#and gilding every entrance/exit with iron

[bigfatbreak]

Would any of the changeling characters be able to do that trick from mythology where fey can cast illusion spells on leaves to make them look like money and then scam random shopkeepers? I can just see a. fey trying that on Marinette when she's working at the bakery, only for her myriad fey admirers to flip out at the fey who pranked her.

they can definitely do that! unfortunately, fae don't usually make it into the bakery.

[bunnyboo77]

The Mad King's Bride Chapter 5

Aerys who is now in his own chambers sitting with his eyes fixed on the secret people through which he watched Francesca. She stood among the other servants, her beauty shining like a beacon at midst the mundane surroundings of the bathing area. Aerys obsession for her was growing by the day a twisted desire that consumed his every waking thought.

He watched as she was tended to by the other women, with their hands grazing her skin with a gentle touch that sent a surge of jealousy coursing through him. The king loved the thought of anyone else laying a hand on what he considered to be his, even if it was another woman. Watching every detail as the servants removed her grubby garments showed her soft gentle skin that was coated in patches of dirt. The very thought of dirt being on her skin was an absolute disgrace to her beauty. The king made note of every curve every freckle every blemish that lay upon her skin. As she gently lowered herself into the metal bath the King's vision was obstruct it from seeing francescas beautiful curves. The light moans escaping her mouth as she lowered herself peaked the King's ears as if it was music to him.

In his dreams Francesca haunted him her image imprinted on his mind like it was branded with a hot iron. She appeared before him clad in the colours of his house a vision of beauty that both entranced and tormented him. Her eyes shone with a light that seemed to Pierce through his soul igniting a fire of desire that threatened to consume him whole.

Abruptly the king was entranced with the scene before him women anointing her skin with oil as two washed up and down her arms and legs though he could see that she wanted to pull away as the servants got lower down her body.

“Ohh my darling soon no one will touch your beautiful skin only me and I promise you you will never want to pull away from me whether you like it or not”

Considering he had watched her long enough the king close the hidden peep hole. As he got up from his chair two servant girls entered the room their faces blank and devoid of expression. They were here to wash and dress the king as he himself was getting ready for the first of many nights with his darling Francesca.

________________________________________________________________________________________

As the servants washed and dried Francesca adoring lavish dress was then presented to her. The dress itself was mainly red with trimmings of black running through the center of the dress with golden thread. The dress itself was exquisite and fitted her body perfectly, and she ran her hands through the dress the silk was nothing she'd ever touched before in her life. It felt almost like a dream but she knew it was not a dream but a nightmare.

“This dress is it's beautiful” she said hoping to start a conversation with one servant girl.

Not getting any response back she dared not open her mouth again as even though she's with others she feels alone in this world. Guided to the vanity her hair was brushed and then gracefully half braided that was all hold together with beautiful pins of flowers. The flower pins reminded her of the flowers in the gardens she would secretly walked through when she was not busy in the kitchens or anywhere else. How odd she thought her favorite flowers though no one could have known this.

As the servants finished with her makeup and hair they said not a word and vowed exiting the room.

As she paced about the room her mind raised questions and doubts. Would she ever be able to escape the confines of the gilded cage in which she was trapped.

“Ohh what am I to do” Francesca muttered to herself her voice tinged with anxiety.

“How did I come to this fate to serve a king who sees me as nothing more than an object”

_________________________________________________________________________________________

The candles surrounding the table reflected the tearful eyes of the servents as they careful place each fork and knife in it place. The room was dressed as if it was expecting Lords of the land but instead it was set for the king and his new plaything. Aerys awaited Francesca in his lavish dining room a look for excitement in his eyes. He was eager to have such a beautiful maiden adore in his arm her presence a symbol of his power and wealth. As Francesca timely entered the room her eyes downcast and expression fearful, the King's gate swept over her taking in her beauty with possessive delight.

Francesca was now visibly wearing the sigil of the dragon the emblem of the King's house a stark reminder of her newfound position at his side. As the king drank in her body from head to toe he couldn't help wonder how the dress would look on his floor or rather that the table as he ripped pieces off her and took her right there and then. Fearing that she would reject him Aerys paced himself as he wanted her to want to be with him to be touched by him willingly. The depiction of her bouncing on top of him was his goal but he wanted her to want him in everywhere possible.

The king did not notice the fear in her eyes as he ushered her towards the beautiful lady table adorned with an array of sumptuous foods and wines, rose water Shimmered in the candlelight casting a warm glow over the room. Francesca and if curiosity rose her eyes never has she seen so much sumptuous items laid before her in one place not counting the time she was expected to serve people in the grand hall.

As the king made his way towards Francesca, he gently escorted her to the lavish seat beside his own. Seemingly he was acting with such kindness and grace that itself was unknown to even himself.

“Before we sit my darling I do have a gift for you I had it made especially for someone as beautiful and radiant as you” the king spoke while taking a box that was placed in front of her chair. Teen presented with a gift was something huge Francesca as she grew up in a poor village she was not one for receiving gifts other than the wooden toys that was crafted by her father that was given every name day.

Hesitant to open the box Francesca knew if she didn't she would risk enraging the king for not accepting his gift. Pulling the bow the box opened by itself and presented in front of her was a gold chain necklace of which had a three headed black dragon with rubies in their eyes.

Francesca's eyes widened at the gift that was presented to her.

“Your majesty this is such a thoughtful gift and I appreciate such a kind gesture that you have made towards me, but a servant like me could never except something like this from you”.

With those words spoken the hope in his eyes faded and were replaced by rage.

“Nonsense you are no longer a servant you are my personal companion and I deem what is worthy for whoever whether that be gifts titles or even sentences”

with that last turn of phrase Francesca knew she had to paint on a smile and accept the King's offering.

“My apologies your majesty I did not mean to offend you only that I was never gifted with anything like this before, please forgive my rude behavior”.

With that trouble sees turned calm and the king took the necklace from the box placing it around her neck. The touch of his fingers around her collarbone sent a shiver down her spine but she did not want to show a reaction. Francesca could feel the boniness of his fingers as he ran through down the back of her neck.

Want you not to scare her he graciously took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on it and spoke with such gentle words” shall we my dear the food is getting cold”.

 _________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been an hour into dinner and already Francesca spoke with simple words with the yes or no with the King's never ending questions. Where did she grow up did she have siblings what is her favorite and least favorite things.  

“My dear have you any brothers or sisters” thinking spoke with Joey and his eyes.

“No your majesty”she said.

“Have you any interest such as reading writing cooking” he spoke.

“no your majesty” she spoke.

Growing rather tired of her simple questions the king rose from his chair grabbed her throat of which he brought his face close to hers their nose touching ever so slightly.

“My dear you interest me but I have to say my interest will disappear if you speak like a simpleton”

with that he released her throat and she began choking. The act itself made something stir in his breaches. A soft pinging which he remembered he felt when he gazed in her doe eyes.

“I know this life my dear may seem like a prison but I assure you the prisons that are in this world far worse than the ones you will have with me” he spoke sipping on his cup.

“I shall give you time but I will grow impatient and I want you willing to be mine in both mind soul” and leaning closer to her ear he spoke  “and body” licking the corner of her earlobe.

“Please no” she spoke staring at the lust filled eyes

[diveronaevents]

DATE: March 16th

TIME: 12 AM

LOCATION: Hotel Emelia

A veil of serenity enshrouded Verona, clinging to it and sealing it into the cocoon of bliss harbored within Hotel Emelia until it felt as though nothing existed beyond its decadent borders. There were those who reveled in it, eyeing the drape of crimson that cascaded over them and welcoming it like a long-awaited embrace. Taking in the ruling redness and seeing nothing but the flush of their lovers’ cheeks and the rosiness of their lips; catching a hint of distant winds howling and shrieking promises of reckoning, and hearing nothing but the pleasant, hypnotizing chime of music.

And then there were those who dreaded what had become of their beloved city, eyes scrunched shut against the overwhelming vermillion that loomed over them like a blood-streaked dawn. Seeking out Verona’s pillars and seeing nothing but frail, tilting towers of corpses upon coins; reaching for their loved ones and thinking of nothing but the shallow graves that they were destined to share. They were those who bore the curse of clarity, doomed to witness the roiling truth tucked in the heart of all the alluring lies.

But in the end, it made no difference.

They were as one. The revelers and the ruined. The gods and the mortals. The blessed and the accursed.

They were equals before Verona.

When it grew hungry, it came for them all.

12:20 AM

No one knew of Verona’s appetite better than QUEEN MAB, and it could be said that the gala as a whole was a testament to that. Give fodder to a ravenous beast, and it shall be a leash around its neck. Such was the purpose that seemed to have guided every motion of the Dark Lady’s hands as they carved and crafted the dream that now lay in the pit of Verona’s stomach, rich, heady, and fulfilling. And it could have only been that very same purpose that now splayed her palms and stretched her smile as she walked among her guests, greeting them with skirting kisses on the cheeks and coaxing them to wander with gentle nudges on the shoulders.

As she settled into a remote, shadowed corner, cradled within the gilded planes of the Montague realm as though it was hers to rule, one could only wonder how much Verona had been tamed by all that she had laid before its saliva-slicked jaws. If she were to twist her wrist in a tug of command, would the city come hurtling forward in a rush of obedience? If she were to to lay her hands atop the ancient stone of its streets, would it bend and cave beneath the force of her will?

The answers were unclear.

Yet that was only because they were hidden in plain sight.

Deep within the belly of the beast, beneath the gliding feet and lounging bodies of blind revelers and narrow-eyed cynics alike.

In a dreary, confined basement where ROSALINE lay in chains.

Stealing a glance at the clock, QUEEN MAB rose from her seat and dipped back into her crafted illusion.

Just as LADY ANNE took her position far beyond it, sinking into her sharp-edged, shadow-bound dominion with instinctive ease. Surrounded by nothing more than the dim, hollow light shining over her face and the ever-familiar clack of her fingers as they flew over the keyboard, she deftly infiltrated Hotel Emelia’s surveillance feed. Having studied it meticulously in the weeks leading up to the operation, she only needed to observe it for a few minutes before her fingers rose to her earpiece and she made contact.

