

Ross stops thumbing through the paintings and clicks his tongue. “That’s a lovely question.” He declares, spinning around with the snap of his fingers. “Perhaps you could ask our esteemed friend Herr Berger the next time he drops by to express his grievances against the Secession.”

David blinks. “Excuse me?”

“She’s marrying Berger.”

David’s expression dampens and he looks at his colleague helplessly. “Ross. ...I— I’m sorry.”

Ross scowls and goes back to browsing his work. “Well it’s hardly your fault now, is it?”

“No, but...” David furrows his brows and steps closer. “Why?” He asks in a whisper.

“Oh, something about her father’s farmland being the only place this side of the Donau where he can set up shop for his steel operation.”

“Ach.” David frowns. “I’ve gotten more than a few offers on this place myself. But after how hard Mutti and I had to fight to hold onto it? I’ll die before I let some industrialist turn it into a factory.”

Ross sighs and moves to the next pile. “Yes well, I’m afraid the only loyalties Herr Mϋller has are to his Schnapps.” He mutters. He quickly thumbs through the canvases and spins on his heels to face David again. “Was she here?” He asks abruptly.

David reels back, furrowing his brows. “...When?”

“Last week.” Ross clips. “I’m damnably curious to know if there's anything else she's been lying to me about.”

“I—” David clears his throat. “Yeah. She was in on Tuesday.” He peers around the studio, his eyes widening as they land on something. “Here—” He says, snapping a finger and walking up to one of the canvases he has set out to dry. “We worked on this.”

Ross studies the painting with a mixture of awe and anger. Cora looks beautiful, her auburn hair stylized as a rhythmic stream of sinuous lines and spirals, accented with gold leaf. She proudly holds up a platter, gazing reverently at something which has yet to be executed— a blank area waiting to be filled with a severed head.

“Salome.” Ross observes.

“That's right.”

“...Fitting.” He says bitterly. Of all the models he and David work with, who better to play the part of the femme fatale than his beloved Cora? He just can't decide if he's her Herod— a means to an end, or her John— the object of some perverse affection of hers.

A little smile tugs at David's lips. “You know... If you aren’t busy this afternoon, I think you would make a great John the Baptist.” He chuckles.

Ross huffs out a bitter laugh. “Indeed.”

“Honestly. Would you mind?” David nods toward the canvas he’d been working on before he arrived. “I'm waiting for the latest coat to dry.”

Ross looks around the studio and shrugs. “Where would you like me to sit?”

David picks the canvas up and surveys the room for a moment. “Usual seat should be fine.” He smiles, carrying it over to his easel.

“So how are you holding up?” David asks, peeking around the canvas to look Ross in the eyes. “You two were always so… I don’t know, inseparable.” He shrugs, returning to his work.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Ross sighs. After a moment, he scoffs. “Part of me always expected it, honestly. I mean, look at me. What she ever saw, I will never understand. I’m lame, beaten, used up, old—”

“Ach!” David shakes his head and Ross rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to anyone’s pity. “Alright, alright.” David laughs, “So you are lame and banged up and older than most of us. But— you are also brilliant!”

Ross tries not to glow under his praise. David is the kind of man Ross wishes he was. Warm, kind, open. Likeable. David may be much younger than he is, but Ross respects the man and the thought that he sees anything admirable in him is a comfort, as much as he hates to admit it.

“Prolific, passionate, experienced, wise ...Handsome?” David continues, wiggling his brows.

A little smirk tugs at Ross’ lips. “...Now I know you’re full of it.”

“You have a great face for portraiture!” David insists, “The angles, the way the light hits your features. It's very intense, expressive.” He puts his brush down and takes a step back to evaluate his progress. “Rembrandt and Caravaggio would have been very lucky to paint a face like yours.”

Ross allows himself a tiny smile at this, but quickly wipes it away. “My art is suffering.” He confesses, trying to change the subject. “Nothing I do seems to satisfy me. I’m becoming frustrated.”

“I think that’s understandable.” David shrugs, picking his brush back up and continuing to work. “You and Cora were quite the team. But you’ll find something or someone else to inspire you. You just need a new perspective.”

“It’s not just Cora though.” Ross mumbles. “I’ve felt myself slipping the past few months.”

“It happens. But you’ve got the soul of a true artist, Ross. You’ll come back from it.”

He considers this for a moment. He doesn’t hate everything he’s done the past few months. Looking back on the past few weeks, he can actually recall a few pieces he’s pleased with. There’s the charcoal he did of Belle, the commission for Herr Hutmacher, a painting of Belle—

He suddenly feels his mouth go dry and clears his throat. “Have you—” He sighs and wets his lips. “H-have you ever had a young woman by the name of Belle come by? To sit for you?”

“Belle?” David pouts and hums thoughtfully. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“She came to sit for me a few weeks ago. Comes by quite often.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I gave her your information last week. Told her you might have more work for her. Curious, is all.”

David frowns. “Could you describe her?”

“Petite.” He shrugs. “Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes… An accent you wouldn’t soon forget. ...She’s ah, French.” He explains with a cough.

