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crowleysgirl67 · 1 year ago

Text

Unexpected

Author: @crowleysgirl67

Word Count: 3250

Parings/Characters: BAU Team, Reader x Hotch, Alexandra (OFC), Jack Hotchner,

Warnings: Show warnings, nondescript case, idk

A/N: Song is Older by isabel larosa the sped up version.

A woman jogging alone on a forest jogging path in the early morning mist. She trips on what she assumes is a tree root. After hitting the ground she rolls onto her side to see what she has tripped over. A scream echoes through the forest as the woman sees she has tripped over a body barely off the jogging path. The feet of the dead woman sticking out on the path just enough to trip the jogger.

***

“Locals have asked for our help with this case.” JJ said handing Spencer his paper file as the rest of you use the tablets to look at information. “Three young women ranging from eighteen to twenty-four have been murdered in the last six months. All have had their vocal cords cut from their bodies.”

“The latest victim Kendra Montgomery was found early yesterday morning by a jogger.” Garcia adds.

“Two of the three girls were white while the other was of Asian descent. So that kinda rules out a preferential reason. Or at least race isn’t a determining factor of how the victims are picked.” you state looking through the pictures.

“We can deliberate on the plane. Wheels up in twenty.” Hotch stands up.

Everyone disperses to grab their bags, leaving you and Hotch as the last ones to leave the room. Your heels click on the floor as you go around putting chairs back into place. You could feel him watching you as you did. Hotch and you had met about a year and a half earlier and had a one-night stand. Which was highly unusual for him but enough alcohol and loneliness can influence anyone. You hadn’t spoken to him since, until you transferred into his unit. He was shocked, but you both agreed to be professional.

“See you on the plane.” you said softly. He nodded in response and left to presumably go call his son.

“The time between his kills is getting shorter. Kills victim one, Andrea Kemp, six months ago. Then victim two, Mei Vuong, last month. Less than a full month between Mei and Kendra.” Emily points out.

“Doesn’t seem like he’s concerned with forensics. Plenty of fibers and things found with the bodies.” you say, looking over the forensic reports.

“No hits in any database so he’s not offended before or hasn’t been caught offending.” Reid muses.

“Let’s interview the families. Reid go over the girls records to see if you find anything. Dave, Morgan start with the crime scene and then go see Andreas' family. Prentiss, JJ take Meis' family. (Y/N) with me we’ll see the most recent victim, Kendras family.” Hotch divvies out what needs to be done.

***

“How sure are we that Nathan Benson is going to strike again so soon?” you ask

“He’s devolving. He needs to.” Reid replies

“So why are we waiting for him to take an innocent person? Why not give him what he wants?” you question.

“He already knows Prentiss and I are FBI.” JJ says.

“He doesn’t know me. I was never in the bar or did any interviews with him. I can go in, get his attention.”

“Have you done undercover before?” Morgan asks.

“Guys I get I’m new and you're skeptical but I got this.” you pulled out a bag and touched up your makeup, putting on some bright red lipstick. You took your hair out of the ponytail and messed it up to give it a stressed sex look. Tugging your skirt up to mid thigh, you set your badge and gun down. “There’s an alley about a block away. I can walk by that, it’s the perfect place for him to want to kill. One of you can hide out there.” you said as you un tucked your blouse and tied it up exposing your midriff. You popped a button at the top exposing more cleavage. “Who hasn’t had interactions with him beside me?”

“I haven’t and neither has Hotch.” Morgan answers.

“Ok. Give it five and one of you can follow me in. And for heaven's sake if it’s you Hotch lose the ‘I’m an agent look’ yeah? Just a regular guy in a bar.” you hopped out the back of the surveillance van.

Morgan stifled a snicker, “We’ll see you in five.”

You gave a thumbs up and sauntered on in. You walked up to the bar and leaned over whispering in the bartender's ear to give you coke on the rocks, before surveying the establishment. You spotted Nathan back by the door to the kitchen. You made yourself comfy on the stool closest to him before striking up a conversation.

“I hear you have a nice karaoke thing going on here.” you smiled as you accepted the drink from the bartender. “Is that like a local thing? Or can out of towners join.” you purr, sipping your drink and batting your lashes at him.

“Anyone can join.” he smiled charmingly. “You like to sing?”

“Been doing it since I was little. How’s the selection?”

“Why don’t I show you?” he pushed away from the wall and showed you the music available.

You debated music as you flirted with him before finally choosing a song.

You went up to the mic as the music began, “Think I need someone older. Just a little bit colder. Takes the weight off your shoulders. Think I need someone older.”

You made eye contact with Hotch as he walked in. “Baby, am I your little secret? 18, I'm old enough to keep it.”

You finished the song, avoiding looking at Hotch again. He’d shed his suit coat and tie and had his sleeve rolled up to his elbows. Looking at him again would just prove to be a distraction.

‘Focus (Y/N). Now is not the time to be thinking about your baby daddy boss.’ you thought as you shifted your thoughts back to the task at hand.

You pretended to be more and more intoxicated as the night wore on before ‘stumbling’ out of the bar and headed in the direction of the alley. You teetered about as you walked, to keep up the appearance of being intoxicated. When you got to the alley you stopped and bent down putting your hands on your thighs, appearing as if you were about to vomit.

Nathan grabbed you then and dragged you into the alley. He brandished a knife and got a swipe in before you kicked him back and Morgan jumped from the shadows gun drawn.

“Drop it Nathan. It’s over.” he ordered as Hotch rounded the corner with the others.

“(Y/N) are you alright?” Hotch glanced at you holding your bloodied arm.

“Tis’ but a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.” you waved him off as you walked out of the alley. Your arm was the least of your concerns. You leaked through your padding and you didn’t need the embarrassment nor questions about your now wet shirt. It’d been a few hours since you’d been able to slip away to pump and you really should have done it sooner, but with everything going on it’d slipped your mind.

You made it back to the cars and grabbed your bag. Hopefully you could manage to cover up at least until you could get a moment to fix the issue.

“(Y/N).” JJs soft voice and hand on your shoulder startled you. You hadn’t heard her approach as you grabbed a sweater from your bag.

“Geez JJ.” you pulled the sweater to your chest.

“How old is your baby?” she asks, getting straight to the point.

Well so much for getting away unseen. “She’s six months old.” you replied softly to avoid being overheard.

“Do what ya gotta. I’ll cover for you.” she smiled softly but you knew she’d be asking you about it more later.

“Thank you, I just need ten minutes.” you climbed in the back of the SVU. JJ shut the door and stood outside it waiting.

“Where’s (Y/N)? The medics are here. I want her to get checked out.” Hotch asked, approaching the car.

“She’ll be out in a minute. She’s changing her shirt.” JJ answered.

Luckily you were just finished pumping. You put everything away quickly and tossed on the clean sweater leaving your hurt arm exposed for easy access, and climbed out of the car. You gave JJs shoulder a gentle squeeze in thanks.

Hotch escorted you over to the medics. “You’re lucky it wasn't worse.”

“I know. But it’s not like I did this alone. You guys were backing me up.” you winced at the alcohol put on the wound to clean it as the medic patched you up. A couple of steri strips and a bandage was all it took. “See? I didn’t even need stitches.”

“Still.” he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like it.” he said so softly you almost missed it.

“Aaron..” you trailed off as Rossi came over.

“Good job kid. How ya feeling?” he asked

“Stings a little but I’m alright.” you tuck your newly bandaged arm into the sleeve of your sweater.

Everyone went back to the hotel to gather things and meet on the plane. JJ met you by your room with her bag.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a kid?” she asked, following you in as you started packing.

“It’s in my file.” you shrug.

“Only Hotch and Rossi can read those.”

“Oh well that’s good to know.” you finish packing.

“What's her name?”

“Alexandra.” you smiled softly and showed JJ some pictures on your phone.

“She’s adorable.” JJ smiles.

“Thanks. She’s getting so big.”

“If you don’t mind me asking; where’s her dad?”

“He doesn’t know about her. She was a result of a drunken night.” you followed her out of the room.

“Oh. Well if you have a name we could always help you find him.” She offered.

“That’s sweet of you to offer but I’ll tell him.”

“You know who he is?” she asked, surprised.

“I’ve seen him again recently.”

“Seen who?” Reid asks as you meet most of the others in the lobby.

‘Well, might as well drop this bombshell’ you thought as you didn’t see Hotch. “My daughters father.”

“You have a kid?” Morgan asked.

“Why is that surprising to everyone?” you chuckle “Do I not look old enough for a kid or somethin?”

“Just you don’t talk about having a kid.” Emily pipes in.

“Hotch doesn’t talk about his kid much either.” you point out.

“That’s different, at least we know about Jack. You’ve never mentioned your kid before.”

“Touche.” you concede to her point.

“So tell us about her.” Morgan encouraged.

“Alexandra is six months old. Full head of black curls.” you smiled and pulled her pictures up to show the rest of them. You let them pass your phone around to look at her pictures.

“Wow you weren’t kidding about that head of hair.” Morgan chuckled.

“Look at those big beautiful brown eyes.” Emily gushed.

You smiled, it was cute watching them fawn over her pictures.

“What’s going on over here?” Rossi asked as he approached, with Hotch.

“(Y/N) is showing off pictures of her daughter, Alexandra.” Emily passed him the phone.

You avoided looking back, you could feel Aarons stare burning a hole in the back of your head.

“Cute kid.” Rossi chuckled while showing Hotch. “How old?”

“She's six months old.” you replied, finally turning to face them. You watched Hotch take the phone for a better look. He was keeping a neutral face but you could tell he was calculating her age and factoring in your encounter. The phone shrilled in his hand and he gave it back.

“Pardon me.” you took it and answered walking a few paces off.

The others chatted amongst themselves, but Dave looked between the two of you. “You wanna tell me what that’s about?” he asked softly, careful to not be heard by the others.

“I’ll tell you later.” Hotch replied.

Hotch cornered you by your car after arriving back in DC. “We need to talk.”

“Great, get in the car. You can talk while I drive.” you tossed your bag in the back seat of your car. “Alex has a fever and I need to get home.”

His brow furrowed, “Fine. But I’m driving. Give me your keys.”

At this point you were too tired and stressed to argue so you tossed him your keys. He helped you into the passenger side before climbing in himself. “Directions?”

You gave him the way to your house and sat back waiting for his barrage of questions.

“Is she mine?” he asked after several minutes in silence.

“Yes. You were the first person I’ve slept with in awhile. I didn’t sleep with anyone after either so she’s definitely yours. We can get a DNA test if you want.”

He glanced over, “I believe you.”

Nothing else was said as he pulled into your drive. Danika, your nanny, was waiting on the porch with a screaming Alex. You hopped out of the car before he had it in park and jogged up the steps.

“Danika, how long has she been screaming like this?” you took Alex from her.

“About ten minutes Miss. Her fever is down to 99.3 from the 100.5 it was earlier. I gave her a dose of tylenol about 4 hours ago. I was gonna give her another but I wanted to wait for you.” she replied.

“Ok. Thank you. I've got it from here. I’ll see you in the morning.” you rocked Alex. “It’s ok baby. Mamas here.” you soothed her and took her inside Hotch on your heels.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course She’s your daughter too.” You passed her to him and went to get her some medicine. When you got back she wasn’t screaming. She had stopped and gone down to a small fuss. “I’ve got her meds.” you held them up.

He looked up, “See? Mamas got the feel good stuff. You’re ok.”

You tried to ignore the feeling running through you at him calling you mama, and walked over. “Do you want to give it to her?”

“Sure.” he smiled and took the meds from you. He gave her the meds as you watched him with her. He was so soft and gentle, it was a sweet surprise. Complete contrast to his usual behavior.

“What’s her full name?” he asks as he rocks her.

“Alexandra Haley Hotchner. I did remember your name.” you said softly.

He swallowed and looked back down at Alex. “Why did you choose Haley as her middle name?”

“A feeling I guess. I can’t really describe it. The name just kept floating around in my head for weeks.”

“Hailey was my wifes name. Jack's mother.” he said softly.

“I’m sorry Aaron. She’s young enough, we can always change it if it hurts too much.”

“No. No, it's perfect.” he smiled as she held his finger.