At the back of the hotel, outside a neglected emergency exit, ORSINO responded, teeth grit and bones juddering with anticipation as he made his way into enemy territory, guided by the directions LADY ANNE provided and centered by the intelligence QUEEN MAB had expertly gathered weeks prior through her Sparrows. He was met with little resistance, and he didn’t need much more than that to pave his path with sullied Montague blood; trampling over the crumpled corpses of three innocent staff members who had had the misfortune of getting in his way before moving along without a single backward glance.

Perhaps it was the vengeful dust that bellowed at his heels, or perhaps it was the all-encompassing haze of bloodlust instead, but as ORSINO continued on his ruinous path, he was utterly blind to the silent, watchful specter that lingered just outside the blurred edges of his vision. It took the towering form of CAESAR, who glanced from the Capulet’s retreating back to the desolation he had left in his wake and saw nothing more than an opportunity, thrown at his feet and left for the taking. An unforeseen offering that only a god of his caliber could have so suddenly earned. What were he to do with the priceless information that was now in his grasp?

Such was a question that was left both unanswered and unconsidered by ORSINO as he finally came upon the rusted iron door that sealed ROSALINE away.

Between ANTONY and QUEEN MAB, a bargain had been made, and although it would be foolish to expect anything more than empty promises and shapely lies from the Montague, he had kept his word. No obstacles of any kind awaited ORSINO once he arrived at the basement, and he didn’t waste time looking for traps where there weren’t any. Instead, he immediately went to retrieve ROSALINE, cradling her crumpled form in his arms and carrying her through the labyrinth he had cleared.

At the end of the road, FLORIZEL could be found in the escape vehicle, face gaunt with dread and fingers blanched around the steering wheel. He jolted as ORSINO burst into the backseat, barking orders at him to drive away. But he wasted no time in doing what he was told, caught as he was in the snare of LADY ANNE’s blackmail.

He stole them away in a gust of smoke and a shriek of tires.

Minutes later, QUEEN MAB’s phone pinged with a simple message, from an anonymous yet all too familiar source. We have her. It’s done.

QUEEN MAB looked down at the ruby-red glass of wine held in her palm.

Then she smiled.

2:00 AM

It was almost as though time itself was intoxicated by the Dark Lady’s creation; dragging its feet at the tail of the seconds as they drawled by and passing with such reluctance that some revelers could be found wondering to themselves if it had truly stood still, after all. But when it came to the Capulets that lay in wait like serpents amidst grass, time was rushing by as fast as ever.

And no one could feel it more keenly than VOLUMNIA, who surveyed the huddled crowds in a way that could only be expected of a ruler overseeing their dominion; hawk-sharp eyes latching onto the sight of each and every piece on her board and ensuring that they were all in their rightful positions. Holding the strings of time in one hand and the reins of control in the other, VOLUMNIA ushered MIRANDA away with a stern wave of her hand. With a nod, her messenger raven was cast into flight, fluttering through the hall and landing right beside the bishop that would set their grand operation in motion.

A hushed trickle of words was poured into EDMUND’s ear, and then MIRANDA was drifting back to her leader’s side. A quick glance around him and EDMUND’s gaze was colliding with VIOLA’s. There was no need for words when they knew perfectly well what they were setting out to do, and so with a seemingly nonchalant exchange of nods, they began to move; their divergent paths leading to one destination. A hurdle was soon rushing towards them, however, when PERDITA caught sight of the interaction. Chest curdling with distrust and burning with vigor beneath the Montague brand that was slowly beginning to etch itself onto her skin, she decided to follow VIOLA.

She found herself winding through the eerily silent halls of Hotel Emelia on a seemingly-endless trail.

Suddenly, her heart stuttered with oncoming dread.

Then all was swallowed by darkness.

Her hands began to tremble. Her heart climbed up to her throat and clung to it with reverberating terror. But PERDITA continued on; and by some stroke of luck, or perhaps through the same wicked machinations of fate that have guided her steps thus far, VIOLA never strayed far enough for her to lose her way.

They found each other just as light overtook the world around them once again.

Taking in the control room they were in, along with the tinge of familiarity that strangely colored the air around her soon-to-be comrade and the man at her side, PERDITA instantly began to question VIOLA. It didn’t take long for the line of inquiry to devolve into an exchange of accusations as hostility sparked between them. EDMUND, taking note of that along with the subtle apprehension underlining VIOLA’s rebuttals, decided to act. He pulled out his gun and trained it on PERDITA, the action choking out all sound. Then silence reigned, broken only by the hitch of someone’s breath and the click of the safety being taken off a gun.

Back in the hall, VOLUMNIA didn’t flinch. Even as the crowds began to hum and disperse beneath the oppressive darkness that cloaked them; even as the air began to grow thick and heady with their collective restlessness, she remained perfectly still. Steadied and centered by the knowledge that everything was proceeding as planned. When the lights sputtered back to life, she merely took a mild breath, and then she fell into the role that she was meant to play. As QUEEN MAB descended onto the riled cluster of guests, VOLUMNIA trailed after her so she could aide her in calming them. She hovered beside her, instilling order with nothing more than her firm reassurance and brimming authority. While she helped detract attention from the sudden absence of her fellow Capulets, MIRANDA remained by her side, her point of contact with the rest of those who were stationed in the hall.

It was none other than BIANCA and KATHERINE. The moment the power went out, they had taken their positions on either side of the entrance through which the other team had passed, clearing their path in the dark and ensuring that no one would disrupt their progress once the lights were back on. Thus far, their task has been smoothly fulfilled, with KATHERINE occupying her position in simmering silence while BIANCA, driven by boredom, taunted her with scathing yet breezingly idle remarks. She was quick to receive the entertainment she desired, however, when IMOGEN made her way towards them. It should have come as no surprise that they were among the first people to notice the abrupt disappearance of Capulets and Montagues alike. Similarly, it should have come as no surprise that they were so swift to investigate, especially upon glimpsing the curious sight of Verona’s infamous pair of estranged siblings, huddled together as they were with unsightly civility.

Ever eager to confront Verona’s rulers with their falseness and foolishness alike, IMOGEN faced the Capulets with her findings. They sought to learn more, displeased as they were to sense that there might be plans underway that they were not aware of. KATHERINE did not appreciate their intrusiveness, and thus the interaction quickly began to escalate. All the while, BIANCA merely looked on, glancing between her polished nails and the arguing pair with sugar-sweet amusement.

Far, far beyond them, deep within the inner crevices of the hotel, another league of Capulets had a mission of their own.

It was led by JULIET, who marched with inflamed purpose in search of her stolen cousin. Beside her was HIPPOLYTA, halo tinged by the heiress’s rage and the burn of her own determination, gun clutched tight and gaze trained ahead as they sank further and further into enemy territory.

Ahead of them, OTHELLO and REGAN cleared the way, huddled into the embrace of shadows, slinking out of them only so they could snatch the lives of any Montagues damned enough to stumble upon them. They were guided by IAGO, who had memorized the schematics of Hotel Emelia as soon as it was identified as ROSALINE’s holding cell. He trailed a few paces behind OTHELLO and REGAN, acting as a halfway point between them and the other Capulets lingering at his back.

Flanking the heiress and her protector were EDGAR and CORDELIA. The silence between them was leaden with unspoken words and stifled sentiments, the tension palpable and heavy-weighing. Yet it was clear that they had no intention of allowing it to stand in the way of their shared goal; their grips on their weapons steady and their gazes unflinching as they trained their sights on the mission at hand.

Behind them was the final puzzle piece, TITANIA. Fleet-footed and unskilled in combat, they were meant to serve as the team’s alarm. If any problems arose, the pair at the forefront would be the first to witness them, and upon alerting the rest of the team, the message would echo all the way to the tail-end of their formation, at which point TITANIA would swiftly retreat and call for the reinforcement of the other Capulets stationed throughout the gala.

Their plan was solid, their formation impenetrable -- and their goal was right within reach.

The realization seemed to dawn on them all within the same moment as the basement came into view.

JULIET’s steps hastened, nearly evolving into a sprint if it weren’t for the temperance instilled by the touch of HIPPOLYTA’s hand upon her arm.

IAGO’s hand twitched with the urge to leap forward and lay itself upon the handle of the door.

EDGAR stole a glance at the stoic fallen angel at his side.

TITANIA drifted closer.

The door was ajar.

Yet JULIET still gripped the handle with force, breathless with yearning as the door lurched open and granted her fervent entry.

Her breath tapered off into a gasp.

And in the tension-wound seconds that followed, there was no sound except for the light smack of her fingers against her lips and the skid of her soldiers’ steps as they drew to a halt beside her.

They came upon nothing but crimson-soaked floors and despondent, broken chains.

And ROSALINE was nowhere to be found.

3:45 AM

All things, delightful or horrid, must come to an end.

Verona’s unholy hour was no exception.

And it was going to be none other than GERTRUDE, the red right hand of the Montagues, who ushered in the end that the darkness of this night so desperately yearned for.

It laid itself bare before her as she made her way towards the main hall; the breathless longing, the soundless suffering of the shadows that crawled and heaved themselves along the walls on either side of her. They were bloated and brimming, close to bursting beneath the burden of carrying the immense weight of all the secrets and lies that Verona has enforced upon them tonight. And so they pleaded to her, begged her again and again to cleave them open and release the long-harbored truth; to break the dams of deception and let the soiled waters run free. One would have to wonder if this was truly the first time that she had been haunted by the city’s sorrows in such a manner, but it didn’t quite matter, in the end.

Tonight, she would answer the call.

And she began to do so with nothing more than a string of assertive whispers thrown at each and every staff member that she came across.

By the time she finally reached the hall, the cluster of crowds had already been dismantled into a small array of guests who were most likely too addled by the indulgence of the evening to leave immediately -- but she could see staff members and Montagues alike as they made their way towards them to help guide them out.

She set her eyes on her target, never letting her out of her sight, especially as the Capulet’s suspicion began to seep through.

