#and (albeit cheap) fingerless gloves | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years ago

Text

With All the Ghosts

Fingerless leather gloves permitted bare fingertips to glide over the leather grip of the steering wheel. A tender caress that traced the curve as she slid into the driver’s seat.

The blend of sharp smells, slicing into her senses, they almost made her sick. The sting of bleach, the lemony scent of a cheap window cleaning detergent, and the artificial pine from the tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. All to blot out the stench of decay that once clung to all surfaces inside the cherry-red 1990 Corvette’s interior.

The memory of Tyler sitting behind the wheel churned her stomach far more than the smells. She now sat the same way as his lifeless body once had, her left hand resting on the apex of the steering wheel, the right hand on the stick.

Like he was sleeping, albeit pallid in flesh. Eyelids closed. Closed forever.

She closed her eyes. Instead reminisced how they sat together on that balcony, laughing, and getting drunk, and smoking together.

The film in her mouth tasted bitter, almost as if she still tasted the hangover, despite not having touched any cigarettes or alcohol for months.

Blinding sunlight flooded the garage as the door rumbled open, forcing her to squint. She had lost her sunglasses, so she flapped down the sun visor.

The engine chugged to life. Thundered yet as the vehicle stood still. The Corvette rolled slowly out of the manor’s garage, and Penelope “Penny�� Arnold carefully maneuvered it around piles of decaying bodies that littered the driveway. Gravel crunched underneath spinning wheels.

Then the engine went from growl to hungry roar.

Her breath shuddered as she switched gears. Sweat beaded on her forehead as her pulse began to race, faster than this sports car could ever manage.

Terror. Driving this car filled her with terror.

Penny was not a seasoned driver, but she managed to dodge the potholes on the Kentucky backroads. Swerve past the next group of zombies shambling from the woods lining the road. Tires screeched as Tyler’s Corvette turned, drifting onto the main road, where sun and summer heat distorted air over scorching asphalt, and black tracks were left in the car’s wake.

Adrenaline pumped.

A red streak trailed down the wide country road, shooting between wide fields of empty and abandoned farmlands.

The long, straight road provided space for that pulse to quell its racing. For the adrenaline to make way to euphoria. Exhilaration joined the terror, almost drowning it in its red waters. The rumble of the machine, the vibrations, the speed pressing Penny back into the driver’s seat.

A sense of freedom.

Some space to think. To remember.

But of all the ghosts to swim up to the surface of her memory’s recesses, it was not Tyler. Oh, sweet, sweet, Tyler.

No—it was Harry. Right next to her, loafing in the passenger seat.

On their road trip from New York to Kentucky. 1992. Days before New Year’s Eve.

Only days before The Event. Days before The End Times.

They were in the 1987 Buick Turbo Regal that dad had gotten her for her twenty-first birthday. Trailing down the highway. Taking turns on the long trip, Penny was driving.

Harry flipped through her cassette tape collection.

“Do any of these mixtapes not have Bonnie Tyler on ‘em?” he asked. She needn’t look at him, the grin plastering his face was audible.

“No. Of course not. Do you have a problem with Bonnie Tyler?” she said with a straight face.

Snow blanketed the landscape, crowned by dreary wintry gray skies. White flurries drifted steadily down to the ground where they turned to polluted sludge, whipping past the cars on the highway. Wipers abruptly jerked across the windshield in lazy intervals.

Harry sighed. Retaining that smug grin, he said, “Am I gonna have to put up with Bonnie all day, every day, for the rest of our lives?”

Penny’s poker face melted. Her nostrils flared as she fought back the urge to smile. Eyes on the road.

Always eyes on the road.

“You still got half a year to run for the hills, mister. 'Cause when you put that ring on my finger, you’re gettin’ me and Bonnie. For the rest o’ your life. Meanwhile, I get—what, AC/DC? I don’t know who’s gettin’ the rougher part o’ this deal.”

She felt his gaze burning into the side of her head; the grin turning into the same warm and wide smile that she remembered from when they had first met, all those years ago.

Then she snapped out of it—Penny from 1992 and Penny from 1993 both tilted their heads in unison, looking to the passenger seat. 1992 Penny saw Harry sitting in the Buick with his charming smile. 1993 Penny saw an empty seat in the Corvette, and zombies in the fields to her right, stumbling and clawing their way towards the noise of the car but far away and without even the slightest chance of catching up to her.

Eyes back on the road. The Corvette’s engine grumbled as she slowed down to smoothly take the next curve, rolling inches past another mound of dead bodies on the road. The heat had fused them together, decayed flesh sloughing off bones and melting into an indecipherable mass, only recognizable by the clothing on the corpses. Swarms of flies exploded from the mound as the sports car sped past them.

Sweet Tyler.

Another memory surfaced. Another ghost.

“That’s the home I grew up in,” she told Tyler as they stood outside the cluster of three mansions on the outskirts of West Point.

She stared at the building; all its former glory gone. All doors and windows broken by undead hands, torn down by ravenous hordes, leaving piles of splintered wood and broken glass in their wake.

“Oh, shit, really?” Tyler asked. He lifted the front end of his construction helmet and wiped sweat from his brow as he surveyed the husk of a building from where he stood next to Penny.

In turn, Penny did not answer. Lost in memories of her childhood. Reveries within reveries. Mom and dad. The old slide out back. Catching bugs in the woods behind the place. The only reason she snapped out of her daydream of better days was owed to the mental image of mom’s grave—a mound of dirt with a simple wooden cross—dug outside the refugee camp, where Sergeant Chris Burt had buried Daisy Arnold-Adams after killing the zombie Penny’s mother had turned into.

Tyler lit up a cigarette and dragged greedily, nervously sucking on the cancer-stick, his breaths and puffs of smoke haphazardly filling the awkward silence.

Flies buzzed around the corpse mound down the driveway, a constant background noise despite their distance from it.

Finally, Tyler broke the long and somber silence. “I can fix that one up first so you can move back in.”

Penny shook her head with a painful slowness.

“Naw, it’s all good. Home is made by the people in it,” she said. Turning to nod her head towards Marla’s house down the road, she added, “That’s home now. With all o’ y'all.”

The memory broke before she could turn and see his ghost sitting there in the car with her. Penny had never sat in the red Corvette with him—at least not in life. The only time she briefly sat in there with him was when she helped Tatsuya move his lifeless body inside. Propping him up with this closed eyes, letting him sit as majestically as a dead body could, awaiting the ritual before they could afford to give him a proper burial.