“I guess it was meant to be then.” you smiled softly.

He stayed up with you talking about Alex. How you were going to coparent. How to explain this to everyone and how to introduce Jack to Alex. It was really late by the time you finished.

“Do you want to spend the night? It’s late and we took my car here.”

“That’d be great. Thank you. I’ll let Jess know I’ll be home later.”

You showed him to the guest room before taking Alex and putting her in her nursery. You checked her temperature, which thankfully had gone down again. After making sure the baby monitor was on you left the room. You checked on Aaron one more time before going to bed.

It took a few weeks but you eventually introduced Jack to Alex. You’d be meeting Aaron at his house so it would be comfortable for Jack.

“Does this mean you’re gonna get married?” Jack asked Hotch as he waited by the window.

“Uh.. no bud. (Y/N) and I aren’t going to get married.” he answered. He wasn’t about to explain the complicatedness of this whole situation to a child. Jack was too young to understand.

“They’re here!” Jack shouts excitedly.

“Alright. Remember your sister is still a baby and so you need to be gentle and not so loud ok?”

“I know dad.” Jack hops down from the couch by the window.

He chuckled as he opened the door to greet you. “Hey (Y/N) come on in.”

“Hey.” you smiled and stepped inside.

“(Y/N) this is Jack. Jack this is (Y/N).”

You passed Alex to Hotch and knelt down to greet Jack. “Hi Jack.” you held out your hand.

Jack glanced up at his dad, who gave him a slight nod. He shook your hand, “Hi.”

“You’ve got a good handshake there bud. Did your dad teach you?”

Jack nods enthusiastically and you smile. “Are you ready to meet Alex?”

“Yes!”

“Well go on then.” you nod to Aaron who's gone and sat on the couch with her.

He ran over and stood in front of them. You smiled watching Aaron introduce them. Alex cooed and squirmed in his arms as Jack giggled.

Over the next few weeks you spent a lot of time with Aaron and Jack letting them get to spend time with Alex.

“(Y/N)?” Jack looked up at you from the floor where he was playing by Alex.

“Yeah bud?” you looked up from your book.

“If Alex is my sister, does that make you my new mommy?”

“Come here bud.” you put your book down and picked him up and set him on the couch. “Your mommy will always be your mommy. Just like I will always be Alex’s mommy. I am not here to replace her. I’m not your new mommy but I would like to be your friend.”

“Do you want to be my mommy? You can marry daddy.” he looked up at you.

“Oh sweetheart.” your heart ached for him. “Your daddy and I aren’t getting married. We aren’t even dating.”

“Do you want to date my daddy?”

“I like your dad very much. Sometimes adult stuff is complicated. You don’t need to worry about those things, ok?”

“Ok.” he nodded and hopped back off the couch to continue playing.

You racked a hand through your hair, and turned when you heard a sound. Aaron was leaning in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. You got up and went over to him.

“Are you alright?”

He ignored the question, “So you really like me huh?”

“You heard that? Yes I like you.” you answered. “We wouldn't have a baby if I didn't like you.”

He’d been in the middle of a sip when you said that and choked a little on his drink. You covered your mouth to stifle your giggle. He had a little coffee dribble so you took the baby rag from your shoulder and dabbed the corner of his mouth to clean it up.

“I need to put this down.” he rasped and went to the kitchen, you followed, still snickering. He set the cup down and gripped the edge of the counter to compose himself.

“What do we do now?” you asked.

He took a breath and turned to face you, “I’d like to give us a try. Jack likes you, I like you. You like me. So (Y/N) would you go on a date with me?”

You smiled, “I’d love too. We skipped that the last time.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds reader insert #criminal minds #hotch x reader

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dungeonbent · 10 months ago

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more than you can chew

"So you want us to take you to the bottom of the dungeon..." Laios muses, nursing the overly sweetened ale that you've just bought a round of.

At first, your impression of the man had been somewhat less than stellar. The easy-going air he has about him, coupled with the enthusiastic way he asked about your home in the western capitol and his overly friendly demeanor, made you slightly wary. But now that business talk has started, he seems to be giving it serious thought.

Laios asks, "Could I maybe get a timeframe on that?"

You say, "I was hoping to enter within the month." You don't have much more time than that. Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you think things might just work out.

Then Laios Touden says, "Yeah, uh. I think we'll have to turn you down on this one?"

He smiles apologetically, as if he hasn't just dashed your heart straight onto the rocks. You stare at him in shock, letting the ambient noise of the tavern and its festival-going patronage fill the silence between you as you struggle to grasp onto what could have possibly gone wrong.

You start to say, "If it's about the money, I can always-"

"Ah- it's really not about the money, I promise!" Laios says, holding his hands up. "It's just... okay, how do I put this..."

You allow some time for the tallman to articulate his response, hands tightening around your own mug. You don't even like to drink. But within the Festival of Lost Hearts, there seems to be some invisible decree that states all of those who so much as step out into the sun ought to have some syrupy alcoholic bullshit liable to destroy more relationships than just that of the body and its liver.

Laios doesn't get to formulate his full response, because his companion takes a pause from downing some of that alcoholic bullshit to cut in with a dry, "Yeah, what you're describing just isn't logistically reasonable."

"How so?" You ask, peeved. You think you've laid out the relevant points quite succinctly, actually. You even provided flow charts! No one can deny you when you have pictures! You are sure there is a law somewhere that says this.

The half-foot- Chilchuck, you think- leans forward, looking entirely unimpressed. "You want us to take you to the bottom of the dungeon on, and I quote, a 'research mission-slash-treasure hunt-slash-general dungeon things', trip. Do you have any idea how vague that all is?"

"That's what this diagram is for," You say, starting to rifle through your papers, "I really have it all well divvied out-"

"And you're basing this off a book?" Chilchuck presses, leaning up to plant an elbow on the table and stare you down. "What makes you think it's even accurate, exactly?"

"I'll have you know that it's written by a very reputable source," You say, trying to keep your hackles from rising. "You can check with all the scholars- R.L. Theras really did disappear in Skaia dungeon--"

"Yeah," Chilchuck interrupts, "and some guy took the real story of some missing adventurers and decided to make a quick buck."

You scoff. Theras's writing style is far too lyrical to be merely any charlatan off the street. "To say such a thing sounds to me like a lack of experience. Perhaps you should live a few more years before making that assertion?"

Chilchuck scowls, the ale sloshing in his skein as he gestures with it, "I am plenty fucking experienced-!"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Laios cuts in, putting a large hand on Chilchuck's narrow shoulder. Chilchuck turns a glare towards him as he says, "Chilchuck here's one of the best lockpicks you're gonna get. He's more than experienced." That seems to mollify the smaller man somewhat, though not for long, as Laios continues, "That being said, assuming that the book is real-"

"- are you trying to get scammed again?" Chilchuck hisses, but you elect to ignore him since you... suppose it might make sense why this would seem like a scam, to someone who thought R. L. Theras's work to be fiction.

Laios glances at Chilchuck and Chilchuck appears to back down, sinking back into his seat with a grumble. Laios continues, "Assuming that the book is real, you're not giving us much time to prepare, and no clear goal to actually prepare for. It's like... just asking us to bring a bunch of rations down and survive, and nothing else."

"Is that a bad thing?" You ask.

Laios and Chilchuck both look at each other. You do not appreciate whatever secret message they appear to be communicating to each other with their eyes. You wish you had any kind of mental magic to take a peek into what it could be. Or any magic at all.

"Say, Kanaya," Laios says, "have you ever actually... been to a dungeon?"

"Not before yesterday." You say honestly, "But I've been reading about them."

"Okay, so. The big thing about making a trip into a dungeon successful is having a clear plan on how long you're in the dungeon, and how you're going to get out. How long did it take R. L. to get to the bottom?"

Is this a pop quiz now? Somewhat confused, you answer, "Two months."

"And their only goal was to reach the bottom of the dungeon," Laios says, "No layovers for extra research and no extra treasure hunting. So how long do you think it'll take to reach the bottom if you have all that other stuff to do on top of it?"

You start to deflate. "... Longer."

"And getting back?"

"Does your sister not have a teleportation spell...?"

"If she can't use it for whatever reason, I mean."

You feel like sinking into the floor. "Even longer."

"There you go," Chilchuck says, raising his glass. "What you're asking for assumes that nothing's going to happen and that nothing will go wrong. In the dungeon where everything goes wrong constantly. That's a death wish."

You're starting to feel rather foolish, and rather desperate. You know you haven't been entirely forthcoming about the true nature of your desired trip into the dungeon, but even still...

"What if," You ask, despite yourself, "it was to... save someone?"

This catches Laios's attention. He asks, gently, "Save who...?"

"I don't know." And that's the truth.

Chilchuck heaves a sigh and says, "Well, that'd need even more planning- unless you know the exact place their corpse is- and who the corpse even is- you could be canvasing those floors for weeks..."

"What if they're alive?" You ask.

Chilchuck clicks his tongue. "Yeah. That's... kind of doubtful." He pauses, then sets his mug aside. "Sorry. We really wouldn't be able to help you with that."

You all lapse back into silence and you stare at your plans, trying to figure out how you can still salvage this. Porrim gave you six months to find what you've come for in Skaia's dungeon, and you know that if you don't leave in time, the Canaries may well follow. The Touden party are the most qualified party you've spoken to today. If they think this is an impossible task...

"Hey," Laios says, "wanna get something to eat? My treat!"

"Oh, no," You start, "I couldn't possibly-"

"You may as well eat something- it's not like there's anything else to do at a party," Chilchuck says, starting to flag down someone carrying two large trays of bowls, weaving through the throng of unruly patrons.

You have no recourse to deny the men their meager offer of comfort. You're still slightly bitter at having been shut down so soundly, but the stew that's served is warming. It is a dish the locals call 'bukenade', bowl filled with tender pieces of goat meat falling apart under the slightest pressure of a spoon into a savory, fragrant broth which seemed tinged with just the barest hint of sweetness from verjus.

It's only somewhat into the meal, after you start to feel a bit better, when Chilchuck clears his throat and offers, "You talk to Vans yet?"

"Hm?" You hum through a mouthful of food, covering your mouth as you're caught mid-chew like a startled animal.

"For your job." Chilchuck adds.

You swallow and shake your head. Though the name does sound somewhat familiar for some reason... "I don't know who that is."

"So there's this guy," Chilchuck says, and you nod, because you did assume it was some kind of guy. "His name's Karkat Vans. He and his lockpick buddy have a party together. Can't say I see eye to eye with him on everything, but... kid's good at what he does. He gets people to listen to him." Chilchuck leans back, "If he can do that, he might be able to help you out."

There's a glimmer of hope that strikes you when you hear that. You look at Chilchuck and say, "I'll have to do that. Thank you, Chilchuck... sir." Gods, you sound so awkward. You hope he doesn't say anything.

Chilchuck doesn't say anything, but he does roll his eyes a little. "Yeah, yeah. Don't mention it."

#dunmeshistuck #kanaya maryam #dungeon meshi #laios touden #chilchuck tims #day 4 #recipe included! just click the link <3

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thosewickedlovelies · 8 months ago

Text

Private Eye, chapter 2 | Tim Rockford/Marcus Moreno x F!Reader

Summary: With too much evidence and not enough progress, you and “Agent Rockford” go and meet the neighbors. But you’ll need a more creative solution to get into the rest of the mansion…

Tags: vague murder(?) mystery; workplace romance; we meet Marcus's powers 👀

Word count: 5,460

Note: welcome to chapter 2! I've lost perspective on this one honestly, but please enjoy the promised sneaking around in the dark 🥷🏻

ch 1 | Masterlist

It��s clear from the get-go that you and Marcus make an effective team. Your strengths balance the other’s weaknesses. You’re both thorough and driven to make something of this strange case- but you’re drowning in evidence, and the potentialities pull you every which way.

“We need a board,” Marcus declares.

It’s day three since his arrival, and he’s made himself at home at a desk in the basement. So have you, for that matter- it’s easier to keep everything related to the case in one place, so you drag a spare desk next to his and divvy up the paperwork. The wood-paneled walls are about 30 years out of style and the space is full of old metal filing cabinets, but it could be worse. There’s some natural light. Plus, you have the bathrooms all to yourselves.

