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kyber-crystal · 4 years ago

Text

Maybe It’s Meant To Be

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: ~3.7k

Summary: Sometimes, love finds people in unexpected ways. In this case, fate has extra special plans for America’s golden boy and one of SHIELD’s best agents in history. And you know there’s no running away from fate once she’s set out your futures for you.

Warnings: mentions of violence and blood, angst, and once again, soft steve :)

A/N: I haven’t attempted a soulmate AU in over a year. this is one of my fav works but it’s really poorly written rip. The age gap between you and Steve is ~3 years. 2017 AU where they made up after the Accords :) Steve’s back with his WS look bc that suit was hot af

Tags: @pies-writes-and-more this is for you! THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS BEING SO ACTIVE ON MY BLOG AND FOR YOUR SWEET AND SUPER ENCOURAGING WORDS. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. AND @marvelsswansong BECAUSE YOU'RE MY IDOL AND I LOOK UP TO YOU YOU'RE AMAZING

Soulmates.

You'd heard plenty about them growing up. Seeing your parents' perfect relationship blossom over the years piqued your interest, and for the longest time, your only wish was to find someone who could love you with their whole heart and soul and mind, like the way your Mom and Dad loved each other.

Unfortunately, as all stories must come to an end, love stories had to find their ending. And not all of them ended on a high note.

Their jobs should've kept them apart from the beginning. Your mother was head surgeon at one of the best hospitals in Brooklyn, and your father was head of SHIELD's navy division. Constantly out and about, they were rarely granted any time to rest. Yet they still found a way to make things work; and it all started because of a run-in at a café around the corner.

Then when you were fifteen, you got word that your father had been deployed overseas again, but this time, he wasn't coming back.

You had to stand there and watch your mother slowly fall apart, breaking down a little more each day until she fell gravely ill. A mere week after her diagnosis of cardiomyopathy, she passed away in her sleep.

A person's soulmark didn't appear at a specific time. It could show up at any point in their lives, when the Gods believed the time was right for them. When those Gods felt the time was right for you to find out who it was, you'd feel a slight tingle where the mark was etched into your skin.

Some people didn't receive the soulmark at all. Along with this came a sense of freedom to fall in love with whoever they pleased, but often times it would end in a loveless relationship. But they were additionally granted the ability of being able to carry on by themselves.

If your soulmate got injured in any way, you would feel the same pain that they endured. And if they died, you would carry a weight around with you for the rest of your life that slowly progressed into a disease. So ultimately, those left in the world without their soulmate would also die in the end, further proving the claim of humans being unable to live without love.

One by one, you watched your friends find their match. They would excited come up to you, goofy grins on their faces as they showed you their marks. You were happy for them in the beginning, of course. But as years went by, and you passed adulthood with still no sign of your designated soulmark, you slowly began losing hope. There was no point in looking forward to the future when you watched one fall apart before your very eyes.

Maybe it was because of your job. None of the Avengers had received their soulmarks either, asides from Tony and Pepper. But they were an exception. Everyone could see it coming from the day they first met, judging by the way they lovingly gazed at each other from across the room. It was a match made in heaven.

You believed that maybe, just maybe, you were destined to be alone. So when you woke up one morning with the burn mark on your wrist, you were taken completely by surprise.

"Hey, Tony? Bruce?" you asked, walking into the lab with a frown. "I need to ask you guys a quick question."

"Ask away, Killer," Tony nodded, using the nickname he'd given you years ago when you first joined the initiative. "What's on your mind?"

"So, um..." you fiddled with the sleeve of your sweatshirt for a moment, before pulling it up to reveal the mark, "this happened."

"That's a soulmark," he stated.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," you rolled your eyes. "But why would it appear now? I don't see any sign of me meeting them anytime soon."

"When did it appear?"

"I don't know. I woke up this morning and saw it."

"Let me take a look at that," Bruce carefully took ahold of your wrist, squinting as he adjusted his glasses to peer at the mark, "huh. So it appeared last night...have you felt any side-effects?"

"Not that I know of yet, no..."

"If you start feeling any severe symptoms, I can prescribe you some medication to deal with the pain, though I doubt that's going to happen. In the meantime, we need to figure out who this could be."

"Imagine if it was someone who already died, and I'm slowly dying right now," you joked.

"No, if that were to be true, you'd be lying in a hospital bed right now."

"Does the symbol have any specific meaning?"

"That I'm not so sure about," Tony shrugged.

Bruce was silent as he began typing away for a bit, before turning the screen over to you.

"I've checked out over a dozen different sites about this, and..."

"And what?"

"Well...once both people discover their mark, they have a week to find each other before both of them disappear off the face of the earth, forever."

"Sounds like a damn time bomb to me," you muttered. "What the hell? I thought that the point of this whole thing was the gods trying to push us with someone else! Not the other way around!"

"I don't know, Y/N," Bruce sighed. "Feel free to do your own research, but everything I've read up on so far says the same thing."

"So basically, what you're telling me is I'm gonna die if I don't find out who the hell has this same mark as I do," you repeated.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Well, I'll have to worry about that later. Got a briefing with Cap, Bucky, and Wilson in five. Fury's gonna kill me if I'm late again," you breathed out as you tugged your hoodie's sleeve back down. "See ya."

"Agent Y/N," Nick Fury gave you a curt nod as you burst into the meeting room, breathless. "I hope you slept well last night."

"Of course."

"I need you four to track down a weapons dealer in Skagway," he explained as he handed Steve a black manila file folder, "shut down the base, download the intel onto the flashdrive. You’ll be staying at a safe house in Juneau afterwards for about a week to keep things on the down-low in case something goes wrong. Simple in-and-out job."

"When are we leaving?" Sam questioned.

"You're taking off in half an hour. Suit up."

You sighed. Finding your soulmate would just have to wait, then.

...

"Y/N, look out!"

You quickly whipped around and narrowly missed a bullet whizzing past you, as Steve tugged you around the corner, an arm wrapped firmly around your torso as he hid you both behind his shield.

You gasped as you felt a sharp pain in your chest, and Steve immediately pulled away from you in alarm, gripping your shoulders worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you panted, trying to steady your rapid breathing, “I’m fine. But we’re gonna have to split up from here if we wanna get the job done faster.”

“Y/N, I can’t-”

“Steve,” you interrupted, the firm tone of voice making him immediately shut up. “I can handle myself just fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! Go find Sam and Bucky, and I’ll meet you guys by the rendezvous point as soon as I’m done. Okay?”

“Alright.” He looked around for a moment before stepping away, as if he was hesitant to leave you on your own.

Ignoring the slight ache in your chest, you parted ways, darting down the hall with your guns up and ears alert.

From there, it was easy to fall into your usual routine. Keep all eyes and ears open; don’t hesitate, shoot on sight unless ordered otherwise. If necessary, engage powers but if not, use your fists or bullets. The mantra repeated itself over and over in your head as you followed through with your job.

You hid behind a tower of wooden crates, back pressed up against the steel walls. “Sam. Status update?”

“Controls room with Barnes, disabling all security systems. Steve’s retrieving intel from the north wing. You?”

“Outside on standby,” you murmured, keeping a finger pressed to your ear. Three technicians were loading equipment onto crates as the other six stood guard several yards away. “I make nine hostiles on the load dock straight ahead at twelve o’clock. Three dozen in total scattered around the area. Most likely preparing for an overseas arms trade. We’ll have to stop them.”

“And...done. We’re heading your way,” Bucky reported. “Be there in three.”

“Roger that.”

Exactly three minutes and two seconds later Bucky showed up, with Steve and Sam in tow. You came out from your hiding spot and began making your way towards the loading dock where the agents were stationed. They were quick to stop what they were doing and noticed the four of you approaching, whipping their snipers out and proceeding to open fire.

...

Your breath came out in white wisps of fog as you got caught in between a fistfight with one of the three dozen men on the docks, the freezing cold slowing all your movements and making them feel more sluggish than usual. If it weren’t for the thick material of your suit and your enhancements, you would’ve succumbed to the harsh weather hours ago.

The man captured you into a tight headlock with his thick arm but despite your frostbite you were too fast; you quickly whipped around and grabbed his wrist, twisting it to the side. His eyes widened slightly as he cried out in pain, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the frigid Alaskan air as you swiftly dodged each one of moves as he attempted to come at you, countering with a sharp right hook to his jaw.

His body slumped to the ground with a thump.

“Why the hell do you even carry around a sniper if your fists do all the work for you?” Sam yelled over the cacophony as he released Redwing, swooping down from the rooftops. “Seriously, you don’t need guns! You’re strong enough as it is!”

“I prefer versatility in fights, Wilson!” you yelled back, grunting as you dodged a blow to the stomach, sweeping out your attacker’s feet from underneath him as his head smacked against the wall, before sliding down to the ground with a dull thud.

“Y/N, look out-” Bucky called out, but it was too late. You didn’t get to hear his warning in time before you felt something cold and hard hit your lower abdomen. A yell of pain ripped through your throat as you felt a sticky warmth spread across your skin, your knees hitting the ground as you clutched the wound.

At that exact moment, Steve felt a sharp pain flare up his side as well. “Shit,” he cursed to himself, “Buck, cover me so I can get to her.”

You were barely clinging on to life by the time he reached you. Your breathing was heavy and labored, your eyes beginning to roll back as you struggled to stay awake. Everything hurt. Your arms and legs felt like they were weighed down with bricks. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t open your mouth to scream, either - you had no energy left to do so.

“Come on, Y/N, stay with me, please stay with me,” he muttered as he began carefully applying pressure to your wound. You let out a hiss of pain at the same time he did. “Just hang in there for me, please. Sam’s getting the Quinjet ready. We’re gonna get out of here in just a few minutes, okay? Please don’t die on me.”

“Look, if I don’t make it-”

“Don’t say that,” he spoke in between clenched teeth while fighting back tears of his own, “you’re not going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, and certainly not on my watch.”

“Steve…” you croaked out, the stinging from the wound almost becoming impossible to bear. Your eyes were becoming heavier by the second, your body throbbing painfully now that all the adrenaline had worn off. It was a struggle just to take in a single breath and to stay awake. "I'm so tired, I can't do this anymore..."

He disappeared from your line of sight as your began seeing spots at the edges of your vision momentarily, before reappearing and pulling you into his lap, trying to put pressure on the area of injury again in an attempt to stem the bleeding. But it didn’t seem to work. There was so much blood. So much of it, coming out so fast. There was no way you’d last out here for longer than ten minutes before bleeding to death.

"Stay with me..." he murmured as he looked up around him. "Hang in there for a few more minutes, please…Damn it, Sam, how much longer is this gonna take? Y/N’s down. We gotta get her to the safe house as soon as we can. She’s bleeding out.”

"Three minutes, tops. I’m circling the perimeter as an extra precaution," Sam replied. "You guys hang tight for a sec."

"We don't have time!" he raised his voice. "Just hurry the hell over here."

"I'm so sorry," you choked out before going into a coughing fit, blood dripping down your lips and chin much to Steve’s alarm. "I'm sorry for everything, I'm sorry for being reckless and not keeping a look ou—"

"Shhh, it's okay," he soothed, "There’s nothing to be sorry about. Just save your energy for later, okay? You're gonna be just fine."

"Hold my hand," you begged hoarsely.

"I already am," the super-soldier answered, but his look shifted to that of an alarmed one when he realized you couldn't feel it. "Y/N—"

"I'm cold," you said weakly, already feeling your limbs grow heavy and numb and your vision growing blurrier with each passing second. "I'm so tired, Cap, I just wanna sleep—"

"No no no, please don't leave me," he pleaded as he felt his head begin to spin as well. Where had the sudden wave of dizziness come from? "Hang in there for a little longer, please, I l—"

You didn’t get to hear the rest of his sentence before your eyes fluttered shut and everything went dark.

...

When you came to, your throat felt dry and raw, the metallic taste of dried blood around your lips and chin overwhelming your senses as you adjusted your eyes to the harsh bright lights streaming into the room. It looked like you were in some sort of antique coastal house, strangely void of belongings with the only decoration being a plain floral calendar hung on the wall opposite you, above the fireplace.

You were still in your suit, but your wound had been treated and wrapped up in a thick set of bandages. The couch you were on was old but extremely comfortable, so you found yourself not wanting to sit up at the same time you wanted to get up and look around.

The blinds were drawn shut, but the sunlight still managed to shine through. It was light outside, but you weren’t sure what time it really was. The walls were a dull grey, and if you listened hard enough you could hear the faint ticking of a nearby clock and probably Bucky or Sam talking on the phone upstairs with someone in hushed whispers.

You finally pulled yourself up into a sitting position, glancing around at your surroundings. Someone quietly entered the living room and you looked up to see Steve. His shoulders sagged in relief upon seeing that you were awake.

“Hey,” his voice came out so softly it took both of you by surprise. You moved over slightly to make room for him to sit. “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” you groaned lightly, feeling a dull ache in your stomach where you’d been hit. “But other than that, I’m fine. What about you? Did you get hurt anywhere?”