David peeks at him from behind the easel and smiles. “...Nope.” He says, disappearing once again. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

*****

Ross’ visit to the Schäfer’s yesterday has left him with more questions than answers. He was hoping to catch Cora in a lie. To find out she never stepped foot in David’s studio last week at all, but had instead been plotting and scheming to leave him all along. It would make it so much easier for him to let her go. But now he just feels more confused.

His eyes dart back and forth between the two women sprawled out on his floor, and the drawing on his easel. He’s producing shite today again. The lines he puts down lack certainty, and his drawing altogether is nothing more than a mockery of the scene before him. Valerie and Ursula are women in love, lit from within by a flame they each ignite in the other when they touch.

He and Cora had such a flame, or so he thought.

Ross tears the paper from his easel and scrunches it up. “Verdammt!” He hurls the balled-up drawing across the room and it lands on the floor, joining the pile of all his other abandoned efforts from the past week. The two women finally stop caressing each other in favor of sitting up and glaring at him. He tries to ignore them, fixing his gaze on the floor and kicking a crate of supplies. The few inches the heavy thing moves aren’t even close to worth the pain that shoots up his leg, causing him to yelp in pain. The whole display is more embarrassing than anything else.

“It is incredible,” Valerie scoffs and leans into Ursula's ear. “So much anger in such little man...”

“Shut up!” Ross hisses, pointing his stick of charcoal at her threateningly. Both women let out a snort of laughter that makes him fume even more.

“Do not worry. I would be angry, too.” Valerie pouts, taking a feigned kind of pity on him. “If I were man who cannot draw, cannot paint, cannot keep woman, cannot— how you say— get it up.”

“Valerie!” Ursula says through a giggle, giving her a shove. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds.”

“Eh,” Valerie shrugs and stretches over to her pile of clothes, searching for her cigarette case. It’s an ornately engraved silver piece, an artifact from the comfortable life she’d left behind in Prague’s Dejvice district.

“You know,” Ross warns, “your friend has a point.”

Valerie tilts her head back and laughs, then lights her cigarette. “You want to threaten me? I get you soap box so you can look into my eyes when you do it. ...Little man.”

Ross clenches his jaw and lets out a huff. He should have fired Valerie the first time she started with the comments about his height and fragile ego, but he's not too proud to admit that he's a lonely man, and he finds himself enjoying her and Ursula's company for reasons that defy his comprehension.

“See, Ulla?” Valerie says, nodding toward him with an amused grin. “What will he do? Nothing.”

Ross relaxes his jaw and exhales slowly. She’s right. He won’t do a damned thing.

“Alright, I’m sorry.” Ursula sighs. “Sore subject, but... Berger?” She says, cringing as she says the name. Her forehead wrinkles from the way she raises her brows. “The same Berger who tried to pay off your landlord to kick you two out? And when that failed, reported you for harboring unregistered prostitutes?”

“Aye, that’s the one!” Ross says bitterly, dropping his charcoal into his tin and readying another sheet of paper on his easel. Perhaps he’ll have better luck with crayon today.

“Well, you seem to be taking it well.” She says dryly, eyeing the crumpled up drawings and deserted canvases that litter the floor. Several of Cora’s portraits have been torn off the walls and ripped to pieces, and one unlucky canvas seems to have been stabbed at least twenty times with a palette knife. “You really loved her, didn't you?”

“Well, I wouldn't let her live here with me if I hated her, now would I?” He snarls, and Ursula rolls her eyes.

“You waste your time,” Valerie says, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“And you— ” Ross steps over to her and plucks it from her lips, “waste your money.”

“Hej— what I use my kronen for is not your business,” she snips, taking it back.

“Ah...” he chuckles, wagging a finger at her. “And what I spend my time on is none of yours.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugs and puffs on her cigarette.

Ross waits, folding his arms and raising his brows expectantly.

“But I tell you—” She starts up again and Ross can't help but smile at the impending dose of unwarranted advice. “Cora is no good. Can smell it on her. Like corpse rotting from inside out.” She pauses and exhales a ring of smoke. “...You should get dog.” She says with sudden decisiveness. “They smell rotting flesh from mile away.”

Ross stops rifling for a crayon and narrows his eyes at her, bewildered. “What in the hell are you talking about? What the hell am I going to do with a fucking dog?!”

She wags her smoking hand about as she arrives at an explanation. “You don’t have such problem to begin with if you have dog. Cora works for you first time, dog growls, and you know— Cora is no good. ” She puffs out a ring of smoke and wrinkles her nose. “Send her packing before you get penis involved.”

In his emotionally compromised state, Ross doesn’t think a guard dog for his heart sounds like too bad of an idea. Not that he’ll admit to it.

“...Just suggestion.” Valerie says with a shrug after his lack of response.

“Well, in case it wasn’t clear: I don’t pay you to make suggestions,” he grumbles, finally putting crayon to paper.

“You should,” She snickers, a sly smile shaping her lips. “I can teach you how to please woman— no dick necessary. Is that not right, Ulla?”

Ursula snorts. “I think that is the least of Ross’ problems.”

