#and THREE boogey men oh my god

[boygirlctommy]

how were there TEN deaths in session one

[lostcybertronian]

Hunting the Boogeyman

Protective!Michael goes feral courtesy of @blackswanx7

Also tagging @takethepainawaybae

Trigger warnings for blood, gore, explicit violence, death

---

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” 

    “Don’t be a baby.” Heather casts a playful glance at you. “It’s not like we’ll actually find him.”

“Unless you believe Laurie Strode,” remarks Tommy, mumbling around a mouthful of chocolate. 

    “She’s nuts.” Heather brushes him off with a wave of her hand and a toss of her springy, black hair. “The Boogeyman isn’t real.”

    Is she trying to reassure you? You can’t say for sure. “If he’s not real, then why are we looking for him? We should go back to the party. Or go home.”

    “No way!” Heather’s eyes flash. “For one, we are not going back to that lame-ass party. Two, my kids are with the sitter tonight. I’m not going home unless there’s an emergency.”

    Tommy nods his approval and pulls a fun-sized packet of M&Ms from the pocket of his black-and-white striped prisoner costume. “Guess we’re going Boogeyman hunting.”

    “There was a guy, though. He inspired the Boogeyman myth. M-something. Michael? Michael something.”

“Michael Myers,” you say absently.

“Yeah,” says Tommy, “Michael Myers, the rando crazy guy. I heard he killed, like, five people. Scary for sure, but not supernatural or anything like that. That’d be crazy.”

“Definitely,” Heather agrees.

The three of you continue to walk, fallen leaves crunching beneath your feet. No more trick or treaters run wild through the streets, filling the crisp Halloween air with excited shouts and screams. Above you, a new moon graces the sky with its absence. The streets are lit only by the occasional street lamp. 

No sign of the Boogeyman anywhere; no sign of his Boogey-ish activities, either. Your phone claims it's well past midnight, and you’re starting to shiver beneath the flimsy material of your cowboy costume.

“The park?” Heather suggests, after a half an hour or so of wandering the near-empty streets without so much as a glimpse of Michael’s pale mask. You wonder where he is, but you don’t worry; Michael is more than capable of taking care of himself.

You shrug, but nonetheless go along with them when they turn down Third street, heading toward the park. The chain link fence shines under the yellow glow cast by the street lamps and your breath fogs the air in front of you.

It’s not long before you find the body.

“What the fuck-” Heather stops dead in her tracks. Tommy all but collides with her, swearing. “What the fuck, Hea-”

He notices it too, his jaw falling open and his eyes widening.

The corpse’s head is impaled, the blunt, silver pole emerging into its mouth and distorting its expression into a horrific grimace. The rest of its body dangles behind the fence, the bright colors of its devil’s outfit stark and soaked through with blood. 

“Oh my god.” Heather jerks back, her mouth a wide “O” of surprise. “Oh my- oh my god.”

Tommy whips out his phone. “We need to call the police.” He taps the screen. It doesn’t light up. He taps it again. Nothing. “It’s dead. Heather?”

“I left mine at home.” She hugs herself, arms wrapping tight around her leopard-printed leotard. “No pockets.”

They both look to you; twin pairs of eyes, pupils small, too much white. Eerie. 

You hold your phone up. “Dead.” A lie.

“Well, what should we do?” Heather looks anywhere but the body. Looks at Tommy. Looks at you as you study the ground and the trail of blood leading toward the park. Trees loom in the near-distance. You think you hear noises.

You open your mouth to speak when a scream rips open the night, shrill. It cuts off suddenly, but its echo remains. Following it are more shouts. Gunshots.

You run.

    Heather and Tommy call your name. Are they running after you? There’s no time to tell. No time to think; your breath comes hard and your heart pounds in your ears in time with your pounding feet. Concrete turns to dying grass and pine needles. The shouts grow louder; deep voices. Men’s voices. They swear and jeer.

    Your blood runs cold when you see him. Michael, surrounded by people, silhouetted by the bright bounce of half a dozen flashlights. He lashes out as they circle. As they gesture with bats and crowbars and guns. His blade catches one of them in the arm, and the man’s scream almost drowns out the chanting of the others’. 

    Bam! A shot. Michael jerks back as blood spurts from his right shoulder. The knife goes flying. 

    Crack! Someone steps forward, swinging a baseball bat in a high arc that strikes him in the back of his head. Michael goes down to one knee. Collapses completely as he’s struck again.

    Before you know what you’re doing you're lurching into a run. Into a sprint. Slip and almost trip on loose pine needles and leaves damp from the last rainfall. You barge through the crowd of people. Plant yourself between them and him. Your chest heaves; fear makes your breath come in stuttered gasps.

    What are you doing?

    Behind you, Michael doesn’t move. Looking at him now, you can see the blood soaking through his blue jumpsuit, oozing from holes in the fabric. It makes your chest constrict and your eyes water.

    “Hasn’t he had enough? He’s defenseless-” The words are hardly out of your mouth when something punches through your left shoulder. You don’t feel the pain at first; the blood spraying from the wound is the only thing telling you there’s a wound at all. The force of the impact shoves you forward; you fall. Hands and knees, elbows locked. Something cracks in your left wrist.

    Now comes the pain. Searing through your shoulder. Overwhelming. Black crawls at the edges of your vision, then overtakes it completely. You collapse to the blood-soaked ground, cheek pressed to the grass. You think you feel Michael stir beside you. Think you hear gunshots and shouts. But you’re not sure. Unconsciousness sucks you under.

Michael

    stirs.

    His fingers brush something soft. Something fabric that is not grass or leaves or blood. He lifts his head to see you sprawled, unconscious and bleeding.

    The panicked murmurs of the crowd do not register. Nor does his heavy, labored breathing. All sound cuts out of his world.

Michael

    rises. 

    Snatches the bat that comes arcing toward him. Wrenches it from the hands of the short, heavyset man holding it. One swing shatters his skull. He goes down. Another swing and the man next to him collapses, dropping his revolver to the ground without firing a shot. Blood and brain matter and bits of bone smear the grass. Smears his jumpsuit. Smears the mask.

Michael

    slaughters.

    He doesn’t have a knife but that doesn’t mean he isn’t deadly; he’s done far more with less than a simple, wooden bat. Maybe a minute passes before there’s no one left standing. No one left alive. Only then does he let the bat clunk to the gore-soaked grass. Only then does he hear his own breathing, loud in his ears.

    Only then does he look at you and find that you are awake and that you are staring at him with wide, glazed eyes, breaths coming in shallow pants. Your pale face is splattered with blood and viscera that gleams wetly under the focused beam of a fallen flashlight.

    Rustling. To his left. He steps, putting himself between it and you-

    “Please!” A woman dressed in a leopard-printed leotard and fake cat ears stumbles from behind a bush, struggling against the prison inmate clutching at her arm. “Don’t kill them!” 