At his pronouncement, you glance at the clock. “It’ll make a late night to start it now,” you point out.

“I don’t care, I can’t make sense of anything while it’s all piles of paper.” Marcus groans, sitting up and rolling his neck.

He sees your expression and falters. “You don’t have to stay. I don’t mind doing it. Or starting it, anyway.”

Your sigh flutters the documents strewn over your joined desks. “There’s a drawer of takeout menus upstairs. Any preferences?”

His face lifts, and it honestly defies logic that a man can look simultaneously so rugged and so adorable.

“Do you have a good Chinese?”

Marcus is surprisingly adept with chopsticks, making you wonder how many evenings he’s spent like this. Maybe he just really likes Chinese food? You’re adamant about separating food and work- taking an actual dinner break- and he seems perfectly happy to follow your lead.

He makes a good dinner date, easily balancing personal chitchat with lighter topics. Despite the looming task ahead, it’s a refreshing change from your normal quiet evenings alone.

After tracking down the promised corkboard, thumbtacks, and enough red yarn to commit a murder yourself, you’re ready to carve a path into the uncharted jungle that is this case.

“Okay,” Marcus finally sighs. “If we’re gonna do this, I need to show you something. And you can’t laugh,” he warns.

His tone gives you pause. You regard him warily, until he takes out…a glasses case?

From the case Marcus removes a pair of glasses with dark, round frames, and lifts them to his face with exaggerated reluctance. He looks for all the world like a schoolboy sitting in the principal’s office. Laughter begins to bubble beneath your ribs.

As if he can sense it, he pins you with a warning look.

You clap your hands over your mouth, but the giggles spill out regardless. “Oh my god, is this why you’ve left your sunglasses on every time we’ve gone to the mansion? Are they prescription?”

“Yes,” Marcus sulks. His pouty lower lip only enhances the schoolboy effect, and your laughter redoubles.

“I can see why you don’t wear them around the other officers. They’re so cute,” you tease. “I just want to pinch your cheeks.” You don’t, but you pinch the air toward him for effect.

At your words Marcus ducks his head. Is that a hint of color in his cheeks?

You clear your throat, quelling your amusement. “Okay, sorry, I‘m done. They are cute though. Very…suburban dad.”

The glasses lend him a perfectly harmless air. With his suit jacket long since shucked off and his tie loosened after-hours, you could easily imagine him waiting on a little girl after soccer practice, arms open for an energetic hug. He’d be the heartthrob of the soccer moms with his handsome face and old-school manners, you think wryly. His shoulders in that gun holster don’t hurt either.

Marcus snorts. “Huh. Well, you got me there. That’s my other job.” He says it with perfect nonchalance, but your mouth parts. Marcus avoids your gaze, suggesting that he’s well aware of the trust he’s placing in you by sharing such information. You’d wondered at his ring, but still…

As if reading your mind, he holds up his left hand. The matte silver ring on the third finger glints in the light. “Widower, though. So, no one to come after you for flirting.”

You sputter and choke on your noodles. Marcus laughs.

“Do it again,” you beg. “Pleeeease.”

Two days later, and you’re considering bringing down another corkboard. The one across the room is nearly covered already. Newspaper clippings, photographs, evidence files, interview notes. All overlapping and criss-crossed with red string in an array that would make a conspiracy theorist proud.

Marcus tsks. Despite himself, he lifts your proffered thumbtack into the air with a point of his finger. It hovers between you, yellow plastic glinting around the metal barb- until with a flick, Marcus embeds it into the corkboard on the opposite wall.

You had inquired only briefly about Marcus’s powers the first day you met. “Metal manipulation,” he’d replied, still sitting beside you at the captain’s desk.

“Must be useful against bullets,” was all you’d said.

But today, watching him remove and rearrange the bestringed tacks in the board like a conductor before a symphony- you had to ask for more details.

With a quick glance at the stairwell, he’d reached into his jacket and removed the gun from his holster. “Actually carrying around a gun is mostly for other people’s benefit. It can be anything I need it to be.” Marcus then proceeded to crumple the metal into a ball, stretch it back out into a crowbar, form tiny fragments into keys with which he unlocked every lock in the room, and finally, with his eyes closed in concentration, returned the pistol to its original form.

Your mouth hung open.

Marcus offered the reborn gun to you for inspection.

“Wow.” The metal was faintly warm to the touch. You turned it over, opening the chamber and clicking the trigger, but everything seemed to be exactly the right shape it should. “So you’re basically a metalbender. Like from that kid’s show.”

Marcus’s laughter warmed the air. “Exactly. My daughter loves that show. When she was little she was obsessed with Toph, because she was ‘just like me.’”

His smile was infectious, full of pride in and love for his daughter. Suburban dad heartthrob strikes again, you thought, your cheeks warming.

“I can do other, less flashy things, too. That’s kind of the point of my branch of the FBI. They train us to use our powers in ways you wouldn’t immediately consider. For instance, I can tell you the elemental composition of every metal object in this room, just by concentrating. I can usually tell if there’s foreign material in or on metal things, too, even trace amounts.”

You thought about what that could mean. “So if someone didn’t clean a piece of evidence well enough, you’d be able to tell even if forensics failed?”

“That’s right,” Marcus confirmed. He looked strangely somber about it, as if the morality of his powers was a question whose weight never lightened.

“Huh.”

That was something to chew on. There was a stretch of silence while you mulled over all he’d shared.

It didn’t last long, though, as if Marcus was afraid of what conclusions you might come to.

“It also means I can do stuff like this-” and then he’d levitated a thumbtack and shot it across the room like a bullet.

“No more, now,” he says, stern but apologetic. “We have to be careful at work.” Still, a conspiratorial light twinkled in his eyes.

Marcus stands from his desk with a stretch and a groan. He approaches the board you’d just had him flinging thumbtacks at and regards it.

“Who are we missing here? Is there anyone else involved who could be a suspect?” The stubble on his cheeks scrapes audibly at his thoughtful scratch. He’s squinting slightly- his glasses lay half-covered by an evidence bag on his desk.

A knock sounds from the top of the staircase. “Detective? Agent Rockford? Some new data for you.”

“Come on down,” you call.

“Don’t tell me it’s more knives,” Marcus groans.

The junior officer, Richards, falters at the base of the stairs, clearly cowed by the sight of the big bad FBI agent turning his scowl from the corkboard to him.

You stifle a laugh. Scowl, your ass- how no one has ever clocked that for the myopic squint it is is beyond you.

“Stand down, Agent,” you drawl. Pointedly, you rustle the bag hiding his glasses as you stand. “Thanks, Richards.”

The officer hesitates, glancing between the file he’d just handed you and the corkboard Marcus is studying.

“...Did you have some thoughts on the case?” you prompt.

Marcus looks over alertly, and the officer scampers. “No, no, not until I read up on it some more. See you around!”

You snigger as you head over to the board, skimming the file as you go.

“Friendly guy,” Marcus remarks, although his glance toward the staircase is bemused.

Your snicker turns into a full-belly laugh. “Normally he is friendly, Rockford. If you didn’t always look like you’re suspicious of everyone, he’d probably ask you out.”

“What?” Marcus’s brow furrows.

You exaggeratedly imitate his grumpy-looking squint, putting an elderly pucker in your lips for good measure. You plant your face about an inch from the corkboard.

“Oh.” Marcus grimaces. “I know, it’s a terrible habit. Missy is always warning me I’m going to get even more wrinkles.” He sighs in resignation.

You hide a smile, your glance skipping over the fine lines around his eyes and mouth- signs of age that a child wouldn’t understand the appeal of. “I hope your FBI team has a super-powered eye surgeon.”

“Actually- uh.” Marcus cuts himself off, his mouth turning down. “That’s probably classified,” he mumbles.

“Any plans for the weekend, Agent Rockford?” You make an effort to use Marcus’s fake name every so often, so you won’t forget and slip up around others.

Marcus leans back in his chair. “Nothing exciting. I thought I might check out the mansion again, maybe see if the neighbors are in. Get some interviews.”

You look at him.

After a second, he realizes that you haven’t responded, and looks over. “…What?”

“People usually make non work-related plans on the weekends, Marcus.”

“Oh. Well…” Marcus shrugs, fidgeting. “Missy’s going to be at a school thing, so I won’t have anything else to do. And we haven’t made much progress with the neighbors,” he points out.

He’s right, but still.

You hesitate. You don’t have any exciting plans either, and people might be more likely to be home during the day on a weekend…

“All right. Let’s do it.”

Marcus looks confused.

“I’ll come with you to interview some neighbors this weekend. It’s a good idea,” you clarify.

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you had to come with me,” Marcus says hastily. “Just that..I don’t mind, and, you know, I’m not doing anything else.” He shrugs again, looking away.

“I know. I’m saying that I don’t mind either, and you’re right that we need to interview the neighbors. They might be home on a weekend. We can get a feel for the neighborhood.”

His mouth opens and shuts. Marcus hesitates, like he thinks he should argue but can’t think of anything convincing. He settles on a grateful smile. “Okay.”

It’s a sunny day. The sky is clear, and you have a great view from the top of the hill, which is, naturally, where the mansion sits.

It’s not a very tall hill, but it’s enough of a slope that one could easily feel superior looking down from atop it. The residents of the houses below would be unable to avoid seeing the mansion whenever they looked up. The old New England houses echo the style of the mansion, albeit on a smaller scale- stately, grand and yet sort of homey at once. Highlights include spires topped with weathervanes featuring quirky animals and turrets with children’s drawings taped in the windows.

The air smells of greenery- all the hedges in the garden, probably. And something else; the odd smoky whiff of a weekend barbeque, interspersed with something…sweeter. Mom with oven mitts inside while Dad lights the charcoal outside. Apple pie America, indeed.

You survey the suburbia laid out below. You and Marcus agreed to meet at the mansion and strike out on foot from there, and now you’re deciding on a plan of attack.

“I say we canvas this street,” he’s saying, pointing to the uppermost houses, “maybe the next one, and see what the vibe is like from there.”

“What the vibe is like?” you repeat, amused. “Did you pick that up from Missy?”

Marcus coughs and shuffles a bit. “Did I use it right?” he asks, sheepish behind his glasses. The normal ones today- the round lenses made him seem sweet and trustworthy.

It’s impossible not to laugh. “Technically, I guess. Come on then, hip guy.”

The hill isn’t very wide, or steep. These streets make up just one small subdivision venturing up into the woods, branching off the two-lane highway. There are others further along, clustered more densely closer to the town. The houses here are arrayed like a waterfall, with the mansion as its source.

The top street, in fact, is only four houses long. The first two are uneventful. One man answers the door with barbeque tongs in hand, his New Balance sneakers gleaming as white as his smile. He offers you and Marcus burgers to go, which you politely decline. You glimpse a woman coming up behind him as the door closes; her face is as stiff as her husband’s was welcoming. Interesting.

Things get even more interesting at the third house.

“Oh, you’ll want to talk to the neighbor if you’re looking into Ursula.” The young person on the threshold nods their head to the only house you haven’t been to. “She can go on about her for hours, especially if you mention the pie.” They roll their eyes in a long-suffering expression.

You and Marcus exchange a look. “The pie?” Marcus slowly starts to reach for the small notebook he keeps in his jacket pocket.

“Yeah. Ursula liked to bake. Won the county fair pie competitions almost every year. Winter and summer, even after they made it anonymous and started rotating the judges.”

The neighbor and resident of the fourth house introduces herself as Olivia Tate. A woman with a somewhat jowly resemblance to a bulldog, she nearly starts slavering when your questions turn to Ursula’s pies. Her kitchen is the source of the sweet smell you caught from the top of the hill- a picture-perfect, lattice-topped pie bakes in the oven, which, Olivia laments, you could have sampled if you’d arrived half an hour later.

Her jaw clenches at your implications about Ursula’s baking. “I’ve been baking pies 30, 40 years, and I’ve never had anything taste like hers. That’s the real mystery- what she puts in them!”

Her voice pitches higher the more you probe about Ursula and her pies, and the fledgling business around them she had apparently just started.