Ross clenches his fist and breaks his crayon in two. “I could please her just fine!”

“You’re so smart,” Valerie chuckles, leaning in to peck Ursula on the cheek. “This is why I love you.” She looks back to Ross and shakes her head. “My husband— thought same thing.”

“Oh? You mean the one you murdered?” Ross points out, digging through his tin for another crayon that hasn’t already been reduced to a nub.

Valerie draws back and puts a hand over her heart. “It was accident.”

“Sure it was.”

Abandoning appearances, she shrugs her shoulders and points at him with her cigarette. “I make it look like one. Police in Praha… very stupid. See no difference.”

Ross rolls his eyes and looks at Ursula. “And you sleep next to this woman every night?”

“Quite soundly.” She nods.

“See?” Valerie drapes an arm around Ulla’s shoulder. “Because I kill man, she knows I can protect her.” She smiles, leaning in and nuzzling her neck.

“So you’re saying—” Ross scoffs and resumes drawing, “I should have killed Herr Berger?”

“Jistý. ...If you want, I can show you how to make it look like accident too.” She offers boastfully. Her expression suddenly darkens and she hunches forward. “But I will be honest to you, Herr Gold— because you amuse me. Cora… she leave you either way.”

Ross groans and stares blankly ahead. “So are you saying she was just a good liar, then?”

“No, no. You do not understand. She loves you. But she leave you still. Such is the cruel bitch that is life.” She laughs and shakes her head. “You men, so naive.”

Ross groans and rolls his eyes. “Ursula, what the hell is she talking about?”

“Women like Cora are raised early on to forget about love. Marry for money, marry for status. Something silly romantic men like you don't understand.”

Ross raises his brows and blinks repeatedly in disbelief. “I'm silly and romantic?”

Valerie and Ulla look at each other for a moment and burst into laughter. “...Yes!”

He scowls. Silly? Ross Gold is not silly and romantic, he thinks. Ross Gold is… sensible. Hardened by the heartless world around him. Dark, even. And romantic? He’s anything but. Unloved and unloving. An enemy of love, and Cora had been his ally.

“I think Cora loved you.” Ursula finally says to comfort him, “but to her, the money and status is more important. I’m sorry Ross, but I don’t think you ever stood a chance.”

“Then what is the goddamned point!?” He snaps, giving his easel a shove. It's such a pointless act, doing nothing to quench the flame of frustration in his chest. He takes a deep breath to compose himself, and the frustration turns to sorrow. “Why bother getting attached to somebody just to… abandon them?” He slouches his shoulders and sulks across the studio to plop into the armchair.

“Well if I remember correctly, you never asked for her hand...” Ursula says. “Can’t blame the girl for moving o—”

“Of course I didn’t ask for her hand! She never wanted that!” Ross blurts as the frustration returns for a fleeting moment, leaving him again as quickly as it came. “We were just… fine the way things were,” he mutters under his breath, not sounding the least bit convinced of it himself.

“She must think about children.” Valerie says. “Place like this— no good.”

“She doesn't even like children!”

“Ne, she does not like street vermin you let in and feed like your own.” Valerie says, pointing in the air with her cigarette. “Woman must think about her children. But me? I decide very quick, no children.”

“I don’t understand.” Ross sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I asked her: ‘Are you happy, sweetheart?’ And she gave me every assurance that she was.”

Valerie plucks another cigarette from her case and offers it to him. After a moment's hesitation, he tucks it between his lips and leans in so she can light it. He smokes in silence in for a moment, his thumb rubbing over the crayon in his other hand while his eyes scan over the portraits of Cora that remain on the walls.

“When she didn't come back from David's the first night… It was like I could sense something was wrong, you know? I was going to visit and check on her, but I told myself no— she likes her space, leave it, she will come back when she’s ready… And now— And now...”

Ross’ lip quivers and he curls in on himself. The feeling is back. The emptiness. The shame. He takes a series of heaving breaths until the overwhelming panic subsides.

“...Now she’s gone...” He exhales slowly. His shoulders ease a little and he takes another deep breath. “...Now’s she’s gone.”

“See? It is okay.” Valerie hushes, patting a hand on his lap. “You will meet another woman. Maybe next one will be more young, bigger breasts, not so tall…” She snorts, “Next to her, you might almost feel like real man.”

“Have you any idea how many women I’ve met over the years?” Ross sighs. “Cora was… she was just different.”

Valerie scowls. “Like I say— you waste your time on that one.”

Ross rolls his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“Listen, Ross.” Ulla says. “You just need to take your heartbreak and put it into your art. Suffer for the art, like the rest of your colleagues.”

“Oh, that's original.” He scoffs, carelessly throwing his crayon across the room. It strikes the wall and mars one of Cora's portraits with a harsh black line.

“David produced some of his best work while he was holding a torch for Mary Margaret.” Ursula points out. “That is all.”

“Exactly!” Valerie chimes in. “David's work now? Nothing special.”

“And Mal?” Ulla adds, “The work she did after her beloved Ružička was wed to that Stephan— some of the most inspired pieces I've ever seen.”