The car’s engine roared while the vehicle hurtled down the next long straight stretch of country road. The radio stayed silent. The only music was the thundering of wheels ripping over burning asphalt, the quaking of the machine.

Not a single other vehicle on the road. Only scrap metal and junk heaps littered the sides and ditches, where other survivors had discarded spare parts from cannibalized cars. Leaving wide open roads for them to race down at breakneck speed as they traversed the lost county.

Penny’s hair fluttered in the wind from the open window, whipping around her face. The smell of gasoline admixed with the smell of jasmine reaching the Corvette from now wildly growing tobacco fields. Strong scents to drown out the stench of cleaning chemicals in the car.

Her nostrils flared, but not with the attempt at suppressing a smile. A long sigh escaped her instead.

The motor rumbled as she slowed down again, readying to take another turn at the next intersection.

The days out here in rural Kentucky had turned deathly silent. The farmlands quieter than ever before, a testament to the walking dead outnumbering the living ten thousand to one. The shambling hordes, amassed mostly in Fort Knox and Louisville, far away from here, and kept at bay by the ones who bravely fought the zombies with bullets and blades. Creating those piles of rotting bodies that even the vultures avoided.

She pulled past another group of undead. One of them snarled and hissed at her, pawing at the car as she drove past. With the cluster of seven zombies shrinking in her rearview mirror, she rolled her window up. Just to be safe. The doors were already locked. And unlike said brave warriors, she had never even tried to fight the undead.

The air conditioning hummed, belched out freezing air. Made the sweat beading on her skin cut like tiny blades.

The engine growled, then roared. The trees engulfing the next narrow road loomed, zipping by as the Corvette sped up anew. Another long stretch of straight road.

The car thumped and rocked as she slowed down at the next crossing, cutting over a corner and traversing the dirt and grass by the roadside, avoiding the car wrecks piled up in a disastrous accident on New Year’s Eve. The old steel husks still clogged the intersection and slept peacefully, awaiting the years to fully transform them into rust and distant memories. She wondered: What ghosts may linger here?

Finally, the car pulled up in front of the chapel in Muldraugh.

September 2nd—the day they would have gotten married. Only two months away.

Sorry, Harry.

Penny repeated what she thought when she learned of Tyler’s death, before she had even ever had the closure of seeing his lifeless body.

“The Lord gives us our time here, and then he calls us back. There’s nothin’ to fear in death,” she said out loud. To herself.

And to the ghosts around her.

Yet she feared. Now more than ever. Her flat palm having wandered from the stick to her belly, she feared death now, because her own death would spell out the death of her unborn child, as well.

The big double doors into the chapel, they lay in splinters and debris at the bottom of the stairs leading up to them. The gaping hole into the house of God yawned—wide, dark, and hungry.

The leather of her gloves cracked as she gripped the steering wheel more fiercely than ever before.

“Well, dove. Courage is facing your fears,” Harry said. Back at her, he smiled warmly from the passenger seat. It was both the Buick and the Corvette now. He had said it when they drove out to Kentucky to introduce him to her parents all those years ago, and he said it again—the ghost in the passenger seat of Tyler’s car. “Are you really afraid about what others think?”

Penny smiled at the ghost.

“Not anymore.”

The engine calmly grumbled, motor still running where the Corvette stood in place, a steel casket, shivering on the parking lot in front of the chapel.

“Are you happy for me? For us?” she asked Harry.

But it was no conversation they ever had before. The ghost only continued smiling, bereft of any words.

The seat was empty.

Someone knocked on the driver’s seat window. Something squeaked.

Bloody handprints dragged down the glass, leaving hideous streaks. Fingertips from which pale gray flesh had peeled away, exposing bony fingertips like tiny daggers, missing all fingernails. Rotten teeth clicked against the glass as this zombie thumped against the window again, trying to peel open the metal sardine can to get to the living woman’s brains—drawn by the car’s noise.

It thumped its head against the window once more, and her flinching broke her free from her terrified trance.

“You ain’t got no invitation to the reception,” Penny muttered. A sorry attempt at downplaying her shock upon seeing the undead so closely, face to face, separated only by a thin layer of glass.

Her heart pounded, then the zombie pounded against the window with its ghastly hands.

The machine roared with fury. Tires screeched. Tyler’s Corvette sped away. Penny’s panic took over, hasty hands fumbled with the manual transmission. A hundred paces down the road, the engine chugged, and the car continued rolling with momentum alone—the motor’s roar turned into a purr, a chugging, and then cut out entirely.

Zombies emerged from everywhere. Poking their heads out of broken windows. Shambling out of open doors. Crawling from the tall grass by the roadside. Rotten corpses, alive, and hungry for human flesh. The chorus of snarls and inhuman growls swelled, unmistakable even through the car’s closed windows.

All certainty escaped her hands, mirroring her instinct to ditch the car and run away. But she battled against the machine. Ripped at the stick, kicked down on the clutch pedal.

“Please, no! Not like this!” she pleaded with the Corvette.

The hungry masses closed in on Tyler’s car. The nearest only needed to cover twenty more paces.

The engine roared back to life at the last second. The tires screeched again, and the panic lent her new precision as she shifted gears, speeding down the road. Sparks flew as the body of the car scraped against the curb when she pulled around a tight corner, skidding onto the main road.

Hundreds of zombies were here, all closing in on her, chasing after the noise that Tyler’s corvette made. One of them emitted a ghastly shrieking as she sped by it, and the zombie tripped and fell onto the street, snapping one of its own legs like a twig.

Among the hundreds of zombies amassing, the one with the broken leg reached out a gaunt hand from which a sleeve and flesh both sagged, as if it was begging Penny to come back. It then crawled while the rest of Muldraugh’s undead population trailed behind the car, flooding onto the road.

The vehicle accelerated. The gears chunked into the next higher slot, accompanying the growing roars of the engine. The crowd of a hundred shambling dead quickly shrank in the rearview mirror.

The presence of the ghosts, on the other hand, only grew.

Swerving past empty and abandoned cars on the interstate, she slowed down the Corvette again. Snatched the dangling little air freshener tree and chucked it out the window before rolling it back up again.

Once the Corvette was bound for a steady course of flying straight ahead, she whipped her long hair back with an arm, then slipped off Father Henderson’s crucifix from around her neck. She slung that necklace over the rearview mirror. It immediately began to dangle and bounce once she floored the gas pedal again.

“I feel useless. Everybody’s so brave, and so capable,” Penny had told Chris.