    Kill them? He tilts his head. Starts toward them, but pauses when a hand brushes his ankle. Weak fingers snag at the hem of his jumpsuit.

    “Michael.” Your voice is small. Breathy, like you’re struggling to get air in and out of you. “They’re my friends,” you whisper. “Please leave them alone.”

    Your friends? Michael’s attention shifts back to them; both have frozen, like deer in headlights. They’re your friends; it explains why they placed themselves in his path to try and save your life. 

    He itches to kill them. It would be so simple; a mere three paces and the satisfying snap of the neck. You belong to him, after all. And no one else.

    But your grip on his pant leg tightens, and even he can’t fix bullet wounds. So he steps aside to allow them unobstructed passage to you, choosing to hover close enough to intimidate. 

    “Oh my god, Tom, they’ve been shot!” Heather drops to her knees beside you, helping you roll onto your back so she can press a hand to the oozing wound on your shoulder. “We need to get you to a hospital. We need to-” she glances around, paling as she seems to take into account the surrounding carnage, then lowering her voice to a whisper- “we need to call the police.”

    “My phone.” With a hiss of pain, you manage to move your uninjured arm, slowly pulling your phone from your costume pocket. 

    “It’s not dead,” Tommy mutters, but Heather elbows him and shoves it into his hands. “Call 911.”

    She looks up at Michael, who continues to track your every movement. “The police are coming,” she tells him, her voice quivering. “Whether you like it or not. They’re going to track you down.”

    His fists clench at his sides. He takes a step forward, towering over her. Heather’s mouth opens and closes, and Tommy retreats, casting furtive glances at them as he murmurs quietly and quickly into the receiver. 

    “Go, Michael.” It’s your voice that stops him from twisting Heather’s head around. His mask tilts toward you, and you manage a weak smile, chest shuddering. “I’ll be fine.”

    He stares at you, ignoring the frantic, confused exclamations of your friend and the sirens approaching in the distance. He stares at you and breathes, now feeling the sting of bullets and a mute throbbing at the base of his skull. 

    He stares at you for a moment longer, then turns and walks deeper into the park, disappearing into the cold Halloween night.

[screamting]

[superbat hs au - Court of Owls, First hints of ~superpowers~

Tommy was willing to fill the time a while until supper, when about ten minutes before six, the boy on the top bunk would finally sit himself up and slide down to the floor and tugging on shoes without much of a word. “Almost six. Get ready to go.”

--

“Uh-”

Clark had asked him if he had any family, and what he planned to go to college for, and other generic questions he could manage to think of while he unpacked his things and then shoved his empty luggage aside.

“Six?” He asked, like he hadn’t heard any of what Harvey said before.

--

“Dinner,” Bruce said as explanation, unbothered.

(“Unfortunately, my mom,” Tommy had said with a roll of his eyes. “And obviously, Bruce’s an orphan. I’m hoping for medical school, to be a surgeon. What about you?”

There was no moment to acknowledge the middle part of the sentence. Only an impossible-to-hear tightness in the boy in the bunk’s otherwise steady breathing. And then it was gone again.)

“They’ll want you to wear something nice for the opening dinner, and any dinner on Sundays. If you don’t have anything else, your school uniform will do,” Bruce said.

--

(“Wh- journalism.” Clark had replied, but didn’t dare ask about how Bruce was an orphan.)

“Oh, okay. Uh. Yeah. I’ll have to get changed then.” Clark said, and dug around for his uniform. He didn’t have anything nicer than that with him.

He walked out to head to the bathroom and change.

--

“Alright.”

They would wait for him to return.

When he did, it was clear Tommy had changed clothing too, though he hadn’t bothered to leave the room to do so. He sat with Bruce on their bottom bunk, dressed in a matching oxford and button down jacket. Dark pants, black shoes. They could’ve been siblings, probably, despite their personalities.

And once all three were there, off they went, Bruce dutifully leading the way to the cafeteria, and Tommy trailing a bit behind him, content to just follow along for the moment.

“Sundays and special dinners we gotta eat with our hall table,” Tommy said. “And listen to the headmaster give speeches. But other than that, school’s pretty great.”

--

Clark followed along behind them. The closer they got the louder things got, and he could tell this was going to be rough. Places that were loud even for regular people were killer on him. It was so hard to focus on what you were supposed to.

“You like school?” He asked, sounding a little in disbelief.

--

“Uh, yeah?” he said. “Get some time away from the family? Live with my best friend? School rocks.”

He slung an arm around Bruce, and it was accepted with a huff.

“Not everyone’s as good at school work as you,” Bruce said.

“You are, though,” Tommy said. “So you don’t get to point that out to me.”

He poked Bruce’s cheek. The quiet boy smiled a little.

--

Clark didn’t say much. He felt like a third wheel, and the black-haired kid really wasn’t much of a talker. Couldn’t blame him if he really was an orphan.

The dinner was… boring. But hey, free food. The headmaster talked about the upcoming year and how they were all going to grow into strapping young, disciplined men and yadda yadda. Clark didn’t really pay attention.

When dinner was over it was back to the room. Back to bed.

… He had a hard time sleeping. Gotham at night was still so damn loud compared to back home.

--

Gotham was loud.

…

So were the dorms.

(someone, somewhere in the building, was crying into their pillow. Trying to muffle it, but the dissonance--

Multiple people were. Quiet, muffled, hiding it--)

In His Room.

In his room, the first night, a heart started to rocket up in pace from where it had once been steady, panic--

Bruce on the top bunk jerked awake, with the sound of his teeth biting through his lip to keep quiet.

--

Sometimes Clark didn’t realize what was supposed to be loud to normal people and what wasn’t.

“... You okay?” He whispered out into the dark.

--

The boy flinched.

….rolled over to face Clark, breathing still shallow.

He flinched again at whatever he saw.

“...fine,” he said. Then, “Quiet.”

--

His eyes were still bright in the dark, but only when they caught the light.

“... Okay.” He said, and wouldn’t say anything else.

…

He wouldn’t get much sleep.

--

…

…

It was something Clark couldn’t hear, but Bruce’s mind wouldn’t quiet anymore than Gotham or the dormitory would.

“...what’s with your eyes?” he whispered.

--

Oh damn. Oh shit.

He quickly closed them and rolled over so he faced away from the other bunk.

“Nothing.”

--

There was a disbelieving huff from the other side of the room.

...unfortunately, Clark wasn’t the only light sleeper.

“...mmh?” Tommy mumbled, splayed out on the bottom bunk. “What’s goin ‘rong?”

--

“Nothin’.” Clark said again, and didn’t turn around.

They had sent him here to get away from everyone knowing what he could do. He couldn’t blow his cover on the first night because his STUPID EYES GLOWED IN THE DARK.

--

“His eyes were glowing,” Bruce said. Because of course he did. No wonder Tommy called him a snitch--

But Tommy started making noise into his pillow, too.

Laughing. Trying to muffle it.

“Were you dreaming about the Talon?” he hissed, sounding delighted.