Ross presses the heels of his palms over his eyes and groans, slouching back into his chair. “Mal Fiala has not produced a single canvas in years.” He reminds them.

“Ich weiß...” Ulla sighs. “It is a tragedy.”

“Better to make no art than bad art, I say.” Valerie shrugs. “Or worse— so-so art.” She adds sourly. “This is why now, we sit for you, Herr Gold. Ulla and I, we follow the talent.” She says proudly, making another dramatic gesture with her smoking hand. “People think we follow the kronen, but this is not true. We do not sit for just anybody. We have taste. Standards.”

Ross raises a brow at her and plucks the cigarette from between his lips. “Is that all? ...And after all this time, I was beginning to think it was because we were friends.” He jokes.

“...Friends?” Valerie tries to frown, but a smile quickly takes hold of her lips. “I do not know what this word means, Herr Gold! But I do know, if there are going to be portraits of me in museum fifty years from now, they will be damned good portraits. And when I am dead, if people think I am secret lover of yours, I say, even better.”

“My lover?” Ross tries not to retch at the thought. “Wouldn't you rather be remembered as the sapphic murderess you really are?”

“Eh.” Valerie snorts and taps the ashes from her cigarette. “People will look at your drawings of Ulla and me making love, read her poems to me, and say, ‘How nice it is, that white woman and black woman are friends!’ More stupid than police in Praha.” She snickers, “But! You do enough drawings of me, they will assume I am your Miláček. The scholars will wonder, ‘Who is enchanting woman in Ross Gold's art? So beautiful and free-spirited she is!’ I will become symbol, like Mona Lisa, and live forever.”

"I hate to disappoint," Ross sighs, “But at this rate, the only place my work will end up is in the trash.”

“Ne, ne, ne.” Valerie tuts. “Your work belongs in trash, I will be first to tell you. Like true friend.”

He raises a brow at her. “I thought you said we weren’t friends.”

She scowls. “You are one of least stupid people in Wien, so for you I make exception.”

Ross presses his lips into a thin line, trying to decide if he should be flattered or not.

“...Still pretty stupid though.”

He groans internally and rolls his eyes. “Go, both of you. Get dressed. We're done here.”

Both women roll their eyes and get up, plucking their clothes of the floor.

“I still expect full day's pay.” Valerie mutters as she dresses herself.

Ross waves the two of them away. “You know where I keep it.” He mumbles.

Valerie grins and saunters over to the little end table in the corner. “Yes, I do...” She hums, pulling the drawer open and grabbing more than her share of crowns. “Come, Ulla. We get drunk tonight.” She looks to Ross with a smirk. “Gold— What do you say you come with us? I feel generous. Let me buy you drink with your money.”

Ross shoots her a defeated look.

“Eh.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You are probably sad drunk, anyway.”

They finish dressing and head to the front door. Ulla pauses when she rests her hand on the knob. "Sure you don't want to come?"

Ross slouches deeper into his chair and lets out a puff of smoke. "Quite certain."

A/N:

In the New Testament, Salome dances for and seduces her stepfather Herod, who in return offers to give her anything she wishes, up to half of his kingdom. Salome’s mother tells her to request the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter, and Herod delivers.

Oscar Wilde wrote a play based on this story in 1894. In his version, Salome is infatuated with John, and demands his head after he rejects her. In art of this time, Salome was frequently used to represent the femme fatale, the dangers of seduction, and the world of vice and hedonism that developed alongside the industrial revolution.

Prior to this time period, Salome was depicted as an innocent girl unaware her sexuality, but the Symbolist Salome was a very witting seductress. The art is kind of amazing (tw for severed heads?):

“The Apparition” by Gustav Moreau, 1877. Oil on Canvas. (Moreau did a TON of Salomes and they’re all gorgeous)

“Salome” by Lucien Levy Dhurmer, 1896. Pastel.

“Salome” by Max Oppenheimer, 1913. Oil on Canvas. (NSFW, probably?)

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic

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kellyzeagman · 5 years ago

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Hello hello

In 2 days I will officially have 1 MONTH LEFT. 4 weeks sounds better, 30 days sounds even better. Two girls from my team leave tomorrow (the 5th). So happy for them to get to go home, but honestly it’s going to be really sad to see them go. We got really close. Sydney is from Halifax so perhaps our paths will cross again, but Vera lives all the way in Russia so who knows if we will ever meet again, I really hope we can. Two great girls gone at the same time. Also it’s a bit sad in the sense that them leaving makes everyone else want to leave as well. We are all jealous. Our team of 12 has stayed the same since October. No new people and no one has left. My boss and other co workers have said they have never had a group stay the same for so long, because on bigger ships and ships with different itineraries, teams change up all the time, even every 2 weeks. Some ships even have 30+ youth staff, whereas we just had a tight group of 12. So, this has been so great getting to know everyone for 4 months without changes. Two new girls from England will be coming on the 5th to replace them. It will be nice to meet new people and have a bit of change, but the two leaving will definitely be missed! I feel very lucky to have been a part of such a strong team that all gets along and works well together.