She reached VOLUMNIA, and announced her presence with the press of her gun into the center of the woman’s back. VOLUMNIA stiffened, and so did her meek-looking comrade who seemed prepared to spring into immediate action as soon as she glimpsed the gun -- but she didn’t stand a chance. BENEDICK was instantly behind her, emulating GERTRUDE’s actions and pinning MIRANDA in place. A suffocating veil of silence fell over them, neither party able to act while some guests remained.

But the moment the hall was clear, VOLUMNIA didn’t waste a second.

Swift as a viper, she drove her elbow into GERTRUDE’s face before turning around and taking advantage of the woman’s disorientation by lunging at her. With an agile arch of her back, GERTRUDE was able to evade VOLUMNIA’s strike and attempted to hold the woman in place by maintaining threatening hold of her gun. However, VOLUMNIA had vowed to never let herself by cornered again and so she was quick to brandish her own. Time almost seemed to stand still while the two women faced off against one another.

But for the other pair, it was the opposite. MIRANDA had managed to break BENEDICK’s hold by stabbing him in the thigh with the knife she had tucked underneath her dress, but even with his injury, he refused to waver. The two grappled with each other while GERTRUDE and VOLUMNIA engaged one another, both women unwilling to back down and yet at the same time, unwilling to be the first to fire the decisive bullet.

Far away, GONERIL and BENVOLIO cut the same path that VIOLA and PERDITA had previously followed. Weeks earlier, VIOLA had leaked the Capulets’ strategy for ROSALINE’s retrieval to her people on the other side of the ruins, and so the Montagues had anticipated the power outage that had occurred. As such, as soon as she set off towards the main hall, GERTRUDE had been swift with her orders to send soldiers to the control room to corner the Capulets there. And as they burst through the door, silver-streaked enemies was all that they expected to come across, but instead, they were only met with the simmering crimson of their comrades. VIOLA and PERDITA met them with stoic silence, but it quickly unraveled in the face of BENVOLIO’s trepidation and the dangerous air of impatience that began to crackle around GONERIL. Both pairs began updating each other, BENVOLIO relaying what was happening throughout the hotel and in turn, being told of the encounter with EDMUND.

Unwilling to let prey go astray, GONERIL heard the name and instantly took off in pursuit of its keeper, hands itching for the satiating warmth of spilled blood as she stalked the halls in search of EDMUND. Her hunt led her to CORIOLANUS instead, who had been scouring the shadows for ways to fiddle with his mother’s operation in the main hall. The moment she caught sight of him, GONERIL didn’t hesitate, tugging him into her snare with a precise shot in the leg that sent CORIOLANUS sprawling to take cover. The two fell into an unruly entanglement, one that lingered closely enough to the control room to draw BENVOLIO’s attention. He set out in search of his begrudging partner, fearing that she might be in need of his help, and indeed, that seemed to be the case when he stumbled upon GONERIL lying flat on her back, growling as she struggled against CORIOLANUS’s looming blade.

With a fierce kick into his unprotected flank, CORIOLANUS was dropped onto his knees. However, wounded as he was, his awareness was still keen as ever. And so, while GONERIL hissed and shoved at BENVOLIO’s offered hand, the Capulet took the opportunity to flee, knowing full well that there was no hope for him to prevail while outnumbered. He made his stumbling, fleeting escape, leaving GONERIL and BENVOLIO to hover on the outskirts of the rapidly-escalating battle.

Close by, the guests were still flooding the hallway leading out of the gala and it was from the crowds that three Montagues spawned at the far end of the hallway. Two of them halted, caught off guard by the sight of IMOGEN, who had been unaccounted for in their strategy, before OPHELIA quickly stepped up to the task of evacuating them with the rest of the guests. The other two then followed in her trail, still concealed within the lumbering mass of drunken elites as they made their way out of the hotel. RICHARD III slinked out of the shadows to glue himself to KATHERINE’s side, gun pressed to her ribs, while BEATRICE did the same with BIANCA. IMOGEN stiffened at the sight, but they could do nothing when OPHELIA was immediately shackling herself to them in a similar manner, one hand on their shoulder and the other tucked into the crook of their elbow as she slowly pulled them away from the scene, all while filling their ears with honeyed warnings and poorly-disguised threats.

After assessing the scene, KATHERINE took action, only to be disarmed by RICHARD III. With no other way to defend herself, she engaged him in physical combat, and it was while the two grappled with one another that BIANCA took the time to do what she did best -- deceive. In a matter of seconds, she was dicing her breath into ribbons and dragging tears into her eyes as she trembled and pleaded in BEATRICE’s grasp. How lucky she was then, that BEATRICE was the exact breed of moth that she was looking to lure into her web. She let her go, and BIANCA wasted no time in making her escape, shunning both her sister and her allegiance without a second look. RICHARD III wasn’t expecting such a callous action from his comrade, and KATHERINE took advantage of his surprise to turn the tides of the fight. However, it was still unclear whether she was indeed meant to prevail, because now she wasn’t up against just one enemy, but two.

In the basement, JULIET was on her knees, palms burning with the imprint of blood and grime as she grasped the chains in her blanched fists.

The shadows birthed PORTIA as though she was one of their own, her hand lightning-fast as it rose to train her gun on the heiress -- but HIPPOLYTA was faster, raising her own gun and taking the shot before anyone could even fully grasp the events that were unfolding around them. PORTIA side-stepped just in time, the bullet grazing her temple and issuing a crimson torrent in its wake. But when she fell to her knees, a rare smile was gracing her lips as she took in the sight of JULIET, seething and trembling on the floor while she clutched her bullet-torn shoulder.

HIPPOLYTA instantly moved towards the fallen heiress, but another shadow-spun demon stood in her way, this one seemingly molded from the flames of Hell itself. With a roar, MERCUTIO launched themself from the darkness and towards their enemy with savage force, dragging HIPPOLYTA to the ground as they pummeled into her.

The moment the other Capulets had filtered out of the room, they found themselves cornered by their own vengeful beasts. MALCOLM and CELIA faced off against OTHELLO and REGAN, while LAERTES and ROSALIND faced off against EDGAR and CORDELIA. On the end of both halls leading away from the basement, HAMLET and ROMEO barred the way for any Capulets who might entertain the hopeless notion of escape.

The Montagues’ trap had been laid out perfectly, and their enemy was ensnared right in the heart of it.

MALCOLM wasted no time before launching himself at OTHELLO, and the Capulet eagerly threw himself into the arms of the beckoning fight. Both men were clearly hungering for a repeat of their last encounter, but the same couldn’t be said for CELIA who seemed gripped by the frailest shackle of hesitation as she confronted REGAN. As could be expected, REGAN used it to her advantage and made the first move; throwing the two of them into a vigorous battle without an ounce of uncertainty. If anything, she seemed ravenous for CELIA’s blood.

LAERTES’s apprehension was carefully tucked away behind a mask of grim, steel-bound determination as he engaged EDGAR who, concerned with and distracted by CORDELIA’s safety as he was, was gradually buckling beneath the weight of LAERTES’s assaults. However, CORDELIA’s safety was far from her own mind as she divided her efforts between fending off an unrelenting ROSALIND and protecting TITANIA.

IAGO, witnessing her conflict and assessing the most efficient course of action, decided to clear the way for TITANIA by pitting himself against HAMLET who was the only hurdle standing in TITANIA’s path. With enough taunts and gripes, IAGO managed to draw HAMLET’s attention away from the position he needed to maintain, luring him into a chase that pulled them both far enough away for TITANIA to take off.

They ran faster than they ever did, only to end up stumbling into an unforeseen void when a jarring force suddenly slammed into the side of their head. PUCK watched them fall with a giddy smile, shaking the blood off the end of their shotgun and tutting to themself that these Montague folks really shouldn’t have left their toys lying around. They turned around, only for their eyes to bulge with surprise as a fist came flying into their face. NICK BOTTOM, enraged by the despondent sight of TITANIA, launched himself at PUCK who was far too amused by the scene to consider walking away from it. While they engaged one another, TROILUS kept moving forward. He and NICK BOTTOM had paired up for the sake of their common goal to figure out what was happening, but NICK BOTTOM’s battle was where their priorities diverged. TROILUS was only concerned with finding JULIET and keeping her out of harm’s way. Driven, even in his terror, he continued on and didn’t stop.

While chaos erupted all around, ROMEO remained unseen and thus remained untouched. And for a long, seemingly-endless moment, all he did was observe the destruction that had overtaken their arena of battle.

From the moment they received the crucial call from VIOLA weeks earlier, all the pieces had fallen into place. The deal had already been struck with the Dark Lady to collaborate on the gala, the Capulet plan had already been set in motion, and all that had been left was seizing their advantage and reaping their victory. ROMEO watched as two seemingly innocent, unaligned strangers devolved into brutality; watched as ROSALIND struggled beneath CORDELIA’s ruthless hold, while JULIET shakily pulled herself up to distract MERCUTIO from a pliant, defenseless HIPPOLYTA; watched as IAGO swaggered back onto the scene with blood-soaked fists, having undoubtedly left HAMLET defeated behind him.

ROMEO watched it all, and he seemed to decide that enough was enough.

Upon receiving the layout of the Capulets’ plan, the Montague trap had been authorized on his personal orders, without any consultation from his father, who had found out about it only after it was too late for him to take action. They had been his orders, this was his domain, these were his people.

And this was his decision.

He left his post, and with chilling calm, walked up to JULIET and grabbed her by the hair. He pulled her to her feet, and waited until her resounding whimper halted the motions of her people.

ROMEO lifted a gun to JULIET’s temple, gaze skirting along those of the Capulets as they scrambled to jump to their heiress’s rescue.

His eyes locked with those of all who lay sprawled before him.

And all he did was utter one simple order:

“Stand down.”

Verona held its breath.

“Take your principessa, and leave while you still can.”

He pushed her to the ground.

“If you don’t take this chance, I won’t stop my people from doing what needs to be done. You can stay and see how long you’ll last, or you can go and face that trial another day, as we all will.”

Silence screeched at the tail of his words.