--

Ignore it. Let this blow over.

…

“What’s that?” He mumbled, still looking away.

--

Above Clark, Harvey Dent let out a groan under his breath.

Apparently, everyone was awake tonight.

If Tommy’s eyes could’ve glinted in the dark, they would’ve. “Oh, that’s right…. You’re from Kansas. You don’t know about… the assassins….”

“Oh my god,” Harvey Dent whispered only to himself.

--

… Clark finally lifted his head and glanced back at the other bunk.

“What.”

--

“It’s a fairy tale in the area,” Harvey said finally, whispering loud enough for the other two in the room to know he was also a little snitch. “Tommy likes to scare new kids with it. Now shut up, we’re gonna get in trouble.”

Tommy flopped back onto his bed, huffing. “It’s fun to watch them freak out. It’s not like anything bad actually happens by just talking about it.”

“You got a quote for that?” Bruce mumbled, half audible in his pillow.

“Ugh. ‘Happiness depends on ourselves?’ Or in this case, in letting me tell a ghost story in the middle of the night, you babies.”

--

“Fairytale assassins?” Clark couldn’t help but snort and roll back over so no one could see his eyes.

“Guess you city kids gotta have some kinda boogiemen.”

--

…..

Tommy sat up in bed, eyes narrowing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

--

“Well back home we got things like portals to hell and angry ghosts, not assassins.”

--

...somehow, that seemed to settle Tommy, a little.

“No room for that stuff here,” he said. “Just threatening nursery rhymes that date back definitely two hundred years and if you want it creepier, even longer.”

--

“... Assassins with nursery rhymes?”

Sounds pretty lame.

--

“Still spooks people enough,” Tommy said, shrugging. “Especially in this kinda place.”

“It’s nice to think some random murders might’ve had a point,” Bruce said.

Tommy did not respond to that.

--

“Dunno how anyone could get spooked in a place as loud as this.” Clark said, sighing.

No room to think enough to be scared.

--

….for a moment, the three regarded him in incomprehension.

“Oh,” Harvey said. “Oh, he’s not used to the city.”

There was a small sound of understanding from the other two.

“I was gonna say. It’s dead quiet, honestly,” said Tommy.

“Not if we get caught talking,” Bruce warned. “Shh.”

“Shhhhhh,” Tommy said.

--

Clark groaned his own ‘nnnngh’ and shoved the pillow over his head.

It didn’t help.

Somewhere out of normal hearing a car alarm went off.

“You gotta be kidding…” He whispered to himself.

--

…

At least, finally, the conversation, thin as it was, had died out.

(There wasn’t any explanation for why Tommy would think Bruce dreamed of Talons when it was just a silly boogey man.)

But the three boys settled down in their beds again.

Bruce started breathing deeper. More intentionally. Until it relaxed him enough to get back to sleep.

...his heartbeat deepened and steadied out. Much closer than the car alarm.

Tommy and Harvey’s followed.

[...]

He wrote to his parents.

Everything is going well. Making friends. They're all rich but not as full of themselves as I thought they would be. It's pretty cool. Really loud here though. Having a lot of trouble sleeping.

Love you.

Then it was just… back to normal. Like he hadn't found out the teachers beat their students.

--

(When his mother wrote back, she was so relieved he was making friends. That it wasn't as bad as she feared.

But he wouldn't get that letter for another two weeks.)

The next week rolled around, and Bruce grew a little quieter. Tommy didn't, but Harvey quietly told Clark to be extra careful this week. It was an anniversary, he said, assuming that by now Clark knew, Kansas or not. And sometimes Bruce got a little mean during the anniversary.

Not just standoffish, but.

A little aggressive? Sometimes.

...and so the 26th rolled over, and even though Tommy seemed to be pretending it was a normal day, the rest of their dorm room woke up with stale, held breath.

Bruce avoided people. Avoided radios and TVs playing the news.

But somehow, he didn't manage to avoid the newspaper, and did a double take when he saw the headlines.

Finally, something had overshadowed him a little.

On the front page was the picture of a grisly murder. Open-eyes, holes in his face--

“REAL ESTATE SUPERSTAR FOUND DEAD IN PENTHOUSE SUITE; DEATH OF A THOUSAND CUTS!”

--

Clark tried to keep it in mind. Unlike the other two he didn’t treat it like any other day because it wasn’t. They still all went through the motions of course, but he talked to Bruce a little softer. A little gentler. Not because he wanted to walk on eggshells, but because he knew for Bruce that this wasn’t just another normal day, and acting like it was felt like almost a slap in the face of what he had to go through.

Maybe it hadn’t occurred to him that Bruce would want to avoid the papers. It was hard for him to wrap around the fact one of his roommates was so rich that his parent’s death made it into the news every single year somehow, so maybe it was his fault that Bruce saw the headline. He read the paper almost every day if he could. He wanted to be a journalist, after all, and they didn’t have TV in their room. Sometimes the common room TV wasn’t even on.

But he saw the murder too and, at this point, didn’t think much of it. Read the article and moved on.

Gotham, he had learned very quickly, was just as bad as everyone said.

--

It made sense, why Gotham Academy reassured all their parents that they would keep the children safe.

And maybe that was Bruce’s fault, he thought. Because it wasn't as if he was expecting papers to talk all over again like the day it'd been, but--

He'd expected a talk piece. An opinion article.

One Year Later: Flowers Left At Wayne Memorial Event as Investigation Dies

Two Years Ago, As Martha and Thomas Wayne Laid to Rest, Crime Began to Rise

Three Years Since Gotham’s Kennedy’s Mown Down: Park Row Died with Them?

A Reflection on Gotham’s Economic Fall: Wayne Fortune Locked Up as Charities Run Dry

(Sole Survivor Wayne to Attend Gotham’s Most Prestigious Academy This Fall with Luther Heir)

Five Years Ago Today: How the Wayne Deaths Marked the End of a Safe and Glorious Gotham

…

He could imagine what the headline should've been. What it should've been.

Instead, Six Years of Sorrow: Wayne Murders Still Shadow Upper East Side and Wayne Murder Theater Announces Close on Anniversary of Deaths, citing ‘Unrecoverable Reputation’ of the Area had been pushed down the page to make room for the new murder.

...and Bruce took a look at it and snatched it up to stare at the grisly photo and start to read.

--

It was a good thing that Clark had a loose grip on it as it was yanked from his hands.

“O-kay. You coulda asked.” He said, but didn’t sound angry. Still being soft around Bruce due to the day it was.

He feared he might’ve done something wrong.

--

Bruce managed to give him a hum of some sort of acknowledgment, but didn't really give much of a response.

He went to his bag, grabbed a pen, and sat right down on the floor, tracing the bottom of the words in the paper to keep his place.

Tommy leaned out from his bunk to try and watch over Bruce's shoulder, but his eyes looked uninterested. “Saw somethin’ ya liked?”