“Body aches that come and go, but I’m fine. It isn’t your place to be worrying about me right now though, Y/N. You got shot.”

The curtains fluttered and a cool breeze rushed in, making you shiver. Steve took notice and stood up to go light up the fireplace, then sat back down and wrapped the fleece blanket around your body. You let out a small sigh of contentment. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you’re alright? You knocked out for over twenty-six hours .”

“I’m fine, Steve, just tired...hey, how’s Bucky and Sam?”

“Sam’s upstairs radioing Fury on the mission status. Bucky’s taking a nap in the guest room.”

“Oh. Okay. So, I-” you were interrupted by a sharp stabbing sensation in your wrist. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Language,” he joked lightly, but when he saw the obvious pained expression on your face, his face fell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just...I get those random pains from time to time. I don’t know why, but...they’ve gotten worse since we took off for Skagway and then came here...”

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, eyes glassy with unshed tears, “I should’ve kept a closer watch over you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine...I should’ve watched my own back better.”

You both fell into an awkward silence for several minutes before he spoke up again, the realization finally dawning on him.

"Y/N."

"What?"

"Your wrist."

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you looked down and saw the star glowing brightly, sending a white-hot pain down your arm. "What about it?"

Steve pulled at his shirt's sleeve for a few seconds before lifting it up to reveal the same exact symbol.

"We're soulmates," you breathed out, the realization hitting you like a flash flood.

"Yeah, I guess we are, huh," he smiled softly.

“W-when did yours appear?”

“Monday afternoon.”

“Mine appeared in the morning...I showed it to Tony and Bruce and they said I had a week to find who it was or both me and my soulmate would die. So I guess we got lucky, huh? Only four more days, then...”

“Yeah, we did,” he exhaled. “I’m glad you’re the one. I can’t imagine living out the rest of my life with anyone else.”

“But Peggy...”

“She found her soulmate decades ago,” he explained, “which explained why our relationship was so short-lived. I didn’t expect to find mine...especially not after coming out of the ice. Maybe I had this coming from the get-go, I’d wonder...”

“Then how come they’d appear now?” Your brows furrowed together in confusion. “I don’t get it. We’ve known each other for years.”

“Because it was only this year that I accepted it.”

“Accepted what?”

“That I’d fallen in love with you, and I kept that inside for far too long.”

“You...what?” You were officially rendered speechless.

“Yeah,” he chuckled lightly, face breaking into a gorgeous, million-dollar grin before turning serious again, lowering his voice. “Y/N, I’m in love with you. You are my infinity and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re my present and my future, and I hate that I couldn’t see that sooner. I should’ve known from the start that Peggy and I wouldn’t work out, but I never understood why...until I met you. I didn’t believe in the concept of soulmates because I felt I was undeserving of that love, but then you came along...and I started hoping and praying I’d find someone who’d love me as much as I love you. So now that I know for sure it’s you, that it always has been and always will be...I couldn’t be more happier that you’re my soulmate.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he reached forward to brush your hair away from your face and wipe the stray tears that fell, before wrapping an arm around you and gently pulling you towards him.

“God, I made you cry, I’m so sorry,” he choked on a sob of his own. “I’m the worst.”

“I’m not mad at you, Steve,” you sniffed as you wiped your nose with your sleeve, and looked up and cracked a small grin. “You’re just so cheesy.”

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch what he said.

“You can kiss me any day, Captain,” you smiled.

“I love you more than you know.”

“I know. I love you too.”

He then brought a hand up to cup your face, allowing his thumb to lightly skim against your cheek, his warm breath fanning against your skin.

When his lips met yours, it was like you were turning back the clock. Everything in the world stopped and held its breath, and all the hurt, all the sadness and heartache and pain bottled up inside your body, washed away.

...

BONUS

“HOLY SHIT, Y’ALL ARE SOULMATES?”

The sound of Sam’s screeching made you finally break apart for air. You could’ve been like that for two minutes, two hours, or two weeks, you weren’t sure.

You blushed and quickly averted your gaze.

Steve’s face was as red as a tomato. “Yeah. We are.”

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW SOMETHING WAS GONNA HAPPEN BETWEEN THEM SOON! PAY UP, BARNES! YOU OWE ME TWENTY BUCKS.”

“Come on, man,” Bucky groaned, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “We’re gonna head back home soon, anyways! And you’re not even poor.”

“A bet’s a bet, Barnes.”

“Of course you two bet on it,” you groaned. “Classic Sambucky activity.”

...

NINE MONTHS LATER

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride, Captain Rogers,” Fury announced, a rare smile gracing his normally stoic features.

Steve did his best not to break down sobbing as he slid the ring onto your finger. With the backdrop of the waves gently crashing against the shore and the sun slowly sinking lower and lower into the horizon, he leaned down and cupped your face in his hands, passionately pressing his lips to yours. Your soulmarks glowed brightly in tandem, lighting up in a brilliant gold hue.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a single dry eye in the house.

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thecrofttomb · 4 years ago

Photo

Screencap via tartancroft's walkthrough video

TRLE | 5 Adventures to Try: Easter 2021 ✨

Happy Easter, Raiders! We wanted to do something a little different for the Spring holiday this year and, given that we haven’t featured custom levels in a very long time, we thought about doing just that and ended up selecting a basket-full of fun TRLE adventures for you to play.

All games are casual and more laidback so you can relax and have a nice classic experience. Even though some of them might not look Easter-themed, they all have that cozy and peaceful atmosphere this time usually brings. Below you can find some details of each level, a download option, and links to the hosting pages where you can read reviews about them, walkthroughs, and more.

Hope you have a wonderful and safe holiday. Happy raiding! 🎮

In order to play, download your chosen level set, unzip the compressed file into a separate folder, and run the executable (usually tomb4.exe). That’s it, no installation required!

Do note that some of them include a readme file so make sure to read that first before starting the game.

Weekly Business - Tuesday

by Titak

*Follow-up to Weekly Business - Monday.*

While testing her racing skills on the motorcycle, Lara digs up the entrance to a new cave beneath the racetrack. Lara has to get rid several animal enemies and set some things in motion before she can get to the scrap of paper, with a map drawn on it: X Marks the Spot.

DOWNLOAD

Aspidetr Easter Time 2011 - The Rainbow Eggs

by Ranpyon

Lara is hosted by a friend, Amy, to spend a short vacation for the Easter time in her house on a Pacific lake. When she arrives there, Lara finds out a legend: it seems that seven magic eggs exist, named the Rainbow Eggs that, if united, they can lead to a wonderful treasure. Moreover, it seems that two magic eggs have been already found. Lara, enchanted by this story, begins the search for the remaining eggs...

Note: There are 6 secrets as bronze, silver and gold eggs. If it happens to be in Italian, replace the “Italian.dat” file with the “English.dat” file in the Script folder.

DOWNLOAD

Aspidetr Easter Time 2017 - Runes of Dawn

by Sponge

Lara Croft has decided to spend some time by the seaside. Some of the locals there have a lot of yarn to tell about hidden treasure that is supposedly right at the coast where Lara resides. Indeed, Anglo-Saxon remnants are scattered throughout the area, so Lara is excited to do some exploring - until she suddenly realises that she must have dropped the keys to the house in the toilet! Help Lara search the house for spare keys and explore the caves and tombs around the area.

Note: There are five secrets to be found (5 golden eggs).

DOWNLOAD

The Eastermansion

by l.m.

It is Easter. At Easter people search, as everybody knows, Easter eggs. Same this year, and Laras's friend has come up with some special ideas. In her villa she has thought of many riddles to make the search a little more difficult. Lara herself may select the degree of difficulty even. In fact, there are not many Easter eggs, but they are well hidden. Will Lara get to find all of them?

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Aspidetr Easter Time 2014 - On the Paths of Forest

by Greywolf

Lara is exploring the Casentinesi Forest, searching an ancient Etruscan temple and artifacts on behalf of a museum.

Note: There are 7 secrets (Easter Eggs).

DOWNLOAD

For those living inside a tomb, TRLE (short for Tomb Raider Level Editor) is a set of game development tools based on The Last Revelation engine created by Core Design and was released alongside the PC version of Tomb Raider: Chronicles back in 2000. TRLE has quite an active community which has evolved the original editor and built companion tools to expand its limits.

For more levels, info, and resources visit trle.net and Aspidetr.

If you've enjoyed this, do let us know so we can continue featuring more levels! Feel free to send recommendations of your favourite level sets.

#TRLE #Tomb Raider Level Editor #Level Editor #Easter #Happy Easter #Lara Croft #Tomb Raider #Core Design #Eidos Interactive #Custom Levels #trle.net #Aspidetr #Community #Community Spotlight #Spotlight

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loftec · 4 years ago

Note

May I have a 12, a 13 and a 21 please? 💌

Last but certainly not least, my dear friend! Absolutely you may and thank you <3

12. Is there a trope you haven’t written yet but really want to?

I usually say I want to try to write a soulmate fic when people ask me this question, because I only truly love one soulmate fic and I would like to one day be even half as good as ZoePlacid and write something in the same vein... and I have the outline, I just need to write it I suppose. But also! I saw a post about the soulmark trope the other day that really resonated with me. I’ll reblog it right after this. The gist of it was that a soulmark system would severely alter the way people interact, it would affect social norms and refocus the whole conversation about romance... that sort of nerdy world-buildy stuff is what I live for, so maybe writing something a bit silly like that would also be fun.

13. Is there a trope you wouldn’t write if it was the last trope on earth?

Ok let’s see if this is a trope... You know when people take a canon couple who are canonically within no more than two years of each other, age-wise, and then they rewrite them to be sometimes decades apart, for no other apparent reason than to introduce a power imbalance that wasn’t there in the source material? That. Not with a ten foot pole. Let’s throw in most of the other power imbalance tropes here too, teacher/student, rich/poor, etc. They all share the same squick factor for me, and it’s a no to all of them.

21. What is the one fic that got away?

I am an incurable optimist when it comes to time and ideas, so I always believe in my naive little heart that one day... one day! (Not too long ago I was asked if 10 steps had been abandoned and I was like ‘no, it’s still active! I’m working on it!’ And then I saw some people discussing it where they were like ‘oh lofty, it’s been three years...’. How funny is that? I have genuinely never thought of it as abandoned, but it has been three years and to anyone who read it back in 2017, it sure would look fairly abandoned, wouldn’t it?)

The first time I signed up for the big bang (and then dropped out) I had a fic lined up that was based on a storyline I had thought up for a set of original characters years and years ago, and after I dropped out of the big bang I did also let go of that idea. But then I published the outline and you guys, I’m so easy. A couple of people wrote comments on that post saying they were interested in the idea and you better believe the bugger’s still in my wip folder and I have worked on it after I allegedly ‘let it go’. I am an idea hoarding dragon, and I can sit on this pile of gold for ages, not letting a single one of my shiny thoughts get away.

One day... one day!

#wideblueskies

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kumoriyami-xiuzhen · 4 years ago

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Translation Plans

Well... my break was pretty good. was finally able to download the clean fresh live version of the cxm secret mission that i had my eye on since i ranked up, saw the 1984 wonder woman movie (it was okay and I could write an essay on what didn’t sit well with me as a fan of the comics [im kinda of a comic book purist when it comes to the way characters think and their behaviour] but I really liked Lynda Carter’s cameo).... made a lot of progress on one of the hakumyu piano arrangements i’m working on (have now probably listened to certain parts of that song over a hundred times now), watched a bunch of the original hakuoki musicals in hd.... and I finally got my dad to play Batman: Arkham Asylum. My bro and I have been trying to get that to happen for years lol... especially since it has Conroy and Hamill doing the Batman and Joker voices (the animated series is the best!). super steep learning curve tho since it’s being played on the ps3 and the last console he used was the Nintendo Gamecube.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to stock up on translations as much as I would have liked to during this time on account of my hardware seriously acting up... to the point that I needed to send my laptop in for repairs and get a new one. Aside from how unresponsive my keyboard was and how hot it got, the laptop itself had become quite slow... though that might have been because my passport [external storage drive] took a bad fall which made a lot of my files harder to access since it was barely able to handle files being accessed/copied/moved off of it (this is after diagnosing it and repairing it via command prompt chkdsk x: / r), with the latter being what I spent most of my break waiting for as i avoided using my laptop since the majority of my drama rips and game capture videos were on it... To give you an idea of how long this took (and how long it is still taking), I went from being able to transfer my 50mb of files in a few seconds... to sometimes taking more than a day (tho other times i’d be able to get 4gb moved in >24 hours, making the timing super inconsistent. also i don’t have access to a cd drive now so i can’t just re-rip things)... which is why I haven’t been able to work on any videos since my last post (I have more than 1.3TB of stuff to move, so my new laptop isn’t exactly at its best right now and won’t be for a long while since I’m not going to be using a recovery service as waiting out the transfers for everything out will definitely be cheaper... the ballpark estimate I got was being anywhere from $500-2000, which is money that i am not exactly eager to part from just for the sake of saving time)... meaning I also probably won’t get to videos for a while since subtitling requires accurate timing and im not fond of things freezing on me while working on videos... ugh. i still have to do an insane amount of grinding later in warframe once my current batch of files finishes transferring...