But he meant every single one.

And the enemy was quick to realize that.

The quiet was only broken by TROILUS’s rushing steps as he ran to JULIET’s side, but by the time he arrived, the Capulets had already made their choice. Begrudged by some and accepted by others, they made it.

JULIET leaned into TROILUS’s side as they walked away together.

EDGAR tentatively pulled HIPPOLYTA into his arms, lifting her up and carrying her away as CORDELIA spat blood at ROSALIND’s feet.

Knowing it was best to leave them to their people, NICK BOTTOM surrendered TITANIA’s prone body to OTHELLO. REGAN limped after him as he carried them away. 

The rest of the Capulets followed after the flock as it drifted away, leaving the Montagues to tend to their own wounded and contemplate the choice with which their prince had dictated their fate.

As they made their vanquished way through the still, gloating halls of battle-worn Hotel Emelia, they sent one of their own to retrieve KATHERINE and another to report to VOLUMNIA.

Even when caught in the vicious chokehold of RICHARD III, KATHERINE was infuriated by the orders she received yet she was forced to follow them, in the end. As for VOLUMNIA, she only broke her entanglement with GERTRUDE upon being informed that JULIET was wounded, but not before making a promise to the Montague that things shall end very differently the next time they collided. I’ll make sure of it, she hissed, just as MIRANDA began to follow after her, leaving the fate of her battle with BENEDICK unfulfilled and undecided.

Dawn broke over the city’s horizon just as the Capulets made their ragged exit, and the unruly conflict between the ruling families continued on its climb towards ever-greater heights.

Verona was not left to starve on this day.

But there was still a war to be won, and there was still a traitor to be snuffed out.

Perhaps the city was only meant to gorge itself on the ruin that was to come.

One could only hope, all while laying more and more fodder before the insatiable beast.

OVERVIEW: And that’s a wrap for the gala, Veronesi! Whew. A lot has gone down, but we hope you’ve enjoyed the ride just as much as we’ve enjoyed putting you through it! The general layout of the situation is as follows: entrapped as they were, the Capulets have been dealt a heavy blow, with numerous members injured and bedridden, and with TITANIA having descended into a coma. Meanwhile, the Montagues celebrate the lesson they believe they have taught the enemy, and slowly but surely begin easing into the power shift that’s overtaken their leadership. ROSALINE’s rescue came to pass under both families’ noses, but while they both scramble to unravel the mystery, CAESAR holds it tightly in his clutch, having been a direct witness to the trail ROSALINE’s rescuer had left behind. Similar to the previous plot drop, we’d like to note that for the sake of the narrative, QUEEN MAB, LADY ANNE and FLORIZEL have been treated as NPC’s and that you’re free to reference them in your threads if you wish. But other than that, please date your threads from MARCH 16TH through MARCH 25TH and most importantly, have fun!!

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter ten (joe the drummer)

“Coin operated boy, He may not be real, experienced with girls but I know he feels like a boy should feel Isn’t that the point? That is why i want a Coin operated boy, With his pretty coin operated voice saying that he loves me, that he's thinking of me Straight and to the point, that is why I want A coin operated boy.” -“Coin Operated Boy”, The Dresden Dolls

November 28, 1988. Boston, Massachusetts.

So I had left Oswego at about ten this morning because I didn't know if or when Matt and Dominique were going to be in Boston today, but I have this hydrogen car that Maya left behind and I have nothing more to do than to take it for myself. I had the copy of Ultramega OK in the disc player for the first stint of the trip: as I drove through Syracuse, their cover of “Smokestack Lightning” came on, and I couldn't help but think of Ellen and seeing Brick in the hospital. It felt like a sign, seeing the chimneys in the outskirts with their rising smoke against the bitter upstate cold.

I've done this drive before by myself and with my parents and my grandparents, but this time it was interesting because not one time did I have to stop to refuel because of the hydrogen. There was that one time Maya stopped on the way back up, but that was it. The whole thing throws me because I always think it's going to run low at some point and it never does. To be honest, I'm surprised this car doesn't have an autopilot option because sometime around Albany, I wanted to put my feet up on the dashboard next to me and relax for a moment before I resumed onward to Springfield and then eventually to Boston. I played Ultramega again once I entered Massachusetts, where more and more the brick and mortar began to rise up from the cold earth and the outskirts of the City.

She said they're going to be near the women's college, and the only one I can think of offhand, just from my doing gigs over here with Anthrax and a couple of my past cover bands, is to the north of the heart of the city itself.

I take the next exit leading me over to Wellesley, and this is the part of town that, along with New York City, makes me wonder if Maxwell Industries in Seattle is serious about their wanting to move out this way. Over the edge of the freeway, I can make out the small cobblestones comprising the streets down below: every other building is made of stone and brick, and has a chimney bleeding out plumes of pure white steam. The sky is pure white with the sun reflecting on the steam, and so I'm driving about with my mirrors on and my scarf around my neck like I'm a pilot. I even have the black gloves and the black boots.

Everything is made of brick and mortar and cold metal: not a lick of bright blue neon to be found. There's a row of shiny silver entities floating in the air over my head, but they're too small to be considered airships. At least I think so anyways. They seem to drift onward over me and across the freeway to the other side within a mile of my next exit. Something about them is unnerving, like what are they?

I'm soon winding my way through the tightly woven web of spirals that is Wellesley and I indeed recognize the school up the street and past the four roundabouts.

Oh boy, this is going to be fun!

Trying not to wreck the car, seeing as this isn't even mine and I just don't want to wreck the damn thing, I begin to weave my way through the roundabouts like it's a snake. I really am like a pilot now because I'm having to keep this thing in control. The hydrogen hum is totally silent but the tires are yelling at me over the cobblestones.

Surprised there are no passersby on the sidewalks. It's the middle of the day following Thanksgiving: usually I would expect the whole area would be filled to the brim with hustle and bustle like Syracuse or Albany—Oswego had more happening when I left this morning. But no: there's no one here.

I weave one last time around the fourth and final roundabout and I catch the view of the stationary shop in question: this little pale brick building with a bright pink and white striped awning over the gilded glass. I know that's what it is because I recognize Dominique and her heavy black overcoat and purple tinted glasses standing next to Matt and another woman.

I don't realize where I'm going and I almost drive right into the narrow alleyway running adjacent to the place.

I slam on the brakes. I turn the wheel around so as to avoid hitting anything.

And the car drifts up to the curb.

I stop right there right before them, and Matt pushing the two women back away from the edge of the sidewalk so as to miss me. He then recognizes me with a nod.

“Oh, hey! It's Joey!” I hear Dominique declare through the windshield.

I switch the thing off and stumble out of the car to meet up with them. The steam in the air makes everything feel cold and the whole place smells sweet, like cooking molasses. I toss back my black curls and adjust the shades before meeting up with them.

“Quite the entrance if I might say so myself,” Matt remarks with a big beaming grin underneath his big smokey sunglasses.

“Joey, this is my mentor Angeline Belotti from the New York Times,” Dominique introduces me to the blonde lady in a lush dark red velvet dress with a low plunging neckline and a big matching handbag in her left hand. She's got on these little cream colored leather gloves protecting her hands from the bitter cold around us.

“Joey Belladonna, right?” she asks me in that strong Queens accent that makes me think of Anthrax.

“Yes'm.”

“I thought I recognized you. That little upstate indigenous boy that Anthrax fired for—reasons I haven't been able to find out.”

I shrug at that. Yeah, me, too, and the thousands of other fans who are left wondering.

“Anyways, I'm glad you could make it, Joey,” she continues, “Matt and Dominique were just telling me about a young lady named Maya Sorensen whom you found last month in a gutter.”

“Yeah, I was just walking and I saw her laying there on the sidewalk all disoriented and helpless.”

“He was just being a good guy, y'know?” Dominique fills in for me.

“Well, of course. But what I don't understand is why didn't you take her to the authorities and earn credit that way?”

I flash back on what she said in After the Watershed: her fear of being discovered by someone who wanted to hurt her. Come to think of it, that's actually quite the bullet I dodged myself, too.

“She told me not to,” I reply to her.

“She told you not to?” Angeline repeats it.

“See, I thought there was more to this,” Dominique says, her eyes lighting up behind the purple lenses. “I thought you and I would be in for hell of a scoop, Angeline.”

“Well, anyways, she and I were going to do some writing practice here in this shop next to us,” Angeline explains to me, “and we were hoping you'd show up because Matt's got nothing better to do at the moment.”

“Yeah, today's my birthday,” he says out of the blue. “I'm twenty six.”

“Oh, really? Happy birthday, man.”

“There's a pub right back here if you guys want a bite to eat,” Angeline gestures behind me to the sidewalk running around the corner of the shop.

“Yeah, we're gonna be in here a while,” Dominique adds.

“I haven't eaten since I left Oswego,” I confess.

“All the better,” Matt assures me. “C'mon, man—”

He leads me away from there and we turn the corner to the narrow alleyway I almost plowed into. This little passage way smells more of molasses even with the piles of rusty wires and the shiny silver air conditioners resting upon the ground.

“Dom and I got one of these,” he starts, gesturing to the air conditioner closest to the other end of the alley.

“These exact ones?” I ask him as the bright white glare of the sun shines over his blond hair like it's a vein of pure gold.

“Exact one. For some reason, the cybernetic ones Maxwell Industries makes don't work as well as they should. Here we are—”

He holds the door for me and I step into the cozy, intimately lit pub of dark wood and wire framed lamps first. The place smells of French fries and honey. Once I take off my sunglasses, I catch a glimpse of a little plaque on the wall next to us.

“'Open mic night,'” I read aloud.

“Huh?” He takes off his sunglasses once the door closes behind him.

“It's open mic night.” I grin at him as I lead him into the main room of the pub.

“Oh, no, you aren't suggesting—”

“I am, and—hey! Check it out! There's a full on drum kit in here!”

“Oh, man.”

“Come on, dude. I'm out on the job and I'm pretty much a trash digger at this point. Sometimes a guy's gotta drum his heart out, y'know?” And then he bursts out laughing.