(Bruce shot him a disgusted look, a “what?” but otherwise ignored him.)

--

Clark leaned over too in order to watch him. “Or somethin’ ya didn’t like.”

--

…

Bruce glanced up at him, too, but looked more self-conscious than anything at that.

…

“The way they're talking about the thing just reminds me of the claw marks they found at the Lansing murders…”

“Oh my god,” Tommy said in a familiar kind of disbelief for this specific topic. “It was a dog claw, Bruce.”

--

Clark, however, was interested.

“Lansing murders?”

--

Bruce shrank down under Tommy’s criticism, but… looked up again, and quietly answered Clark’s tone.

“...the Lansings were a business couple,” he said. “They were murdered in their home the summer before last by stabbing a, so not… like this.”

For a moment, he backed up again, and let Clark see the slashes of the man on the page.

“Something left a big claw mark on the door, and their dog--”

“Ran away from home and wasn't seen again,” Tommy said dully. “It obviously hit the front door. Broke the hinges. Ran off in fear. It was a hundred pound dog.”

“...” the look on Bruce’s face said he didn't believe it all the way.

But he didn't lift his head to argue this time. He just stared down at the paper.

“...Bruce, hey, I'm not trying to make fun of you, I'd never do that,” Tommy said, rolling a little closer to the edge of the bed. “But just because claw marks happened once or twice at a murder doesn't mean the Court is real. What, did your dad have a gash on his face when he died?”

…

And Bruce shook his head.

“See? It's not real.”

--

“Well that don't mean you can't look into it.” Clark offered, looking up at them. “What's the harm in connecting a few dots? And just because there ain't proof they do exist doesn't mean they don't.”

--

Tommy gave Clark the kind of flat look he never gave Bruce. Like he was saying the dumbest thing.

“You didn't even know the story when you showed up and now you're trying to do this? Really?”

...Bruce stared up at Clark, face unreadable.

And he started to pick up the newspaper and fold it again.

--

“Tryin’ to do what?” Clark frowned. “If there's a story here I'm interested! Y'know--” he gestured to himself, “journalism?”

--

“To drag him down again!” Tommy said, rolling off then bed and standing, defensive behind Bruce. Above him.

For the moment.

For the moment before Bruce stood, pencils and notebook in hand, and paper carefully folded under his arm.

He looked at Clark.

“Let's go.”

--

Clark glared at Tommy, but he said nothing.

He grabbed his own notebook and pencils to leave with Bruce.

--

“Bruce?” Tommy said, but Harvey was the only one still listening. “Bruce!”

Bruce closed the dorm door behind him.

“Library has old papers on record,” Bruce said softly. And he began to walk.

--

Whatever history was repeating here, Clark knew nothing of it.

“Okay,” he said, and started heading that way.

“... Tommy said I was ‘dragging you down again’. What’d he mean by that?”

He sounded annoyed. Offended. Like he would do that to someone intentionally.

--

Bruce pursed his lips, buying time for a response, but not sure what to say. Or, he knew what to say.

But he didn't like to say it.

“...I tried to find the man who killed my parents,” he said finally. “...I couldn't.”

--

…

“You think they’re all related to that Court?”

--

…

Bruce hung his head.

Stared at the ground.

Didn't… want to look Clark in the eye when he admitted his stupid, idiot theory.

“...they’re all building developers. Or owned lots of property. And were trying to change it…”

--

But Clark didn’t call it stupid.

“Okay, something to start with. And, hey--”

He reached out slowly to touch Bruce’s shoulder.

“Worst case scenario is we’re wrong and nothing changes.”

--

Bruce twitched a little at the contact, but…

Mostly, he just turned his head up a little, and stared at Clark’s face.

(He was sixteen and he'd stopped believing in a just world long ago.

But somehow, he was stupid, and still believed in fairy tales.)

…

“Okay,” he said, voice cracking.

And he led Clark to the library.

...the newspapers were all in the bottom floor, the basement. In the archives. The indexes were massive, but well organized and maintained.

And Bruce already knew where to start looking… to a point.

But the first place to start, was writing down a scrawled poem on a blank sheet of scrap paper. Hesitating.

“...we’re doing this backwards,” he mumbled. “Not supposed to go in with a theory…”

But he wrote it out, all the same.

Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head.

--

Clark followed him down.

“No?” He asked, setting his notebook on a desk close to the archives they would need to look through.

“How do you think we should go about it then?”

--

Bruce swallowed and stuffed the paper in his pocket.

“...supposed to go in and look for patterns and connections,” he said. “...if you already have a suspect, you… only look for things that point to them.”

--

“... Okay. How much can you tell me about this ‘Court of Owls’?”

He was sitting down and opening his notebook to a new page. He didn’t have the knowledge of them Bruce did. This wasn’t his home. These weren’t his urban legends.

--

Looking for them directly was exactly what Bruce said they shouldn't be doing, but…

It still thrummed inside him, on some silly, stupid level.

Maybe it hadn't just been a coincidence murder. Maybe it had a purpose. Anything other than random events. Anything.

“...” he handed Clark the paper. “...they have at least one assassin. They… Have an architecture motif. They're watching from the buildings.”

With the kind of architecture in Gotham Academy not being uncommon to the rest of Old Gotham, it maybe wasn't surprising the buildings themselves were the boogeymen’s hiding places sometimes.

But he didn't know if Clark would make that connection to a real estate building mongle--

--

“Ties in to your theory about them targeting building developers.” He said, writing something down before he got up so he could look into those Lansing murders Bruce had talked about earlier.

He needed to play catch-up. This wasn’t his turf. He didn’t know as much as Bruce did.

…

He planned to dig up the papers about the Wayne tragedy too, but… not now. Not with Bruce in the room.

Clark could do that later on his own time.

--

Tommy had seen the connection, and rolled his eyes, and Bruce half expected Clark to just-- not see it at all--

…

But he swallowed something down, and his stomach stopped roiling quite so much, and he nodded again.

“Yeah. Just. Anyone who changes the architecture.”

And he dove in behind Clark.

He looked for the more recent murders. The ones he hasn't read about or studied like this since he was twelve and finally gave up, run off from his last scraps of energy.

…

And finally, someone was beside him, willing, even for just a moment, to believe him.

--

While Bruce looked at the more recent murders, Clark went for the old. The ones Bruce already knew about. He asked him which ones he had connected before, if any, and he would take a look at those.

(“I’m a new perspective. I wanna go over things you already know about. We don’t think the same, so who knows. Maybe I’ll see something different.” Is what he would say.)

The Lansing murders. What they did before the murders. The other ones that Bruce had tied together when he was 12--

Before they knew it the library was closing. They would need to come back.

And they would.

--

(A new perspective. A new reading level, honestly-- from twelve to sixteen, the change in things he understood--)

They would come back.

Absolutely.

Bruce went to bed and slept the whole night, and woke with impatient fire in his eyes.