At the end of the street, Marcus jots hurriedly in his notebook, noting everything you had learned at Olivia’s house. When he’s done, you turn your head toward the top of the hill. “Should we go back to the mansion and have a closer look around the kitchen? This is the first we’ve heard of the pie business. It could be a fresh perspective.”

The mansion’s main kitchen is an enormous, envy-inducing affair. A stunning tile backsplash, an island bigger than your kitchen table, and a stove nearly as big as the island. At first glance, the single knife block and magnetic rack above it appear perfectly in order- there’s nothing to indicate the volume of knives the department had found stashed in the rest of the house, some of them nearly the size of machetes.

With fresh motivation, you start opening cabinets, nudging aside canned goods and tubs of flour. You and Marcus have hardly begun, however, when a thumping gait sounds from within the house, clearly getting closer. You exchange an alarmed glance.

A white-haired, wide-shouldered figure swings open the door. Mud flakes off the galoshes on his feet. Long gardening gloves sheath his hands. The man stands still for a long moment, silently measuring you.

“May I ask what you’re doing in Boulton house?” His voice is coarse with age, but his tone is unmistakably flat.

After being unceremoniously removed from the mansion, you stand by your patrol car, fuming. “Can you believe that guy? We’re investigating a crime scene. You can’t tell me he doesn’t know something.”

The groundskeeper had, of course been interviewed straightaway upon the breaking of the case. He hadn’t had much useful to say, and you’d released him thinking that you’d try again once you had more context in which to question him. But for him to claim now that your searching was out of bounds..!

“Probably. But he is within his rights to kick us out.” Marcus watches you cautiously.

Leaning against your car, you face the street below, both lost in your own thoughts. From this height you have an unobstructed view of Olivia Tate’s house. It’s close enough, you realize, to make out her silhouette bobbing at a window, presumably rolling out her umpteenth pie crust.

Marcus seems to realize it too. Gesturing to the window, he starts speaking again as if you’d been mid-conversation. “So these women could have easily watched each other from their kitchens while they baked. I bet on a good day you could even smell the pies from the other house. Every year they compete at the county fairs, and their rivalry gets worse. One day the neighbor snaps?” His eyebrows lift.

“A little unlikely,” you say. “Since there’s a clear view down the drive, she’d have to come at night, or by some secret back way. And she’s barely younger than the grandma.”

“True. But that means they’d be at even odds,” Marcus points out.

You concede that it’s technically a viable theory.

Glancing around, you indicate for Marcus to get in your car.

An anticipatory silence grows while you consider your words, longer and louder until it’s drowned out only by the metallic creaking of the car itself. Marcus clenches his hands into fists to stop their fidgeting.

“So,” you finally say. “We have to come back, right? Investigate this place properly.”

Marcus exhales. He looks pensive. “Yes. But how?”

“Look, I don’t like it, but I think we’ll have to do this slightly…off-books.”

You make a plan. By day, you’d return and continue to examine the inhabited portions of the house with the rest of the team. But by night…

“We can’t ignore the possibility that our culprit is using the closed-off parts of the house. It’s a perfect excuse- ‘nobody goes there, it’s falling down, it’s dangerous’. We can’t risk not searching it.”

You and Marcus agree to meet back at the mansion in a few nights- long enough for the groundskeeper to relax his guard.

On what little hill rises above the mansion, there’s an old hiking viewpoint jutting out of the forest. Although you’re sure people still use it for hiking during the day, by night, well…there was enough sniggering and elbow jabbing amongst your townie colleagues for you to figure out what it was used for at night.

It’s about a half hour hike from the viewpoint to the mansion. You and Marcus will be starting your nighttime searching from there, since parking or walking from anywhere else would get you spotted.

You sit in the passenger seat of Marcus’s car while he drives. It smells like him, clean and masculine- probably nothing more than a combination of his laundry detergent and a no-nonsense deodorant, yet in such confined quarters it makes you light-headed the longer you sit in it. To distract yourself, you take a discreet look around.

There’s not much to see. No trash or trinkets, just a road atlas in the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. Except- sticking out from under the backseat is the crinkled corner of a magazine cover emblazoned with pink and yellow headlines and, just visible, the swoop of a youthful hairdo. The evidence of Marcus’s daughter makes you smile.

Gravel crunches under the tires as Marcus turns into the lot. His headlights reveal another car on the far side, with condensation glimmering on its windows.

“Didn’t expect to find anyone else doing night hiking,” Marcus mutters.

He continues his slow route toward the other car, to your mounting horror. “Don’t park next to them!” you hiss.

“What? Why?” Marcus’s question is utterly guileless. But he obeys, turning the car smoothly and ending up parking roughly in the center of the line of spots.

You sigh. “I mean first of all, parking right next to the only other car in an empty lot, at night? That’s weird. Second of all, those aren’t night hikers.”

“Then what…” Marcus turns his furrowed brow toward the other car. Under the still moonlight, he finally seems to put all the pieces together- the short drive from town, the isolated location, the car’s fogged up windows. “...Oh.”

You can’t help but laugh at Marcus’s mortified expression. His full lips turn down, his cheeks darkening with a blush. “Well…now what do we do?”

“Let’s just go. The path is on this side, anyway.” You nod your head toward the end of the viewpoint that’s not currently occupied.

You and Marcus gather your small packs and exit the car. The slam of the door is like a shout in the silence and he winces, darting glances to the other car all the while. You cough to cover your laughter. “Great conditions for some night hiking, right?” You say loudly.

Marcus looks at you, startled. You widen your eyes at him meaningfully. “Oh, yeah,” he says, catching on. “Sure is.”

You grin. “Come on, this way.” You lead your partner away from the lot and the scene of his embarrassment.

Your hike is quiet. These trails are unfamiliar to both of you, especially in the dark, but you keep your headlamps on low, wary of being spotted- more so the larger the mansion looms through the trees.

A low brick wall marks the edge of the property. There’s no gate nearby that you can see, but it’s an easy task to pull yourself over it- probably the least risky activity you’ll undertake tonight.

The gardens are slightly too overgrown to pretend you’re on a romantic nighttime stroll. “This reminds me of a corn maze; you know, the kind you get at pumpkin patches in the fall,” Marcus says, low and hushed.

It’s an apt comparison. Tidily partitioned squares of greenery, once neatly groomed, had sprouted out of control, spilling onto the paths and obstructing your view. Wire towers for climbing vines now resemble buildings in an apocalypse movie- so thickly smothered with vines that their original structures are no longer visible, their trailing tendrils now falling to sway in your faces as you pass.

“Ha, I see what you mean. I’m not sure that makes it more or less creepy.” Another thought makes you shiver. “As long as nobody with a chainsaw starts running after us,” you mutter.

Marcus lets out an unexpected, loud bark of laughter. You look at him in astonishment, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, it’s just...” He clears his throat. “If you remind me of this later I’ll tell you why that was funny.”

At the mansion’s back entrance, you glance around quickly, then let yourselves in with the key. Safely inside, you stand in silence for several moments.

“Nobody’s here,” Marcus whispers.

The house is silent, and dark. Without any neighbors, there are minimal streetlamps to provide light from outside. Most of the windows are framed by heavy, ornate curtains as well, blocking what meager moonlight falls in. Only the beams of your headlamps illuminate the dark wood floors and wall panelings.

You make your way toward a door at the end of the hall, stepping quietly, just in case. “How far do your powers reach?” you ask Marcus. “Like, you’re definitely sure there’s no one in this whole house?”

It’s slightly difficult to look at Marcus without blinding him with your headlamp. If you twist your neck and look sideways, you can make out the thoughtful press of his lips.

“I can sense the rough outline and structure of the house thanks to all the little metal things- nails, window fittings, doorknobs. Any metal object within those bounds, I can reach. But sensing blood is tricky to begin with. It’s such a tiny amount of iron, in such a weird form…I can sense your blood just fine, because you’re right next to me. Somebody across the room would be no problem, likely even somebody in the next room, but across a whole house?” Marcus shakes his head. “Blood moves, so that tends to give it away. That sense of flow is primarily what I look for. But to answer your question…” Marcus does the same sort of neck twist to look at you. Beneath the white light emanating from his forehead, his face is serious. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure this place is empty.”

Interesting, if not entirely reassuring. “Well, I guess keep your eyes open then. Or not your eyes, but your..senses? You know what I mean.”

“I think the official term is ‘spidey sense’,” Marcus quips.

You laugh at that, and it eases the tension that had crept up alongside you like mist in a haunted house.

It doesn’t take long to reach your goal. The innocuous door looks like all the rest that line the hall- it could just as likely hold a fancy sitting room as a dilapidated once-home.

You adjust your headlamp determinedly. “Ready?”

“Lead the way, Boss.” There’s a playful quirk to Marcus’s lips as he repeats his words from the day you first met.

You snort, ignoring an odd little flutter in your belly. “Sure, ladies first, they say, step right up to the dangerous door…”

“You can tell me to go first, if you want,” Marcus suggests. “Perks of being the boss.”

“Am I your boss?”

You’re stalling, is what you are. But it is something you’ve wondered. If push came to shove, would Marcus have to obey you?

“I could probably go over your head if I felt it was necessary,” Marcus admits. “But practically, we’re supposed to follow local jurisdiction. Supplement your abilities, not..take over.”

He meets your gaze. “I’m not worried about questioning your orders.”

Before you can react, Marcus continues cheerfully, “You’re stalling, Boss. Come on.” He lifts his hand, and the door swings open.

You brace yourself; for what, you’re not sure. But all that happens is a gust of dusty air hits you, and you have to stifle a sneeze.

It’s nearly pitch-black. Marcus lifts his hand higher, and a tinny screech comes from across the room, where metal rings scrape against a curtain rod, dragging open a tall set of drapes. There’s still not much light, but the room now appears more gray than black.

The carpet runner beneath your feet is thick with dust, its pattern blurred. The room you’ve entered looks like it was indeed once a sitting room or living room of some kind. Dust covers in the shape of couches squat around a table on the far side of the room. Other furniture against the walls has also been covered. In the gray darkness, lit only by the swinging beams of your headlamps, it’s impossible not to think of ghosts and horror stories.

“Do you sense anything?” you whisper to Marcus.

He lowers his hand. “No. No one hiding, and a normal amount of metal for an old living room.”

You let out a tense breath. “I’ll admit, this is creepier than I thought it would be.”

Marcus laughs softly. “Tell me about it. I don’t even like scary movies.”

It’s reassuring, at least, to have Marcus’s powers on your side. You tell yourself firmly that nothing bad can happen with him around, and it mostly quiets the part of your brain dwelling on every zombie movie you’ve ever seen. Mostly.

You set to searching the room. You pull off dust covers and lift cushions, but all you get for your troubles are grimy hands and some disgruntled spiders.

The next room is more of the same, only there’s even less to search. The open space contains little more than an ornate fireplace and a bar built into one end of the room. You stand in the center and spin slowly, your hands on your hips. “Are we missing something?”

“It’s here.” Marcus is standing at a section of wall blank except for squares of wood molding.

“Huh?”

He reaches up and pushes a small section of the molding. It clicks, and the whole portion of wall slides sideways like a door.

“Whoa!” You hurry over, the solid blackness of the opening sucking up your headlamp’s beam until you get closer.

“A servants’ kitchen, maybe,” Marcus says. “I’ve been doing some research on the history of this house, and other houses from the same period.”

The disused kitchen is barely the size of a closet and smells faintly of mildew. You follow Marcus, your mind turning. “A big old house like this…it’s got to have like, secret passages, right? Real ones, I mean, not just servant shortcuts like this.”

Marcus’s face wears a thoughtful grimace. “More likely than not. I already found one in the central dining room.”

“Wait, you have?” This is the first you’ve heard of it.

“It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a passage to the kitchen, a shortcut for staff. The housekeeper was still showing us around when I found it, so she told us. She didn’t look too happy about it thought…I bet she knows where they all are.” Marcus trails off in thought.

“Shouldn’t you be able to sense them?” you ask.