“I hear that!”

We take a seat at the big heavy dark polished wooden bar dotted by single beeswax candles held up by fancy iron catches. He asks for a glass of stout, and I for a glass of straight up root beer. Too much bad karma with sarsaparilla now. He takes a sip from his glass when I sit back in the stool with my legs crossed. A few more people enter the place behind us, followed by an elderly couple.

“Been meaning to ask you this, too,” he starts, “—what do you think of our album?”

“Ultramega?”

“Yeah.”

“It's all so—grungely,” I tell him, and he bursts out laughing at that. “Grungely and totally badass.” He picks up his glass again for another swig of stout and then takes a look over at me with a lick of his lips. I raise a glass to him and we clink them together at the edges. He asks for a refill when I ask for some battered cod and a little dish of tartar sauce.

The candles seem brighter than they were when we came in. More and more people are coming in behind us, and soon the pub is bustling with people.

I turn my head to the window on the other side of the room, at the growing shadows casting across the floor and the drum kit with the waning light. A girl with a guitar steps up onto the stage.

“Any volunteers to play rhythm section with me?” she asks into the microphone over the drum kit. I turn to Matt as he's downing the rest of his stout.

“That drum kit over there's freed up,” I point out to him.

“I dunno if I can play, though,” he admits. “I can be—kinda unsure of myself when—hic, 'scuse me—I've taken down a couple of drinks.”

I think back to the first time I played Ultramega OK on my player, and the other times I played it, including this morning.

“You know, I really like you guys' cover of 'Smokestack Lightning',” I tell him.

He swallows, but doesn't reply. I glance up at the drum kit once again. All the times I played in cover bands are returning to me.

Oh. Oh, okay. I'm gonna be Phil Collins now. I take one final sip of the root beer and wolf down the last bite of fish before striding on over to her to join her.

She welcomes me by telling me she's not the best singer. I concede as I take a seat on the stool behind the snare and the bass. It's a small kit, one that I'm definitely used to. I tell her what song I want to play and her face lights up; and then there's that microphone next to my head.

“Hi, my name's Joe Belladonna. I'm the singer as well as the drummer for tonight. Just call me Joe the drummer.”

I'm a little rusty, especially since Matt's got such an interesting way of playing but I do know it. I'm also doing the duty of singing like Chris.

Nancy says I'm like Chris. Well, tonight I'm gonna be Chris as well as Matt, playing this old blues song in a dark steamy town that smells of molasses.

There's just one difference: my screams don't go as nearly high as Chris, and I'm a tenor.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Unrest of the Wicked, Part 3

Todd’s fear grew.

Waiting in the biting wintry air left him cold, but his countless hours of service in the constabulary had hardened him to such exposure.

His fear of getting caught grew with each minute of Johnn Von Brandt taking longer to pick the lock. The only thing standing between them and the accursed corpse hiding within the museum was this locked doorway. And the only thing Constable Todd really needed this alleged bandit Von Brandt for was to get inside.

Perhaps his prior experience with creatures of the night might help.

Todd’s inquisitive gaze swept up and down the fog-riddled Crimsonport street, expecting anybody to approach at any time now. The lanterns lining the road cast no shadows upon the door to which Von Brandt picked away at the lock with tiny metal tools. Todd’s mind played tricks on him, causing him to imagine people wandering down the street and spotting them, catching them in the act. He shot an impatient glance at Johnn, but bit his tongue rather than urging him to hurry up.

Todd could not afford to land on the wrong side of the law. Not now, not with all he knew.

For all he knew, important authority figures of all station within the city could be in league with the dark powers behind these wicked machinations. He considered his potential allies and how damaged their standing was within Red Coast society—the only people with the savvy and drive to combat the creatures of the night.

Nora Morrissey, former mercenary turned hunter, now rotting in prison for murder—of an aristocrat who had been possessed by a deranged demon. Johnn Von Brandt, scoundrel and suspect in multiple accounts of theft and burglary. Agnes Letterford, herbalist and midwife accused of practicing witchcraft by religious zealots, chased from the city by a superstitious mob who ended up burning down her home. Oddly enough, Luca Vadas, gunsmith and notorious gambler, happened to be the only one without such a stained reputation as the other three, but most people mistrusted him on principle due to Vadas belonging to a caravan of roaming folk.

Todd’s chest burned and he placed a hand there, with fingers numbed by the merciless cold air. He felt the shape of the amulet that the small girl, Magdalene McLachlan, had given him just moments before the two men approached the museum to break in.

Was this young girl also a potential ally? Appearing as deathly pale as a corpse?

The constable dismissed the thought and assured himself that he had only imagined the burning sensation emanating from the amulet.

Little time had passed since he had learned that vampyres, beast-men, and angry ghosts all posed real threats to the people of his homeland. Todd still erred on the side of skepticism, in an attempt to keep his sanity intact in face of all these unnatural threats. To do so, he would need to strike every shred of excessive superstition from his beliefs. Black cats crossing his path, walking underneath ladders, even breaking mirrors—he would have to assume that such things were nonsense until taught otherwise. Because the more he learned, the more he realized that there might be a kernel of truth hiding within each such folk tale, albeit knowing the difference between silly superstition and that kernel of truth might spell out the difference between life and death.

He looked to the clock-tower, looming in the distance over the rooftops of the city’s houses, nearly invisible through the thick banks of fog that obscured the nightly image of the sprawling metropolis. Todd could barely make out the tower’s outlines. He did however recognize the church’s holy symbol jutting out from the tower’s highest point.

He wondered how the Good God could allow such deviltry to run rampant and endanger his homeland and his people. He pondered if King Sieghard was just as corrupt and twisted as Earl Irvine Tyson, in league with evil creatures.

At each and every scene of a crime that Constable Todd now connected to unnatural events, he had always found a specific clue that the public remained oblivious about.

A single black rose.

The same symbol emblazoned on the crest of King Sieghard’s family.

He shot another glance at Johnn, who was focused on picking the lock to the museum door and oblivious to Todd’s festering sense of dread. He considered that he might need to tell him, but now was not the time. Yet.

The lock clicked and the door opened by the width of two fingers. Johnn looked back at Todd with determination burning in his eyes. Todd’s heart skipped a beat—knowing that whatever would happen now, it would eclipse the fear he had felt waiting out here. Hell, it might just eclipse the terror he experienced when he helped Luca Vadas battle a vampyre. The constable feared the possibility of dying this night. He feared dying in ways he dared not imagine.

Todd’s meaty hand grabbed Johnn by the shoulder of his coat and he yanked him up to his feet with furious vigor, pushing both of them along to make a hasty entrance into the museum’s bowels. Johnn stared daggers back at the constable over the gruff gesture but refused to comment on it.

The constable quietly closed the door behind them, shrouding them in near-complete darkness. Only feeble rays of light shone in through cracks between the curtains, casting the edifice’s exhibits in the eeriest illumination possible.

The two men snuck in between stands and displays within fine glass cases. Todd could barely make out the relics, though his earlier visit to the museum under the supervision of the Earl’s lackey helped him to find his way through this assortment of foreign objects.

Artifacts exhumed and brought here from a faraway, sunken kingdom of the sands.

Stone tablets swallowed the light here, shadows concealing their confusing hieroglyphs. Bizarre statuettes of animal-headed humanoids stood there, shining with an otherworldly golden sheen.

And finally, the artifact they had come for.

Todd and Von Brandt stopped in front of the huge sarcophagus, standing up straight against the wall like a totem pole. Both of them gazed upon it in awe. A majestic air surrounded this towering object. Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and allowed them to admire the luster of the enormous coffin’s gilded surfaces—oh, how they almost glowed despite the lack of illumination. And upon the face of the sarcophagus a face had been painted in a forgotten age, yet the artwork remained and defied the sands of time—the painting of a face that bore both the insight of a sage and the soul-piercing stare of a cruel and unforgiving god-king.

“This is it?”

Todd only nodded in response, unable to peel his eyes from the sarcophagus.

“You have the tools and know better what to do,” he said to Johnn.

A sigh exited the bandit’s mouth, carrying a staggering exhaustion and sense of futility. But his swift movements spoke to a specific desire—the desire to get this over with. As quickly as humanly possible.

Johnn produced a heavy bag from his coat and untied its top. He crouched down and began pouring its contents out onto the floor, creating a large circle around the two men and the sarcophagus, best he could. He squeezed behind the relic, closing the circle back there.

Todd surmised that this was the rock salt. It would either keep the ghost outside and prevent it from taking over the mummy—or trap it in there. With them inside the circle, as well. Todd flinched at the latter thought.

Once the bandit was finished, he handed the constable a silvered decanter and a lighter.

“Now, I am not sure how or if this will work. If this circle does not stop the ghost from possessing the mummified remains, then we need to use the consecrated oils and burn them,” Johnn said. He bit his lip as he paused before asking, “Or we use the oil to attempt another circle at enclosing the phantom?”

Todd’s brow furrowed.

“How is it that you understand as little as I do about all of this despite having slain a beast-man and a warlock before?”

“They are not the same creatures, for one, and for another, I—look, it is difficult to retain all this nonsensical information about their weaknesses, alright?”

“Nonsensical information that will decide whether we live or die this night,” Todd hissed back at him.

“Listen—the lore gathered in Nora’s journals is vague at best. We will have to make this up as we go.”

Johnn swallowed a retort and placed two iron rods on the floor between them, as well as a stack of paper scrips inscribed with a strange style of writing that Todd only recognized at second glance—writing native to a remote realm in the Far East, from which the most wealthy of merchants delivered silk and exotic spices.

The bandit picked up one of the iron rods and gripped it in his left hand. He exhaled sharply as he stared at Todd for another moment and then turned to face the sarcophagus.

The steps Johnn took towards the huge relic fell silent upon the hard wooden floors underfoot. Caution and trepidation made each step deliberate and slowed down by the palpable sense of dread welling up inside his stomach. The same dread that Todd was also subjected to right now.

Todd stood as still as one of the desert kingdom’s derelict statues on display behind him.