Tommy gave Clark a sour look as Clark headed out the door to change, and once again as Bruce flew out of his last class, tossing his bag into their dorm and making a beeline to the library.

“Bruce, but, homework--!” Tommy called.

“Don't bother,” Harvey sighed, sitting down with his own book bag to get started “It’s not like his grades will get him kicked out.”

….and on the weekend, Tommy barely had time to pull on a matching hoodie and jeans, before Bruce was out the door for early breakfast and back to work.

(“Nice to see him care about something,” Harvey said.

Tommy threw a pillow at his head.)

[hozier-mp3]

destiel au fic recs?

Oh yes.

Once upon a time I made a post of every single one of my Fic Recs, and I’m especially fond of AUs, so I give you a list of just, solely, AU fics.

Let me start with my shameless self promotions. (They’re actually full of shame I’m sorry but those are my three AU fics I’ve written.

Alright, time for the real ones. *cracks knuckles*     A Million Ways To Go by ChasingRabbits on AO3 - Castiel Novak is a preacher's son living in a world of black and white. Pragmatic and dutiful, he doesn't understand why anybody would want to make waves.Then the Winchesters move in down the street. Soon many of the skeletons in the Novak family's closet are exposed, and as the family faces them, Castiel begins to understand that there are many ways to see the world and so many more ways to live than what he's been told. - This is one of the few fics I’ve reread. The summary pretty much covers it, though, so I’ll let that one speak for itself.

Word Count: 91,079

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086183/chapters/2185029

Smiling Out Of Fear by thepinupchemist on AO3- Castiel Novak is a product of the system, having gone through too many foster homes since the age of seven. At fourteen, he lands himself in Sugar Lane Mobile Home Community under the care of Missouri Moseley. There, he meets one Dean Winchester. A story about teenage hooligans, growing up, and finding a home. - Okay, I’m not going to say anything other than the fact that thinking about this fic literally makes me almost start crying happy tears. I adore it. (I pretty much recommend everything thepinupchemist has written, but I haven’t gotten through it all yet.)

Word Count: 117,494

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007755/chapters/1998660 25¢ Pocket Guardian Angels by hopelessheathen on AO3- Dean walks into his local bank one day and notices that someone has filled the old gumball machine with these tiny, wiggling, sentient angels in individual plastic packaging. Deeply concerned about their air supply and the fact that they're trapped there in the sun, he starts pumping in quarters to rescue them. This is worse than leaving a dog in an overheating car. Now he's got forty of the little guys running all over his house, and god knows how many others might be trapped and dying all over the city. - I love this. I could read it three times a day and still get a smile on my face. It’s just a little one shot, but it’s worth the time it takes. Word Count: 13,325

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359713 

Burden by riseofthefallenone on AO3 - Mutants are considered second class citizens, or worse. Discriminated against at every turn, mutants are marked and monitored by The Registry and any deemed too dangerous are taken away to The Facility. It’s no surprise that many try to hide or choose a more permanent way out if a mutation develops. Castiel’s parents hid his mutation and hid him away from the world. He’s grown up with the knowledge that the world will hate him, no matter what he does. If he leaves the house, he can only do it with a long, heavy coat that covers the most beautiful part of him. It takes a pair of brothers to help him really spread his wings and live. - Yet another I adore. If you’ll keep a secret for me, I’m actually not caught up, but I oh so desperately want to be. I’m kind of a sucker for wings in general, though, so that helps.

Word Count: 317,582

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20613731/chapters/48945302

Out Of The Deep by riseofthefallenone on AO3 - Stay away from the light-beds. Stay in the deep. It is the first thing hatchlings are taught the moment their fans unfurl and they can swim without their parents to buoy them along. It is the first rule, the first law. It is the beginning of every boogey-monster bedtime story told when they settle against the cliffs to sleep. Castiel should have listened better. - Okay, but holy shit. This was one of the first Destiel fics I read, and it heightened my standards to unbelievable places. I adore it. I could write essays.

Word Count: 488,608

https://archiveofourown.org/works/548878/chapters/977676 True As It Can Be by whelvenwings - Growing up in a small town in Kansas, Dean learned from a young age that there was only one rule that couldn’t be broken, one place he couldn’t go - through the forest, to the long-abandoned Angel’s Hollow. But when Sam disappears, Dean’s left with no choice but to follow his brother's tracks through the dangers of the wood; little does he know that the most dangerous creature of all lurks not among the trees, but in the Hollow itself. Dean sets Sam free, at the cost of his own liberty - and, bound by magic, resigns himself to living out the rest of his days in the Hollow, at the mercy of the being within. The angel of Angel’s Hollow, however, has a story - is a prisoner, too, as much as Dean is. Only one thing can free them both - but it is impossible. For, after all: who could ever learn to love a beast? - This was the first, and last, Beauty and the Beast AU I ever read, but for good reason. I’m scared if I read another, that this one will absolutely shit on it and I won’t be able to enjoy it. I loved this fic very much.

Word Count: 71,952 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048568/chapters/24631101

Okay, before I even mention the next one, please read the tags. There are quite a few possible triggers and the tags, luckily, have accurate trigger warnings. And, of course, archive warnings. (And, of course, be sure to read tags on the others.) If you have issues with that, just scroll past this one, because the others are fine. (I think/hope so. At least. If you have any issues, please, let me know. I’ll put warnings above those too)

Defiant by thestorygirl on AO3 - Dean Winchester has devoted his career as a police officer to helping angel slaves in any way that he can. He even formed and heads the "Angel Welfare Task Force," which involved him being called to consult on any case involving slaves. This passion stemmed from an incident that happened twenty years previously, when a thirteen year old Dean failed to help his friend Castiel escape being sold to a sadistic owner. Dean had never really harbored any hope of finding his friend. He saw his work as something he did in memory of Castiel, to prevent others from suffering the same fate. But, when called out on a routine case one day, Dean was startled to find that he recognized the victim. - So, usually I avoid the Non-Con archive warning at all. But with this one, honestly, I’m lucky I didn’t. I could seriously write essays on this fic. I’m gonna shut up about it, just because I don’t want to talk too much about it. It’s seriously perfect.

Word Count: 133,352

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180202/chapters/4771569

Alright back to the ones that don’t quite need trigger warnings.

Have Love, Will Travel by squeemonster - Castiel Novak is a reclusive writer with a childhood so tragic it's left him terrified to leave his home—until his overbearing brother, Gabriel, drags him out for a night on the town full of booze and strip clubs, and he encounters Dean Winchester, a mesmerizing and mysterious stripper with secrets of his own. Both men find themselves inexplicably drawn to each other, and soon Dean's private dances for Castiel become much more, as both men confess their troubles and find solace in each other's company. But neither can seem to find the courage to take their relationship further than the intimacy of the club's VIP Room—and just when Dean's own brother gives him the excuse he needs to finally admit his feelings, Dean discovers something that brings it all crumbling down. Will they find a way past their demons and their trust issues, and back to each other?- I love Cas in this fic, his agoraphobia fits his usual outsider-ness and it’s just all beautifully characterized. I very much enjoy “the only exception” tropes as well, so....