A ghost, too, though of a living man. Perhaps so dead inside, that his ghost could cross the boundaries.

“You’re not useless,” he had replied. Never explaining how. She hadn’t doubted his words, relished the small comfort they provided—but it would have been nice to know what that meant. To receive a concrete answer.

Tyler, back when they had first met, he offered that exact answer.

“My vocational skills ain’t exactly useful in times like these,” she had told him, just like she repeated those words out loud, now.

And Tyler’s ghost responded the same way he had responded then. From behind her, calm, and ponderous. A stark contrast to his often-noncommittal replies and indecision.

“You aren’t useless at all. We need sanity. Thanks for the cheer.”

Her vision blurred as tears welled up in her eyes again, for the first time in days. She wiped at them with the back of her gloved hand, scratching her skin with the seams of the leather.

Even through the fog of tears, something glinted. A bright beacon shined from the grass by the roadside, a flash of brilliant light. There and gone again.

She eased up on the gas, slowed the vehicle down.

Recognized this spot.

She had once sat here, resting, and catching her breath. Thinking that it was a quiet place for her to recuperate from her many cross-country runs. Looking for Marla.

The zombie hadn’t even tried to sneak up on her. The combination of her exhausted breathing, the rushing of blood in her ears, and the pounding pulse of her heart combined. Loud enough to drown out the creature’s ragged breaths as it crawled towards her.

Only in the last moment had she heard the grass rustle. The deathly hands that grabbed at her arm. Yanked at her to feed as she yanked away from it to no avail. The way the fabric of her sleeve tore, filthy fingernails scraping her skin. She turned into a ball of panicked screams and flailing limbs.

Where a shoe connected, the zombie’s face cracked and caved in, turning the ragged breaths all wet and angry, matching the pus that oozed from the shattered visage, smushed like no human face ever should. It continued to paw and grab at her, but she rolled away, scrambled onto her feet, and fled.

Her favorite glasses had fallen off her head in that struggle.

That was then. Weeks ago.

The same glasses that now glinted wondrously in the sunlight.

Now, the Corvette rolled to a stop by the roadside, though she left the engine running. Where the grass still lay matted, trampled down from the struggle. The zombie that had attacked her now rested, silent and unmoving, a rotten carcass sticking out over the edge of the road, its legs still buried in a tangle of turf. The crowd of flies dispersed from the body in response to the car’s thundering engine.

Squinting, she spotted her Oakley Frogskins in the grass—right where she had lost them. Sunlight reflected in the pair of bright orange lenses, framed by a transparent silvery plastic.

The motor still rumbled, and the tree lines nearby replied. Leaves rustled; branches cracked. Whispers in the wind, but not the wind.

Zombies emerged from the trees, shambling towards the Corvette. The panic and terror immediately returned, and she feared losing Tyler’s car again.

She kicked the vehicle back into gear. But not with any intention to get away.

“Courage is facing your fears, dove,” echoed Harry’s ghost.

Penny was going to get those glasses back.

The Corvette hurtled around the next corner, and she cut the engine. The car slowed to a stop, finally causing her to lurch forward against her seatbelt. Hastily, she unbuckled, slipped out the door, shut it behind her quietly, and locked it.

Though distant, she caught wind of zombies snarling and hissing. Broken shoes skidding over the street. More branches snapping.

The smell of death.

They followed the noise. Hunching over, she hunkered down so low she almost had to crawl. In broad daylight, they possessed frighteningly keen senses. She needed to avoid getting seen by them until the very last second.

She snuck into the nearest bushes and froze, melting into the shadows. Obscured through thick brambles and by the trunks of several trees, she watched dark silhouettes of shambling figures pass nearby, creeping down the road, some faster than others. The wind whispered through the woods. The roadside grass crunched under the pressure of zombie shoes.

She crept onwards, bypassing the gaggle looking for Tyler’s car—or more precisely, for the easy meal that had been driving it.

There—the glint again, the flash of sunlight as she moved. The glasses in the grass. She snuck ever closer until she dared to emerge from the tree line, taking the same route the zombies had originally followed to the noises of the car.

Turning into a human blur, she jogged right out with soft steps and snatched the glasses up. Folded them and clipped them onto her shirt.

Thumping erupted from around the corner. Squeaking. The hissing and snarling from the zombies rose to a crescendo. Angry, they wanted to enter the car.

They wanted to feast.

Looking around only briefly, Penny picked up a crumpled beer can that someone had discarded by the roadside, caked in layers of a whole year’s worth of grime. She continued sneaking, albeit now taking the road instead of the woods, giving the trees a wide berth.

Towards the noise.

Towards the group of seven zombies that were busy shaking and thumping their decaying arms and bodies against the car.

She crouched, then started rapping the old can against the Tarmac.

They didn’t respond.

Then a little bit louder, harder, faster. Tack-tack-tack-TACK-TACK—

A first head jerked around, milky-white eyes seeking the source of noise. Then another hissed and lumbered around with a stiff posture. Then another four followed in their inhuman gait. The last one, the crawling cadaver, it had not even made it to the car—it reacted by flopping around and beginning to drag itself towards her, a chunk of exposed spine slithering behind it on the asphalt where the lower half of its body was missing.

One of them raised its hands, outstretched and hungry, clawing at the air repeatedly as if it could grab her from afar. The group of zombies gave up on the car, now having found their meal.

Penny started backing away from them. Then she turned to walk, breaking out into a jog as two of the zombies also proved to move faster than a brisk pace.

Every twenty steps, she crouched down, hectically hammering the ground with the can. And the zombies followed, simple as they were in their drive to consume all living flesh.

Finally, she bolted, shifting from jog to sprint, running away from the car.

Indeed, she wasn’t useless. Running away, distracting the dead—this was her greatest talent. The zombies followed. One of them jogged so quickly after her that the others lagged behind in their shambling pursuit. They sang in their chorus of hungry snarls.

Which is why she then dove through the next copse of trees, breaking line of sight. No heed paid to snapping branches or making more noise, rather ensuring they would follow. They always followed the noise, the movements they could glimpse—and the smell of fresh blood.

Penny flicked a buttoned-up strap and slung out a hunting knife that had been tightly strapped to her leg in a sheath. She nicked her thumb on the blade. Smeared her blood on a tree trunk in passing. The grit of bark burned like salt in the wound.

Without stopping, she suckled on the self-inflicted injury, and emerged from the other end of the copse, breaking her swift stride, and sneaking towards the larger body of woods.