Anyways, I guess cruise ship life is filled with lots of quick hellos and goodbyes, only this time you don’t know if you’ll ever see them again. It’s going to be so weird when they leave, considering we all spend every waking minute together. Working, eating, going out, drinking, hanging out at ports, relaxing, etc.. you see them all day every day. I guess I’m just not used to people leaving yet whereas everyone else is. The 5th is our biggest turnaround day yet. 200 people signing off, and 200 people signing on. They also said it’s the biggest cruise so far in terms of provisions (loading on/off). Think of how much food and drink and other supplies will be needed for 2 weeks, crazy. When I say turnaround day, I’m referring to the day that all the people from the previous cruise leave, and a few hours hours later all the new people from the next cruise come one it’s QUITE the operation. I can’t believe people leave and come on all in a matter of hours. Last guests usually get off around 9:30, then people can start coming on around 10:30/11:30. Insane.

We have now completed our 3 day and 2 day cruises. Still seems like such a waste of man power/ resources/ fuel to have people on for this short of time. I thought it would have been a lot crazier, but it wasn’t too bad. The kids were definitely not the best behaved. Quick and cheap cruise= no cares. We now move onto our 2 week cruise. Thankfully, I think there’s only 300ish kids and half of them are teenagers. It should make for a more relaxing and less stressful time. However, the 2 week cruise is already starting off on a rough note and it doesn’t even start till tomorrow. Two of our ports (Lifou and Mare) are not letting any cruises stop for the time being because of the coronavirus. Purely just for their safety, if it ever reached these islands and spread, it would be so horrible because they have very little resources and medical care. So, it’s to protect them. For us though, we’ve had to change some things around.

Now because of the 2 cancelled ports, we had to add another port to the schedule and they’ve actually turned it into an overnight stay. Luganville, Vanuatu. It’s such a questionable place to have an overnight. Usually, overnights happen in European places where there’s a lot of stuff near the ship and great night life, where people can walk off and explore and party and then walk back on whenever. We have been to luganville one other time last minute because of a change in schedule and there’s really noooooothing there. It’s about a 15 minute walk to the “downtown” which is so incredibly poor and rundown. And not to be judgemental, but if anyone took that 15 minute walk at night during the overnight to go downtown for god knows what, I feel like it would be pretty dangerous. It will be interesting. There’s a lot of cool places/beaches to drive to during the day, but night time is gonna be a bit sketch. We shall see. I won’t be getting off at night. Guests probably aren’t going to be very happy, so hopefully they just decide to not come. ;) the kid count just got printed off and there will only be about 133 kids which is AMAZING. I’m sure they will still be just as loud and competitive as ever.

Aussie kids are a different breed. The sound of 6-11 year old boys screaming “YOU’RE OUT” during ball games will truly echo in my head until the day I die. It sounds more like “uuurrrrr aaauuutt”. It’s the most annoying thing in the world and happens constantly for 9 hours of my day almost every day. I really do think that they are very different than Canadian kids that I’ve worked/volunteered/interacted with. It will be interesting coming home to see how different they really are and compare. Lots of my friends are saying the Australian kids we’ve had this contract are the toughest kids they’ve ever had to deal with. They definitely aren’t as chill or laid back as I thought they would be. There’s also endless amounts of kids considered “special attention” meaning ADHD, anxiety etc.. again, people say more than any other countries they have done. Now that I’m finishing this up, I feel I can do anything. My Russian friend was part of the nursery staff. We all rotate age groups, but there’s 2 girls who spend 95% of their time in the nursery. Now that she’s gone, I am the one taking her spot in the nursery, as I’ve been the one spending most of the time in the nursery when one of the two girls are off. I’m excited because babies and toddlers are super cute. It’s stressful In different ways compared to the 3-11 year olds. You can have up to 8 babies in the nursery.

On turnaround day after the 3 day cruise I had the entire day off. This was probably going to be my last full day to explore Sydney, so I decided to do the hop on hop off bus tour. Of course, it was pouring rain. But rain never killed nobody so I still went. I brought a rain jacket and sat alone at the top with my hood on, still great. I only got off at bondi beach, where I spent about 3 or 4 hours. When I got there it was so incredibly cloudy, but it’s still quite the sight to see. First thing first I went to the nearest vegan joint where I could stuff my face. I went to a savoury vegan pie place, absolutely amazing. Got mashed potatoes, gravy, two pies and an Oreo milk shake. ALSO the cafes dog sat beside me the entire time I ate, which was SO nice because before this, I had only interacted with one dog in the last 4 months, which was a stray on the beach. This one was nice and clean and friendly and was so nice to actually pet and hangout with a dog. 2 dogs in 4 months for a brief amount of time is sad. It was everything I didn’t know I needed. I will think about that meal until I get to come home. The food situation on the ship is still so unfortunate for me, so any food that isn’t what I eat every day at the mess is amazing to me. If you want a bit of an idea, this is it. The ship hardly has any vegetarian options, let alone vegan. Every day they have a vegetarian table with 4 options. 98% of the time it is a creamy soup and some sort of casserole with cheese or cream, so can’t have either of those. The other 2 are almost always steamed cauliflower, or ratatouille. I’m done with both, I’ve had it too many times. Aside from that vegetarian specialty table, there’s some other things throughout the mess. I pretty much switch up between pasta, rice, salad, peanut butter sandwiches, roast potatoes, cereal and cucumbers every day. I’m reallllllyyyy over it. So I try and go crazy on food every time I get off in Sydney.