Johnn’s slender fingers reached out towards the sarcophagus, creeping up close to curl around a groove which he could latch onto and pull the coffin’s lid open.

Before his fingertips connected to the shining golden surface of the strange royal coffin, it opened. An inch. No sound accompanied it, but it caused the hearts of the men to skip a beat.

Then a sound like a chorus or an army of people exhaling simultaneously erupted from the darkness, pouring out of that crack. Like one hundred souls breathed their last breath, all at once. Then something heavy hit the floor with the weight of a grown horse.

THUNK.

First Johnn stepped aside, then Todd reacted at the last moment. The lid of the sacrophagus fell forward, crashing down onto the museum floor with a frightening THUD.

Dust filled the room and their lungs, causing the two men to cough and swat at the air around them in a futile effort to create some breathing space. Both wanted to swear out loud and understand what was happening—what was going wrong.

The force of the sacrophagus’ lid crashing down had blown the salt away in every direction, disrupting the circle Johnn had carefully laid out.

Todd winced and squinted his eyes, trying to see what evil emerged from the darkness of the sarcophagus’ insides, ready pounce on them like a savage beast. Ready himself to fight back with all his might. He steeled himself. Every muscle in his body tensed up.

But nothing came. Once their coughing had ceased and the dust had settled, they perceived only a humanoid shape wrapped entirely in bandages with golden relics embedded in the wrappings. The shape just stood there, tangled up so thoroughly that it had no leeway for it to move its legs or lift its arms from their resting place, crossed upon the mummified corpse’s chest. Todd had expected a more grisly sight and felt underwhelmed. The vampyre encounter had left his imagination of the mummified desert king’s possessed corpse to run wild. This turned out to be utterly unspectacular in contrast.

With the loud sounds of the lid crashing down still echoing in their mind, a deafening silence enveloped them.

It would not last for long, as the two men began to hear small sounds from all around. Scraping, scratching, chittering, and hatching. Millions over millions of tiny legs tipping and tapping, of diminutive wings flapping, of swarms upon swarms of undefinable things approaching.

Fast.

An icy fear gripped Todd’s heart and pure instinct drove his next motion. He flicked the lighter to ignite its small flame and regretted it right away.

A number of insects so unspeakable that it looked like a flood closed in on them from all directions, surrounding them like a dark tide threatening to swallow a tiny island. Todd loathed insects and spiders especially, and there were so many of the creatures about—so many writhing little bodies with too many legs and alien multi-faceted eyes glaring back at him—that a crippling revulsion made his stomach churn.

Johnn blurted out, “Oil. The oil!”

Heart pounding away with such strength that his chest threatened to explode, Todd extinguished the lighter’s flame by accident as he fumbled with the silver decanter in his other fist. Panicking, he slung it out without second thought, spraying a thick liquid in semi-circles around the two men, splatter by splatter.

He flicked the lighter’s flame back into existence and no second too soon, as he could now once more see the countless millipedes and woodlice and ants and other insectoid creatures with more clarity, even if he could not identify them all. The vermin had already gotten so close that dozens of them already crawled and climbed up their boots and pant legs. Defying the cold’s numbness still clinging to his flesh and bones, Todd then felt something slither around his hand.

Todd shuddered and failed to suppress a yelp from escaping his throat as he dropped the lighter. Huge flames roared into existence around Johnn and him both. Not in a perfect circle, but enough that the consecrated oils now burnt brightly all around them.

They both panted and swiped at the swarms upon them, brushing them off into the fires and kicking at them and stomping and grunting with an irregularity fueled by panic.

Unnatural screeches sung from the flames in choruses of pain and death where insects burnt to death. The swarms outside the ring of fire withdrew from the bright light, and those flung away from the bodies of the flailing men skittered away or landed in the flames where its heat incinerated the tiny pests.

Only now did Todd notice how the mummy had gotten closer, inch by inch, hovering within an arm’s length. What revealed its approaching presence was a strange scent that reminded him of his mother’s flower arrangements and a sudden burst of emotion that overwhelmed his senses.

Hatred.

A hatred so pure that it took control.

His skin crawled, not from the dread of the insect swarms that beleaguered them, but from a fire underneath the surface. Every last ounce of discontent and every single shred of spite in Todd’s body and soul suddenly bubbled to the surface and he fought the urge to turn on Johnn and attack him.

When his eyes met with those of the bandit, he knew that the same foul sorcery was laying siege to his compatriot’s mind.

They lunged at one another, rather than at the mummified corpse. The unnatural thing hovered a foot off of the floor, just next to them, looming and silently drinking in their rage. If it could laugh or feel amusement, it would. But it felt nothing but silent wrath.

Their fingers wrapped around each other’s necks and clamped down like vices, ready to strangle the life out of one another. Johnn’s teeth gritted and the fire of the consecrated oils reflected in his eyes, mirroring his rage over Nora’s incarceration and blaming Todd for everything that had gone wrong since. Todd’s amassed regrets and grievances coalesced into a hatred for Johnn, seeing him not as the root of all his problems, but the symptom that he needed to eradicate before moving on to take down the spineless nobility that corrupted his homeland.

But the skittering swarms of insects held at bay by the fires, shining pitch black like living oil, reminded Todd of something.

The true menace.

The black rose.

In this moment of inspiration, he gagged under the pressure that Johnn exerted around his neck as he braced himself, then delivered a sharp kick to his opponent’s shin, sending Johnn reeling and causing them to both release their iron grips around each other’s necks. Todd saw stars explode around him when Johnn punched him in the face but the constable retaliated with his elbow, connecting to something hard and bony, and then grabbing onto thick fabric and gripping and turning around—

And throwing Johnn right into the mummy, sending them tumbling backwards into the sarcophagus.

Todd growled, “Not now. Snap out of it, fool!”

Staggering and struggling to remain standing straight, Todd regained his bearings and rubbed his tortured throat with one hand. He coughed in pain and his eyes darted between the iron rod on the ground, the Far Eastern exorcism scrips next to it, the dying fires of the consecrated oil that kept the insect swarms at bay, Johnn getting back up onto his feet with murder in his eyes, and the god-king’s mummified corpse still hovering above the ground with unnatural might—now floating towards him like a menace from out of this world, faster and faster.

The mummy’s wrappings tore and dust exploded from them, but it sounded just like those times when Todd visited the butchery at the precise time of the butcher doing his grisly work and he could hear the tearing of muscle and ligaments and snapping bones with all the detail that haunted his younger years.

Spindly hands reached out, ready to end Todd’s life.

The chorus of a thousand dying men exhaling their last breaths flowed forth once more, and a gale of warm wind swept through the museum’s hall. The fires from the consecrated oils flared up brightly and then died in the subsequent instant.

Instead of grabbing him by the throat like Johnn had done, the mummy aimed for Todd’s heart. The constable’s bravery and defiance drained away in a flash, leaving him paralyzed in sheer terror. Whispers filled the air, conveying words in forgotten tongues that carried both the weight of power and the muted menace of incomprehensible threats.

The skeletal fingers, once meticulously wrapped in burial bandages, shot down and dug into the flesh of Todd’s chest like thorns. He felt the warmth of blood pumping out from the five puncture wounds as the mummy’s fingers sunk in deeper, wriggling and digging past his ribs.

A deafening shriek pierced the air and Todd’s eardrums and he stumbled away from the mummy, while the mummy fell to the ground before him, writhing like a worm in confusion or a man contorting in unbearable agony.

Todd groaned and then screamed as he peeled his jacket open to reveal Magdalene’s amulet having left a scorch-mark upon his skin—right above where his heart lie hidden—surrounded by the five bleeding holes that the mummy’s fingers had now left behind.

Johnn had snapped out of his uncontrollable frenzy and he lunged at the mummy with a desperate shout, flying into it and ramming the iron rod through the monster’s belly. The voluminous cracking of dry bones and wooden floor hinted at him pinning it to the ground, proven by the mummy’s limbs wildly flailing around and the unholy creature emitting one inhuman wail after another.

The ancient undead flung its arms about and tried to throw Johnn off. It tried to escape the iron rod pinning it down.

“Do something,” wheezed Johnn through bloodied teeth, glaring at Todd.

Before Todd’s mind could recover from reeling and formulating a sound plan of action, an invisible force with the power of ten horses flung Johnn away, sending him crashing through glass panes of the exhibit’s display cases. The bandit came to a halt somewhere in between the maze of relics littering the hall.

Todd gasped as he saw the swarm of insects closing in on Johnn and both himself. Within seconds, both men screamed at the top of their lungs as the masses of tiny skittering and scampering horrors climbed the lengths of their limbs, threatening to burrow into wounds and crawl into any orifice they could find.

Acting blindly, wincing and brushing off wave after wave of the insect swarms now clouding his sight, Todd gave up fighting and nearly vomited at the sensation of feeling something forcing itself into his ear despite being too large for it.

He tossed the decanter in front of himself, hoping to hit the mummy. Then he coughed, choked, spitting out chunks of vermin he had accidentally bitten down upon, retching at the acrid taste spreading within his mouth. Todd struck the lighter. And let go.

He flailed about, trying his best to rid himself of the insect swarm that robbed him of all his senses. He screamed again, terrified of knowing this was how he would die.

A bright light pierced the layers of insects picking away at his eyelids and he brushed them away again, scratched and clawed at his own skin in futility, and stumbled forwards into the light—into the scorching fire.

It hurt, though it was harmless to him. It would leave some burns upon exposed skin, but it drove the swarm away. Todd rose above the burning corpse of the mummified remains, now brightly ablaze like the dark silhouette of dry wood disintegrating in the greatest heat of a mighty bonfire. With each swipe, he freed himself of more of the swarm, thinning out their ranks and returning something he had given up: hope.

He retched again and coughed out another bug and ripped something out of his ear with a squelching sound followed by the feeling of his own warm blood trickling down his earlobe and then down his neck.

Todd nearly froze—now in awe. Marveling at the sight of the mummified remains burning up in an unnatural blue fire, surrounded by embers of a ghostly green light rising up around him. He watched the summoned angry ghost dissipate, driven from this plane of existence. The insects fell off of him, dead from the scorching heat or withdrawing like normal vermin would be wont to do.