Even though she could outrun them, this part never got easier. So long as the zombies were close, she walked upon the knife’s edge, straddling the line between life and death. Her heart pounded like a war drum, as furiously as when she had driven off with Tyler’s car that day—fearful of wrecking it, fearful of losing it in a crowd of zombies, fearful of dying, always.

It was easy to say: do not fear death.

Words were cheap.

The silhouettes neared. Snarling, hissing, and growling. She crept through the woods nearby, wrapping a piece of torn fabric around her finger when she paused, then crawling out the final stretch. Scrambling up onto her feet and dashing off on soft grass.

Eventually, she circled back. Found herself alone on the road. Jogged the rest of the distance back to the now abandoned car.

Upon arriving by its door, she stood still, and only faintly perceived the noises of zombies in the distance, barely audible over her own pulse and the whispering winds. Without the growls of the Corvette, the farmlands had turned deathly silent again.

Quietly, she unlocked and entered the car again. Unfolded the Oakley shades, used a disinfectant spray and her shirt’s fabric to clean them off, and then slid them over her eyes.

Flapped up the sun visor with a chunky thump.

Tires screeched as she steered the car left at the next intersection.

It was time to visit Tyler’s grave.

With all the ghosts, Penny reckoned that her sanity was forfeit. The constant fear that something awful had infected her child—that its birth would damn the world, like the doctor had claimed at the ritual. Time mercilessly ticked away while a crippling sense of powerlessness threatened to rob her of whatever sanity remained. Slivers slipping away as she toyed with plunging the knife into the bellies of those who would threaten her loved ones. Talking to all the ghosts.

Despite that—or because of it—she could still provide some cheer.

She owed Tyler that much.

—Submitted by Wratts

8 notes · View notes

ofgatheringstorms-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

QUANTUM TASK #01 - Astor Blake

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

name: Astor Blake (original name: Astor Adler) meaning of name: In some versions its meaning is connected to the word hawk and in some back to the combination of Scandinavian words for god and thunder. His mother picked it because it was her grandfather’s name, and she always used to say it had a certain power to it. aliases: Technically, Blake is an alias because it’s not his actual surname. But Astor is short enough that everyone uses his first name. Back at MIT some called him by his surname instead of his name, he usually preferred it that way unless he was close with them. place of birth: Heidelberg, Baden-Württemberg, Germany species: Traveller race: Caucasian nationality: German (Polish on his mother’s side, also attained American citizenship) gender: Male sexuality: Bisexual profession: Doctor of quantum mechanics and theoretical physics eye color: Mainly blue, but due to heterochromia his left eyes is partially coloured brown

hair style/color: Pale blond hair, slightly shaved on both sides with longer parts usually slicked back, though it often falls out of place and if he’s doing something it will fall forward and he’ll keep brushing it back in place. height: 180 cm clothing style: Black leather jackets, with occasional green bomber jacket thrown in, white/black/gray v-necks, black pants and vaguely tied combat boots, he’ll often wear fingerless black gloves, and a ridiculous amount of silver rings and leather bracelets. Back in college he used to wear a lot of waistcoats and finely tailored suits and cashmere jumpers with oxford shoes, but that slowly disappeared after the explosion. He still owns it though, you can see him wearing something like that at home because it’s more comfortable, and whenever there’s an official event, Brioni, Kingsman and Saint Laurent will be involved. There’s something snobbish to anything he wears, one can tell it didn’t come cheap. best physical feature: His eyes, everyone’s always commenting that anyway. appearance: At first glance there seems to be a casual air about him, an unhurried sort of mien, a lazy indifference. He walks like he knows exactly where he’s going at all times, and that’s usually true, but there’s no slouching - his shoulders are pulled back, even if he’s attained some lazy stance with his hands in his pockets, and it’s one of those habits from his early life he could never quite get rid of. It’s obvious he takes care of his appearance, even if it looks casual enough, hair always styled, hands perfectly soft, every piece of clothing on him carefully picked out and no signs of sleep deprivation despite his chronic lack of sleep. His skin is covered in tattoos, and there’s a sharpness to him that he gives off when one sees him getting out of his car, a bit of an edge, like a warning sign for danger. It’s not far from the truth, though he’s not as dark as one would expect. weight: 82 kg complexion: His skin is rather fair, though it doesn’t particularly stand out given his eyes and his hair. It’s rather clear, no visible blemishes or scars, even though there is one near his hairline on the right, and he doesn’t like to talk about how he got it (his father). His lips do stand out though, given that they always have a certain natural reddish tinge to them. build: Athletic. He’s never been one to particularly insist on it or overdo it, but he’s always kept himself in good shape. Part of it is due to his vanity, because he likes the way he looks as a result, but another part of him is addicted to working out - it helps clear his mind. It’s visible when he takes off his jacket, but mostly it looks fairly casual, and he still appears slender and lithe. voice: Astor usually speaks very clearly, no muttering or avoiding standing behind what he says, and it’s part of his confidence. His voice is somewhere in the middle, albeit on the deeper side, but when he sings he has quite a range and can perform both on the deep and and a perfectly trained falsetto. His voice is devoid of any accent, though he can imitate certain ones, and he speaks in a very clear, educated English, a leftover of his time as an immigrant child when he was particularly conscious of not giving his origins away.