“Well…yes and no.” Marcus looks vaguely uncomfortable. “House walls have metal in them anyway- all the nails and whatnot- and sometimes construction companies do weird things, so it can be tricky to sense when there’s metal out of place. That goes double for old places like this, where all sorts of random stuff has been stuck in the walls over the years. I tried pulling on something the very first day and nearly brought down that massive portrait over the fireplace- you know the one of the guy with the-” he makes a gesture near his face. “Turns out I was pulling on some convoluted hanging system.”

Marcus rolls his eyes, eloquently expressing his frustration with the entire situation. You wonder if the blueprints to house are accessible somewhere. They’d be in the city planning archives, surely…

As you step back through the doorway, you hear a click. The sliding door rumbles toward you with surprising speed, and you freeze for a split second before your muscles tense to leap out of the way-

But before you can, a strong grip encircles your wrist, and you’re yanked back and held tight against a wide, solid mass. The mass is warm, and expanding and deflating rapidly, and nearly crushing you to it with the steel strength of his arms.

The door thuds closed with a force that makes you flinch. The thin beams of your headlamps seem insubstantial against the sudden near-complete darkness.

You twist your neck to look at Marcus, your eyes wide with surprise. He does the same to look at you. His hold and the angle of your heads puts your faces only inches apart- far closer than either of you anticipated.

He releases you immediately, taking a step back for good measure. “Sorry. It was a reflex.” One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.

The warmth of him still clings to you. “I do have several years on the force under my belt,” you point out mildly. You reach out and squeeze his arm. “But thank you.”

You turn back to the door. The flat, featureless door that looked remarkably wall-like again.

“Um,” you say. “Can you get us out?”

Marcus chuckles. “Now that I know it’s there…” There’s a click and a rumble, and the wall slides aside again. “Yes.”

Gray light pours in, so dark before but like sunlight after being trapped in the windowless kitchen. You breathe deeply of the air in the open room.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist

#tim rockford x reader #marcus moreno x reader #tim rockford x you #marcus moreno x you #merge mansion fic #wcbh fic #we can be heroes #tim rockford #marcus moreno

13 notes · View notes

cantsomeoneelsedoit · 1 year ago

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Ch 54: Hope

Tozuka likes to visually contrast his characters and this chapter has some great moments. I love how the light plays on their faces on this cover-- Juiz looks divine and Billy looks human.

Billy's friend is named Tella, and it's kinda obvious what his Negation ability is. I love how his antenna looks like the Under logo. In just a few panels, we learn a lot about him.

Tella is extremely loyal to Billy and follows him unquestioningly. As the radioman, he would've needed to stick close to Billy constantly during their mercenary days, so they were already quite close before Under began. If Billy is concerned that Tella could be an easy target for Juiz's ability, it's because Tella's loyalty to Billy is especially strong and pure.

Juiz plays narrator in this scene, standing straight and tall as she explains Billy's plan while he sits in silence, mostly avoiding eye contact with her.

What does Billy want to do with Ark?

The only way he could've thought that would make a decent trade is if he doesn't really know how the Loops work...

Juiz doesn't hold a grudge against him for the rebellion. She'd rather keep working together to collect Artifacts so they can reach their true goal of killing God.

Billy looks surprised that she'd offer to forgive him. His eyes look like he can't forgive himself, either.

Billy is unshaven-- scruffy, even--sitting down and side-eyeing Juiz. His face is drawn with a lot of worry lines and tired creases. Juiz's face is as smooth as a doll's and her eyes look straight ahead.

OK, first of all THAT HEART! What's that?! We've seen all of the other Artifacts in this panel, but the little heart is something new. I really hope it's a D. Gray-Man reference, but it could be Sailor Moon or something entirely different. It kind of looks like folded paper, so maybe it's a Valentine??

And the lore keeps coming! The Artifacts were created by God to defeat God?! Is God just that much of a masochist?

If UU is a metaphor for writing and God is the author, then it would make sense for them to have given the characters tools they could use to challenge the plot and to keep things interesting. A little bit of danger and tension to move the plot along...

It's curious how they seem to be parts of a suit of armor. Are they intended to used by one character who wields all of them or divvied among many characters? Does each Negator have an ideal Artifact?

Back to the conversation, IMO Billy's right to be resentful of the way Juiz has hidden this info for so long. These people were trusting her with their lives, and yet she was the only one who knew the whole story. I don't blame him a bit for being pissed. As a mercenary, he trusted his crew fully, as we can see with Tella.

Juiz has a traditional, top-down style of leadership that depends on a hierarchy (despite the fact that it's called a Round Table). She gives the orders, and the Union follows them even if they don't fully understand the situation until after the mission. When they report to her, she says things like, "That's what I thought..." but there doesn't seem to be any reason for her to have been so cagy.

Billy asks her how she even found out about the origins of the Artifacts, and she opens an entire new can of worms by talking about Ark.

EXCUSE ME?!?

The loops don't just go on forever?! Ark has a limit? Why? How? WTF even is Ark?

I love this page.

The backgrounds, the expressions, the clothes and hair--even how tightly their coats are fastened is contrasted here. It gets even more topsy-turvy because both of them are acting outside of their usual personalities: Juiz has begun to be honest with Billy while he's let his cool, no worries, gunslinger persona slip into a slightly vulnerable, sullen, and wounded version we've never seen.

What will happen when Ark runs out of gas? Does that symbolize an author giving up on writing a good story? What happens to God if this world is destroyed for good? What happens to Victor?

Juiz tells him that Ark can only take one person and informs him that there's no way he could make enough progress to gather Negators and Artifacts in just one attempt. After all, she's looped enough times that she knows what would change about the world and what wouldn't, along with how to use all the Artifacts.

For the first time in the conversation, Billy stands and meets her gaze, demanding to know why she kept all this info to herself.

Now she's the one avoiding eye contact.

(Also, it kinda sounds like she explained it all to one person, but it didn't work out so she just never tried to tell anyone else. Is that true? She never explained everything to anyone except Victor? Not even in any of the other Loops?)

Victor such a bossy pants. (Also that flashback in black and white representing their black and white outlook...)

I wonder what happened that made Victor say it was all too much for her. What was the straw that broke the camel's back? Could it have been that Juiz and Victor had some major setback or defeat? Was it that the Lincoln assassination wasn't prevented??

Or was it that Victor somehow knew that the Ark was running out of fuel, so he wanted Juiz to go live a regular life and just give up on the idea of killing God? Maybe he thinks ignorance would be bliss and the Negators should just do their best to live normal lives without worrying about all this stuff going on behind the curtain.

Juiz is so pretty I can't even

He just wanted her to be happy and not have to live with the burden of being the leader of the Negators and having a near-impossible mission Groundhog Day existence. That's really sweet, but... killing God would allow everyone to be happy and live without so much suffering.

FINALLY, Juiz tells Billy that she'll tell him everything. It's cool how she extends across two panels on this page like she's stepping outside of her usual comfort zone.

How much does Juiz really know about Billy's ability? Was she already aware of it from previous Loops? How much does she know about the potential of all the abilities?

FUUKO IS THE ONE! Victor knows it! Juiz knows it! Andy knows it! Akira knows it! Fuuko is our special miracle girl! And with that revelation, Juiz asks Billy to rejoin her.

But Billy seems uninspired. And his expression changed to something more certain and determined.

He calls out to Tella to pass him a cube, and Tella immediately springs into action. He's so incredibly dependable, PLUS this means he's been listening to the entire convo and was never out of the loop (hehe) on what was being said. It implies a level of transparency he has with his team (or at least with Tella) that Juiz didn't have with hers.

I love his line here. "You've always been right. But that's not good enough." Absolutely ice cold.

UMA Burn eats the cube and begins to transform. Meanwhile, Juiz pulls out her own pokeball and feeds it a cube. Spoil, that delightful imp, immediately begins trash talking. Bless him.

Billy and Juiz face off with these almost-smiles on their faces like they both knew it would come to this. They each know the other is too stubborn and idealistic to back down.

And they're not just going to let their UMA battle it out, since they each draw their weapons. Juiz admitted earlier that Billy's power was more useful than hers. Does she really think she can overpower him here? And will we be getting more sassy Spoil one-liners?

Masterpost

#undead unluck #overreading undead unluck

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anotherbluesunday · 10 months ago

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Fic Update-In Technicolor, Ch. 7+8: Jupiter In Retrograde Pt.I and Pt.II (Cheryl)

CHAPTER 7 (Pt.I)

Midway through our "warm up" that consisted of speed running through our terminology flashcards and the ones with molecular formulas on one side and the name on the other, the food Lee had ordered came with the delivery driver looking as confused as could be as he navigated his way through the vacant campus. Putting our studies on pause as he divvied up the breakfast croissants while promising me these were better than any of the fancy junk I could get at Erewhon, I laughed as I took a bite. Felt my hunger vanish as I chewed on the buttery pastry and fluffy egg with way too much cheese and hash browns to be considered healthy. There was avocado and salsa on it too which he knew I would have wanted so he added both without asking.

Sipping on his iced Americano, Lee grabbed a random flashcard we hadn't gone over and slapped it down onto the tabletop. "Yes, a physics one. Okay, the question is this. You have two waves of equal frequency and wavelength that meet at a nexus. Will this result in constructive interference or destructive interference? Explain your reasoning."

Finishing chewing on my food then swallowing it, I washed it down with some water before I answered. "It'd be constructive."

"Why?"

Looking at Lee as he stared back at me with his intense dark gaze giving nothing away, I didn't let him influence my response. "It's constructive because the waves are matched in wavelength and frequency which means that they would sync up in a creative force and join together to make one solitary point of increased light, in optics, where the wave signal is stronger than it is where the waves are mismatched which would cause a dimming to occur."

Lips slowly curling into a smile, he flipped the card over. "Nerd."

“And you aren’t?” I teased back. Smiled more when he did. "Ask me something that’s actually hard."

"Okay, what's the root of two?"

"Lee..."

"What's the square root of two?"

"There is no square root of two, dingus."

"Okay, but what about negative five?"

Throwing the wadded up paper cover for my drink straw at him, I laughed as it bounced off his forehead when Lee didn't bother trying to dodge it. "My turn?"

"Your turn."

"Do you want a chem question or a physics question?"

"Surprise me," Lee smiled. Added a subtle wink that was so quick I almost missed it. "Do your worst, reina."

CHAPTER 8 (Pt.II)

“So what are you feeling up to doing?” he asked, flipping around in front of me. Walking backwards with a goofy cat-like grin as the light glinted off his glasses and I ate my pineapple Dole Whip adjacent froyo.

Shrugging, I looked away from him. “Don’t know.”

Clicking his tongue, Lee rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t know.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Is that so?” he asked in a dumb sort of mocking manner that had zero bite to it. “I’ve got a couple ideas but it all depends on how anti-social you wanna be.”

Snorting a laugh, I looked at him.

“What?”

“That’s the scale you’re using for measurement?”

“It’s a good scale.”

“Uh huh,” I rolled my eyes, licking at my frozen treat before biting the point I had shaped the peak into. “So what are the choices?”

“First tell me how social you want to be.”

“Well then tell me the choices.”

“Oh my god, Cher…”

“What?!”

Slipping into his habit of grumbling obscenities in Spanish when he was feeling pissy, I mustered up from memory what I had learned on my own and said “Deja de actuer como un bebé.” Broke out into a riot of laughter when Pugsley stopped dead in his tracks–slack jawed and gawking–then smiled like the family cat that ate the canary when he said “She speaks Spanish now? Ay nena. Sigue hablando.”

The way his reaction inflated my ego, making me grin with a playfulness sparking inside me. How devilish yet boyish he looked with the ocean breeze tousling his black curls, slightly obscuring Lee’s eyes hidden behind his glasses. Hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans with his hoodie tied around his waist and faded Dodgers blue baseball cap on backwards, he leaned forward. Tilted his head and tried to look me in the eye as I leaned back to avoid him.

I laughed awkwardly. Asked him why he was being creepy.

Lee said nothing.

Just smiled at me–the glaring surreal gold daylight painting his features bronze and bright before I was shot with another lightning fast wink. Clipped like a hit and run as he straightened out with the same cheeky grin. Saying he knew where we were going, Lee put his hand on top of my head to spin me around. I swatted at it. Told him to stop touching my hair and he cackled like the ghoul he was. Asshole. Tolerable–likable even–but still an asshole.