From the corners of his eyes, Todd spotted that Johnn still flailed about. But the bandit, too, emerged from the swarms of insects as they retreated from him, disappearing into cracks in the floorboards and walls and other shadowy places hidden from human eyes.

Todd stumbled away from the burning mummy’s remains and shielded his eyes as it exploded in an even greater blue flame. The ancient undead emitted another inhuman wail that curdled Todd’s blood, but it died down slowly and joined the rising embers, swallowed by oblivion itself.

The constable squatted down, grabbed the exorcism scrips and threw them away, allowing the thin long scrolls to scatter in every direction. He had no idea if they would serve any purpose, but at this point, he figured none of it could hurt. Before all of them had stopped fluttering about and landed on the museum’s floors, Todd stormed over to Johnn and grabbed him by an arm. Johnn clutched back at Todd’s arm and the constable helped the bandit back up.

“We need to leave,” Todd said. He spat over his shoulder, trying to rid himself of the foul taste.

It was not working.

“Is it over? Is it really banished?”

“The hell do I know? But I want to make sure.”

Johnn nodded slowly, the same thought dawning on him.

They proceeded to set fire to the entire estate, ensuring that it would burn down before rescue forces could put it out.

The constable and the bandit fled the scene with swift steps, descending into the city’s sewers. They had destroyed the ghost of the desert king that Earl Tyson had summoned—before it could cause any damage. The newspaper would herald the tragedy of the museum’s destruction by reckless hoodlums. The heroism of these two men facing this ancient evil would remain unknown to the public. They had emerged from the battle, with most of their bodies and their sanity left intact.

Waiting in hiding, in the dank and miserable cold of the sewers, they sat at one point, resting in silence, taking turns to get some rest while the other held watch. As Johnn slept nearby, Todd held Magdalene’s strange amulet between his fingers, turning it and staring at it and wondering what would have been without it.

What would have been mattered not, his commanding officer used to say. What mattered was what happened.

They had won.

This time.

—Submitted by Wratts

[onewhoturns]

3-2

The continuation of the faeU! In which we meet Delilah. Previously: Prelude, 1-1, 1-2, 1-3, 2-1, 2-2, 2-3, 2-4, 3-1. Elsewhere: my AO3, FFnet, ko-fi preview for 3-3. 

Emily felt her head pounding and breath shallow even as she held her head high, irritated but not altogether ungrateful for the unyielding holds of the women who guided her back to the royal palace. Her legs were trembling. Had she been asked to walk on her own, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay as composed.

At first the shifting of the fae woman had made her dizzy, but Emily found that if the adjusted the way she saw - or maybe the way she thought - she could stop the constant change, instead leaving a slight blue cast around the woman in her human guise. If only she could acquire the other promised abilities as quickly as she grasped the True Sight.

The fae woman made a soft tutting noise, running a light touch over the raw skin of Emily’s cheek and making her flinch. “Poor girl.”

Her cooed pity was unsettling. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

Emily didn’t respond. She’d made enough faerie bargains for the day. She was still bitter at being left to fend for herself, nauseated and weak, when she was supposed to have been gifted with power. Worse, the woman gave off an aura that drew Emily to her even as she felt repulsed. It was best to hold her tongue. ...And, apparently, her consent didn’t matter, as she felt a soft tickle as flesh wove together again, her cheek left reddened but healed.

Exiting the maze, she found a few newcomers loitering on the terrace, most occupied among themselves drinking and laughing and staring, their eyes glowing in the hellish light of the bonfire. She tensed at the snapping bark of a hound from across the open space. Nothing implied it was anything more than a particularly vicious dog - not the barghest the women had spoken of - but its rumbling growl didn’t reassure her. Neither did the smirk on the face of the woman sinking a hand into the dog’s fur.

They were all women - young women - at least, all she’d seen thus far. They reminded her too much of her imprisonment during the plague. And nearly all of them had some touch of light on them. Enchanted? Were they being controlled somehow? If Emily could break whatever magic held them, perhaps she could weaken their ranks and escape.

Almost at the entrance back into the great hall she spotted a woman lounging, tipped back in a chair that leaned perilously against a stone column. As she watched, the woman lifted a hand thoughtlessly, and a vine that had wrapped the column curled down to her, blooming in the course of seconds. And it was done so carelessly, so casually…

Witches.

Making a decision, she jerked as though she might break from her captors’ hold, and was unsurprised when they tightened their grip. But she’d done what she intended. And as they crossed the threshold into the hall, she threw her shoulder into the human on her right, knocking all three of them into a jumble, and her newly positioned hand was in just the right spot to lift the blade from the woman’s belt. She shouldn’t use it here - not while she was surrounded - but if they ever had her somewhere more secluded she’d at least have a weapon. In the confusion she tucked the knife into her pocket and winced as the tip poked through the slightest bit, nicking her leg, and spilling a tiny stream of salt as well.

Once they’d forced her into their hold again - head once more held high - she finally glanced around the room. Much of the food from the feast had survived, it seemed, strewn over tables where witches propped their feet, played cards - something was on fire on one table. Vines that hadn’t been there earlier in the day had begun a slow creep through windows and doorways. Emily spotted a couple more fae in the room, though every single person had some touch of magic on them. At the dais - in her seat, the throne made for her to sit in - was an unfamiliar woman. A face cut like stone, all sharp angles and facets, she draped herself across the arms of the throne lazily, one hand buried in the black fur of a dog the size of a bear, the other dangling one of Emily’s crowns from a finger.

Emily kept her expression carefully cool, not glaring even as every inch of her seared with rage at the destruction and disrespect shown to her castle - to her kingdom. Her stare was level, almost aloof, chin raised as the witches brought her before the sharp-faced woman, each of them giving the smallest of bows, the fae grinning as she did so. Only once did her gaze dart to the creature beside the throne -- to its red eyes and eerily calm demeanor. No growling, no sniffing - just a steady stare and a thin line of saliva trailing from its unmoving muzzle.

“My darling niece.” The woman spoke with a lofty air, though acid wove through her words, cocking her head at Emily as her lips curled in a sneer. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Emily refused to react. Niece? She had no aunts or uncles -- her father’s sister had died years ago in another kingdom, and her mother was an only child.

The lack of response had the intended effect - the woman shifted from her position, looking irked as she sat up in the throne. “You’ve been demoted, I’m afraid.” Emily could sense how she overcompensated with even more arrogance. Good. She wanted this witch unsettled. “But if you’re very good I might let you stay in the palace.”

Emily’s eyes locked with the witch. “I’d rather not.”

A hand clenched into a fist and the high table cracked down the center, ripping apart to leave a clear path to the throne. Emily’s knees locked, even as the sound made her stomach jolt. The woman - the usurper - stood with a forced calm, stepping to the edge of the short steps leading to the dais. Now that the way was clear, Emily could see a small pile of her tiaras beside the throne, most somehow warped or broken. “You do not show the proper respect for your queen.”

“You aren’t a proper queen.”

She spotted the twitch of muscle in the witch’s jaw. “I am Delilah Kaldwin. My father was Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin and I have more right to reign that you ever did.” That sneer returned. “Now bow.”

Was it true? Emily had difficulty believing it. She kept her stare cold and clear and ever steady.

“I said bow.”

One of her captors dug a hand into Emily’s hair, scratching at her skull and trying to push her head down for her, but Emily grit her teeth, adamantly pushing back, refusing. A swift kick, though, and she was brought to her knees. Her head spun, the sickness she’d been trying to push back making her hands tremble as she stopped herself from sprawling flat on the ground.

She heard a crack and shift, and the stone by her sides hummed, jagged lines spiderwebbing across them until roots wormed their way through. Emily watched them uneasily, wondering if now was the time to pull out the knife, sitting up onto her thighs to draw herself away from the creeping plants.

Delilah had stepped forward, off the dais. As she placed a hand on Emily’s head Emily realized she wore some kind of sharpened rings. Two iron claws that lengthened her middle and pointer fingers to fine tips that now dug into the back of Emily’s skull as Delilah cocked her head appraisingly at the former-queen’s quickly heating glare.

“Good choice, sister,” she praised the woman who had kicked Emily down. “I think I like her better like this.”

It was getting harder for Emily to contain her anger. Never had she been manhandled in such a manner. At least not for the past ten years. Unable to let the indignity continue, she swatted the woman’s hand away. “You’ll like me best when my blade’s in your-”

Another kick to the back sent her down again, and her vision swam for a moment. The roots that had seeped through the cracks went for her wrists, catching one as she just barely pulled the other free, tucking it back behind her to avoid the grasping plant only to have her arm lifted and levered forward painfully by the witch beside her. She lifted her face to glare at Delilah, refusing to keep her eyes on the ground, even though the position made her neck ache. She wanted to curse, to threaten, to antagonize the witch, but that could only make things worse.

Delilah watched her for a long moment, her anger fading into a chilly calm. A grim and vicious smile came to her lips. “Such time spent on introductions. I very nearly neglected your birthday gift.” She raised a hand, and Emily spotted motion out of the corner of her eye. “I want her on her feet for this,” the witch commanded, and the root loosened as the fae woman pulled her other arm back, hauling Emily to her feet again.

The witch was taller than her, and for some reason that fact alone irritated Emily to no end. Her shoulders were growing sore. “Release me,” she snapped the demand to her captors.

They, of course, ignored her. But Delilah smiled disparagingly. As one root curled around Emily’s ankle, the usurper nodded and Emily’s arms were freed.

She rubbed her aching joints, glaring at her supposed aunt as another woman - shifting like a fae in a manner that forced Emily to immediately adjust her sight - walked forward with a small silver platter. Emily raised her chin as Delilah took hold of the thing.

Six perfectly identical slices of fruit lay evenly arranged on the platter. They looked much like the gilded apples from the earlier feast, but their flesh was a warmer, brassier golden color, reflective in the light of the hall. Just their smell made her mouth water.

“I was gone from this kingdom for many years. I traveled to many lands. I discovered many things.” The woman waved the platter toward Emily, and Emily pulled away. “It’s rude to turn down a gift, Emily.”