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

fears: his cancer returning, he’s still not fond of needles, his nightmares still manage to freak him out and he’s always afraid of falling asleep unless he’s not sober, losing Guillermo (or having to leave him for that matter, because of his illness), being left alone, his father (still and after all those years), being forgotten, he’s not fond of crowds and he feels claustrophobic when in one (unless he’s in his club, though he’s never entirely sober there so it’s not such a big deal) guilty pleasure: alcohol, definitely, though he doesn’t feel particularly guilty about that; music, because he’ll play for hours on end and get horrible muscle pains because of that; old movies, don’t mention one because he’ll quote it back at you and know every single detail about it; stealing manuscripts from famous writers/musicians, he knows it would have immense worth in terms of heritage, but fuck that he wants that Mozart biggest pet peeve: stupidity and ignorance, anything else he can handle but those two traits just drag a lot of shit along with them, also anyone touching anything in his car, much less asking him if they could drive it. He thinks one is lucky if he even allows them to get in, and if they try to change the music, he’ll probably kick them out of the car immediately (and no, he doesn’t care if it’s in the middle of a desert) He’s also really sensitive when it comes to music, so if someone’s not doing justice to the piece they’re performing, he will straight up get up, grab their instrument and finish it (he did that once when a girl was playing Liszt back at the MIT) Also if people are arrogant with no charm to it, he’ll most likely just walk away like he’s offended by their very presence. ambition for the future: He has several doctorates he wants to finish, including chemistry, biology, molecular engineering, medicine, history of art, etc. as well as languages he wants to learn so he can visit certain times and places in history and be able to actually communicate. He’s formed a list of times in the past he wants to visit, and it keeps growing every time he sees something new and interesting, and his library of travel journals just keeps growing week by week. The list of books he wants to read and pieces he wants to learn how to play is veritably endless, but there are desires and ambitions that are more personal and he tends to keep them to himself - like wanting a stable relationship, a marriage, home, all seemingly unattainable things to him. one bad habit: using morphine to get himself to sleep peacefully, alcohol’s no better either one good habit: always fixing things, from broken instruments to his car and random old things, also exercising, does that count? one habit they can’t break: speeding, doesn’t matter if the road is uneven or if his car is protesting and it’s dangerous, he’s used to driving fast and he can never quite get himself to be heedful of it one they’ve broken: going back to his father’s house, or going back to just visit his father because he feels responsible for him, and like he owes it to his mother what they’re afraid of: again, his cancer returning because he’s aware of it being a very real possibility - his cells can mess up their replication process again, and this time round there would be no unexpected gamma radiation to miraculously make it better. He doesn’t want to die, he’s too in love with life, but there’s also another part of him that can’t come to terms with hurting Guillermo and leaving him behind like that. He’s afraid of losing Guillermo in any form, for that matter. Irrelevancy and being forgotten and left alone are also those basic fears that have always been part of Astor, and the reason behind a good part of his personality. It’d be healthy to say he’s gotten over his father and his abuse after all those years, but there’s a child inside Astor that is still terrified of his father, his influence on him, and not being everything his father had wanted him to be. He supposes, out of all of those the realest fear, and the one that sort of looms over him at all times - is finally admitting what he feels for Guillermo, and having it all come crashing down, he can’t risk losing what they have now for what he thinks is only a vague possibility, as well as losing Guillermo because he’s waited for too long (what’s 55 years anyway? It’s not that much, right?)

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

first thoughts waking up: Is that coffee I smell? Where the hell is Guillermo? what they think about the most: mainly it depends on what he’s currently obsessed with, there’s always some theory he’s working on, and if his eyes seem glazed and he appears distant, it’s most likely because he’s entered his mind and locked himself up there to work on some particular physics/mathematics problem he’s been mulling over for a while. Music too, he’s prone to changing the playlist for the Call of the Void according to whatever he feels that day. Also Guillermo. what they think about before bed: Will the nightmares come tonight? It’s just 4 hours of sleep, I can push through that. Also depending on whether Guillermo’s sleeping there or not, he wonders if he’ll climb in through his window at some point, and if he does then whether or not he’ll hear him have nightmares again. And if he is sleeping, then whether Alice will ring the bell at 4 am. what they think their best quality is: Astor’s loyal to the bone, whatever it is, he would never leave his friends, and if it comes down to it, he’d die to protect them. That’s what he truly means, but he’ll probably tell you he’s proud of his charming ways and the impeccable taste in music, as well as his eerie ability to pick just the right drink for someone without asking. what they think would completely break them: losing Guillermo, no other answer for this, he’s been through enough shit to know he could go through anything except that what they think was the best thing in their life: the explosion, it saved his life, it gave him the power to make a difference, to have enough lifetimes to do everything he ever wanted. But the truth is, it’s not just the explosion, it’s the sum of things - what would he do with immortality if Guillermo wasn’t there to drag him out of his obsessions? So the real answer would probably be first time he stepped into his own house. Guillermo knows why. what they think was the worst thing in their life: The horrors he suffered as a child in Germany and losing his mother in the process, it fundamentally changed his life, and it’s tied with his murder of the Nazi doctor who did experiments on him and his mother. But he does believe that if there weren’t for those things, he would be a different person now, and he might have not done everything that led him to this point in his life. what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with them: His mother, sitting on a meadow near their house, making two crowns of flowers - for them both. She would sing for him, even if he doesn’t remember what exactly, just the flashes of that faint childish happiness he felt in that moment with his mom. Firs time he saw Guillermo, not on campus, but waking into the room for the first meeting of the Six. A lot of his memories are of Guillermo - first time he climbed the tree in front of his house and got into his room, the Egyptian cotton bed sheets on his bed that first time Astor got into a fight for him and Guillermo got pissed off by it, Guillermo and his mother the first time they met, their first travel in time together, the hot summer afternoon on the vacant parking lot where they first practiced their powers, the way he tasted when he kissed Astor moments after the explosion all shivers and genuine chastity, first lost manuscript from Mozart that he gave him, the way his hair fell over the side of his face as he played the piano in the library of Astor’s father and Astor knew he was in love, holding his hand when Guillermo gave him the house in New Orleans, feeling like he finally had a place to call home. Everything, just all of it, he remembers it like it was yesterday, like no years had gone by.

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: No dates? He doesn’t date, but if he had to it’d be a single date because he can’t find 3 people he can stand for several hours of small talk. to be loved or respected: He’d say to be respected, but it really depends on who’s the person in question. Because the boyish part of Astor wants to be loved, though by the rare few, in most he wants to see respect - he doesn’t care if they like him in the process. To each their own, he’s done with being the likable golden child he was at MIT, he was done with it after the first five years when he figured out his priorities. beauty or brains: Brains, obviously. He doesn’t mind the beauty though. It’s kind of a matter of perspective. If they’re going to be friends or work together, they can look whatever they want to look like, he doesn’t notice it anyway, but he also doesn’t give a shit if some person is dumb as a rock if he’s just going to sleep with them one night and then forget about it tomorrow. So for the things that matter, brains. Sex? Beauty, but if you’ve got the brains, even better. dogs or cats: Dogs, obviously. His father never let him have it, but he’s wanted to have one ever since he was a kid. He’s afraid of not being a good owner, even though he does want a dog that would sit on the passenger seat of his car and go with him everywhere. Preferably border collie - he’s not dealing with anything less intelligent. This is so they can be intellectual snobs together. coffee or tea: Coffee, in hectolitres. He’s not talking to humans until he’s had his cup of coffee in the morning. showering in the day or night: He always showers before bed, though he’ll do it in the morning too if he’s slept with someone or just wants to wake himself up with a cold shower. Cold ones help clear his mind, but he will take long, hot ones if he’s got something to think about. taking baths or taking showers: Showers, they’re quicker. He will take a bath if his muscles hurt, or if there’s company (very picky about that though) tv or movies: Him from a few years back would say movies exclusively, and usually the old, classic ones, but there’s been so much good tv shows around lately that you will find him Netflixing the shit out of them at odd times of night and day. writing or reading: Reading. He’s self-conscious about his writing, particularly the memoirs from his travels, and he meticulously hides them away, claiming he doesn’t write at all. But he wouldn’t be able to live without writing, or reading for that matter, it’s a sort of outlet. platonic or romantic love: Platonic love, he’s not prone to falling in love, hasn’t been in quite some time iced tea or lemonade: Lemonade, no way his house goes a day without lemons, there’s even a little lemon tree in the back yard. ice cream or smoothies: Ice cream, what the hell are smoothies anyway? cupcakes or cake: Good old-fashioned cake, cupcakes confuse him, he kind of feels sorry for ruining one because they’re usually works of art. If you give him a basic, ugly one, then he’ll gladly eat it. beach or mountains: Mountains, he likes the green meadows and the fresh air and believes there’s nothing more beautiful than riding a horse across the clearing through that not-quite-hot-nor-cold air.