ANYWAYS- After lunch at bondi I walked to length of the beach watching the surfers while walking through the incredibly cold water. There’s a reason they all wore wet suits. The sand was soooo nice and soft, probably the nicest I’ve ever walked on. I had so much time there that I debated booking a surfing lesson but had no bathing suit or towel. I will definitely come back to do it one day in my life!! The area of Bondi itself is so hip and laid back. Everyone is SO beautiful and I felt out of place as I was soaking wet like a drenched rat in my raincoat while they were all in their surf and beach attire. It was probably the coolest place I’ve ever been in the sense of atmosphere and vibes. I didn’t feel cool enough to be there, especially alone hahaha. Loads of backpackers and tourists. Tons of surf shops, souvenirs stores and cafes/restaurants. I imagine it is a very prestigious place to live and super expensive. The views/locations around bondi have to be some of the best/most expensive in the world. I would love to spend a few days there to truly soak in the atmosphere, though I did pretty much everything in under 4 hours. Love you Bondi!!

Hmm what else to say. That girl who I said was coming from China and gonna be confined for 2 weeks isn’t coming anymore because they aren’t sending Chinese people anymore. However, they did end up sending back the same captain that we had during the Asian season and he is from China. He is confined to his room for 2 weeks, but his room is enormous and has all the bells and whistles, so I don’t feel too bad. OH, I finally have a new roommate, I don’t remember if I said this last time. Solo living has officially come to an end. She’s from Indonesia and works for housekeeping. She’s very quiet but has worked on ships before, she looks to be around my age. We work opposite shifts most times. She usually works during the night while I’m sleeping, and she sleeps during the day while I work. It’s been good, but I definitely miss having my own room, though I still kind of feel like I do because we hardly see each other.

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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The Spirit is Willing . . . [SF]

“Good, bad, or ugly, we have to stop somewhere.”, I tell Martin my assistant.

“Elena, I’ve seen several presentations that most of our competitors have done in the past. This is light-years ahead of them in both specs and overall zing.”, Martin responds.

“Zing?”, I question.

“Zing. The ‘It’ factor. Call it what you want. That little something extra that says ‘Trust these people with this company over the others.’”, Martin downloads the last of the presentation to the portable storage.

“OK. I’ll pick you up here 7am Monday for the ride to the station. Our shuttle to the central-core leaves 9am, that should give us enough time.”, I say, not exactly relishing the 43 hours and 5 transfers it’ll take us to reach the regional Imperial Trade offices near the galactic core. As important as this deal is to our firm (architectural and construction specs for a nanotech manufacturing complex of buildings), I dread the trip there and back even more than the actual presentation.

Leaving the office side door into another grey winter evening. The amber sun kissing the horizon as I step from the office lobby onto the street. The messenger bag strap across my opposite shoulder fighting me as I reach for the hood to pull it up against the cold mist just starting to come down.

I turn right off the main drag, taking a short-cut through an alley to knock two thirds of a block off my trip to the Larsen Street subway entrance.

Halfway down the alley, two men appeared from behind a dumpster near the rear exit of Lutang’s Chinese Restaurant. The man on the left already has a knife out, the man on the right is sweeping his jacket back to draw, I presume, a gun of some sort.

Messenger bag out of the way my hands were already free. With a simultaneous flick, my left wrist came up and removed the left mans hand (and the knife it was holding) searing it closed just behind his wrist. The man on the right drawing the gun, I pivoted down my right wrist and sliced him in half, downward diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. Both movements required no more effort than slicing through the air itself. I looked down to find a roman gladiator sword in my left hand, and Katana in my right. Both dripping blood.

As the two-piece man on my right fell to the ground, the man with the missing hand, now holding the bloody stump with his other hand, was running away screaming.

Well Shit. Another police report to file. And I begin to pray this won’t delay my departure Monday.

I looked down at the weapons in my hands as the blood dropped off and they flowed back and reformed into the bracelets I always wear. I’d had them for almost thirty years, and seldom give them a thought but Granddad was right, they do come in handy.

I pull a phone from my bag and begin running through excuses in my mind. Did I find the two-piece man like this? Was the severed hand already there? Do I have blood on my clothes that would contradict that story? I make up something and answer the emergency operators questions. Could I just tell them the truth? Maybe, but I’d prefer everyone didn’t know what I had, or was capable of doing.

While I’m waiting for the police/ambulance to arrive, I think back to when I first received the forearm bracelets some thirty years earlier. . .

—

I must have been what, ten? Dad was gone somewhere on a business trip and mom had taken a few days off to drive us to get his father and bring Granddad home to live with us.

“How bad is Granddad’s memory?”, I ask as I ride along.