Word Count: 94,054

https://archiveofourown.org/works/565455/chapters/1011747?view_adult=true Four Letter Word For Intercourse by Bendingsignpost on AO3 - As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties. What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right? (It's probably a bad idea, but he really can't help himself.) - Holy shit. That’s... that’s really all I can say. Holy shit. Easily made my top five.

Word Count: 194,739

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086839/chapters/37568591 Now, onto the one I haven’t finished, but like... so far.

Beck and Call by Soupernabturel on AO3 - 1922: Dean Winchester, eldest heir to the Winchester Estate, has a less than orthodox relationship with his servant, Castiel Novak. - Like I said, I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m vastly enjoying it at the moment.

Wow, it was really hard not to include canon ones lol. Anyways, I hope this helps Anon, and I hope you enjoy! I love all these authors, and you should give them all the love!

[thatoperablog]

The Magic Flute by Mozart

About The Magic Flute

The Magic Flute, or Die Zauberflote, composed in German by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in 1791, is considered to be one of the greatest operas in history. Essentially, it's about a prince trying to rescue the love of his life from a villain, and a silly bird catcher maturing into a man and finding himself a girl. The opera is filled with crazy characters, including spirits, witches, a fierce dragon, a prince and a princess, a queen, a god, and even a weird looking hag. Today, The Magic Flute is the most frequently performed opera world wide -- and once you see it, you’ll know why.

“Don’t Miss This Moment” Moment

“Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” (Hell’s vengeance boileth in my heart)-The Queen of the Night’s aria, Act II Scene 3.

An aria is a word used to describe a musical piece written for a solo voice, usually with a distinct melody and an accompanying orchestra. The aria's range is two octaves, and requires a very high tessitura. In case you have absolutely no idea what this means, just imagine someone singing at a pitch that breaks glass. If you enjoy arias, the best recordings of this specific aria are with Lucia Popp or Natalie Dessay. You can check it out on youtube later – do it!

And finally, let the show begin!

Even the Smurfs love it

Characters (in order of appearance)

Tamino- The attractive prince (imagine your celebrity crush) *sigh*

Three Ladies- Servants to the Queen of the Night. The queen is like that girl (insert roommate, popular chick) you hate and the ladies are her minions.

Papageno- Literally the bird man. He catches birds for the Queen of the Night. Basically, he’s a bum.

Queen of the Night- She rules the sky. She can be very mean and is the type of person you do not want to encounter on a bad day.

Pamina- The damsel in distress (a.k.a. princess and daughter of Sarastro, the Sun God, and the Queen of the Night. No big deal.)

Monostatos- The bad guy: chief slave of temple, a.k.a. Sarastro’s right hand man. Oh yeah, and he’s sort of like a slimy rat; insanely creepy.

Sarastro- The Sun god; he is very powerful, very intense. He is like the school- principal, an all-powerful being that everyone has to obey or else they will face death.

Papagena- The bird lady.

   Plot Overview

Setting: A magical land between the sun and the moon.

ACT I

The curtain rises, and Tamino, the handsome young prince enters. He is trying to escape the clutches of a ferocious dragon when the Three Ladies find him. They watch as he has an epic battle with the humongous dragon, eventually slaying it with his sword. Shocked at his own success, Tamino stumbles and faints. The ladies think Tamino is absolutely mind-bogglingly handsome and they fight about who should go gossiping to their ruler, the Queen of the Night, about the brave prince. They decide to tell her together. After they leave, in comes Papageno. 

Just as the prince wakes, still delirious from his spell, Papageno, pompously boasts to him (lying, trying to trick the confused prince), “Oh yeah baby! I killed the dragon. I got that son of a gun!” The Three Ladies enter and accuse Papageno of lying, and decide to place a padlock around his mouth so he can’t speak. Then the three ladies show Tamino a picture of the beautiful Pamina, The Queen of the Night’s daughter. She has been captured by The Queen of the Night’s supposedly evil enemy, Sarastro, the sun god. Despite the fact that Sarastro is her daughter’s father, the Queen loathes him. 

As they are talking the Queen of the Night appears and tells Tamino that if he rescues Pamina, she will allow him to marry her. When she leaves, magical Spirits appear out of nowhere to give Tamino and Papageno the tools they will need soon to save a human life: a golden flute, and a set of chimes. Obviously. 

The two rush to the temple and split up, searching for Pamina.

Papageno finally finds Pamina with Monostatos, an evil man who works for Sarastro, and has a creeper crush on Pamina. When Monostatos sees Papageno, he bolts. Papageno assures Pamina that she is going to be okay. Meanwhile, a priest of the temple chats with Tamino and tells him that Sarastro isn’t really a bad guy, but a noble, wise, trustworthy, sensitive man who most likely enjoys long walks on the beach and candle lit dinners.

As Papageno and Pamina escape, they bump into Monostatos and his men. Papageno begins to play the chimes, and as if by magic, the gang begins to dance in what can only be described as an uncool-in-every-way old people dance boogey down style. This dance ends Act I. What happens next you ask? Keep reading.

ACT II

Act II begins with Tamino and Pamina in the Temple of Ordeals, where their love for each other undergoes a series of tests:

1. Tamino is silenced. He is unable to express his love for Pamina, even when she begs him to speak to her.

2. Pamina is ordered to kill Sarastro with a dagger by the Queen of the Night, (here’s the Don’t Miss This Moment Aria!) but she doesn’t do it. Monostatos attempts to blackmail Pamina by telling her he will tell Sarastro of her intentions if she doesn’t kiss him. However, Sarastro overhears this conversation and forgives Pamina for her mother’s attempt at revenge.

3. Pamina and Tamino have to walk through fire and water. Incidentally Papageno is also tested by what appears to be an ugly old hag who tells Papageno that she is his bride.

It’s really Papagena, Papageno’s perfect match in disguise as a test of his true love. Luckily he accepts her anyway and she turns into a young, beautiful maiden. Papageno’s eyes almost pop out of his skull with delight. Good news for him.

In the final scene, everyone shows great joy because they’ve passed their tests with flying colors. Tamino and Pamina get married, everyone celebrates, and they live happily ever after.

Important to Note:

The finale of The Magic Flute is very uncharacteristic of an opera, since there is almost always a love triangle that results in affairs. These are followed by jealous husbands becoming adulterous murderers, or helpless women killing themselves. The ending of The Magic Flute is filled with happiness, which could be a good reason why its popular--people, especially teenagers, love unrealistically happy endings to everything. 