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

lie: yes, a lot. Not to everyone though. believe in yourself: yes. Too much at times. Sometimes not at all. believe in love: oh yes. want someone: yes. work so that you can support your hobbies or use your hobbies as a way of filling up the time you aren’t working: Neither? Working is his hobby, however pretentious that might sound. He still does research in his fields of interest (god bless the internet) and he enjoys his time at Call of the Void, he’s getting money to drink, pick out music, and then listen to it. He wastes so much of it on keeping up the standard and paying everyone well that he doesn’t have much left of it at the end of the month, but you would not believe the gold people in the past would give you if you brought them sheets of aluminium. Rich idiots. have something you’re reluctant to tell people: His history. There’s no need for them to know anything about it anyway, everyone who needs to know, know about it already. have an opinion about sex: a good way to unwind, he does wonder what it feels like when you love a person who you’re having sex with have many friends: in a way, yes? He’s a friendly person beneath all the bravado, excellent at remembering names of anyone who comes to his bar, even though he’s not the bartender, and he cares greatly about his staff. But he considers the Six his closest friends, and when you narrow it down further, Alice is like his little sister, and Guillermo’s... well, he’s Guillermo. have as many friends as you want: yes, he’s fine with his current numbers. have something to make a scene in public about: He doesn’t really make scenes, or like people who purposefully do make scenes for the thrill of it. It’s excessive, idiotic and narcissistic (no one cares about your shit Jan go get laid and shut up) so everything that annoys him in people. have something to give your life for: Guillermo. Alice, and anyone he really cares about too. have major flaws: Oh yeah. He’s prone to mood swings, falling into his typical moods and worrying people around him with that, even if on the outside he’ll appear normal. He’s constantly in denial whenever something major and emotional comes up - he just sort of retreats into his safe bubble and convinces himself everything is just fine, even though it isn’t. He knows he should’ve done some things long time ago, but he just puts them off. He blames himself for things that were never even his fault in the first place. He’s terrified of change because in his mind something bad will happen, and it’ll go downhill from that. He will freak out if something happens to the person he loves, and there are things he’s way too pedantic about, but those are not as major. There’s vengeful tendencies inside him, so it’s better to not cross his paths because when he gets pissed off, it gets nasty. have something you pretend or try to care about: Irrelevant problems of random people in the bar - we get it Jan, your carpet doesn’t match your curtains, who gives a shit about you not having a sense of style? Also, sometimes Alice’s rants about random things he really isn’t very invested in, but don’t tell her that, he’s becoming really good at pretending he’s listening. have an image you project: Yes and no, everything he is is actually himself, but it’s just certain things that he doesn’t let show to everyone that complete his entire self. He used to project everything he was back at MIT, trying to fit in, but even then, he mixed it up with what he truly was - after all, there’s too many sides of him to just say ‘oh this one is the real one’ have something you’re afraid of: yes, as mentioned above think you’re polite or rude: If you asked him this personally he’d reply with “I have no interest in being polite or heterosexual.” He’s cocky and sarcastic most of the time, but he’s only truly rude if the person is exceptionally annoying.

LAYER SIX: FAVORITES

favorite color: green favorite animal: dogs, but also wolves and horses, don’t make him choose favorite movie: Schindler’s List, also anything with Alain Delon (god he’s hot), but don’t tell anyone favorite game: listen, if it involves alcohol, he’s in. He’s not against Uncharted and Assassin’s Creed either, or correcting the mistakes in them song: Don’t make him pick, just come to his bar and listen band: Seriously? Okay fine Pink Floyd stands out. But then so does Queen, and The Who, and the Smiths, and the Beatles, Rolling Stones, ZZ Top, what’s the point of this again? outfit: Black leather jacket, a black v-neck, black jeans, black combat boots. If everything on him is black, he assumes it must look good. Also silver rings. And his fingerless gloves. The Whole outfit goes together with his, you guessed it, black ‘69 Mustang. place: Athens, 5th century BCE memory: Savouring everything they felt in the seconds after the explosion, the realisation it did not kill them, Guillermo holding him, feeling of his lips against his own, his taste, letting go of their pretences even for a second. It was the first and last kiss they shared, and however painful and surreal it might seem (Astor still wonders if it even happened, or if he imagined it in the commotion that had ensued) it’s one of his most treasured memories, and he’s only afraid he’ll forget it. But its close second is the moment Guillermo let him open his eyes to the house ha had bought him, and told him it was now his. person: Guillermo show: couldn’t possibly pick. Mr Robot’s pretty good?

LAYER SEVEN: AGE

age: looks 25, but he’s actually 79 date of birth. 18th May 1938. day your next birthday will be: Friday, 18th of May zodiac sign: Taurus age you lost your virginity: 17 does age matter: obviously not, he’s technically 79. But he does believe he wouldn’t have much in common with someone who’s walked the earth for 18 years - he’d give them a chance though, if they’re brilliant enough. Still thinks it’d be a bit strange, though he’s been hit on by 18 year olds before, makes sense given the way he looks. And he’s slept with much older people, so yeah, it doesn’t matter.