She hated the way her name sounded on the witch’s lips. Even more, she hated how tempted she was. She wasn’t stupid - she knew faerie fruit when she saw it, she’d heard enough warnings - but in person it was impossible to ignore a scent that had her licking her lips unconsciously. Her nausea dissipated at the thought of golden juice spilling down her throat.

“Take a bite.”

Her hand was halfway to the fruit before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated, watching the offending limb, commanding it to stop its movement. Eyes flicked to Delilah-- to the satisfied smirk that twisted her lips--

And she’d overturned the platter, listening to the metal ring against the stone floor, the fruit scattered on the ground. Shimmering liquid seeped from each slice, soaking into the stone.

Somehow Delilah’s look became crueler, even as Emily’s hands were once more wrestled to her sides. The witch stood silently for a moment, then spoke in a low breath, “I almost hoped you’d do that.” Emily watched warily as, with a flick of her hand, Delilah stepped back.

The woman - the fae - who’d brought the fruit forward to begin with, returned. She was smiling-- so sweetly, too, with an almost affectionate warmth. Bending gracefully, she picked up a slice of the faerie fruit from the ground.

Shit. Shit. Emily had salt in her pockets, if she’d just spilled some of it on the platter she could have nullified the magic of the fruit. Her arms had been free, why hadn’t she just--

The smiling fae brought the fruit to Emily’s face. She jerked away, wrenching at the hold on her arms, and clenched her jaw closed.

The fingers holding the delicacy dripped gold, more juice bleeding from it than seemed physically possible.

“Shhhh-” A hand tried to stroke Emily’s hair, tried to calm her, but she kicked out-- only to have her other foot pinned to the ground. Still, she struggled. Even with a hand on the back of her head, she wouldn’t open her lips until her nose was held shut, and then her teeth stayed bared as the woman pressed the slice against her mouth, metallic juice spilling down her chin and between her teeth until she snatched at the slice just to spit it back to the floor.

She spat and spat, trying to cleanse the poisonous thing from her tongue, though she felt the honey-sweet nectar coating it. It was delicious. The most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. It made her tongue tingle and her chest warm pleasantly, and she’d barely tasted it at all.

It took three people and two roots to hold her still. One of the witches had her arms, another had one hand woven through her hair to hold her head still as the other dug into the hinges of her jaw hard enough to leave bruises. And then there was the fae. Beautiful, peaceful, even as she held Emily’s nose shut and hooked that same piece of faerie fruit - because why not, who cared if a queen ate from the floor - into her mouth, two fingers pushing the pulpy mess very nearly down her throat. She tried to snap her teeth closed, or to spit the thing out again - she wanted to gag - but the witches were relentless. She pushed pulp back out of her mouth, hitting the fae’s hand and dribbling gold down her chin, but it wasn’t enough. She had to breathe, so she had to swallow. Even once she had swallowed they held her mouth closed an extra few seconds.

But those seconds didn’t feel nearly as awful.

keep reading

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Exactly the Same

Zack flipped the switch.

The lights flickered on and began to warm up. The pale white of squeaky clean ceramic wall tiles and linoleum floor reflected the artificial illumination with a cold shine. Zack could see himself in every reflection, especially the polished mirror over the sink. This made him very happy.

But it was pretty bright outside the window. He squinted at it and quickly drew the curtains. He greatly preferred the artificial light.

Dressed in his neat-looking light blue pyjamas, he walked up to the mirror and opened the cupboard hiding behind it. With motions that suggested exacting routine, he took out a razor and shaving soap. He spent the next minutes ridding himself of his one-day stubble with painstaking detail. After washing his face with a strange deal of enthusiasm, he dabbed his face dry with a fluffy pink hand towel from next to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror again.

Good. Everything is good.

With precision and efficiency, he brushed his perfect white teeth with just the right amount of tooth paste. Staring into his own eyes while taking care of his dental hygiene, it would have been hard for any onlooker to figure out what Zack must have been thinking about. Everything he did had an air of discipline and almost robotic repetition. The man in his mid-forties looked the part, too, even barefoot. His pyjamas looked like he had ironed them right after getting out of bed, and his hair was kempt in a tidy crew cut like a soldier.

After spitting and rinsing his brush, he put everything away, back in its place, with no deviation from where it all had been resting—down to a hundredth of an inch in accuracy. Zack smiled at himself in the mirror; the kind of smile that was almost unnerving because his eyes did not follow along with the smile. Seconds later, he was heading right out of the bathroom.

In a fluid motion, he switched the lights off while exiting.

In the kitchen, he stood reading a newspaper dated September 2nd, 1983. The front page’s headlines read ‘COLD WAR GOING HOT?’ and reported something about a Korean airline flight having been shot down by Soviet aircraft. Zack furrowed his symmetrically trimmed brows as he studied the contents of that article. Behind him, the water in his Turkish coffee maker was boiling and Zack could have sworn that the smell of eggs and bacon was filling his nostrils.

Alas, no breakfast. Yet. Holding the paper firmly in his left hand, he grabbed the coffee pot and blindly poured it into his mug without spilling a drop while he continued to read. He carried mug and newspaper over to the pale green kitchen table and sat down, looking very rigid as he did so. Continuing to read, he sipped from his coffee and was only briefly interrupted by the sound of something rustling through the bushes outside, something on his front lawn. Looking through the kitchen window for a moment, Zack saw nothing, but winced in irritation by the light outside. Blinking, he returned his undivided attention to the newspaper and coffee.

The battery-run clock on the wall that looked like a familiar cartoon cat merrily ticked the time away, and would have allowed observers to note that he took exactly two minutes and thirty seconds to finish his coffee. With that, he got back up and rinsed his mug out in the sink, setting it down in there. He neatly folded the newspaper he had left on the table and tucked it under his arm before exiting the kitchen.

In the bedroom, he got dressed in front of a full-body mirror on the inside of one of his closet doors. The king-sized bed was finely made, as if nobody had slept in it all night. The attire he chose was a dark casual business suit. Exactly the same as he always did. He snugly knotted a black tie around his neck and straightened out his jacket with a satisfied smile. The closet door was swiftly shut, and Zack left the room.

The side access door to the garage swung open, and Zack walked into the area that could easily house two cars. The sound of machinery ran perpetually in the background, just outside the garage in the backyard. He looked almost cheerful as he approached the workbench where a small stool was set up, and all the tools were neatly in place and organized by type and size. Nothing was disorderly about this place, at all. The only thing that stood out was a small wood axe resting on the workbench—its blade and head showed signs of use, small indentations and scratches littering its metal surface.

He sat down on the stool with significant determination and removed some cloth and a small oil canister from a drawer at the workbench. With vigorous circular motions, he used the two items together to polish the axe’s head. Every now and then he paused to inspect how it was coming along, and he nodded, as if agreeing with himself that it was coming along nicely. After a few minutes of treating the axe, he used a second cloth to wipe down the wooden handle, folded both cloths in perfectly symmetrical form, and then put away all the utensils in the exact same places he had taken them from.

Zack stood up and gripped the axe in both hands like someone weighing it. He stared at the blade and nodded once more, visibly happy with the state it was in. Before leaving the garage, he turned off the lights in there and twisted another, bigger black switch that required more strength. The chugging machinery sounds from the backyard stopped a few seconds later.

Carrying the axe in his right hand, he walked through his hallway to the foyer near his entrance door. He sat down on the red-cushioned bench there, right next to where a pair of shiny black dress shoes were sitting on the orange-carpeted floor. The light outside was very bright, even through the tiny fist-sized window that adorned the front door at eye height.

With flawless coordination, he sat the axe down next to him, so it rested against the bench, leaning there. He put on his shoes and made sure that they were tied in a way that the lengths of each lace were pulled out just enough to be evenly matched with each other. He frowned and hastily wiped a speck of dust off his shoe. Zack wet his thumb with his tongue and rubbed over the spot where the dust had been until it looked flawless to him once more.

He got up and looked into the small mirror over the bureau near the entrance and put on a pinch-front black fedora that he grabbed from the stand next to it. He ran his fingers along the brim to make sure that it was as straight and prim and proper as the rest of his attire and raised his chin, checking to see how dignified he looked today. Same as always. Exactly the same. But he took the hat off and put it back on the stand.

A black briefcase was standing upright next to the bureau, and Zack picked it up off the floor. He set it down on the bureau and unlocked the gilded latches on its front end with a loud clicking noise. He swung the case open with a measure of zest and looked inside. The briefcase was empty.

Just as it should be. He closed the briefcase and its latches clicked shut once more. Carrying the briefcase in his left hand and the axe tucked under the same arm, he approached to the front door and unlocked it. He swung it open and stepped outside. His feet set down on the doormat, in the place that they always ended up—to the point where the rough rope-like fabric was worn so much that it practically showed his shoe prints.

Zack locked the door and pocketed his keys. He took the axe into his right hand and turned around, surveying his front lawn and the neighborhood.

He inhaled deeply and with so much energy that anybody could have heard it, even several steps away. But there was nobody around except for a mangy-looking dog that limped away at the sight of Zack, fleeing over a lawn of dead grass and brushing past withered, skeletal bushes. The white paint had long chipped off of the picket fence out front, and the fence itself looked like an accordion that had been strangled by a giant, twisting and winding around its central axis with some of the pickets jutting in different directions like spikes on barbed wire. Most of the asphalt on the street was torn up or cracking and riddled with potholes. Each of the other houses on that road—that might have once been part of an idyllic rural suburbia—looked ramshackle and evacuated. Except for Zack’s house. His house looked like it had been kept in good shape amidst this post-apocalyptic wasteland.

“Makin’ bacon,” Zack said out loud in an almost singing tone. He sounded lighthearted and filled with glee. Right after that, he started following the fleeing dog without breaking out into running; he just plodded along with surefooted walking speed, axe in hand, like a psychopath pursuing his prey. “Here, doggy-doggy.”

Everything was exactly the same. It had been for the past years since the nukes had hit.

—Submitted by Wratts