Anyway, below is a list of what I’ve mostly managed to schedule (anything with a “?” is something that I haven’t committed to) and a list of what I’d like to get done this year (can’t make any guarantees... however, im probably going to try and translate some things with souma this year cuz of hakumyu), while the stuff in bold text is on my shortlist of things I intend to prioritize (Saito’s Ginsei no Shou chapters and Shinsengumi Oni-tan are still being worked on though not as actively since they’re a lot longer...).

Also, aside from December, the month that CNY falls on (February this year) and March (bday) will be the only foreseeable times when I put out less translations tho I’ll probably be playing video catch-up during that time this year since i’m not sure what i’ll be able to get done as i wait for my files to get moved.

oh well. I’m still aiming towards posting stuff on a weekly basis for the rest of the year... here’s hoping that it’s less volatile.... tho i unfortunately have non-existent expectations given what made the news yesterday. just glad i don’t live there.

YAISA!

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January

Yuugiroku 3 Saito Fall story today!

Chapter 7 of Saito’s route from Ginsei no Shou + 4-koma

Hakuoki Kyoka-Roku Kazama CG Character Perspective [no vid. havent beaten this game and im not sure when i’ll feel like speed running through it]

Hakuo Gakuen Q & A

February

Stellaworth Hana no Shou After Story - Harada

Chapter 1 of Saito’s route from Ginsei no Shou

Web drama 8

March

Yuugiroku 3 - Short Episode #8 (Kazama/Amagiri/Shiranui) [still need to get video and screenshots]

Yuugiroku Drama CD Thumb Sized Samurai Track 1-4 (4 is WIP)?

Char monologue?

April

2017 Otomate Hakuoki SSL April Fool’s Day

薄桜鬼遊戯録隊士達の大宴会店铺特典「教えてください山崎さん！」 (completed yesterday)

Yuugiroku 3 - Short Episode #6 “Yukimura the page’s secret”?

char perspective?

Other

Hijikata Biyori (cuz these are short)

Yuugiroku 3 Short Episodes (these are longer than the ssl cross and daily stories)

Kyoka Roku Conversation in the Rain - Okita/Toudou/Kazama

Kyoka-Roku CG perspectives

2013 Otomate Party Hakuoki drama “Ideal place for a disagreement”

Saito Ginsei no Shou Chapters

Shinsengumi Oni-tan

Stellaworth Hana no Shou After Stories - Souji, Heisuke (THIS YEAR FOR SURE DAMMIT!)

2011 Hakuoki Reimeiroku Otomate Party drama

Stellaworth Nightshade Kuroyuki CD

薄桜鬼遊戯録弐祭囃子と隊士達 A店特典「あなた好みの想いの形」

薄桜鬼真改 ~風華大全~ 特典「稽古の痛み」

2016 Otomate Party Code:Realize drama* (this is almost 30 min so i will probably translate less that month if i get to it)

2019 ????????????? Halloween SS?*

????????????? Stellaworth Vocal CD (8 tracks)*

*have to check these 3 since I don’t actively follow these fandoms/tags tho im pretty sure no one has translated anything from the fandom for the last 2 items.

also, re:patreon goal - i am currently not able to access the files for the drama i am looking to get a translation commissioned for as it is in the process of being moved off of my damaged passport. 29gb remains as part of that transfer, which is the result of me trying to move all 865 files from where i keep the majority of the hakuoki dramas i’ve saved all at once... ended up doing that because every time I access that hard drive, each time i open up a folder, and every time I highlight a file to move, the file explorer goes “not responding” for an uncertain amount of time, and have instead opted in doing something that would hopefully reduce the likelihood of something crashing.

#personal post #update post

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phidica · 4 years ago

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So, as you can see, my queue ran out last June and all I’ve done since then is reblog a couple of topical posts. But here’s the thing; that did not occur for lack of content that I wanted to reblog -- in fact, quite the opposite! Read on and I shall explain, because truly what is left for me to talk about on this blog besides the act of running the blog itself?

The way that I’ve historically prepared my post queue has been to open posts I intend to reblog in new tabs (whether I encounter them on the dashboard or via RSS feeds) and set them aside for later. At some point, ideally with no more than a few dozen posts in the pile, I would load all the tabs and then go through and manually rearrange them, then I would tag and add the posts to my queue in that very sequence

My reasons for doing this were twofold. Firstly, I wanted each day’s posts to be a fair mix of topics that didn’t put too many posts from the same fandom in a row. This was to avoid, for instance, multiple consecutive days of posts being nothing but MLP art thus giving the wrong impression to passersby about the focus of my blog, or overly annoying followers who weren’t interested in that topic at all (supposing that I even have active followers any more hah). Hence a degree of randomness was called for in the arrangement of posts. But secondly, I did not want to use the “shuffle queue” feature (is this a Tumblr builtin or an XKit extension? all I know is that the button has haunted me for a lifetime) because I preferred my queue to be in semi-chronological order, and I liked to create callforwards and callbacks in the tags. Oh we’re getting deep into my mental thought processes now...

I liked a semi-chronological queue because that way, as the posts were, erm, posted, any references to recent events in shows or fandoms would remain in the appropriate order without anything seemingly getting mixed up or obscuring some context. Then, regards to my tags: this didn’t happen terribly often but for instance there are the cases of me introducing a new tag and offering some commentary on the fact I have introduced that tag right next to it, which only works out if I can be certain which post that tag really does first appear on. Or I might leave commentary about a particular run of posts that I’ve just queued up. And, relatedly though not exactly the same, there are those posts that are best read in a certain sequence because that is key to some particular joke

So at this point I have explained why:

I don’t add posts to my queue immediately upon seeing them (ans: because they need to be at least lightly randomised), and why

I didn’t simply shuffle the entire queue at once to achieve said randomisation (ans: because subsets of the queue needed to be in a particular sequence).

I expect it’s becoming obvious where this is going, not least because of the contrast between past and present tenses, but I might as well cough up another paragraph or five to contextualise this further when I’ve already come so f a r

I can actually probably trace the start of this system breaking down to the day that I upgraded to Firefox Quantum, the release from which point on you could only use WebExtensions, because at that point I lost access to an important addon, I think it was called like...Tab Groups Plus, or something. The point was that it let you see all your tabs on like a tiled view, showing previews of the content, and you could sort them into groups created and destroyed on-demand which would move them around in your tab list. This was an excellent tool for arranging posts into just the right order prior to queuing them, because I would be able to first sort them by fandom, and then start shuffling them together manually with just the right spacing to make it all work out nicely. With the loss of that extension, I had to start making do with the equivalent procedure with just moving the tabs around in the tab bar (okay, the tab tree, but let’s not go there right now), and with no previews of their content so I had to constantly click into tabs to check which was which. That sucked and was very difficult and time consuming and simply a huge downgrade

As a consequence of these changes to my workflow, I started doing the task of sorting tabs and queuing up posts less often, thus letting more posts pile up at once. Obviously I did cope with this for some time, since Firefox Quantum hit in November 2017 apparently?? fuck it’s been so long oh god and obviously I have still managed to get a lot of posts through my blog since then, though with more stops and starts (this story gets a bit messy because I also had waning investment in Tumblr at times, which also contributes to not actively running the blog, but I think the tabs thing is a bigger factor)

These big stacks of posts waiting for me to load them and sort them and then semi-randomise them have something of an exponential weight. As you might imagine there’s the mental aversion to starting a process when there’s already a lot of stuff to do, and then that just leads to there being more to do, and the nightmare spirals. But in a much more corporeal sense, it appears that the Tree Style Tab (oh fuck now I do have to go there, shit, okay. uh. it’s like if you replaced the tab bar (from the top of the screen) with a bookmarks toolbar (on the side of the screen) and you can sort tabs into folders and new tabs open from a given tab open as “children” of that tab, indented under them. it’s very nice for managing a winding path you might take through Wikipedia or TV Tropes, if you can imagine that. I don’t do that though; I just open a bajillion tabs from Tumblr and stuff them into a single folder that collapses into a single tab and hides them so I can continue to use my web browser despite the fact I have so many fucking tabs open) and really Firefox in general start to respond much slower to the act of loading new tabs or moving tabs around when you already have so many tabs in the tree. Literally, the more tabs I open from Tumblr, the physically harder it is to load those tabs and move them around in order to sort them to queue them to close them and thus allow me to move on to new tabs

That is the situation I find myself in now. As I said at the start, my blog ground to a halt not because of a lack of content, but an excess. I have so many posts that I want to put in my queue to reblog, that they are actively weighing down my web browser to the point that I can hardly start the process of queuing them in the first place

Naturally, something had to give eventually. Here’s what I was looking at a few hours ago

that’s right, I had 230 tabs in the pile. It’s too much. And the idea of closing that parent tab, and killing all 230 of them at once... It’s a solution of sorts, but never the one I wanted to take. I guess it was because I talked about this with Kylie the other week, and she suggested that I just shuffle the queue with the button that shuffles the fucking queue, Violet, that I started considering my way out

So, that’s what I’ve done. Look

And that only took me three hours! As opposed to an actual eternity!

Maybe this is only how I’ll swing things until this pile clears, or maybe it will be the way I work going forward. For now, I am making adjustments to the way that I tag posts in order to generally try and avoid that context-dependent commentary which has previously demanded that I keep things in a curated order. And fortunately, at the moment, I have been out of the active reblog scene for so long that there are no fandom chronologies I need to match step with, so shuffling everything is fine in that regard as well. And I haven’t yet encountered any posts that work best with the one-two punch in just the right order, but if I do, my plan is to just schedule them, for some random day in the future, with only a minute’s difference between them. I have done that before in certain circumstances anyway. So I have, with relatively little effort in the end, I suppose, (big thanks to my wife for letting me sequence-break my brain), allowed myself to click the magic “Shuffle Queue” button... And we’re gonna see if this lets me actually clear the whole backlog in the end, and perhaps regain control of my life web browser life

But rn I need to go to sleep because I just stayed up like an extra two hours beyond the point I needed to be asleep writing this all out in one stream of thought whoops

#OC post #That's right bitch we're doing semicolon clause INTO en dash clause #FUck you #Been doing a lot of technical writing lately for my PhD thesis can you tell #It's in the way that I'm being some kind of verbose yet with a Tumblr flair that means it doesn't actually have to be good practice #Or maybe I always wrote like this on Tumblr #Sadly the occasions I've done so have been few and far between for a number of years now so I don't remember #Just kind of rediscovering my voice #Originally my previous post and this post were the same post and you can probably see why that eventually changed #1500 words for real girl? what the fuck...

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caladblog · 4 years ago

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*cracks knuckles*

so i’ve been working on a project. here is your first glimpse of this project.

[wolf 359, canon divergence AU from the start of s4, according to the scripts the mutiny was day 1082 & the contact event was day 1083]

teaser: but what's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Plus, blind loyalty, next quarter's budgets, quantum threading, substandard TV, and all this time.

===

HEPHAESTUS DAY 1101 / MARCH 28, 2017:

On the gravel-covered roof of the main Goddard Futuristics administration building, nestled between two air conditioning units, sits a satellite dish not listed on any blueprints. In and of itself, this isn't suspicious. But apart from its odd location, it isn't marked with a manufacturer's logo or even a serial number, and it seems far too small to provide more than a substandard TV service.

Sprawled on the gravel nearby is Marcus Cutter, fanning himself with a folder of reports from personnel scouts located in minor but secure positions across a wide variety of companies and state departments. "Do you ever wonder," he muses, "where humanity would be without us?"

There is a slim laptop plugged into the satellite dish and a microphone plugged into the laptop and Miranda Pryce is tending to both, sitting cross-legged and heedless of the stifling humidity. "No," she says.

"They'd probably still be stuck in the solar system, bless their hearts." By now, he has gotten used to carrying most of the load during conversations with Miranda Pryce. "A couple permanent outposts on Mars, maybe an aerostatic platform on Venus if they could solve the sulfuric acid thing. Plodding researchers all pulling in different directions, never really getting anywhere significant."

"'Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly, to venture on wilder seas where storms will show Your mastery; where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars'," she quotes absently.

"Yes, exactly. If we weren't around to disturb them, they'd never bother to lose sight of land." He checks his watch, sighs, and continues fanning himself. "I like to think they'd have cracked fusion power, at least. But in my more melancholic moments I remember that it's 2017 and they're still murdering each other for oil."

"There are worse ways to spend an evening," she replies. "Stuck waiting with you when you're feeling philosophical, just as a random example."

"Now, Miranda," he says, very patiently, "we both know that if it was up to me, we wouldn't be waiting at all--"

"Oh, yes, how will you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for wanting a slightly more solid confirmation of outstanding phenomena than the word of Warren Kepler." She stabs the laptop keys in disgust. "That proposal was ill-conceived from start to finish and I don't know what possessed me to sign off on it. Finding someone amusing doesn't make them qualified for the execution of our life's work."