[osean-kitty]

Year 2077 October 28th Five days on foot, still can't sleep. Outside it's like nothing happened. Sky looks wrong, that's all. Hike back to overturned NatGuard truck near Toquerville? After blisters heal, maybe. Looks like USGS team was researching something here in cave. Cleared out when bombs fell, left equipment behind. Probably thought they had families to run back to. October 29th Char, must've said this out loud a thousand times walking here. Maybe writing it will feel more like you heard. You were right. I was north of Spanish Fork. Took the 77 along Provo Bay to steer clear of town. Would've been home in an hour. Engine died, truck just stopped. So did a Chryslus in the other lane. Knew right away. First nuke hit SLC inside a minute. I was looking South - Lucky Man! Flash behind me so bright world looked on fire. Old couple from the Chryslus starts screaming they can't see. Didn't watch you die, Char. Saved my eyes. Counted 12 more flashes next 7 minutes. Ground shook each time, 18 seconds later. When nothing hit for half an hour, took a look. Globe of fire where you and Alex died. Didn't kid myself. Didn't know what to do. Grabbed my pack and rifle. Saw to the old couple. Sat them up against car, let them hold and comfort each other. Told them I was going to get help, everything be okay. One bullet through both heads. Instant. Five day hike back to Zion. You told me. Stop running off to the wild. Man belongs with his family. You were right. You were right. You were right. You were right. Wasn't there to hold you and my boy. Died without me. Never touch you or him again. Should shoot myself. What I deserve. Can't. Maybe soon. October 31st Black rain falling outside. Geiger jumping. Should let it kill me but bottling water from back of cave all the same. November 2nd Sounds dead outside, but can't look. Geiger goes crazy 15 feet from cave mouth. Do the math. Radiation goes down before water runs out or I never leave this cave. Year 2078. January 1st Happy New Year. Two months in cave. Still lethal outside. Don't get it. In army they said 2-4 weeks cleared fallout. Less than a month's water left. Been mopping condensation off cave walls, wringing shirt into bottles. Trading calories for H2O. Food stocks holding. Thanks, USGS. If there was even a chance I'd see the two of you again, I'd run outside. January 10th Sounded like windstorm out there for 2 days. Radiation down 500. What happened? January 15th Took a peek. Snow. It glows green. January 28th Radiation low enough I could risk short exposure outside. More important, cave stream now drinkable if I use Rad drugs. January 30th There is nothing alive out there. Year 2083. May 5th The comeback goes on. Add prickly pear to list of survivors with honey mesquite, and banana yucca. Odd nodules / mutations but safe to eat. Harvesting oh so careful, never take more than a fifth. Mouth waters every time I'm about to eat something that isn't from a can. May 7th Clouds of those stinging flies near fallen tree I call The Napper. Little flashes in the cloud. Something dragonfly-sized that zaps them midair then scoops them up. Something new. May 19th Bighorn sheep! A family - ram, ewe, and little one Fucking Goddammit May 20th The sheep were different. Brawny. Ewe had curved horns just like the ram. Seen some tiny lizards but this is first time seen animals that big. Fingers crossed. 5-10 years breeding, fresh meat, hides, horns. I know it's time to go back, Char. When winter has passed. Year 2084. June 14th Just got back. Tired. Good scrounging along the way. Ended up dragging back a cart of stuff. Write tomorrow. Sleep. June 15th Departed April 10th. Walk to SLC took 15 days. Would've been 7-9 back in the old days but had to circle pockets of radiation and foraged along way. Don't know what I was thinking. Imagined I'd find my house, dig through rubble, find - something. Your bones I hoped, and Little Nut's. Would've buried them. Here in Zion maybe. SLC is mostly craters. Warped steel girders where highrises sat. Mounds of bricks. Never found our house. Didn't even find street. What wasn't a crater was scorched clean. Want to believe it was fast, a flash, both of you vaporized. Lies to make me feel better. I'll never know. Which part of city got hit first? Northeast and you both died in a blink. Farther away and you burned alive screaming or the blast broken glass and bits of brick and wood splinters shredding you like hamburger. Look at it coward and listen don't turn away face it. If you'd been brave lucky man you would've found a spot and blown your brains out. But not you. You took your time walking back, made a shopping trip out of it. Scrounger. The truck was still there on the 77 north of Spanish Fork. The Chryslus too, but no sign of the old couple's bones. Outside Nephi I caught a trail. Three men, tracks heading toward Fountain Green. Thought about following but didn't. Stupid fantasy of friends, more likely cannibals. June 20th Took two days to build door and electrify it. No soliciting, assholes. Home sweet fucking home. Year 2095. September 20th I count 28 of them. 11 adult males, 8 females, 9 children aged 2 - 10. Some rifles and pistols in bad repair. Old world clothes, ratty. September 22nd Got close enough last night to hear them talk. Spanish, I think. From Mexico? Heard them say "paradeeso" a bunch. Think that means paradise. Here to stay, then. Seem harmless. SEEM. October 5th The one I call "Maria" is pregnant. Think the father is "Jose" but she spends a lot of time with "Pablo" too. October 7th "Pedro" ran out to pee in the stream and would've seen me if he looked to his left. Too close. Need to give them space. November 10th "Jose" broke his leg chasing a bighorn. Too far from camp for them to hear. Told myself to leave it be but couldn't. 300 yards from their camp did my best Jose screaming imitation until a bunch of them came looking, then strung them along to the crest where they could hear the real Jose. Probably useless. Compound fracture, broke the skin. November 11th "Infec-shee-own." So many goddamn words nearly the same, think I'd be fluent. But anyway Jose's leg has got it so he's going to die. Nature for you. Of course they're giving prayer a try. November 12th Left bottle of antibiotics on a rock outside their camp last night. They thanked God (Dee-os) of course. As though that asshole saw fit to burn the world but still cared enough to leave some medicine on a rock. November 15th Jose will always limp but otherwise he'll be okay. Good deed for the month. Will they make it through the winter? Year 2096 I. February 11th Fuckers killed all the men. I think they would've taken the women alive but Maria and Selena opened fire and some of the others went for their guns so they shot them down and some of the kids with them. If I could've warned them. February 12th Elena and Carmen and 5 children still alive, being kept in a pen. There are more than 100 of these assholes in blue suits. Every suit says "22" on the back. Why? Armed to the teeth with submachine guns, pistols. Estimate 60% male. Everyone seems to follow the dark-haired guy but can't get close enough to tell. Assholes are disciplined - patrols, sentries - they mean business. Say I go in at night and get the women and children out. Where to next? But I have to get them out. Have to. February 13th Recon during night. Well-organized, sentries along most approaches, but stream not covered. Are they sick? Lots of coughing fits. Tuberculosis? Women and children still in pen. Will try to infiltrate by stream tomorrow night. February 14th They ate them. February 19th Ambush along riverside trail. 6 males killed. Heard their coughing a mile away. Used their grenades to booby-trap bodies, kept half. Secured 6 SMGs, 500 rounds 10mm, 6 frags. February 20th Ambush along riverside trail. 2 males died checking bodies. Killed 2 more with rifle. Shot 1 through calf and let asshole crawl off to spread message. Coughed like I'd shot him through lungs. February 23rd Ambush half-mile east of coal pits wash. 8 males killed. Year 2096 II. February 28th Ambush in the narrows. 