Tugging at the small gold huggie earring hanging from his ear as my act of revenge, I yelped when he pulled at my braids calling me “pip” again then said "dale."

The one remnant of my former self that lingered on. And apart from Lee, no one else knew of its existence. Not Betty or Veronica. Jason definitely couldn’t know and neither could mother or father.

No one knew.

No one except for him.

“You cold?” Lee whispered when he caught me shivering as the show started.

Shaking my head, I lied. Told him I was fine. I should have brought my denim jacket before leaving the car. True, I didn’t know we’d be seeing a planetarium show but when going to an observatory, one should be wise enough to prepare for the unexpected. So this lapse in judgment was on me. Besides, I had been in colder weather wearing less. I had once competed in forty-six degree chilled soup in London for the junior championship wearing just a tennis skirt and a half-zip long sleeve that was as thin as paper.

“Cher, your teeth are literally chattering,” Lee chuckled, his voice hushed low and rich in timber as he leaned forward to take off his jacket.

I put my hand up to stop him when he tried draping it over me. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Lee…”

“Cheryl.” Staring at me hard as we were both quietly shushed, he arched a brow in the dim light.

Sighing hard through my nose, I told him I was fine but there wasn’t any talking to him. No stopping him from doing whatever he wanted–Pugsley’s stubbornness bordering on legend as storied as Greek myth, it was that unreal. Conceding myself to accepting his jacket as a blanket, I went stiff when he lifted the armrest between us, scooted in closer, and used the dense cotton hoodie as a throw for us both. Quietly he said he was cold too so if he was shivering he knew I’d be full of shit.

But I was too self-aware and self-conscious to muster up any witty comebacks. Was currently focused on rebooting the software in my mind that had performed an unauthorized shutdown. So for a minute or two, all communications pathways and response networks were offline and I was running on emergency power.

Caught in this haze of starlight, supernova explosions, and chemistry speak I knew but could not decipher at the moment–gun to my head or otherwise–I descended into the cloud. Let the gentle warmth of that moment envelope me as I sank in closer to Lee. Felt the welcoming heat radiating from him like the sun reaching down to the frozen Earth’s surface. Resting my head on his shoulder as we shared our box of candy while our chai tea latte’s went cold from neglect, it were as if I had traveled through space and time and found home waiting for me on the other side. That innocence I thought I had lost and hopefulness now settled in me, fully renewed. It was frightening, slightly. As a child I had been able to turn my back on it more easily because I did not understand what I was giving up.

But now that I knew what life was like without wonder and passion, could I do it again? Could I do as I was told? Pursue something I hated. Do something I despised even more. Run my body into the ground the way my father had, marry someone I could not care less about, and watch the cycle of generational indifference and disappointment repeat itself.

Could I do that as a conscious being fully aware of what the future would hold if I let go of this a second time?

“Whoa,” Lee gasped quietly with the light from the dizzying dazzling spiral arms of the Andromeda galaxy reflecting off his glasses.

Looking from him to the almost too real projection, I smiled. Watched it. Drank it in letting the arresting beauty fill up my eyes and burn itself into the backs of my eyelids. But my attention faltered and brought me right back to him. To Lee. The only person on this rock hurtling through space that I could connect with on this. The one person out of the billions alive who would resonate with me on this frequency that had happened to be plopped directly into my ecosystem.

It was humorous and humbling. Funny in an ironic sort of way that the boy I had purposefully harangued and harassed would turn out to be the friend I needed at the very moment I needed them most. And while I could wonder what would have been the outcome had I been more cruel and he more delicate in his resolve and spite, I chose not to. Didn’t look the gift horse in the mouth because I’d done that far too many times and wanted, for once, to be grateful and move on from there.

So I allowed myself this moment. This friendship.

*I want to take a moment to also address a misunderstanding that seems to be a common theme amongst the readers that click onto my story then dip. This fic is an omnibus story meaning that it is told from multiple characters pov's. It isn't just about Wednesday and Tyler or Cheryl and Pugsley/Lee or Wynn and Pubert/Bertie. It's about all of them. This story is a coming-of-age high school story that discusses the highs and lows of growing up in this mess of a modern world and trying to find meaning, make lasting friendships, and find oneself. It isn't just about one pairing or one fandom. It's a through and through crossover with an original storyline that does not tie into the canon for either Riverdale or Wednesday (2022). You do not need to know about either of the shows or their lore in order to enjoy the story. If you are waiting to read until the story is complete, don't. If you are waiting to comment until your favorite pairing/character shows up, don't. Not only is that discouraging to the writer (me) and ruins all the built in cliffhangers that have been planned in advance, but it also means you will be waiting for a long time because 1.) this story is going to be very VERY long and 2.) if your favorite pairing is Wednesday x Tyler or Reggie x Archie, you will be waiting until chapter 20 at the earliest because they aren't planned to be the focus until the second half of the story.

So do both yourself and me a favor and just start reading. Don't hold out on writers because readership and reader engagement is literally the fine line that either keeps the story going or leads the writer to dropping it/abandoning it because they see a lack of interest which makes them think what they're doing isn't worth it. So please, just start reading. Read, comment, be active. It doesn't matter to any writer if English or whichever language the story's in is your first language or if your comments are awkward or long or short. What matters is that you're showing us that you care and that our stories mean something to you. So please, stop ghosting your writers or waiting to binge read because engagement--for me at least--encourages me to keep writing and not abandon a story and makes me want to do better each time because I see that people are excited for the next chapter.

Just like and comment. It's not hard. And if it's hard at first, I promise as someone who was/is socially awkward in the comment section it gets easier.

XoXoXo

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serendertothesquad · 6 months ago

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Seren's Studies: Odd Squad UK -- "Villain of the Year" Episode Followup, Part 1

Well...I had initially wanted to put these out right away, but...frankly, I needed a break. And I am, in fact, an impatient child who did not want to put 480p screenshots on here for y'all to squint at. I'm nearsighted, people. Let's not make it worse.

Anyway, let's get started on this next batch of episodes. This one covers "Villain of the Year", which is sort of like "A Job Well Undone" but with a legitimate villain and a Chinese-knockoff award. I just...need something good. I need to get the taste of watching a nuclear war movie out of my mouth.

Below the break, if you will.

Ignoring the horror vibes Captain O is giving off here...

Your writer for this episode. Athena's written for a few things before, though nothing in the kids realm. Seems to be mostly comedy stuff, as far as I'm aware, which is good, but good comedy does not a good Odd Squad episode make. It's merely a fraction of what makes it good.

Waddlin' down to the river to pray for this one.

There's been talk of if Odd Squad could be used to make good horror, and honestly, I'm inclined to say yes. This shared ability is a good example.

"Have you heard of the domino effect?"

*tight-ass smile*

MmmmmmmIdontlikewherethisisgoin'.

...All the agents?

The entire precinct?

Even the ones that aren't, y'know, Investigation agents?

God, if this is how Britain does things, I fear for if they ever make Odd Squad Down Under.

I actually forgot Osip (Ossip?) was the name of the first lift operator in "Lift Off". I'm hoping their name is a play on "gossip" because if not then I will be sorely disappointed.

"And tell Osgood to bring a snack with him!"

Ah yes, stress-eating. To be honest, it's a fair reaction if (nearly) every member of her precinct is out fighting a boss that can fall and squish you to death.

I like this divvying up of side characters. I'm not too keen on allowing one-shots to come back for a season that spans a mere 12 episodes, though. Depending on how the episode's written, we could either get a ton of information on the one-shot in question, or jack shit.

Hey. Hey. Remember when there was a villain lair at the bottom of the ocean or something, where all the villains gather?

You remember there was a Villain Network in Season 3?

Yeah, this "Villain Club" thing basically blew all that shit out of the water. What's the Villain Club? What are the requirements for entry? Are there only 21 villains in town total? Are there some that aren't in the club? You don't know!

I'd have liked it if there were a Villain Magazine to contrast with Odd Squad's own magazine, to be honest. But alas, it's not meant to be.

See, this is why criminals steal money. In any given large town, who the absolute fuck wants a paper crown and a rosette for bing-bong bullets off a house or kidnapping the children? You do bad things, you're not getting a paper crown and a rosette no matter how many times you do it. You want something else. A new TV. Money. Something valu-

...I take it back. I take it all back. You win, and you get what I have to assume is some kind of a steroid.

Granted, it's a special kind of drug valu-

...I take that back. It's some kind of a device that boosts a villain's power.

Causing oddness in one go, though...I would imagine "in one go" would vary depending on what villain got the power boost.

*long sigh* I really just want another drug allegory like there was in "Set Lasers to Profit". That was fun. I liked that. Do it again!

The man can already wield that power better than Oprah and it's already been halfway in.

Maybe he's related to her. Distant cousin or something. He does use it for shits and giggles.

Stinky Sock Sue and I'm willing to bet her odd power is making agents stink.

I dunno guys, we might have a contender for "villain with the stupidest schtick of all time".

...

WAIT HOLD UP, GOOPY GUS IS BACK???????? WHEN THE FUCK DID BRO MOVE TO BRITAIN????????????????? YOU CAN'T JUST BRING BACK A CANADIAN VILLAIN LIKE THIS IT NEEDS E X P L A N A T I O N . ATHENA WHAT IN THE S H I T .

Oh God...if she's got the balls to bring back old villains like this, this episode might actually turn out good. Bar's raised a couple inches higher. Just a couple inches.

See, Bubbly Bob is portrayed as harmless, but in actuality, bubbles could do a serious number on an agent. Trap them in one and they can go flying. Trap them in one and they could suffocate. Team up with a water-based villain and trap an agent in a water bubble and they could drown.

He's...probably too much of an idiot for all that, though.

Ah. He's not an idiot. I rest my point.

Nearly halfway in and I'm finding that Osip could be interchangeable with any other notable side character and there would be absolutely no difference.

I don't mind her as a character, but she's a one-shot. You can do a lot with that in a single episode, but Athena's not dragging out any sort of potential.

Wow, Osgood's solid. He should consider acting.

Yeah, you can tell this is a girl who absolutely despises milkshakes and has no whimsy large enough to do the "blow through the straw and make your milk bubble up" thing.

HE DOESN'T TAKE THE HAT OFF EVEN WHEN HE'S PLAYING SOCCER?????

At this point it's like a Linguine-Remy situation goin' on and I wish we had an episode dedicated to that.

See, this could easily lift Osgood up, up and away. No problem.

But y'know...clearly we gotta have some level of realism, and this is where the ding-dongs decided to place it.

There's...no gadget to clean up the mess? They have to use mops?

Aw God, Athena...what the fuck are you DOING, honey?

OHP SHE DID IT. SHE SAID IT. SHE SAID THE LINE.

...Doesn't hit the same as when Oprah did it...BUT SHE SAID THE LINE!!!!!!!!

"Maybe next year I'll get four votes!"

The man's got good sarcastic wit, I'll give him that.

going door-to-door as what are essentially campaign managers

election day's coming up

Ooooooooh I know this is Britain but ooooooOOOOOOOOH did those sorry sacks know what they were doing.

He's a socially awkward nerd. No wonder why no villain wants to vote for him!

(Hey, they would be the ones to care about that stuff.)

Waitwaitwait, hold on...so Dottie's setup on that island was temporary? She has an actual home?!?!?

Okay, props to Athena for not bringing another past-season villain that I would demand another explanation for...but this is just as painful as when Season 3 did it. "Mission O Possible" specifically, since it brought back the Noisemaker.

THEY ARE OUTRIGHT FUCKING MAKING UP LIES ABOUT THE CANDIDATES AND THIS IS 100% PURELY AN ELECTION DAY EPISODE OR YOU CAN BITE MY ASS.

We've had election episodes before, but not many are willing to pull off direct parallels like this. If you think about it a certain way, this is like an Independent trying to get votes when everyone only cares about the two existing parties and the candidates in those.

"That's not a sock, that's a napkin on a foot!"

I just found my new favorite phrase when buying socks. Thanks, Athena!

Is this...is this just like a recap episode of all the villains we've seen thus far? Is this to remind us that they exist and aren't forgettable? Because I could name a good chunk of villains in this season by name alone.