"It isn't only Warren's word--"

"Fine, the word of Warren Kepler and a handful of miscellaneous rejects." Her lip curls. "I've been brushing up on the Hephaestus's active portfolio and I just have to say: of course it would be them. Why couldn't it have been the U.S.S. Anaideia? Or the U.S.S. Themis, that crew has consistently tested in the eighty-fifth percentile for 'blind loyalty' over the last two years they've been in the sky. Which would be really useful right now."

"On the subject of how much you hate dealing with people, unmanned probes have always been cheaper and quicker to build," Cutter points out. They've had this argument before, but if they didn't both enjoy rehashing old arguments one of them would've murdered the other a very long time ago. "We could've achieved this level of coverage by the nineties, maybe even the eighties if you'd just listened to me back then."

"And if I'd listened to you back then, we'd be sitting on two or three decades of useless data," Pryce scoffs. "Unmanned probes aren't a very tempting piece of bait, are they? Can't catch a fish if you're not willing to skewer a few hundred worms."

As the one who gets the most enjoyment out of skewering worms, he really shouldn't protest, but he's bored. "An unmanned probe would've returned these results by now."

"No, it wouldn't, because radiation moves the same speed in a vacuum whether it's being looked at by a machine or an eyeball," she says, saccharine and condescending. "I am not moving forward on the virtue of one data point, Marcus, and if you had a single gram of sense in your entire skull then you wouldn't either."

He rolls onto his stomach facing her and bats his eyelashes. "So you catch me alone on the roof of our workplace at night, and then you start sweet-talking me? Why, Miranda, I never thought that you'd--"

"Quick, shut up," she says, shoving the microphone at him. "Bunker E just started building a live transmission with the Hermes. Outside of Goddard's official channels, the best line-of-sight is an ESA lunar research base to an American telecom satellite."

Cutter sits up, all business. "Who cares if those go dark for ten minutes? Do it."

"Already done."

"Estimated total lag?"

"Four minutes, fifty-three seconds."

He hums, disappointed, and picks up the microphone. "I can just about work with that. Get it down to three and a half next time, okay?"

She mutters something nasty about quantum threading under her breath as the comms channel opens. A third of the message is lost to static, but it's still mostly comprehensible.

"Visual--of Wolf 359 on--and short-range scans. We've sent--raw images from--scope, they're unbelievable. Even--what would happen--wasn't prepared to see it myself, still don't like to think--possible. Repeat: Hermes Actual--independent confirmation of hue change in--59 as reported by Urania upon arrival at Hephaestus station. Further instructions?"

The uplink crackles. Despite the five-minute delay, Cutter drags the silence out nice and long before saying in cold, clipped tones, "That'll have to be sufficient. Maintain mission parameters. I will keep this in mind when reviewing our budgets for this coming quarter."

He doesn't wait for the commander of the Hermes to respond, just closes the channel the moment he finishes speaking and then turns a three-thousand-watt smile on Pryce. "Has that finally laid your atrocious cynicism to rest?"

"So the first step of the process actually happened," she sniffs. "Doesn't mean that all the rest of the steps have followed. But for the sake of expedience, yes, I suppose we can make that assumption." Her gaze drifts upward, to the panorama of stars half drowned by light pollution, and her voice goes soft. "I never doubted our odds of finding them again. Still, after all this time..."

"I know." His gaze drifts upward as well. "Won't be much longer now."

#wolf 359 #text posts

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

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THE HOUSE, (part 3 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

///////////////////////

I was still curious about the rest of the file in the town library, so I decided to take a break and go into town. As I stepped out the front door, I felt the wind. The trees along the road were still, yet I was buffeted from all sides at once by a wind that did not swirl but pressed my clothes tight to me from all sides at once. I felt more like I was being held comfortably than pushed like a wind usually would. It was warm, where the day and been chill. When I got into the car I left the door open to see what would happen. The wind closed it. This time there was a perceptible pause before the glove box opened.

When it did, a rush of wind gusted out and raced about inside the car. Once again, there were five of the odd gold coins within it. As before, I thanked whatever Power had put them there. Though brisk, the day seemed clear enough to risk the walk into town after all, so I got out of the car strolled down the road to town. Having everything that I needed within walking distance was one of the reasons that I liked the small town of Flocking Bay so much.

The Flocking Bay Bank of Maine was my next stop. I had some difficulty getting them to accept the coins for credit to my account. They insisted on a slate test by a local jeweler to ascertain the purity of the coins. They were twenty four carat. Then they wanted to take the coins at current spot price less ten percent, which was fine with me. They also wanted to count the coins at three to the troy ounce, as Hiram Wickes had counted them in the 1850’s and 60’s, which was not. I insisted that the same jeweler weigh the nine coins that I was depositing. With gold at nearly four hundred dollars to the ounce, the six tenths of an ounce per coin seemed worth the effort. The business was finally done to the satisfaction of all.

My steps now lead me down aged, tree lined streets to the library. Mrs. Alderman had set out the file in readiness for me. I added the tenth coin and a notarized account of its origin and the number of coins to date.

“You have been so helpful, she said brightly, “setting things in order the way you have. Do you know, I’ve been studying some, after hours. I hope that you will have a great book.”

“Mrs. Alderman,” I said in a confidential tone, “I’ve allowed you to deceive yourself. See, I too, put something in your file. I’m not a writer. I’m John Peaslee. I live in the old Wickes place, and I wanted to find out about its history.

My uncle, Gordon Wetherbee, is a scholar at Miskatonic University and he may indeed wish to publish a book or monograph on the subject of my house.”

She looked like a person seeing a ghost. In a faint voice, she replied, “Oh, my! I had hoped it was not you. You were such a nice young man, too.”

Noticing the past tense, I chided gently, “I still am, Mrs. Alderman. I live yet and I have not changed from the person that you first met. The nice young man who set your file in order is not dead.”

“Yet,” she said firmly. “Nobody as lives in that house does so for long. None has ever escaped it.”

“Yet,” I completed with a smile, and crossed the room to the battered pine table by the old mullioned window.

I had put the botanical report off until last, not knowing anything about plants. The report described in dry detail what were called “some of the most unusual genetic monsters that I have ever seen.” The report was issued by Miskatonic University. It described roses that were nothing of the sort. The “rose” plants were carnivorous. There were low pansy and violet-like plants that were some strange form of thallophyte. The mycelium of these fungi was linked in some fashion to the roots of the “roses.” Both forms died instantly upon being plucked and began rotting with almost supernatural speed. No pressings were possible due to the rapidity of decomposition, so only photos and rapidly drawn pictures of what was seen by microscope were included. The grass was as unusual as the “pansies” and “roses.” The leaves all rose from rhizomes, which spread from a central node, like some ferns. This “grass” was no fern, however. None of the plants could be cultivated away from the Wickes house. “The plants fit no known classification and must be regarded as unique to science,” the report concluded.

That evening the wind came again, and blew at my back all the way to the house, like a great friendly beast hurrying its master home. I had forgotten to buy batteries for my flashlight, but I did not turn back.

I resumed my search of the library. The evening passed uneventfully, I did not finish with the library that night. I was feeling restless.

So were the rats of the spectral brigade. I could hear a few upstairs but most were in the basement. Taking a candlestick, I worked the hidden spring of the concealed door to the basement. I could hear the rats below.

The stair was longer than I remembered it. The basement was larger than I recalled it being. The corners were dim in the candlelight. The spectral brigade was upstairs, of course. Still no dust or spider webs. I nearly dropped the candle in shock when I saw it. There was a table in the corner. I knew that the basement had been empty. Bare stone.

My curiosity led me cautiously to the table. It had on it a candlestick with a burned-out stub of candle, a box of papers, and six largish portfolios of leather, each labeled with the name of a continent. They also were filled with papers. A cursory examination revealed that I had found Hiram’s correspondence. There was a lot of it. It was clear that he had the habit of making copies of his missives and attaching the replies to the letters for easy reference. He may have been messy but his mind had been well organized. Taking the folder marked Australia because it was the smallest, I went back up the stairs. I placed the folio on the desk in the study to read by tomorrow̓s daylight. In checking my calendar, I noticed that tomorrow was the day of the new moon.

Bed was welcome, after the tension and labors of the day, but not a relief. My night passed in troubled dreams. It was a place of incomprehensible, invisible obstacles and wind. The wind blew at me from all directions at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. Resisting the wind caused it to go away. It came back with gold for me. As I refused the gold, my frustration mounted. It was not what I wanted. My tears spilt forth in a flood. I wanted something else - and I could not remember what.

The morning light awakened me on sweat-drenched sheets. Slowly, as dreams will, the terrors faded. I got up and began my day.

As I had begun to expect, the books did not materialize. None of the books in the library was a rebound Necronomicon or Black Book. I reshelved the last book with a sigh. The precious books appeared have eluded me.

I turned my attention to the Australia folder. Its pages yielding information for the first time in about a hundred and twenty years. Apparently, Hiram had a number of correspondents in Australia. His questions ranged from searches for rumored ‘houses of stone’ in the outback to tracing the aboriginal folk carvings and paintings and asking about the most secret rituals and ceremonies of the aboriginal Australians. His questions, piercing and analytical, illuminated every subject with stark clarity, like flashes of lightning. He had known exactly what he was looking for and was not at all afraid of finding it.

Now, with the day beginning to close, there came a knock at my door. Opening the door revealed a postman with a bulky Next Day Letter envelope. Signing for it, I noticed that it was from Miskatonic University. Uncle Gordon had responded almost the instant that he had received my letter, and by the fastest possible post. Impressed, I opened the flap of the letter. A single sheet was all that the large envelope held. Uncle Gordon̓s hasty scrawl read:

Dear John:

It is with simple horror that I have read that you have purchased the house of Hiram Wickes. Delay not an instant! Get out of that house! Leave before the new moon! I pray that this reaches you in time!

Come to me in Arkham! There, I will tell you all that I know of this matter. I hope that you are still alive and well and will come to hear my reasons for so urgent a request.

You are involved with Powers beyond imagination. Things there are that are worse than even what is in the Necronomicon. Hastur, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, is involved, and Cuthulu, as well, whose coin you sent a tracing of.

This must sound mad to you. A very hodgepodge of fear. And it is. Fear for you. Come to me at once! Upon your life it is necessary!

In regard and fear for your life,

I remain,

Gordon Wetherbee

It was remarkable. I had never seen evidence of such agitation from uncle Gordon before. This, along with all that I had learned, made up my mind. I would take his advice. Packing my few clothes took almost no time. Seeing the Australia folder, I realized how important Hiram’s letters could be to uncle Gordon. I placed it with my bag, by the front door.

I raced to the library, took up a candlestick and plunged down the long flight of stairs to that huge gloomy vault of a basement. As I gathered the box and folders into my arms, I saw them at last! Among others, the Necronomicon and Black Book had been hidden behind the letter portfolios. Putting down the letters in the face of a far greater treasure, I examined the precious books. There was what had to be the only complete 1784 edition of the Necronomicon. Priceless. Also, there was the almost as rare 1635 edition of the Black Book. There was an apparently genuine medieval Latin Philippus Faber. Last was a hand-bound copy of a manuscript, written on a fine supple parchment of a type that I could not identify, labeled in Hiram’s now familiar script, Pnakotic Manuscripts, subtitled, “Being a Collection of Ante-human Lore.” The writing in this last volume was of a sort that I had never seen before. It was disturbing just to look at. The very notion of actually reading it made me shudder.

Knowing that I should not tarry, I placed the books with my other burdens and gathered them up. There was a sudden rushing of wind from all sides at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. The candle in my hand burned bright and unwavering, despite the wind. It did not blow out.

In a blind panic, I ran up the long, crumbling, dusty, spider-bedecked stair. I found myself back in the basement. I no longer had my load of letters and books. Two more attempts to go up the stairs left me still in the vast, dusty crypt of a basement… Raising the candle high, I looked intently up the stair, trying to see why I could not get to the top. After a few minutes, or perhaps hours, I got my eyes to work properly and the nausea stopped. The stairs offered no escape.

In searching for a way out of this vast stone lined vault of a basement, I found all of the fifty nine other people who had vanished. They are all dead. They have dried to sere brown mummies. Many still show signs of bleeding from eyes, nose or ears, as if their brains had burst within their skulls. It seems that transport to wherever this is, killed the others outright. Some were in bed, others at table, some at other tasks. Each family or person seems to have their own area. The next group is in a different spot. It helps me to sort them out. All of my goods are by the stair.

Examining the bodies so closely may seem to be a ghoulish exercise but it gives me something to do.

I do not need the candle. There is a pale sourceless illumination everywhere. Dust is thick on the floor and everything else. Cobwebs shroud everything.

There, in the corner lies what was Hiram Wickes. The notes and papers with him tell the story. Unable to stand his own mess, he had the house cleaned attic to basement. The yard was manicured to perfection. He then made the simple blunder that has cost so many lives and so much misery.

He bound Hastur of the Winds, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, to keep his house and grounds exactly as it was on that day in 1866. Every new moon, everything that does not fit goes to the basement but that too gets cleaned. Hastur has no choice but to sweep the excess to someplace else…

I am lucky. I have the opportunity to starve. I was in the basement when the cleaning came. I was pushed through a distance too short to kill. The unvarying light seems to erase time, except that I am getting hungry.