6 males killed. Took a 10mm through thigh, steel jacket, missed femoral. Lucky. Used tourniquet to make sure no blood spattered on rocks back to cave. Have set traps all along entrance passage but if they find me it will be matter of time. Still, 24 confirmed kills in 10 days = at least 1/3rd of their combat force, not bad for an old man. March 2nd Lucky lucky lucky lucky. Patrol was small - 3 men. Screaming woke me - point man caught under deadfall. Panic fire ricocheted into the cave, almost hit me. Crawled forward and killed them all with SMGs. Nearly used frags, stupid, finger in pin when remembered ricochets. Leaving at once. No other patrols in area but they'll be searching narrows for these 3. Taking as much food as I can drag with me and heading to cave south. Year 2097. January 13th The Coughers are gone finally. All 34 that still lived. Ate their dead for strength, then struck out SE. Victory. 10 months of killing. All I feel is cold. They deserved every goddamn bit of it. January 17th Thought I was dreaming but the screams were real. For a moment thought they'd tricked me, just pretended to leave Zion, then sent a patrol to track me down. But the screams were a woman's. Edged around corner in passageway to have a look. One Vaulter, ankle deep in bear trap. Leveled my SMG but the way she was crying stopped me. How she screamed when she saw me. Been their boogey man a long time. Name's Sylvie. Claims she ran away from them. Calls them evil people, "children of the devil". Turns out they were sick after all, somethingthey caught in a Vault they lived in. She never came down with it (yet). So help me, I've wound up being her nurse. January 18th Her story matches what I learned from my "interrogations" last year, but according to her - let's just say it was bad to be a woman in that group. So when they left, she slipped away. She knows next to nothing about living outside a Vault. Says she wants to learn. Year 2100. September 9th Never been so scared in my life. Canada wasn't scary, just sickening, the criminality of it. The end of the world wasn't scary. When I knew you and Alex were dead, I didn't have anything left to be scared about. I just went on for some reason. I wasn't scared fighting the Vaulters. It was like I kept daring them to finish me. When I killed them, I think it was the closest I came to being happy in years Sylvie is pregnant. And I am terrified. Ridiculous old man. A father again at 47. In this world? She's so excited and so - trusting. Says it's God's will that we have this child. Like nothing can go wrong. You see, Char, she doesn't know about you and Alex. Never told her. Almost did sometimes but what you and I had, it seemed wrong to share it. More like an old man not wanting his young wife to know how he failed the one who come before her. Hiking into Toquerville for medical books and supplies. This will be done right. I'm sorry, Char. Hope you can forgive me. Year 2101. March 5th Baby was breech. Would've been a son. Michael. Did my best to turn him. Failed. Must've done Caesarian too late. Had to put Sylvie out and she never woke up. Buried them south of the Narrows. Well. This time I was by their side. So much better. I think I can finally do it. Blow my fucking brains out all over this goddamn cave. Year 2108. August 22nd 10 sets of tracks 1/2 mile NE of canyon entrance. Barefoot??? August 23rd Saw them through scope. Corpses walking around. Finally gone crazy. Dementia maybe. August 24th I'm not crazy, they're real. Goddammit they are real. Rushed me the moment they saw me, snarling like animals. They look like corpses but don't smell rotted. I'll be putting them out of their misery. Doing for them what I never could for myself. September 3rd The last of them. All gone. Year 2113 February 5th Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday you useless old dinosaur, happy birthday to me. Happy 60th. What do you get a man who has everything? A bottle of whiskey and a 12 gauge slug through the roof of the mouth! Whoo! Come now. What do I have to do to prove to myself that I've lived long enough? I'm a shriveled old man. White beard. Seen enough sunrises and sunsets. Saw the big sunset, been hanging on through the long night 36 years now. Ridiculous. Not kidding myself into thinking there's anything on the other side of this. Fine. Things weren't so bad before I was born. Char and Alex. Sylvie and Michael-who-could've-been. Thoughts of the beloved dead before dying. Goodbye, Zion. February 6th Fucking didn't do it, coward as usual. Maybe two bottles next year. Year 2123. April 25th 24 of them, half boys, half girls. Youngest is 8 maybe, oldest 13-14. Dirty and scrawny, been on foot a long time. Children's crusade. Struck camp on nearly the same spot as los mexicanos, 30 years and a lifetime ago. I've spent 2 nights listening to them. English. Literate. One of them reads stories while the little ones fall asleep.[1] They escaped someplace they call "The School" but can't figure out where it was. When they want little one to behave they tell him to stop or "The Principal will get you." Principal better not show up or I'll blow his goddamn head off. I can still shoot straight. Year 2124. January 2nd I've been leaving notes for them, and gifts. They like the books. Started with stories but moved on to weapons manuals, medical books, practical stuff. In the notes, well it's embarrassing, almost like those cards people used to give each other, everything sweet and loving. I tell them to read and to learn and to make the most of their new home. I tell them I'm giving them Zion as a gift to make up for all the sorrows of their lives so far and all the sorrows man has visited on man. I tell them to be kind to each other and modest. I tell them never to hurt each other but that if someone else comes along and tries to hurt them to strike back with righteous anger. Stuff like that. I sign every note "The Father", because well, just because. January 18th Have I mentioned that I'm dying? Mind's still sharp. Lungs are the problem. Might be cancer. Cough's been getting worse for months, finally there's blood in it. Getting harder to visit my little friends, breath's so short. I've given away most of what I own. They'll find the rest in caves when they get a little older. I don't want them to find me, though. "The Father" is a broken-down old man? Disappointment. It's time. I don't want another birthday. January 23rd It's cold enough that I won't last long on the high mound up next to Red Gate. I think I've got enough breath left in me to make it. I'll just lie down and stare at the sky. Feels right. I hope they'll do well. I hope no harm comes to them, from within or without. Did my best to prepare them with the last notes. Said something kind about each one of them, what makes each one special. Told them "The Father" was pleased by their kind natures and that it would be up to them to handle things on their own from now on, that I'd be silent but still watching and still caring. Lying, then. Oh yes. Lied to you, Char. And Alex. And Sylvie. Told you I'd be with you forever. But I wouldn't go back and unsay it once if I could. What was the point of it all? So many failures. But I never forgot your face. Or Little Nut's. Or (sorry) Sylvie's. They used to say that happened after a while but it never did for me. Maybe the only point of all that living was to keep those pictures in my head going for as long as I could. It was the only life I could give you. Not a day went by without. It wasn't choice. I chose to die again and again. Just never did. Body had its own drive. Well, the little ones will need it. Species will need it if it's to continue. That blind drive onward. I wish them well. It's been a gift to me, at the end of it all, to behold innocence. Goodbye, Zion. Randall Dean Clark Feb 5th, 2053 - Jan 2124