LAYER EIGHT: PERSONALITY

moral alignment: lawful/neutral good enneagram: type 3 - the achiever four temperaments: choleric tropes: jerk with a heart of gold, product of an abusive parent, Byronic hero, badass bookworm, cunning linguist, deadpan snarker, glory seeker, i don’t want to ruin our friendship, he’s not my boyfriend, bi the way, daddy issues, dark is not evil, drives like crazy, drowning my sorrows, the hedonist, i gave my word, inferiority superiority complex, ladykiller in love, smug super, tranquil fury archetypes: the explorer tarot cards: the world/ the queen of swords/the ten of wands compassion: when he was a child, his compassion was obvious, he was a soft creature, in tune with everyone’s pain, to the point he spent his life forgiving his father over and over again because he knew his mother’s death had ruined him. Even when he felt like he had lost a part of himself, he still did everything to help whoever he could with his powers, even at the risk of his own life. Nowadays, it’s not as apparent, but Astor still can’t handle anyone’s suffering, and his compassion is still very visible when it comes to people he trusts and cares about. He tries to appear as if he’s careless, but that’s just appearances projected for the world to see. He will be there for the people around him, it’s something he can’t, and doesn’t want to change. empathy: having experienced pain and loss and misery himself, he can empathise with a wide variety of troubles, and he will do so if he’s cares and trust the person he’s being weak around. Even when he’s not completely sure about the person, if they’re truly suffering, he won’t be able to stop himself from experiencing their pain, it’s a physical, reflex reaction, especially when it hits close to home. creativity: he’s very creative, and has always enjoyed it - from music to art to literature. He keeps hundreds of journals from his travels and his studies, and there’s always a part of his soul that sneaks inside of them, because however scientific he can get, he’s a creative creature, who sees the world in colours and fragments of beauty, written pieces mixing with drawings, as haphazard as his thoughts are. Often, when he’s thinking about something, he will play his violin or the piano, no particular piece, just music that comes to his mind at that moment and reflects what he feels, and sometimes he will even write it down, play it again when he’s feeling like it. He sketches a lot, though painting is something he does rarely, but he always has a notebook and a pencil on him, and there’s hundreds of sketches in those at all times - from people, to moments in time he likes to preserve, and random things from his travels - places and pieces of art and anything he finds beautiful. mental flexibility: high cognitive flexibility, and he’s trained himself well in cognitive shifting. It gives him the ability to resolve problems by shifting through several points of view and considering the problem from each one, and that’s what makes him a brilliant scientist. In terms of adjusting to new situations, he’s become rather good at it, and his time travelling has only helped with it, though he wouldn’t like what he has created in New Orleans to change, and that would most likely create problems for him because it’s of emotional importance to him, rather than intellectual one. Still, he’s able to adjust to any given situation, if he sees some benefit to it. passion: he’s always been a passionate creature, he doesn’t know how to care about things in moderation. He sees the world as a place of limitless possibilities, and he tends to see something worthy in everything he sets his sights on. Perhaps his greatest passion is science, with its infinite possibilities and limitless challenges, but there’s a passion for all things beautiful in him - art, literature, music, doesn’t matter - he will talk about it all like it’s the only thing worth talking about. And people, when he loves, he loves fully and without restraints. Passion permeates every single part of his life, and there’s very little that could ever completely destroy that zeal for life. stamina: his intellectual stamina is a product of years of careful construction, and he never ceases to further it - from shifting through ridiculously complex problems, to remembering verses and quotes from hundreds of works of literature (in several languages), as well as facts about anything that has taken over his attention in the past, even for a moment. As for the physical stamina, he’s got an impressive one, the result of his daily ritual of running in the mornings. He tends to think there would be no mental stamina, without the physical one. physical strength: considerable. He does strength training a few times a week, prefers to keep himself agile and capable of finding his way out of most situation he might encounter travelling through the past, or in the present for the matter, given their current situation. It’s a matter of self-assurance too, he’s never been fond of depending on anything other than himself. battle skill: also considerable, though he’s built it over the years and didn’t have it prior to his travels. He’s good with a gun, product of his years travelling through war times and saving people - he figured time travelling wouldn’t get him out of everything. But most of his skills comes from martial arts, something he’s always been rather fascinated with - though he mainly trained to be able to defend himself, there’s a part of him that loves the structure of it, the right use of the human body to shape it into a weapon, the sheer sense of control and being one with his body that it gives him. He’s more proficient with cold weapons rather than guns though, and he prefers to mix that with with his martial arts skills. agility: again, good agility as a result of his dabbling in different martial arts that required him to develop it anyway. strategy: he’s an excellent strategist, and will prefer to use his brain to get to something, since that is, after all, the sharpest part of him. It’s better if he can detach himself emotionally from the problem and work on it with a clear look on the logical sequence of events, but that does get rocked if he’s extremely emotionally involved, like if someone he loves is in danger. In that case, he’ll probably do a few rash things, before the cold fury sets in, and that’s when he’s at his most dangerous. teamwork: he’s good at pretending he’s good at it, obviously, but he’s a person that best functions individually or with one other person that he can be around for longer periods of time. He supposes that’s why he sort of established himself, as the team leader - he had the charms to make it work, and he wasn’t all that interested in being just another piece of the puzzle. It’s a bit narcissistic of him, but it’s so deeply rooted he can’t truly help it. But even if he doesn’t particularly like working in teams, he knows sometimes it’s the only way, and more minds working on one problem can do much more than a single stubborn one. So he’ll adjust to the situation, manipulate his way through if necessary, but he knows being stubborn and egocentric would be downright idiotic (and that’s one of his pet peeves, remember?) strength: in terms of willpower? Good enough, or at least he likes to think of it that way. He’s a very controlled person deep inside, acutely aware of his surroundings and turning everything into careful calculations. But it’s not as strong as he likes to think - he has a short fuse when it comes to certain situations, and there’s always things he uses as crutches to get him through life - morphine for his nightmares, alcohol and nicotine. intelligence: very high, as is the intelligence of every single one of the Six, and he’s improved the raw basis of it by building it up over the years. So there’s that natural intelligence, coupled with proficiency in a wide variety of fields, from scientific to the cultural ones. He’ll be able to hold up hell of a conversation, no matter what you ask him about, and he will enjoy it if the other person keeps up too. It’s probably his favourite thing about himself, and there’s that childish happiness to him every time he gets to add to it. It might seem silly, but he believes the knowledge he gains over his life is the only way to honour the life he was given. wisdom: debatable. He’s seen enough violence and death and suffering to recognise shifts in society that are bound to lead to nothing good, and he’s lived through enough to have attained a certain wisdom that comes with age. But he wouldn’t call himself wise per se, he doesn’t bother enough with it anyway. He wants to live, not be sage, and being wise about everything would just limit him. It’s not wise to drink. So what? It’s fun. dexterity: he’s mainly right-handed, but he’s taught himself to be ambidextrous with time (though not fully). He owes most of it to decades of playing a wide variety of instruments, mainly the piano and the violin, to the point he can play the hardest, fastest pieces with ease. Part of his obsession with excellency, he supposes. constitution: if he’s anything, it’s masterful at hiding what is truly happening beneath the surface, sometimes even from himself. Right now, he’s sane enough - New Orleans has become his home, a safe place in all of space and time that he knows he can return to, that he knows Guillermo will be in. But that’s not to say he’s not struggling with denial, that he’s not dicking around and drinking and focusing on the wrong things because he’s not willing to face his true feelings, and the sum of all the time that has passed, scratches at the back of his mind constantly, until it turns into a vicious cycle. His fear of the cancer returning, and the fact he’s lied about it for all those years to people he loves, the frequency of his nightmares, what it takes to keep them at bay, his occasional mood swings when he doesn’t eat and doesn’t sleep and acts like it’s fine and dandy - it’s not like he’s unaware of it, although he sometimes thinks it would be better if he were unaware of them. Astor has his demons, his memories, the guilt for everything that has happened - and it never quite leaves him, even if he might seem perfectly fine on the outside, when you see him leaned against the bar, drink in hand, smirk on his lips as he listens to the music, laughing at someone’s joke. If one asked him, he’d say he’s a work in progress. Though he has no idea which direction that progress is going in. As for his morals, that’s a Pandora’s box no even worth peeking into because it’d never be fully explained. Having lived through so much, Astor’s built an intricate set of his own rules, and he follows them faithfully - most of them ethically correct, some of them debatable - but they are his, and he believes in them, and if he finds one to be wrong, he’s willing to change his ways to fit what is right, nothing else quite matters. Not even laws, not if they’re morally wrong. It was once morally wrong to be gay and his father actually tried to convince him of that - how was that any good? charisma: ah, he would chuckle at this part. He believes it to be an art as well as a natural talent. He’s always been charismatic, even as a child, but most of what people see today is a reflection of who he became as years went by. He’s always had a self-assured air about him, a bit arrogant, but mysterious enough to draw people in. Some because he seemed like an exotic creature, some because they saw an intellectual equal to him. In the past, past of his charm was that golden boy look he had, all fine clothes and even finer manners, the sort of persona that was hard to hate. Now, one would think it’d be easier to hate him, considering the sarcasm and the general sharpness of his look - but he’s as charming as ever. Attentive to anything and everything the other person says, no matter how insignificant they might be in the grand scheme of things, he remembers names and details perfectly, and people always like to be remembered. He smirks and he smiles and he flatters, there’s something charming before and after every one of his sarcastic remarks, if he’s going for the charm - if he’s not, then it’s just dry sarcasm. But it’s not quite fabricated. There’s truthfulness to it - if he seems interested, it’s because he genuinely is, because he always has been interested in people’s stories, even his carelessness is the sort that’s not entirely off-putting, because one can tell that even though he’s lounging lazily across the chair, he’s listening to absolutely everything. He supposes there’s always been a certain charm to danger, to coming close to it, and that’s just part of it, the other part of it is intelligence. That never goes out of style, let’s be real here. Especially when it’s ruthlessly sharp.