Uncle Gordon has solved many occult mysteries and seems to know something of this one. I know that he will come soon. I wonder if he can do anything.

I found a pen among my things and paper from the possessions of the many dead. I have determined to make this account.

I leave my curse on Flocking Bay Realty. They knew that this would happen. They have sold the house many times, without warning. They have been battening on this evil since 1908.

I have found the rats. They are everywhere here. They do not touch the bodies or Hiram’s books and papers. They are disgusting. If I get hungry enough, I shall eat them.

-THE END-

<==Previous

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

#THE HOUSE #Part 3 of 3 #flocking bay #Written by De Writer

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escentia · 5 years ago

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How to build an art website

My first attempt at building an art website was in 2016. Back then I didn't know how to write a single line of code. I bought a year's hosting with Bluehost, tried setting up a wordpress site, struggled, decided it wasn't worth it, and got a refund.

One and a half years later, in 2017, I taught myself how to code for a summer internship. I first learnt Python for data analysis, but soon realised that I could also learn HTML, CSS, and the rest while I was at it.

I finished the Codecademy course for website building in three days. Half a year later I tried coding my own Wordpress site. And, at the start of this year, with Wordpress completely revamping their website editor, I fled to GitHub Pages.

Currently my site (quietdistance.net) costs me 15 USD per year since I pay only for my domain name. That's a far cry from my first venture with Bluehost, which would have cost me 120 USD a year!

If you have no coding knowledge, and are interested in making a simple website, here are some steps I would suggest.

Learn some basic website coding. It's not as hard as some might think! Codecamy has a free course which holds your hand through the entire process: https://www.codecademy.com/learn/paths/learn-how-to-build-websites

Learn Git version control. There's another Codecademy course for that, and it can be completed in an hour!

Push your website onto Github. Github Desktop makes the process much simpler.

If you're serious about this art website endeavour, register a domain name and point that to your Github site. This step is entirely optional! Your website will already be accessible via its Github URL.

The entire process is free except the very last step, which costs less than 20 bucks. This is how I wished I had set up my site in the first place -- it would have saved me lots of money anxiety and frantically phoning technical support when I accidentally broke my Wordpress site!

Many artists these days make websites with Wix or Weebly. While these drag-and-drop, what-you-see-is-what-you-get website buiders are popular, I don't like them because:

You have to pay 5 USD every month to remove the website builder branding which is kinda ugly :( And that adds up to 60 USD a year!

Their code is clunky, bloated and slow.

Your creativity is limited to what editing options they offer you. Want links that flash rainbow when you hover over them? Cool transitions? Extra plugins? They're much easier to achieve with raw code.

If they revamp their site builder you'll need to check that your design still works the way you want it to. Since their site builders are constantly being worked on, you never know if an update might break your site.

And why Github is cool:

Github doesn't use your site to advertise themselves. They're run by Microsoft and have other revenue streams, so they don't resort to using your website as their billboard.

Unlimited sub-sites! In addition to your main portfolio site, you can easily make a separate site for every new creative project -- at no cost.

It loads super fast because it's used by professional geeks. My old Wordpress site took 10 seconds to load, and would sometimes not load at all. After moving to Github, everything could load in under 3 seconds.

You can test all changes on your computer before syncing it onto the online repository. No more accidental website breakages! Github Desktop records every file change, and you can undo them at will.

And why make a website at all?

If you post art to more than one platform, you'll realise that the number of likes/shares/comments is rather arbitrary, influenced by how long you've been active on the platform, your posting schedule, whether you've been featured, and other factors.

Instead of reflecting the quality of what you create, these numbers reflect how much value you are to the platform's advertising business. These two criteria can overlap, but often they don't. Yet these numbers can affect how other people perceive your work.

Your own website creates a safe space where you have control over how your work is presented to the world. Instead of conforming to platforms designed to maximise views and advertising profits, you have the power to create a place as weird and wonderful as you want.

It'll serve as a reminder that you're not just a data point, not just a cog in the wheel. That you should draw to make yourself happy, not just to please other people. That you're a precious and irreplaceable human being.

So sally forth and create! And may it bring you joy.

#tutorial #and a personal rant

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alexturner · 5 years ago

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holy shit how did you get your hands on this url?

Oh, how I’ve missed getting his ask… The mystery of how I got this URL has been retold many times over the years, but since you ask so nicely, maybe I should just reveal once and for all how this URL came into my possession. Just to finally come clean, you know?

As you all know, I used to be a private investigator. I know. I talk about it all the time. Back in 2017 I had just finished up a job for a woman who was desperate to find out if her husband was cheating on her or not. I spent a few nights in my car parked across from a hotel, camera in tow, living off coffee to get me through the cold November night when I caught the bastard and finished up my job. It couldn’t have been more than a minute after lady Hell Hath No Fury left my office the next evening, face red with anger as she went out the door with photographic evidence of her cheating husband in her purse, when a handsome gentleman entered. He was wearing a three-piece suit, Gucci loafers and a crooked smile, then spoke to me with an accent and offered me an easy job for a lot of money.

I did know the man; a big name in the criminal world who’s known to outsource some of his smaller work. It wasn’t always good work. He wasn’t offering me good work that night.

You see, that evening, he hired me to break into someone’s house to find some files on a computer, files that I was to steal and then return to him on a USB drive. And I know what you’re thinking. Breaking in? Dani, aren’t there rules to being a P.I.?! And the answer is yes, there are. A private investigator cannot enter a property, house, or building through illegal means, including breaking and entering. But, and I’m not proud to admit this, I’ve done many things during my P.I. days that weren’t legal. And I was no stranger to breaking into people’s homes to uncover some sensitive information. Besides, I was good, and no one would ever know it was me. And I desperately needed the money.

Mister Gucci Loafers had but two requests. One, I had to steal the documents that night and two, I couldn’t look at the documents I was stealing. It goes without saying that that last request sparked my interest and had me fantasising about what documents I would be recovering for that huge amount of money, but I still had some moral code and assured him it wouldn’t be a problem.

Easy job, easy money, it was obviously that I had to accepted.

He provided me with an address, a folder name, then shook my hand and called our meeting ‘a pleasure’. Before he rounded the corner out of my office, he told me he’d be back the next evening to get the USB drive, after which he would pay me.

Time was off the essence, so still sleep deprived from work the previous night and with my trusted thermos by my side, I hit the road. It was a two-hour drive soundtracked by some tunes I had selected solely because of how perfect they were for driving at night. They were loud, easy so sing along to and perfect to keep me awake, and I was about halfway through Enter Sandman when I arrived at my destination.

It was even easier that Mister Gucci Loafers had made it seem. The house was unoccupied and the family that normally lived in it didn’t appear to be home. I was through the kitchen window in a minute and inside the home office in even less. As the computer chimed to life, I was alert, listening for the slightest creak or puff of air that might indicate someone was home.

It never came.

The folder was easily located and as I waited for all the files to transfer, I watched all the foldernames pass the screen. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat – I figured it had to do with account information, and I was already feeling for the poor middle-aged ladies whose Facebook account would be hacked somewhere in the near future – Twitter, Tumblr – and that last one piqued my interest, because, as you all know, that’s the social media I actually use.

I knew the rules, I knew I wasn’t supposed to look at the documents I was stealing. Rule number two.

I did it anyway.

As I scrolled through the document, I noticed it was full of, as the kids say, ‘canon’ URLs. There wasn’t a hyphen or an ‘x’ or a missing letter in sight. It was then that I realized that it wasn’t about the account information per se, but about the money these handles could bring in. I scrolled down to the bottom and that’s when it caught my eye and I knew I was fucked.

username: alexturner

It was one of those URLs that hadn’t been active in over 5 years and everyone who knew of its existence was sceptical it would ever become available again. The username was followed by an e-mail address and a password. I knew I had to have it, but I also knew what that would mean.

It was then that I had to decide between my life as a P.I., and starting a life on the run.

Because not only had I broken Mister Gucci Loafers rules, I was about to steal from him as well, and a man with his kind of power wasn’t gonna let that go by unpunished. On the other hand, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and with the money he was going to pay me for this job, I could disappear, and he would never find me.

Before I knew it, I took a picture of the information I needed, deleted the Tumbr folder from the USB drive and formatted the harddrive I had just stolen from.

My two-hour drive back to my office was soundtracked by my own thoughts, racing as I made the arrangements in my head about my disappearing act.

The next evening, Mister Gucci Loafers came back, as promised. I gave him the USB drive, as promised. And he paid me. As promised.

It was the last time I ever saw him. I left the country within the hour.

I know that in the past couple of years, Mister Gucci Loafers has spent various resources trying to find me. Through this URL, of course. In the past couple of years, I’ve been blogging happily, and with my Internet connection routed through 17 different countries, he will never find me.

So, yeah. That’s how I retired from P.I. work and that’s how I really got this url…

#i got one again!!!!#that's how i really got this url #anonymous #answers #long post

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anneboleyns · 5 years ago

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I saw the downton abbey movie so now here’s kind of a rambling personal essay, under a cut for spoilers for the downton abbey movie. downton abbey movie spoilers ahead.

once again SPOILERS AHEAD also tw for death, grief, suicide attempts/etc mention.

so, i know probably no one cares but considering how active i was in this fandom and how incredibly important this show and the character of thomas was to me personally, i’m just gonna sit here and write my thoughts about thomas barrow, the show, the movie, what it meant to me, and my critique overall

so basically i always loved the show and thomas but it really took off 2 yrs ago during 2017.

i had just moved out of my mother’s house and i had just finished a rewatch of the show, i remember this so clearly lol it was september 2017 the rewatch had started like june 2017. and i remember when i got to my new apartment one of the “comfort shows” i would put on on my very own tv in my very own apartment was “downton abbey”. i believe the other that was regularly tossed on in the background was “the tudors”, obviously lol

anyways, i was so hyper obsessed. i had also JUST discovered that thomas and jimmy were legitimately shipped in this fandom. i had no idea that was a real thing when i watched it live. and i had never cared about jimmy or thought of them as an actual viable relationship. but with this rewatch they just hit different i guess. i spent hours and hours and hours at my mother’s house before the move (which was an EXTREMELY tense living situation, the month or so right before i left. i’m not getting into all of it now. if you followed me back then you know) watching this show like properly sitting and watching an episode with my sister, and then capping for gifs, which if you make gifs you know is basically spending possibly 3 or 4 hours with the same episode. like it can take that long for me personally to go through it and cap everything i want, then, sorting the caps into folders, especially if i’d capped more than one episode. completely mesmerized with the smallest details, hand and facial movements i specifically wanted to gif or be in a set, clothing movements, emotional moments, like i was just so into all aspects of the show and wanted to gif everything. my fav 4 are thomas, sybil, mary, and tom. i also adore edith and it may be a “fav 5″ now as i think i just love all of those characters equally. so i pretty much giffed every single fucking scene they were in lol. unless they were “ugly scenes” that i knew i could never make work in photoshop. sometimes i would cap it anyway and sort it anyway and open it up anyway and try but would end up deleting all the caps for that set. so all the gifs i have posted, is not even all the ones i capped. anyway

okay and then, there’s the fanfic. reading it, rereading, and writing it. it took me 2 years but i actually read close to every single thomas/jimmy fanfic on a03. at some point i only started opening complete fanfics because i got burned too many times on abandoned slow burns, and if a fic wasn’t my thing i would obviously not finish it. but definitely hundreds of works i read, saved to my phone and reread in google books. works i would think about all day.

so, june 2017 i start the rewatch. i also start planning to move out of my mother’s. a toxic tense living situation. in the past i have used harsher words like “abusive”. i can’t really use that word and apply it to my mother right now even though it is accurate. it hurts to think about. i can’t think about it. september 2017 i actually move.

the hyperfixation is in full swing. hours every night reading. reading 50k word fanfics in a single night. hours every day (or, week, i have a fulltime job) capping and coloring frames in photoshop. eventually i started writing fanfic for them as well.

so, in november 2017 my mother is hospitalized. this was not an unusal occurence. in february 2018 they tell us she’s going to die. 12 days later she died.

i’m not gonna really get into what happened to my mental state. it’s uh. bad. guilt. self hatred. like hatred isn’t even a strong enough word. i wanted to annihilate myself. i believed i deserved to be annihilated. that’s the only word violent enough i can think of to describe the depth of it. suicidal. etc. whatever.

but! i had this piece of fiction, this series, and assorted fan works. it really intensified after this. i can look back at this time last year and i remember how obsessed i was lol.

when i try to articulate what this character and show means to me, i always feel really embarrassed. at some point when i’m talking about thomas it becomes obvious i am talking about myself as well. but i’m gonna really try and objectively talk about my opinion on thomas and why i adore him and why i want what i want for him. it’s probably gonna be obvious i am also talking about myself but. anyway.

here’s the “meta” “opinion on the fictional characters” section.