“Not so bad.”, mom replies. “The doctors have stabilized him, it won’t get any worse from here. And it’s not so much his memory, as his ‘certainty’ of things. The doctor described it to your father and I, ‘Think of your stove at home and the last time you heated/cooked something for breakfast. Did you turn the stove off?’ ‘Sure’, your dad looked at me and shrugged. ‘You remember turning it off.’, the doctor continued, ‘And do you remember turning it off other mornings, in past months and years? See that’s where your father is. He’s got such a good memory of the long-term memories, and a slightly weak short-term memory, he can’t be certain if he’s remembering this morning when he turned off the stove, or one of those thousand other times when he turned it off. He’s not dangerous as such, he’s not going to get confused and put rat poison on his eggs instead of salt. But he might drive to the grocery, then walk into the house, leaving all the groceries to spoil in the trunk of the car for a few days. Because he remembered bringing them in and putting them away, even though that memory wasn’t from this trip to the store.’”

“So he’s moving out of the house to live with us from now on?”, I ask.

“Yes, but he’s got tons of savings and we don’t need to sell his house. So good or bad, we’ll keep it for now, in case he wants to go back for something or to just reminisce where he and mom spent the last 60 years of their lives together. I’ll head upstairs and pack up clothes he’ll need for the next few months to get us started. Why don’t you take him around the living room and into the basement. Find some keepsakes that mean the most to him, to bring to our house. Both for his familiarity and to let him know it’ll be his new home too. He’ll be staying in the spare bedroom on the other side of the kitchen/dining-room and he’s been living alone for the last seven years. We’ll have to play it by ear and see if he wants to keep to himself or join in the family room with us most of the time.”

We turn the corner of the drive, with the old willow tree I used to run to at full speed across the lawn. It’s only an hour drive from our house. I’d always enjoyed visiting him and Grandma here every few months. And the week or so we’d stay each summer.

Granddad pushes his glasses up his nose, stands, and smiles as he sees us drive up to the porch.

“Hey Pumpkin.”, he says to mom as he hugs her, “And how are you today Sprout?”, he asks of me ruffling my hair with his free hand.

“Fine Granddad. It’s a beautiful morning.”, I look out across the grass as the shimmering slivers of light through the willow leaves dance across that end of the lawn.

Having lived there twenty four of her own years, mom knows where everything is and heads upstairs to grab the suitcases and clothes.

“Lets pick some photos and things you can’t live without Granddad, to take with us.”, as he puts his hand around me and moves into the living room.

Some cardboard boxes are already there and he’s packed the family photos usually sitting over the mantle and on the piano. The one that Grandma used to play. He hands me an empty box and grabs two of his own and says, “Lets go see if there is anything downstairs that needs to come and can’t wait till later.”

We go through some old trunks. “I should really go through these on the next trip and donate what I’ll never use or never be able to wear again.”, he says, “Should have done it years ago. But it’s been hard to give them up, when it feels like I’m letting go of memories with your grandmother when I do.”

Granddad ended a career in the Imperial Military after twenty five years on a team specializing in disaster recovery reconstruction crews. (Rebuilding bridges, repairing roadways, and power infrastructure after tornado’s or earthquakes and the like.) Based on the color scheme and markings I open what must’ve been his footlocker from some of those years, to dig through.

“What’s this?”, I ask, picking up a blob of something a bit like an invisible balloon filled with red mashed potatoes. No particular form, but it is cohesive and stays together as it flows over and around my hands. Not exactly liquid, not quite as thick as mud. It looks but isn’t wet, and doesn’t stick to my hand as it flows around it. A reddish-pink slime that seemed to want to stay together.

“Ahh, that’s a MarrowBo.”, his eyes light up and I hear a strange tone in his voice I’d never heard from him. Reverence? Fear? Acceptance?

He holds out his hand and I ooze the blob into his palm.

Instantly it elongates and forms a hard Bo-staff, almost two meters long. Mostly white now with only a slight reddish tint.

He rests the lower end on the floor and while it seemed light in his hand, I’d swear it shook the foundation of the house by the smallest degree when it thudded to a rest against the concrete.

Grandfather looked the staff up and down and said, “You must have heard some of the story by now, of the Emperor and his Daughters. The great war the daughters fought with each other for control of the multi-verse. A few thousand years ago, your great-great-great- . . . Throw in a bunch more in there . . . great grandmother was one of those Daughters. One of the Sezrakeen.”, he looks over at me, “Don’t get a big-head. About thirty percent of the population descends from any one of the hundreds of daughters through one path or another.”, he looks back at the Bo, “They build great fleets of star-ships, captured and subjugated entire galaxies of people to fight their wars. Mostly out of fear of each other. Each trying to gain the upper hand, but always fighting to a draw. Time and again they reached the same point. Where the bullets, bombs, and torpedoes run out, and the lasers, phasers, and particle weapons run out of power, and it’s up to one big dumb brute to hack it out in hand to hand combat with each other. But even then, spears, staffs, and swords break. After a few hundred people are run through or sliced open, the sharpest blade and the finest steel grows dull or fails altogether when it strikes bone or armor. They needed something else. Something that would never wear down, something that would never break or dull.”