(On to Part 2!)

#seren's studies #odd squad #odd squad uk #odd squad pbs kids

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missamyshay · 1 year ago

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I love spotlights and moonlight so much. Obviously I can’t wait for an update but I will wait and I just wanted to thank you and seekrest both for such a beautiful piece. I have always been curious about how those writing partnerships come together? I think two writers collaborating is beautiful and wanted to know if you did not mind pulling the curtain on the process. <333

I NEVER mind pulling back the curtain. In fact, I have no curtains!! Always ask about writing stuff!!

I can’t speak for @seek--rest because she has a long, intricate history of amazing collabs and I’m sure they all came about differently. But this is my very first collab and I’m loving it very much! As far as I can remember, I mentioned on the notes of an unrelated fic that I’d recently rewatched the movie The Bodyguard (an old classic for me) and was feeling inspired to write fic about it. Seek mentioned that she’d already had a similar thought herself and saw the vision. I’m not entirely sure what happened after that but I believe I slid into her DMs and proposed a collab. We talked it through, got a skeleton of a plot on paper, then went back over it and made it more detailed, divvied up what scenes we wanted (which ended up organically being us each writing from and sticking to an individual character pov). Then we screamed a little, wrote a little, screamed some more, wrote some more, repeat repeat repeat, and spotlights and moonlight was born. It’s been a great experience, and I think the best thing about collabing with someone else is that even when you reach a natural lull in inspiration, or when there are periods of time when you’re less enthused about writing, screaming with a co-author can inspire you all over again.

I’m so glad you’re loving the story! Can’t wait to share more with you. And thank you for the question! ❤️

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i-rove-rock-n-roll · 2 years ago

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An excerpt from Down We Fall

The wedding was going to be the highlight of the day. Everyone was excited, gossiping on how it was going to be the most splendid sight. The wedding of the century, now that the prince and princess had finally decided to get their act together.

At 5 o’clock that morning, the steward was wide awake, checking and rechecking his list as he absentmindedly struggled with his shoes. The first visit was to the kitchens. He watched the crew running back and forth, gathering ingredients and mixing bowls. The head chef already barking out orders, despite being the smallest woman in the kitchen, the steward couldn’t help but be amazed at her sudden power over the normally unruly kitchen staff.

“Thatcher, start making the hor'dourves-no, not alone you stupid boy, Janice will help you, won’t you Janice? Maurice, start peeling some potatoes, Michael can’t be the only one doing what I ask--Thatcher, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT DO YOU CALL THAT MESS IN FRONT OF YOU? HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT AN HOR D'OEUVRE LOOKS LIKE? DON’T GIVE ME THAT ‘I WASN’T TAUGHT’ BULL, YOU’VE WORKED HERE FOR SIXTEEN YEARS!”

The steward slowly backed out, beginning to get the inkling of what the phrase ‘fear for your life’ meant.

Kitchens, check.

The next stop was the ballroom, where they had begun to divvy up the decorations for the castle. The steward entered to arguing, but thankfully, no screaming. Yet. The taller of the decorators seemed as though he had swallowed helium, his voice getting higher and more shrill with each statement from his partner.

“If we had just started with a few of the decorations each day this week--”

“IF WE HAD STARTED ANY EARLIER THE DECORATIONS WOULD BE SOILED.” the man cried, sharp arm movements punctuating the air between them as his partner rolled her eyes. “WE’RE RISKING ENOUGH AS IT IS DOING THEM ALL THIS EARLY IN THE DAY!” His partner raised an eyebrow.

“Are you finished?” The tall decorator nodded, suddenly sullen. The steward blinked, baffled by the sudden change in attitude, and shook his head. Nearby, a man hanging some of the decorations from the ceiling reached a little too far and the ladder tipped, crashing.with a force to shake the castle. The decorators rounded, prepared to yell at the man, before they heard his screams and looked up, seeing the man clinging to the rafters for dear life. The steward excused himself politely, though none of the people within the room had even noticed he was there, and he quickly made himself scarce.

Ballroom, check.

By noon he was only a little over halfway through the list, having found the florist to be quite normal. Stomach growling, he didn’t dare swipe much more than a sandwich from the kitchens. Not after he saw the head chef...he shuddered. She looked about ready to pull a Hansel and Gretel on that Thatcher kid. He suspected the only thing holding her back was that it would slow up the production time. Not to mention she'd ruin the oven, which was brand new.

Munching absently on a pear he snagged from a passing waiter, he continued on his way.

The tailor was an older gentleman, that spent more time jabbering about how each cut of fabric would've clashed in his day. How one couldn't pair a satin ribbon with anything lace of a particular color, unless you wanted to look the part of a true fashion disaster. The steward nodded politely, not listening to a word, and asked how the outfits looked. Satisfied when he saw no stains and that they weren't going to (hopefully) catch fire anytime soon, he bid the tailor adieu (even as the old man was spinning another tale about the woes of how no one wore plaid or navy anymore).

Tailor, check.

The reception was to be held both indoors and outdoors, with tables set up in the pavilion for the royalty, and in the garden, for the peasantry. The only real difference was that one group had to contend with possible insect invasions and maybe a paper lantern catching fire in the wind. Both groups, however, would get cake.

The steward counted the tables, missing the look on the one man's face when he told him he was a couple short, as the extended family was, in fact, invited. He just barely missed the screaming of “Where are we going to get another table?!” when he stepped out.

Pavilion, check.

The gardeners had spend ages trimming each tree and bush to round perfection. The didn't bother with anything intricate, as they had barely agreed on whether the bushes should be round or square, and nearly punched the man who asked why not make them triangles and be done with it.

Garden, check.

Blushing bride and groom?

He had just made to go find them when they came to him. Actually, they came out the window. Flew out of the window really. Glass shattered everywhere, and the steward could see the glint of metal as the soon to be married couple drew swords and tried to slaughter each other.

His quill snapped.

Of course nothing could go perfect.

#Pride23PBJevent #writing #my writing #DownWeFall

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katesprocessblog · 16 days ago

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Week #9 - Final Critique

Introduction

This week I am going to lock in for the final critique. I would like to print better cards, as well as wrap the new box. If I have time, I also need to at some point make a stencil to spray the door designs on top of the tiles, but that doesn’t necessarily need to happen.

Research

I began by tweaking the content on the cards, now that I’ve come up with some of the playable roles in the game. I’m pretty much done with the cards, with some event cards being about taking and divvying up damage to the characters, and other event cards about removing tiles. The main issue I’m running into with these pre cut cards is that:

The material I originally bought is too wobbly

I was having trouble centering the cards correctly because after doing a test print in the FabLab the margins kept changing and the printer dialogue box doesn’t allow you to not shrink to fit inside of the margins for some reason

After enough trial and error, I’ve decided to try and do a double sided version where I glue both sides separately onto cardstock and then cut them out myself and use a corner rounder to make them like playing cards.

The next thing I did was design the wrap of my game more, adding some text to describe the game on the bottom of the box. Instead of regular printer paper, I went with a premium paper with a semi-gloss finish. The weight of the paper was 24lb and this slightly thicker weight made the final wrap of the box a lot cleaner. I also used double tack mounting film to glue the wrap onto the box, and this made it easier to get everything to stick evenly with no glue marks from using super glue like I did last time.

Here is the final construction. I really like how it looks, and the new paper I’m going to get will only elevate it further. I’m learning a lot about this which feels very similar to book binding, and so hopefully my next version will be my final. The only things I would tweak would be the actual size of the box, as I thought it was too tall and not wide enough slightly as I held it in my hands vs modelling it on my laptop screen. Everything technically fits in the box, but there could be more wiggle room inside with the pieces. I used 1/8th of an inch tolerance on the chipboard box, and it’s way easier to take on and off the box this time than my previous prototype. I think I could make the tolerance a LITTLE less but not too much.

For critique the last thing I did to get ready was print out the mockups of the space I had made in SketchUp, as well as what I want the board game insert to look like (which I haven’t attempted yet), and a photo of the table and benches I want to order on Amazon. On the topic of the board game insert, I really wanted to try using a vacuum forming machine, which is how they’re made professionally, but Stevens does not have one. I looked at which schools in the area had one and asked my friend from NYU if I could use the one in his MakerSpace. I unfortunately could not get there before the critique, but I have plans to go there on Thursday.

Reflections

One thing that I haven’t put a lot of work into is the instruction sheet, which is my next goal. I think that’s because it requires a lot of writing and checking with other people to see if they understand the gameplay. It’s not really something I can do on my own time, like I do with a lot of the other parts and aspects of my project thus far. And I can’t really get good feedback from the 2 ppl I’ve playtested with, since they’re too familiar with the game. I know I can just ask anyone, but it’s just something I’ve put off because I’ve chosen to do the other stuff first. Overall, though, I feel prepared for the critique, and I hope I get great feedback that will help me make my final steps in the upcoming 3 weeks before installation.

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sandrewsarts346-001 · 2 months ago

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Blog 6

2/21/25

This week we read What's Wrong With Plagiarism, which is a topic I am very passionate about and is interesting as it falls in the same time we had a discussion about AI. A lot of people forget how easy it is to accidentally (or purposefully) steal someone's work. But as designers ourselves, we should know how important credit to the original source is.

Going into this week we worked on product packaging a little more. Last week I think I struggled and lost a bit of my creativity, I was in a lul. This week I am back in the flow and like where my idea is going for the most part. I decided to continue with the idea of seed packaging because it felt the most connected to my story of growth, and there is a lot of room for improvement in the packaging. Most packaging for seeds is a simple paper bag, this has a lot of faults and damages the seeds easily. There is also no user experience outside fo ripping the bag open and pouring seeds, which they have to determine how much goes where (which might be difficult for a first time user. I decided that I would go the rough of seeded recyclable paper which gets planted to grow. I though this was interesting because it helps divvy up how much should go in one part of the ground at a time, it also grows the potential for packaging now that the seeds are represented in a different format. I also like that the paper is recylable which tells about how the cycle tends to repeat often but I still grow from it.

Back to making it more of an experience, how can this seedless paper be packaged properly and what plant is it. Nace originally mentioned in class to chose a plant important to Judaism, and I could think of none other than the pomegranate. While it grows on a tree more than a smaller plant, it represents the 613 commandments in the torah in it's seeds and many Jews will eat the seeds one by one for good fortune (like a superstition), they are also eaten on almost every holiday and on the Jewish New Year used as a sign for growth in the new year which matches my story. With packaging, I was thinking of bringing back in the mezuzah, which hangs from doors as a prayer for safety and have the "prayers" inside for safety be on the seedless paper which can be planted in a time of wanting for that peace or safety needed. My one worry here is if I am selling this product, how do I identify this version separate from other mezuzah's so people don't pull sacred prayers out of real mezuzah's thinking it will grow them plants. My image this week is the attachment of the document I was using to brainstorm and come up with these ideas and an image of current seed packaging.

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On the other hand we had a speaker come to class this week! (extra credit) Her name was Helen Armstrong and she has a background in AI and similar technologies. Most of her presentation in class was focused on the timeline of these events coming out and how sped up their production has begun. There were a few things that raced through my mind as she went through the development process.

The first was that the beginning of AI came from something at the responsive level of Eliza, which was never meant to be communicated with. When looking at that compared to the Friend necklace, it shoes how easily humans can feel alone and will look for any connection, even artificial. While the idea is terrifying, it is also true, "Ipad kids" develop everywhere with an addiction to screens, even my roommates today don't shower or eat without having a tv show play on their phones. We have become an extremely reliant society, but don't want change.

She also mentioned that the people creating these products are making them just to make something new, which differs them from designers because we create for the people with the people in mind. That really stood out to me, because I saw potential in many of these products if they had been researched slightly more for pain points of today's society. I mentioned this in class but instead of the Friend necklace being used to replace real friends, what if they had used it as a safety measure. As I grow up and find how frequent kidnapping and trafficking are I get more and more scared for myself, others, and my possible future kids one day. I would feel more at ease if there was a necklace or charm bracelet that could easily be hidden and act as an air tag if they are in an unsafe situation. This is also the case for identical online twins they are using for medical treatment simulations. This could have huge potential in the world of medicine, deciding which medicine could potentially have the best outcome or rate of survival. However, with increased technology and information about us online do we want to be cloning ourselves to essentially hand to someone else?