LAYER NINE: FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love: Guillermo, music, history, knowledge, everything beautiful i feel: lost and unsure and scared i hide: my true feelings i miss: my mother, the feeling of the Six of us in the lab working towards something together i wish: I could tell him how I feel, that I could kiss him i hate: my father (but not completely, I can’t hate him completely, it’d be easier if I could)

LAYER TEN: FAMILY

relationships: he hasn’t been in a real relationship, ever. He has no particular interest in getting into one anyway, unless it’s the certain person he has in mind when someone says the word relationship. parents: Heiner Adler and Izabela Nowak-Adler siblings: none children: none, as far as he knows anyway, but he was always very careful favorite childhood memory: He has very few of those, but he does remember when he was 7, the wife of his father’s friend took him with her around New Orleans and it was the first time he saw the place, different from what it is today. She was a New Orleans native, and his father was in a meeting for the day, and since she instantly fell in love with how polite and sweet of a kid he was, interested deeply in the history of the place, she decided to take him around, and he treasures the memory dearly because back then he thought it must’ve been what it would feel like to have a mother. She was a sweet older woman, childless herself, and later on she would often take him around places like that, whenever her husband and his father met up, and he still sometimes goes back into the past to visit her, pretending to be around 25, passing nearby, and they go to museums or just walk around, even though he’s painfully aware at some point he’ll have to stop because it would get suspicious how he manages to visit her so much in a matter of a few years. favorite childhood toy: Newton’s cradle and a masterfully carved wooden horse figure his mother gave him before the war. The cradle was hers and she gave it to him because he kept playing with it in her office, and the carved horse she got from her own father, and gave it to Astor when he was old enough to play with it. Both the horse and the cradle still stand on his own desk at home, and he’s very fond of them, he always has been. Not because they were shiny toys, but because they were there for him through everything, a reminder that she was real. embarrassing story: When he was 17, and he slept with a girl for the first time, her parents unexpectedly came home and he had to get out of the house as fast as he could so he tried doing it by climbing out of the window, but he failed miserably, fell, broke his left arm and then they had to take him to the hospital. Sure, her father got mad, but her mother could not stop laughing as they were driving him there, and she kept apologising because he was obviously in pain, but it was still funny as hell because her husband had done the same exact thing when they were their age and she didn’t understand what was the big deal or why Liz’s dad was so angry. Sure, it was embarrassing for him, but he still adored Liz’s mother, because he thought she sounded exactly the way his mom would sound if she had seen that happen. favorite family member: his mother a story about that family member: His mother showing him around around Kraków before the invasion, he had time travelled into the past, knowing full well it was a gamble whether his mother would believe him or not. But he looked far too much like her, and she was far too dreamy, not to believe the possibility of it, and so they spent a week just walking around, or driving in carriages, her telling him about her childhood, him telling her about his life.

#qrpgtask #oh well #i went overboard #again #surprise surprise #i just got drowned in feels don't mind me #about #hc

1 note · View note