“There’s a passage from near the end of Matthew, ‘The Spirit is Willing, but the Flesh is Weak.’ But what if as one of the Sezrakeen, with your million years of life experience and your iron will, your spirit was strong enough to demand the flesh obey?”

“They had a terrifying idea how to solve the problem of the handheld weapons wearing out, and needed a large flesh eating animal to bring that idea to life. They used the power of their minds, to go back in time to the Cretaceous period, about 70 million years ago. Watched for a few hundred years to find a particularly healthy and strong family line of Tyrannosaurus Rex. When they found one that suited their purposes, they stood in front of it and . . . waited to be eaten.”

“Despite their body being consumed, they held their mind, their spirit and essence, to the original mass of their flesh and blood, as it was consumed by the T-Rex and became a part of the creature. They allowed four or five generations to pass, each T-Rex one after another bearing female young (eggs). Until finally a hundred or so years later, they had one T-Rex that was “all them”, body and mind. The bone/muscle/blood all of the animal, but the spirit, the mind, was the soul of the Sezrakeen herself. Then for the last step, using the power of her mind to rearrange chemicals and genetic structure, she changed the next offspring of that final T-Rex to be human again. When the human child was born, she held her mind locked to both positions: T-Rex the mother and human child the daughter. Drawing power in from the very sunlight and air around her, she grew the human to adult size within a few days. Then, the child killed the mother. Draining every drop of Bone Marrow from the mother T-Rex. A portion of which I hold here.”

Granddad looks into my eyes, “But it wasn’t just something she caught or killed, it WAS LITERALLY HER in every drop. About 1,500lbs worth if she was a big T-Rex. Imagine you were one of the Sezrakeen. With an inviolate, indomitable, unwavering will, demanding the flesh obey. You could command that flesh into any form your could imagine. It would never tire, never grow brittle or weak. In the form of a knife or a sword, it would never dull, just as the Sezrakeen’s spirit would never waver in its determination. Long after all the bombs and bullets and energy weapons were depleted, you could continue to hack and hammer your way through enemy soldiers by the thousands, the millions. Staffs would bend but never break. Swords would slice and never grow dull. And you could give portions of them to your Captains and Lieutenants to use on your behalf. You’d never need to ask these foot-soldiers what was happening at their location, since YOU (or a piece of you) would be there to sense for yourself. A ring, a bracelet, a staff, or sword. Infinitely reliable weapons that would never fail them as long as they themselves lived and their will held them fast and true.”

“Since the Sezrakeen were all females, I can make a few things with it, but its really more attuned to one of the women of the family every few generations.”, Granddad finishes.

He closed his eyes, and thought for a dozen seconds or so, and the Bo-Staff formed into a Katana. Still marrow and bone like in appearance, but sharper and stronger than any metal sword forged by the hands of man.

He held the handle of the Katana over to me.

I placed my hand around the grip. My hand below his and as he released it into my hand, dropping down to the hilt.

A bo again, a Katana, a dagger, changing once a second now, a Hammer, an Axe, a hatchet, a cleaver, saber, flail, tonfa, and mace. Half of the mass leaping across to my other hand, a pair of Sai’s, mated Kali escrima sticks. Every hand-held weapon my 10 year old memory had ever seen in a movie, video, or book. Many of which I couldn’t even name yet but could see in my mind’s eye. And where it took fierce concentration on his part, the marrow heard my thoughts and obeyed effortlessly. I finally paused and the sword in each hand flowed back into and around my hands, coming to rest and weaving a cross hatch pattern as forearm-bracelets covering the entire forearm, wrist to elbow, on each of my arms.

Grandad exhales, “I guess she’s going to stay with you now.”

“How long will they last?”, I ask

“They’re a living part of the Sezrakeen that made them. They’ll live, as long as she does. Likely thousands of years after you and I are both gone to dust and forgotten.”, he says.

“I’m sure they’ll come in handy for you, just as they did for me many times over the years. They can never be taken away from you and will always find they’re way back if you set them aside.”

He places his arm around my shoulders as I look at the bracelets, “Just remember, they don’t have the reddish hue only because they are bone marrow. They’ve killed and absorbed the blood of probably more people than you’ve seen in your young life so far . . . and likely have a taste for it. You’ve got to try and remember that ‘you are wearing them’ and not let ‘them wear you’.”

—-

Its been twenty seven years since that day in the basement and I’ve been attacked four times. It seems higher than the law of averages for the tame life I lead and the middle to upper class neighborhoods I tend to keep to.

Granddad is gone now so I can’t ask him, but at only thirty-seven years old, having been through four life-and-death encounters, coming out the other side with eleven deaths to my name and myself without a scratch . . . I still wonder about Granddad’s warning. If something has been leading me into these situations.

Rumor has it the Sezrakeen that started my family line lives near the Imperial offices where I’ll be in two days. I’ve been ‘wearing pieces of her’ for almost three decades, maybe I’ll finally be able to ask her in person to hear the answer . . . Am I wearing her, or is she wearing me?

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