thomas barrow starts the show as an antagonist. he’s rude, could even be called cruel. a bully, snide, dishonest when it suits him and honest when it hurts him. like, he’s an asshole. what he said about william’s mom. how he treated baxter. his ambition and the underhanded things he does to serve it. overall proud demeanor designed to make those around him feel lesser. feel less able to hurt him. he wants the people around him to feel like they should not hurt him. i think he might be unaware that that is his motivation. because even as he’s afraid of everyone, he craves everyone as well. he’s alone, outside, and he’s been shoved there, constantly, he’s been shoved there politely and he’s been shoved there violently and if they’re gonna shove him here outside, away from them, unfixably different from them, unworthy of them, then he will stay there. like, the meanness and the comments and the attitude. he’s already Not Like The Others. if they already don’t like him, he will make it even harder for them to like him. unless, he can get somewhere safer, which is where his motivation comes in.

i just really view thomas as a character that craves safety.

he wants others to not hurt him. he wants to get from where he is to somewhere safer, somewhere up there, where it’s even less likely for people to be able to hurt him.

so, his motivations: safety, and then, there’s love.

he constantly has this world and these people implicitly and explicitly telling him he cannot love or be loved. it’s not right, it’s not natural, best case scenario is it doesn’t even exist- he’s confused, he’s sick, he’s broken, maybe they can fix it. he’s on the outside, remember, and he just gets to watch thru the window as the others dance and fall in love and have friends and family and be cherished. he can have none of it. this is a really old story that could be told by better people and in a better way.

the loves we get to see him have all have teeth. he’s betrayed by one lover and then abandoned, someone he obviously had feelings for but also betrayed first. then we get a probably one-sided attraction, but still a friend, still someone he can actually be vulnerable with since they’re helplessly vulnerable with him as well due to the circumstances. who kills himself. and then there’s the shameless, stupid hope that almost costs him everything, but he does get a friend in the balance.

he finds a friend in baxter, another character i just adore, because she gives to thomas what he needs even though he objectively does not deserve it, at least not from her, who he has terrorized. baxter’s trauma from her abusive relationship with coyle that thomas knows and uses, the impossible situation thomas places her in, the manipulation, the bullying, some would even term his behavior abusive. baxter would have had every right to ignore thomas, to get him fired, to hurt him back. but she loves him instead. she loves him in spite of. she loves him because. she helps him, she speaks to him softly and kindly. she tells him he’s brave. she remembers him as a child. this especially touches me. the idea of thomas as a child, someone who must have been different from who he is now, and she knows them both and loves him. she looks at the grown, hurt, cruel man in front of her and she speaks to the boy she once knew, and thomas listens. slowly. but he listens. AND she tries to give him advice for finding a lover, supporting and encouraging something the rest of the entire fucking series despises or ignores.

i don’t have enough energy to really go off but, baxter is supreme. i need a baxter.

thomas clearly cannot form self esteem in the environment he lives in. the ground is dead. he can’t grow it himself. he has this ironclad sense that he deserves what the others have, the ones on the inside. it’s immovable. he deserves it, they have no right to keep it from him. maybe he’ll never, ever get it, but in his mind, in his heart, he will never stop believing he deserves it. they tell him he’s nothing, he’s dirt, he’s wrong, and he just nods and keeps walking. they can think that. they can say that. he can’t stop them. but he will not stop working for the future he wants. he will not stop until they have no choice but to let him inside.

but he wants, i think, for them to invite him inside. but he’ll never admit it, and he’ll never ask for it, and he’ll never get it anyway.

so, he tries to change himself. maybe they’ll invite him in then? no.

then, his attempts to form friendships get twisted, and aborted, and he gets tired stereotypical accusations thrown on him.

then, he tries to kill himself in a bathtub with a razor.

then, he leaves his home and spends his days bored and unchallenged and away from all of the friends and half-friends he had.

then, he’s invited back. he’s invited inside!!!! you might say. and yeah i guess. as close as they’ll ever let him. but part of him always ignored and not commented on. part of him always raised eyebrows at i’m sure. and yes, his bad behavior is also to blame for this. but see, the 2 are linked. and you can’t unlink them.

by the end of the show the others still largely tiptoe around him. but due to his now somewhat subdued behavior he’s “likable” now.

i think it’s quite a choice to have this character who is completely sharp edges have them worn away by heartbreak, torture, injury, suicide attempt, ostracisation, abandonment, and present that as a victory, as a happy ending. but guess what? it is. and i’ll take it. he was back among his friends, back home, accepted, celebrating with everyone else, and i adored it, even as the jarring notes i heard in it won’t ever fade from my opinion of it.

anyway, in the aftermath of my grief i fell heavily into this story and the many stories of thomas finding love and safety. and healing, and friends, and peace. lots different from each other and lots the same. again, i relate very strongly to this character. i was not in a mindset where i was able to be kind to myself. or think sympathetically about myself. i think i fixated so much on this character, became obsessed with finding stories where he gets told and he experiences all the things i think i wanted to be told and i wanted to experience. i couldn’t accept it, even the concept, directly. but i devoured and absorbed a billion pixels of a character very similar to me accepting it. it’s the closest the concept could have gotten to me and i’m embarrassed i only recently realized this link and that that was what i was doing considering it is obvious, and common, and normal. maybe not “healthy” but like. let’s not get into healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms rn bec i promise you the fanfic and the fiction fixation is not even at the top of the list lol

FAST FORWARD it’s september 2019. the movie is in theaters.

my mom is still dead. but. a lot has happened to me. i have happened to some people. i’ve been thru some more things now. dipped my toes and eventually completely submerged and perhaps am drowning in the entire Romance/Love/Sex section of human experience. again, let’s not get into it. but it’s a LOT.

i don’t quite have the same relationship with fiction and fanfiction as i used to. it’s been only 2 years since leaving my mother’s house, but i feel as though galaxies could fit in between the girl back there and the one here. but they’re the same! i’m working on understanding that.

i love this character and this show so much. i loved the film. there are problems- the writing and plotting is not nearly as neat and crisp and sharp. it’s more smooth, almost to a loss of definition, and instead of quick-wit it feels just... fast. there’s no time to really dive in in a film, so i’ll forgive all that, but it’s a flaw that should be mentioned. but it’s not a flaw that prevents joy in the film. i was overjoyed watching it. the things i wanted for thomas all happened. all the characters and relationships were... smoothed, i can’t describe it any other way. i feel like the bumps and corners and quirks and hidden pockets of them were just smoothed away. we know they’re there because we watched the show, but the film doesn’t- can’t- show them all.

it was frustrating for me to see thomas smoothed in this way, but also satisfying, because while he absolutely one of a kind, unique, damaged, and layered, and contradictory, really a marvelous character and well-built... he is just like everyone else. and i think he would love and hate that and i love and hate that about myself.

for this reason, i really enjoyed a scene where he refuses to help carson. carson is flustered and overworked, in a crisis, and asks barrow for help, and thomas refuses, with a smile. i adored it. carson is one of thomas’ worst ... opponents, i could say. carson hurls homophobic abuse at and about thomas several times during the series, casts aspersions on him in the film as well, and he can choke. i love that even though towards the end of the show and yes during the rest of the film thomas’ sharp edges got smoothed away, but they put this one in and it catches you right on the bone how it should- an older woman in my theater actually gasped, offended, when thomas refused to help and carson was left to flounder. i, on the other hand, thought, “that’s my boy,” and leaned back in my seat satisfied. it might be my fav moment in the film. surprising considering the AMAZING joy and tenderness thomas gets to experience in the movie (but, i think that’s just my taste right now due to a personal heartbreak i won’t get into). like, they shoved him outside, carson shoved him outside, outside the realm of normal, and this is a moment of carson needing his help and thomas going, “no, remember how you used to treat me? remember how you secretly think of me? i do. i won’t forget. good luck! bye!” and then goes on to have a terrible wonderful adventure, while someone funny and kind finally falls in love with him, he gets to stand up for himself to the crawleys in the beginning of the film as well and i just felt elated watching that scene.

i could probably write essays about the love and romance portion of his storyline in the movie. but i’m just not in the headspace to do that right now super in depth but.

i’m also annoyed he had to experience yet ANOTHER homophobic plotline. he goes out to a gay club for literally The First Time and gets arrested and called a dirty pervert. i remember this being my exact fear for the movie. like “imagine if thomas goes to a gay club and gets arrested? that would suck!!!” and that is exactly what happens. but at least it’s so quick, i genuinely think that entire plot is like 6 short scenes max. why is julian fellowes obsessed with having this character, the ONE main queer character, suffer solely because he is gay? experience so many gay-specific agonies, the depths of which i just really doubt he, fellowes, can understand. it’s really, really, disappointing. but consistent as the show did this as well. smh. at least he gets out, and his lover, richard, goes to bat for him in this movie TWICE!!!!! and stares at him with stars in his eyes, soft and enamoured? while thomas is oblivious?? I’VE READ THIS FIC BEFORE!!!! so yes that was VERY cute and all i ever fucking wanted

it’s just funny how fiction touches us differently depending on what we’re going through, especially for those of us that were lonely, neglected, children, ones who grew up with favorite characters instead of friends. i might be more “normal” i might be more “sociable” i might have more “life experience” than i used to but this fangirl inside is just not going anywhere.

this was just a ramble, i wrote it with no point in mind and i’m not rereading or editing it lol. enjoy this vague update into my life/movie review/character meta lol

#personal #i wrote this #downton abbey #thomas barrow #spoilers #death tw #suicide tw #tp

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years ago

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praescitum chapter eleven, part one

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten

casefile, season 10, season 11, 11x03 plus one. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: so yes, i am posting chapter 11 in two parts. it’s the plus one chapter, and it got excessively long, but i didn’t think it would work to split it into two chapters completely.

i borrowed some of the section at the end from a fic i wrote in the middle of season 11, sofas and ikea.

warning for descriptions of a crime scene, and also for the discussion of the crimes in plus one.

---

eleven. (pt 1)

october, 2017

Scully has been strangely spooked ever since the whole Perlieu ordeal.

At first, she thinks it's because of the break-in, the jumpiness that didn't quite leave her for those few days as a result of almost being killed multiple times. She thinks she might have come home too soon, at first, that it's too soon to be alone after almost dying; she's halfway tempted to ask Mulder to come back to the house with her, although she knows she can't. She keeps jumping at small noises, fumbling frantically for her gun or her light, hearing things. She has the cameras do multiple scans, and there are never intruders, but she ends up sleeping with Daggoo right by her side and her phone within easy reach to call for backup or for Mulder if Perlieu comes back.

Even after it becomes clear that Perlieu is not coming for them, she remains jumpy. Remains liable to startle at the sound of the house settling, or the beeps and buzzes of the “smart” features of the house, or Daggoo's toenails on the floor boards. She tries to throw herself into work at home, or books, or the movies that play on TV. Nothing seems to work. She keeps thinking she's hearing things. The house suddenly seems too quiet; she gets into the habit of leaving the TV on too loud, turning on music in the kitchen while she cooks or loads the dishwasher. She feels ridiculous, but the silence suddenly seems too heavy, too cloaking. Daggoo hovers by her feet, sticking to her side instead of retiring to his dog bed; she's grateful for the company.

Scully honestly can't decide if she's being foolish for not just calling Mulder and making amends, or foolish for getting so spooked and wanting to call him in the first place. She tries to ignore either possibility. In the caseless week that follows their ordeal, she goes home each night, makes a small meal, sits down on her couch and goes over the autopsy reports from the serial killer case. But she can't quite shake the paranoia. She's halfway tempted to lug her flashlight from room to dark room, or roam the house turning all the lights on.

One night in the middle of the week, she's at the mirror brushing her teeth when she sees it: a dark, hulking shape in the hall behind her.

She's frozen in place Daggoo barks once, sharply, and Scully jolts, whirling on her heel to find the hallway dark but empty. No alerts from the computers that run the house; she'd recognize the alarms. And when she turns back to the mirror, she finds it empty, too.

She shakes her head disapprovingly at her reflection, runs her fingers sharply through her hair and ignores the way they tremble. Spits in the sink, tells herself she's imagining things, the same way she imagined things in that hotel hallway two years ago. Scoops Daggoo up and goes to bed, pretending she doesn't push the door until it clicks closed, pretending she turns on the television only because she wants to catch up on the news, pretending she doesn't desperately want to call Mulder.

---

Mulder and Scully spend their entire first week back at work fixing all the issues of their run-in with Perlieu: going to hearings, giving statements, collecting evidence. Scully spends several hours touching base with the team on that serial killer case, clarifying things about the autopsy reports and doing a couple more. Mulder calls in cleaners to at the very least get all of the destroyed furniture out of the house; he'll worry about new furniture later. He couldn't bear to pick things out without Scully, and that's a bit of a sore subject personally anyway. He's spent a decent amount of time kicking himself for that little comment about the furniture, and he's not quite done yet.