While these are all theoretical questions at the moment, they are becoming very real to think about. I would consider myself not afraid of AI, but the possibilities we are leading it to as a society. The more we push to give it more that we do not need to give it, the more we should be afraid. Helen mentioned that we are creating AI's physical form to look like us because we created a society for only forms that are shaped like us, but do we have to go the extent to make them look as realistic as possible and blend in with humans for that to happen? I read a book a few years back called Klara and the Sun, which was a slow read but extremely powerful book and I would recommend it to anyone. The storyline follows a society where it is normal for kids to be accompanied by robots in their everyday life (like pets that can carry and do stuff for them), these robots can also be used as maids and more. It follows a sick girl who needs an older AI to take care of her, but is written from the AI's perspective which gives the story an interesting perspective. Overall, you get to see how the robot views our world and what it looks like to an outside party, the more we discussed this in class it brought me back to the reading and a lot of the elements that happen wiithin.

Overall, I did enjoy the talk even though many of these questions have already been posed on my mind. I think for the most part being shown the exponential growth of output for AI was the most beneficial part of this talk because I got to visually put the outcomes in my head.

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loveforpreserumsteve · 3 months ago

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A Whole New Ballfield: "ALN" Story (Pre-Serum Omega!Steve and Alpha!Bucky Modern Domestic AU) [REUPLOAD]

One:

"'Happy birthday to you!'" The family sang. Bucky being the loudest while Kit was the most theatrical along with their drama queen sister, Cori.

Playfully, Steve rolled his eyes, but he was touched. His family knew exactly the right buttons to press, and Steve couldn't love them any more than when they were all around him. Especially when they were all around him. Because, really, what more could someone ask for?

"'Happy birthday, dear po-ops!'" They finished, "'Happy birthday, to you!'"

"Make a wish, Stevie," Bucky encouraged, fondly pulling him tight to his side.

Just as he did every year, Steve claimed, "Why do that when I have everything I ever wanted right here?"

Shaking his head, Bucky feigned exasperation before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of Steve's white haired head. Still, the older alpha insisted, "Make a wish anyway."

So, Steve made the same wish that he did every year, that his mom and his Flora were safe and sound in whatever afterlife existed. Then, he blew out the candles and got to work cutting the cake.

Divvying up the pieces, he asked Finn's girlfriend, Dani, "What'll it be, sweetie?"

"Vanilla please," Dani answered with a kind smile.

"That's what she said," Oliver good-naturedly joked. Finn rolled his eyes, pulling his older brother into a chokehold so he could give him a noogie.

Dani blushed, still getting used to the Barneses. Steve couldn't blame her, it had taken him a while to get used to the family at first too. But Steve could tell that this blossoming relationship wasn't just some fling. This was serious. He could tell that there was something to the young beta that understood the young alpha. It wasn't like anything Steve had seen in the other people that Finn had dated. And he desperately hoped –

"Pops," Rhodey regained the family's attention. Handing the fifty-seven year old a present, "This is from me and Ollie."

Brows furrowing, a smile tugged at Steve's lips as he accepted the gift. Wondering what it could possibly be, he tore the metallic wrapping paper off. His curiosity piqued further as he flipped the top up.

And then his heart jumped up into his throat.

"I swear to god," Steve choked out. Tears quickly building in his eyes as he warned his almost twenty-seven year old son, "If this is a joke, I'm disowning you!"

There, in – far too much – sparkly tissue paper, Steve pulled out the white and gray vintage Winnie the Pooh lovey with a fluffy Pooh Bear head in the center of the blanky. Sniffling, he held it up for Bucky and the rest of their family to see. Thankfully, Steve wasn't the only one who was so, so very happy for their loved ones.

But that wasn't the only thing in the box. Oh no! Reading the inside of the cover flap, this was a kit to get Steve and Bucky ready to be grandparents. To have some things for the growing fetus for when the time came that they were able to be held in their arms.

Beneath the lovey there were three Pooh themed onesies with three matching pants and pairs of socks. Steve couldn't believe it. He was going to be a grandfather! FINALLY! It had been almost three years since his son told him that they were ready to start trying, and Steve and Bucky had been trying not to get their hopes up, but how could they not? They loved their son and their son-in-law, and with Steve and Bucky going to be empty nesters in the upcoming spring, they were more than ready to have a few – or more – grandpups running around.

Pushing himself away from the patio table, Steve crossed the short distance between him and his son. Wrapping Ollie in a tight hug, he couldn't help but cry all over him. Completely ecstatic for this new aspect of his life.

"So, how far along are you?" Bucky asked, pulling out of the embrace with Rhodey.

"We're due in February," Rhodey beamed, his dark reddish-brown complexion reddening further when Ollie winked at him.

Even over twenty-years later, the first emotion that filled Steve whenever that month was mentioned was sorrow, only to – now – be replaced with hope and joy. How could he not be absolutely elated and totally overflowing with adoration? This was the best birthday that Steve had ever had.

"God, this is the best gift I've gotten all day," Steve wiped at his tears, laughing at his overemotional self.

"Hey," Cori feigned offense as she playfully complained, "What about breakfast in bed?!"

"Yeah," Bucky teased. Only, being the dirty old man that he was, and enjoying grossing out their kids, he eluded, "And what about that... other breakfast in bed?"

"Ew," Bitsy deadpanned while Cori mocked a gag. Ian cackled while Nevie exaggerated a look of disgust.

"And this is why I don't bring anyone home," Finn half-joked, face-palming and sheepishly looking over at his girlfriend.

As his alpha tossed his head back as he laughed, Steve reprimanded his mate, "James Buchanan."

"Hey, I saw the opportunity and I took it," Bucky defended himself. Looking over at the twenty-three year old newcomer, he told the adorable beta, "Welcome to the family!"

And all Steve could do was shake his head. Too happy with the news of Ollie and Rhodey's pregnancy to feel bad about their twenty-four year old son and his inevitable embarrassment.

He just couldn't believe it. He was going to be a pawpaw! Looking over at his husband, Steve couldn't help but get even more emotional. His heart shifted, as though it was trying to be closer to his alpha, and he wondered if this was what the – almost entirely – gray haired sixty year old man had envisioned this all those years ago. Wondered if he had felt it that night that this could've happened. That he could've been a pappy one day to their grandchildren.

From the affection flowing through the bond and the dopey smile on his aged face, the alpha looked like he had.

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hoursofreading · 5 months ago

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Let me tell you a true story. As in it really happened. There’s a man I’m going to call Sam. That’s not really his name but he does really exist. He lives in north western Minnesota and is 80 years old.

Recently the guy we’re calling Sam attended the bi-annual user group meeting of the Department of Natural Resources. It happened in the conference room of a Best Western. The idea is that someone representing each of the various ‘user groups’, the cross country skiers for example and the hikers and the birdwatchers, all come together to discuss their trails and money. They parse and divvy up. It has to do with grants and projects and federal money.

Anyway. Sam, being 80 years old and having served the snowmobile user group for 50 years past, leaned back in his chair with his paper cup of Best Western coffee and admitted, yes, he was thinking this would be his last rodeo.

But then, said Sam, the annual Veteran’s appreciation ride happened. It was the 15th annual ride. The ride is a token of appreciation to the veterans who have given part of their lives to serve all of us. Breakfast, lunch, dinner and lodging are provided to all who attend. Any Vet who wants to participate but does not have a sled or snow gear or know how is given the use of donated or lended such things. Everyone is invited to come along and bring their own snowmobile. In 2023, 140 veterans and their family members attended the ride out of Bemidji.

I heard this part of the story with only half a heart. I’ve never liked snowmobiles. They are noisy and shake your entire body so that your brain rattles. They smell of gasoline, and you’re out in the freaking cold but as if that wasn’t enough you’re adding noise and fumes and an incapacity to hear or think, which would take away from the only beauty of being in the cold like silence and fresh air and a clear mind. So I tend to think. But that’s me.

Thing is, Sam said that a Vet wrote him a card after the last ride, right when Sam was thinking it was time to retire. The Vet said that he had been having a rough time, and had reached a dark place in himself, and had decided to end his own life. But he had such a good time at the ride - he was one who had never done it before, rode a borrowed sled and someone else’s snowsuit and goggles and gloves - that he didn’t harm himself, and hadn’t thought about it since.

“And so,” said Sam, “I decided I wasn’t quite done yet.”

Others around the table took this in in their way. One of them reflected back to Sam, “50 years you’ve been doing this?” And Sam nodded. Then the other said “every year you do a youth training, right? And how many kids go through that program every year?”

“Oh, 3 or 4 thousand,” Sam said.

Two of the others leaned together at the far end of the conference room table, and one said low and quiet that three thousand kids, for fifty years, comes to a quarter of a million children.

So often I’m talking with folks and we’re discussing the possibility of believing in something. Oh sure we sometimes say god or a better world or hope, but sometimes we’re talking about love. Justice. Art. Whether such things are true in the face of it all. “Yes,” I say. Yes yes.

“Even though?” they ask and gesture around.

“Yes.” I say. Yes, yes.

In my teacher role (putting on a teacher hat or teacher voice or some indication of role shifting), I frequently point out that justice, as a Thing, does not and has never existed. It isn’t real. “But we should believe in it anyway,” I say. We should try to live it out.

Part of the difficulty, I mean the hardness of life, is it’s fleeting and flimsiness. It’s relativity. It’s but wait, oh gone ness. And while most of our lives we experience this as something essential or fundamental about the world, I mean the way things are or an ultimate that can’t be nudged while we’re content with our little lives, occasionally the personalness of the flimsy hits home. Why are we so privileged, maybe. Or why do bad things happen to good folks. Something along those lines. The imperfect nature of the world can break our heart. And there we are, sour and sappy.

One of my teachers said (putting on my student gear, now, sitting right beside you rather than in front, opening my face and listening) that the problem is change. Constant, unrelenting change. What happens is true and real, it is, but the moment you realize anything it’s gone and no longer true. Maya, he said (insert Sanskrit dork aside: Mayais usually translated as illusion or trick or ephemeralness of being) comes down to √मा mā: measure, make, material, sacred symbolism all the way to mother, manifest and the goddess Lakṣmi, and √या yā: passing. In other words, reality slips through your hands.

How can we (I stand back up, as teacher, and turn to your open face) find stability amidst constant turmoil? What does all this stillness in the whirlwind, or steadiness amidst challenge, or movement into stillness mean? Isn’t that a paradox? A down right oxy moron?

All over the Veda, there is this refrain of ṛtaṃ vācmi, satyaṃ vācmi. I speak the truth, I speak the real. Or vice versa it. The slipperiness of truth and reality are part of the game. I once heard ṛta is divine truth, sat is human truth. Or that ṛta is the abstract and immaterial, the thing that sounds in ritual and rite and rhythm, that compelling thing that urges in us but you’d have a hard time finding it with a medical scan. Whereas sat is real, being, experience. Ṛta is justice, sat is truth.

The suggestion, I suppose, is that we are trying to see the divine or hope or justice or beauty or lastingness admidst the flimsiness of this life. Or said another way, we’re trying to move ourselves in that direction. Self realization, you could say and it does say there in the Veda, is nothing but the sudden synching of what is with a higher principle. Who we are with what we believe. We’re trying to close the distance such that experience validates or accords with our principles or values or god or dream.

I prod on these nuances constantly. Whether finding your truth is terribly important, I mean. I don’t think that it is, because your truth isn’t hidden, but right here and obvious. The urge to ‘seek the truth’ tends to be an evasion of the real. Your truth is likely to step on other people’s toes. Whereas speaking or living your truth is terribly important, I think. There is also the terribleness and importance, in times like these, of knowing what lies are. But the gist of it right now is simple. Simple: accepting Reality while also believing in some Truth. Lest we get lost in armchair hyperbole: articulate god, exactly as you experience it. All blunder bussing aside, remember Sam. Remember Sam and give yourself fifty years. Blush brightly.

Karin Carlsen

#quote

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