He spends his spare moments in the office reviewing and re-reviewing the Willoughby files. Noting similarities of sightings, trying to collect more information on the Holly Smith death. He halfway considers calling John Doggett before deciding against that; he probably shouldn't be asking for any favors from the guy. He combs through the Bureau system for any mention of Ian or Marion or Jared Caruthers. He hasn't decided whether or not to officially reopen the file on Willoughby and the Specter, mostly because Ryan still refuses to explain why he needs Mulder to look into his parents’ murders. He's communicating through email now, sending Mulder a list of recent sightings he's heard about in Willoughby, but every time Mulder asks why they're corresponding, he refuses to answer, and just sends more sightings.

Things remain awkward with Scully. She's amicable, of course, and he likes to think he is, too, but a new distance has sprung up that barely makes sense in the wake of everything else. She doesn't ask to have dinner with him, or ask him to come over, and he doesn't dare bring it up. They spend weekdays from eight to five together, and that is the extent of it, aside from a few friendly texts. He doesn't know how to fix things, and he's not sure she does, either. At one point, he said he would take what he could get, and he never, ever wants to push her, but he's not sure he can take being only Friendly, Too-Close Co-workers anymore.

By Sunday, Mulder is bored stiff, with no cases on the horizon and no Scully to do nothing with. He takes the Willoughby files home for the weekend, but he nearly has them memorized by now, and he doesn't want to read over them for the millionth time. He could probably use a pair of fresh eyes, but he doesn't want to ask Scully, considering how their last conversation about Willoughby went. And so Sunday is the day he finally breaks down and drives to Willoughby to see if he can get a copy of the Caruthers murder file.

(He texts Scully before he leaves, just in case she decides to drop by. He doesn't want her to panic if she were to come home and find him not there. And besides that, he doesn't want to feel like he's hiding things from her. He lingers awkwardly in the driveway, leaning against the car and nudging his sunglasses up and down the bridge of his nose until Scully answers, somewhat hoping she'll want to come along. But she just tells him to be careful and let her know if he needs anything, and so he leaves it at that.)

Sheriff O'Connell isn't at the station when Mulder arrives—the receptionist says he and his family are on vacation—but Deputy Jacobs is there, and he's fairly nice to Mulder about the whole thing. He photocopies most of the file for Mulder to take with him, curious about why Mulder wants to investigate again. “Just a lingering curiosity,” Mulder lies. “Boredom, you know. Have there been many sightings lately?”

Deputy Jacobs shrugs. “A few. Maybe more that haven't been reported. But nothing major since last year, as far as I know—since that stuff with the school, and Joy Seers's car accident.”

Mulder nods. “The activity seems to be somewhat restricted to the fall and winter, right?” he asks after a beat, his eyes falling on a photo of the crime scene. Bloody floor and scratch marks in the woods—from fingernails, he guesses.

“Somewhat,” says Deputy Jacobs. “In my experience.” They stand in silence for a few minutes more as he copies the last of the papers. He doesn't speak again until he's bundling the papers into a folder; he says, casually, “Jared Caruthers is due for parole soon, you know.”

“What?” Mulder says, caught off guard.

“Jared Caruthers. The murderer.” Deputy Jacobs waves the file around for emphasis before passing it to Mulder. “Getting paroled for good behavior. But who knows if he's going to come here.”

“Hmm.” Mulder takes the thick folder and tucks it into his bag. “What are the people around town saying?” he asks knowingly.

Jacobs laughs, a sharp barking sound. “Some say he's gonna come for Ryan and finish the job,” he says. “Others say he and Ryan are going to team up and go on a killing spree. I think it's all bullshit.” He motions to the bag with his chin. “Let us know if you find anything, Agent Mulder. And tell… what was your partner's name? Agent Sullivan?”

“Agent Scully,” says Mulder.

“Agent Scully. Tell her I said hello.”

Mulder nods, silently wondering if he'll have an avenue to tell Scully that Deputy Jacobs from Willoughby says hello. He thanks the deputy and leaves.

At home that night, he reviews the case again. He doesn't remember much from when he and Scully reviewed it back in 2015, aside from the basic details. He's able to piece together the details from the investigative reports and witness testimonies.

The murders took place on May 19, 2002. According to Ian Caruther's co-workers, he left the office at five o'clock, the usual time; one coworker in particular noted that he seemed somewhat nervous, and reacted strangely when asked how his brother was doing (in reference to the death of Holly Smith), which surely only added to the suspicion towards Jared. Jared and Marion's whereabouts were unknown, as Marion was still staying at home with the baby (she was a teacher, and had taken a year's worth of leave) and Jared had recently been fired from his job. From the hours of five to ten, no one saw the Caruthers. There was no sign of them until the first 9-1-1 call, time-stamped at approximately 10:27 p.m. The call made by Jared. The transcript reveals nothing of the emotions in the actual phone call, whether or not Jared was hysterical, fearful or calm and collected, but Mulder can't help but read it as hysterical. My brother's been hurt. Please, I need your help. It's him and his wife… I think they've been stabbed… oh, Jesus Christ. Willoughby Woods Apartment Building, please hurry, oh fucking Christ.

The second 9-1-1 call was placed around ten minutes later, made by a neighbor. This transcript lays out the scene more carefully: the neighbor returned home from a friend's house and ran into Jared in the hallway, reportedly covered in blood. The neighbor asked if he needed help; Jared ran away. A few steps further, and he came across the bodies, bloody and prone in the hallway. He took their pulse to no avail; both were very dead. He could hear the baby crying.

The police responded to the scene and pronounced Marion and Ian Caruthers dead on the scene. They'd been dead for only an hour or two. The baby was found unharmed. An examination of the crime scene found candles—some lit, some unlit and overturned, some arranged in a circle around a Ouija board, religious paraphernalia like a Bible, crosses, a bowl shattered on the ground in a puddle of water. Mulder peruses the crime scene photos with interest—the scene certainly suggests a deeper involvement with the Specter. He vaguely remembers hearing something about things like this at the crime scene a couple years ago, remembers thinking that was significant. He paper-clips them together and sets them aside for another look.

Jared Caruthers was spotted buying explosive materials in a hardware store two towns over before being found and apprehended in the old cemetery down the street from the apartment. He had changed clothes, but the shirt he'd been wearing at the time of the murder was found in the trunk of his car with Ian and Marion's blood on it. Skin residues were found under his fingernails, also matching the DNA of the victims. The blade of the knife stuffed under his seat had been wiped clean of blood, but his fingerprints were still on it. (They found traces of Marion Caruthers's fingerprints as well, but that's mostly skimmed over.) One testimony reports that, when they cuffed him, Jared began to weep. (“But I dunno if it was out of guilt, or cause he got caught.”)

He refused to say anything, but they had more than enough evidence to convict him. He eventually signed a statement confessing to the murders. Supposed open-and-shut case, and Mulder still has no idea why Ryan wanted him to look into this.

He goes back to the crime scene photos, the fuzzy images of a scene that looks like it's right out of a horror movie. It's the fact that he keeps coming back to. Had Jared Caruthers planned this, in an attempt to pin the murders on some supernatural force? Or had the Willoughby Specter interfered, somehow? Joy Seers believes the ghost is demonic, and after his own encounter, Mulder can understand why. And he knows Ryan doesn't have any lost love for the ghost. But what does he think the ghost's involvement in his parents’ deaths? Does he suspect that his parents weren't murdered at all?

Mulder has copies of the autopsy reports, but that's never been his strong suit; he'd love to ask Scully to look them over. He tucks the cluster of papers back into the folder and scribbles a note to himself to review the crime scene photos.

He's settling into the couch to watch TV for the night when he gets a call from Skinner about a case in Henrico County.

---

Sunday night, Scully goes to bed early. She hasn't been sleeping well, either from paranoia or from a general sense of unrest, and she's trying to catch up on rest while they don't have a case. (She halfway expected a follow-up text to Mulder's announcement that he was driving down to Willoughby to the day to pick up a file, gently prodding her to come along, but it never came. She admits she doesn't love the idea of looking into the Willoughby case again, as paranoid as she's been this past week, but she expected Mulder to ask her to accompany him. She supposes he must still be upset about what happened the other week, and is mostly telling her where he's going as a formality. She told him to be careful.)

She spends Sunday evening watching a documentary on National Geographic; she's tempted to text Mulder a few times, out of the familiar twinge of missing him that she gets when they don't stay together (which they've done at least once or twice a week for almost a year now; this may be the longest period that one of them hasn't stayed at the other's house), but she holds off. She watches the documentary, and then she goes to bed, breaking her usual habit and taking a sleeping pill. She halfway thinks she deserves it, after a week of near-constant jumpiness and anxiety.

She has strange dreams. Strange, shadowy dreams that leave her with a sense of dread. There's someone that she's looking for that she can't find, and she has no idea whether it's Mulder or William.

Scully wakes up suddenly to a sharp, shrill sound, jolting in bed as if awakening from a bad nightmare. She's shivering, the tension hard in her muscles; she can feel the aches and pains from the Perlieu ordeal again, the bruises stinging. She groans, blinking blearily, and rolls over on her stomach, and the source of the sound becomes clear: Daggoo is standing on the edge of the bed, barking furiously at the door.

Scully shakes her head hard, running her fingers through her hair and sitting up in bed. She scoops up Daggoo and shushes him firmly, sets him down on the other side of the bed. “You hush,” she says firmly, reaching over to turn on her lamp. Her fingers slip on the switch, hearing the empty click with no accompanying light. She flips it a few more times, cursing under her breath: burnt-out bulb. She climbs to her feet, shivering as her feet hit the cold floor, heading for the door to get another bulb; she might as well change it now.

But she freezes in her tracks when she hears the creaking of floorboards on the other side of the door. It takes a second or two for her to remember that she's alone, that Mulder isn't here and the house is empty, and her breath catches in her throat in fear.

Footsteps creak on the other side, slow squeaking footfalls. Daggoo stands on the bed, growling at the door.

Scully forces herself to take a deep breath, another. Forces herself not to think of the cruel smile of a dark figure in the hallway of a Willoughby hotel. Walks carefully, quietly to her dresser and retrieves her gun from her holster. She walks to the door with her weapon held out in front of her, shushes Daggoo quietly and pushes the door open abruptly. “Federal agent, I'm armed!” she shouts, aiming the gun. But the hallway is empty.

Breathing uneasily, Scully steps out into the hall, the automatic lights flickering on. (Why the hell didn't her friend who rented her the house put automatic lights in the bedroom?) She doesn't bother turning them back off, like she’s done so often out of irritation. She walks the house, lights coming on with a soothing regularity, clearing every room, and finds the whole place empty. Daggoo paces the house behind her, growling under his breath. Scully checks every room twice, checks the cameras and the security system, and there is nothing. No intruder. No alerts. No signs of anything walking around the house except for her and the dog.

Scully blinks tiredly, rubbing at her eyes. She must be going insane. She doesn't want to consider any other possibilities. She reminds herself that she is nowhere near Willoughby, Virginia. She reminds herself that ghosts don't exist. They don't.

She scoops up Daggoo, restless and wriggling, and walks back to her bedroom. The lamp is still burned out, but she doesn't have the energy to change it. She shuts the door firmly, places the gun on her bedside table, climbs into bed and screws her eyes shut. She's exhausted. She just wants to go to sleep. She doesn't want to think about ghosts, or intruders, or anything of that sort. It's your imagination, she tells herself firmly as Daggoo curls dutifully into her side. You're imagining things.

She burrows in under the covers, ignoring any temptation to call Mulder or to recheck the house. Ignoring the slow squeak coming from the bathroom door down the hall swinging open, slow and eerie as a horror movie cliche. It's the house, she tells herself, the mechanics are malfunctioning. That must be it, because she can certainly hear the hinges squeaking painfully slow, but there's no intruder, she checked. And there is no such thing as ghosts. She grits her teeth and slides further under the covers like a child trying to hide, her eyes remaining shut even as her hand itches to grab for her gun.

She can hear another door creaking, and she caves in and reaches for her phone, opening her messages from Mulder without a second thought. They've been together for years, she should be brave enough to tell him that she's hearing things, even if it's irrational. But she pauses when she sees her most recent unopened message from Mulder. Skinner's given us a new case. Not Willoughby. I'll have the details tomorrow morning at work.

It's professional enough to make her take pause, make her shake off this silly fear. She works her jaw back and forth and texts back, See you then, pretending she isn't disappointed at this new distance between them. She's being ridiculous. The house is malfunctioning, that's probably the thing she mistook as footsteps earlier. They'll start a new case tomorrow, and it'll get her mind off of Willoughby and the Specter and the break-in. She'll be back to normal in no time.

She turns off her phone screen and lays back against the mattress. It seems as if Daggoo has calmed down, fallen asleep curled against her, and she strokes a hand over his belly before closing her eyes and concentrating on the sound of their breathing. It's almost soothing, the steadiness of it, and she can feel herself slowly drifting off to sleep.

She bites back a startled yelp when she hears the bang of the doors slamming closed, Daggoo breaking into angry, yipping barks again. She pulls the covers over her head and rolls over onto her side.

---

Scully doesn't sleep well, despite the sleeping pill. She's absolutely exhausted the next morning, but she gets up and goes into work anyway, because what the hell else is she going to do? She's imagining things, or there's something wrong with the computer that runs the house, but she cannot let herself linger over these things. She eats her bagel and drinks her morning coffee, packs a bag for a few nights out of instinct, drops Daggoo off at the neighbor's, and drives to work.

Mulder's thumbing through an unfamiliar file when she comes in, sitting at the desk, lost in the work. (They still only have one desk, through no fault of Mulder's; he's called upstairs multiple times about another one to no avail. Scully is a little thrown by the fact that no one has managed to scrape up another desk in the two years they've been back, but it hardly seems to matter. They take turns with this one, most of the time, and it isn't as if she isn't annoyingly used to the whole thing.) “That the new case?” Scully asks, shutting the door behind her.

Mulder looks up from what seems to be a photo, his eyes softening a little like he's happy to see her. She swallows back any discomfort at their chaste, nearly formal exchanges yesterday, and offers him a small smile. “Scully, hey,” he says. “Yeah, I'm just… going through the details of it all.”

Scully steps closer to the desk, motioning to the photo in his hand. “Is that the victim?”

He looks down at the photo and nods. “Mm-hmm.” Swiveling the photo to face her, Scully sees a young man with a swelled, bruised face. “Arkie Seavers, age 20,” says Mulder. “Currently a resident of the county jail.”

Scully takes the photo to examine it herself. “What does the other guy look like?”

“Funny you should ask,” Mulder says, motioning to the photo. “Arkie there wasn't in a fight. Car crash, head-on collision into a tree. Drunk as a skunk.”

“He's lucky to be alive,” Scully says as she takes a seat.

“You have no idea,” says Mulder.

“Not wearing a seat belt, I suspect.”

“To hear Arkie tell it,” Mulder says as he gets to his feet and rounding the desk to stand near her chair, “he didn't have time to fasten his seatbelt, 'cause he was too busy beating a hasty retreat from the boy he says caused the accident.”

“And who was that?” she asks.

“You're looking at him,” says Mulder.

She raises her eyebrows questioningly at him, maybe even a little playfully. “No. Not me,” he says, just a little bit playful back, and points at the photo in her hand.

“What, he blames himself?” she asks, looking back at the photo.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I don't get it, Mulder,” she says.

Mulder picks up a side view of the victim, holding it up for effect. “Arkie, our hapless road warrior, is driving by his lonesome, down the highway to hell, when he sees another Arkie—” He scoops up another mug shot, framed opposite of the first one, and mimes the situation with the two photos as he continues: “—across from him, who grabs the wheel and crashes the vehicle.”

“Well, you did say he was drunk,” says Scully, rolling her eyes a little.

“Yes, and I know what you're gonna say about seeing double and all those hackneyed bromides about not giving the kids the car keys—”

“20 is hardly a kid,” she interrupts.

“—but circumstances bear a curious similarity to the stories told by other good folk who didn't share Arkie Seavers' luck of the Irish, and who also reported seeing their doubles right before dying.” He sits back at the desk, across from her, and passes her a bundle of photos.

“And how did these people die?” she asks.

“Each by their own hand.”

“After seeing their doubles?” She thumbs through the photos, briefly noting that the state of the bodies do seem to suggest suicide.

“According to all reports issuing out of Henrico County, Virginia.”

“Reports issued by whom?”

“Friends, relatives. A doctor.” He nods towards her.

“And the medical diagnosis is…?” she asks.

“A rare form of schizophrenia.”

She chuckles a little. “Right. So rare I've never heard of it.”

“Well, correct me if I'm wrong, Scully, and I know that you will, but schizophrenics have been known to hear voices and have reported hallucinations similar to the ones Arkie reports,” he points out.

“Hallucinations, yes, but not necessarily grabbing the wheel of a car and ramming it into a tree,” she points out right back.

“Well, they didn't all die from car crashes into trees,” he says. “Seven died from hanging, four jumped off a tall bridge, um, three—”

She looks at him in astonishment, that he didn't think to mention this before. “This is a mass phenomenon.”

“Precisely my thinking, Scully, which is why you and I are gonna jump on I-95 South this morning and get back to our bread and butter,” he replies, getting to his feet and grabbing his coat.

Her eyebrows raised, she gets to her feet and sets the photos down on the desk. “We seem to have a habit of getting into cases of mass, supposedly supernatural phenomena in small Virginia towns,” she comments.

“Precisely, Scully. Bread and butter.” Mulder is pulling on his coat at the door; he waggles his eyebrows playfully at her. “Got to bring home a paycheck somehow, right?”

“Are you getting reimbursed for road trips to Willoughby?” she asks, and she means it to sound playful, but she's worried it comes off as the opposite. She clears her throat, adds in what she hopes is a light tone, “Has Ryan Caruthers clarified why he wants you to look into this again? Do we need to reopen the Willoughby file?”

Mulder shakes his head. “He just wanted me to investigate the murder of his parents,” he says. “I'm considering it a side project.”

“Mm.” She bites her lower lip as she gathers her things, pretending she isn't relieved, just a little. “Focusing on more relevant things?”

“Exactly.” He smiles a little at her, and she smiles back, strangely nervous. She wonders, briefly, if she should tell him about the weird things she heard last night before deciding against it. It was just a computer malfunction, it's not important. And she doubts Mulder will really care about issues with the house she's living in separately from him.

They leave the office together, side by side, ride the elevator up to the parking garage.

---

They end up driving to Henrico County separately. Scully still isn't quite sure how it happens. One minute, she's commenting on the distance away from the county—a little two hours, close enough to drive but far enough that they'll have to get a hotel—and the next thing she knows, Mulder's commenting on how it might even be more efficient to take two cars, in case they have to split up a lot, and she can't tell if he's kidding or not (she thinks he might be, but it's honestly hard to tell), and she's agreeing that it might be efficient. And then the next thing she knows, they're exiting the parking garage in separate cars. It happens so fast it stuns her.

The drive is too long, too quiet. Scully starts an audio book on Audible just to fill up the silence. She looks in the mirror every few minutes and sees Mulder right behind her, and she's just left wondering how this whole thing happened. She still can't believe she reacted that way on the couch, after everything that happened.

The two of them drive straight to the Henrico County Jail to talk to Arkie Seavers, and from there, they go to the crash site. Despite Arkie's history of DUIs and drugs, Mulder seems to believe his insistence that his doppelganger is responsible. He counters Scully's logical arguments with the point that Arkie probably doesn't have the wherewithal to make it up. They go to the local psychiatric hospital, where they discuss things with a doctor there, who classifies the other recent deaths as similar to Arkie's incident in the supposed involvement of doppelgangers. They speak to a patient named Judy whose walls are plastered with games of Hangman, who claims to play telepathically with her brother. Scully's not so sure she believes that part of it, but Mulder locates a game of Hangman with an answer of Arkie on the wall, and she can't quite dismiss it as a coincidence, despite Judy's denial of knowing Arkie Seavers.

By this time, it's getting late, and when Mulder suggests they call it quits for the day, Scully certainly isn't going to argue. They head to a local restaurant for dinner, but there must be some kind of local event, because it takes them an hour and a half just to get food. By the time they finally reach the local St. Rachel Motel, it's past 11:00, and Scully is exhausted.

They ring the doorbell, and hear a shouted, “Coming!” from somewhere inside. A woman appears behind the sliding glass door, pushing it open.

“Hi, we'd like a couple rooms,” says Scully, almost automatically. They haven't shared a hotel room on purpose since Willoughby; they've stuck to the formality of separate ones. And she certainly doesn't expect that to change, especially in the wake of all their newfound awkwardness.

“Do you have reservations?” the woman asks.

“No,” Scully says. She senses what's coming; of course they wouldn't be able to get a room in this tiny town after she barely slept the night before. Just their luck. “Uh, do you have any rooms?”

“I've had a cancellation,” says the woman. “It's just a suite.”

“We'll take it,” says Mulder, speaking for the first time since they've gotten here. No hesitation or anything of that sort. She turns to look at him in shock—although she's not sure what the source of the shock is. Because of this strange new distance, because she thought he was angry at her for pulling away? Because the last time they were offered only one hotel room, he seemed nervous and looked to her for answers, offered to go somewhere else? She isn't sure how to react, isn't sure if she's eager or terrified. She thinks of holding her phone in her hand the night before, wrestling with whether or not to call him. He looks back at her with a degree of surprise, too, and she doesn't know why. A degree of awkwardness, maybe, and that makes more sense.

“There's a pullout sofa,” the clerk assures them.

“Okay,” says Scully, because what else is she supposed to say? She's made Mulder up a bed in the guest room, told him goodnight from her bedroom door and lay alone between stiff, cold sheets wishing he was there. The same way he’s made up his guest room for her. This is no different, is it? Maybe this is the push they need to get back to the place they were in a week ago.

She looks back over at Mulder as the woman walks away, and he's shaking his head innocently, maybe even a little apologetically. “Just trying to get some shut-eye.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” she says, walking past him. She doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know if he's upset with her, doesn't know how to make things right with them. She wishes to god she did. She misses him, misses the way she felt those nights in Willoughby where they fell asleep holding hands. She almost wishes there wasn't a pullout sofa, but at the same time, she's relieved there is.

They get up to the suite, a two-roomed thing with a bedroom and a joint bathroom and living room. Door between the couch and the bed. Mulder is trailing behind her, drops his suitcase in the corner of the room. “I can take the couch bed if you want,” he says, noble as he always is.

“Don't be ridiculous, Mulder,” she replies immediately, combing her hair out of her face with her fingertips. “With your back problems, and everything that happened with Perlieu…”

“My back is fine, Scully. And besides that, I've gotten in the habit of sleeping on the couch every now and then.” She turns to him in surprise, her eyebrows raising. He shrugs. “Couch at home folds out. Closer to the kitchen and the office. Aside from the nights we fall asleep on the couch… sometimes I sleep there because it's easier. More convenient.”

He sleeps on the couch sometimes when she's not there. She didn't know that. She swallows. She wants to ask him to share the bed. She should ask, she should make some effort to close this gap between them, but the words are caught in her throat. “All the more reason for you to take the bed,” she says instead.

“Come on, Scully, I'm used to it.” He smiles at her gently, and she thinks about kissing him, touching his face and asking him to stay, telling him that she's sorry, she's so sorry, and she doesn't want to sleep alone.

She twists her hair away from her face, says briskly, “I'm going to take a shower.” She can feel his eyes on her as she goes to the bed, unzips her suitcase and removes her pajamas. It is too late, near midnight, and her bones are aching, old bruises sore and fatigue clouding her mind.

She takes a hot shower in the other room (why the hell would they put the bathroom in the room that is not the bedroom?), and Mulder is sprawled out of the couch bed when she gets out, gray t-shirt hanging on his frame. It makes a sudden lump rise in her throat. “Nice digs?” he asks, and she nods, unable to speak. “You should get some sleep,” he offers. “We have a meeting with Arkie and his lawyer first thing in the morning.”

She's still tempted to ask him back to the bed, but sleepiness outweighs her need for him, and she ultimately decides against it. Not tonight. Maybe it's because she's tired or maybe it's because she's scared, but whatever the case, she isn't going to go any further. She doesn't know how he feels towards her right now, she doesn't know how how to make things right. “Right,” she says. “God knows we could both use some shut eye.” The reason, according to Mulder, that they'd taken the damn hotel room.

“Right,” he says. He's looking at her warily, almost nervously, but still smiling.

She smiles back. She can't help it. They're still too scared to do anything, but this might be enough for now. They can pretend that nothing’s wrong. “Good night, Mulder,” she says, stepping closer to the couch bed. She brushes a hand over his shoulder before crossing to the door.

“Good night, Scully,” he says, just before she closes the door.

---

Scully's so tired that she can't see straight, but nearly as soon as she lies down, she finds herself restless. She sleeps in fitful snatches, tossing and turning, jumping at small noises. Silly fear from what happened the night before, she tells herself, but telling herself that doesn't make the fear go away. She shifts from one side to another, trying to focus on her breathing, the buzz of the air conditioning, anything but every small, mundane sound, when she hears the footsteps behind her. Startled, motivated by the fear lingering from the night before, she flips over in a panic.

She finds Mulder standing there, sheepish and apologetic. “Mulder,” she sighs wearily, lying flat on her back in defeat, “what are you doing?”

“That bed nice and comfy?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Mulder, go back to sleep,” she chides, because she's not in the mood for a discussion right now. She doesn't care if he goes back to the couch bed or climbs right in beside her, she just wants a good night's sleep.

“I wish that I could, Scully,” he says. “They just found Arkie Seavers dead in his jail cell.”

She sits up in bed in astonishment. “You're kidding,” she says.

“I'm afraid not. They didn't give many details, but they wanted us to come down and check it out.” He gives her a small, apologectic smile. “I'm sorry. Maybe we can come back and catch a few more winks after we check out the crime scene.”

Scully yawns as she climbs to her feet, rubbing her forehead. “Is that a promise?”

“What's wrong, Scully? Haven't been sleeping well?” His voice is genuinely sympathetic, soft and warm in the way that reminds her of why she almost texted him the other night.

“That,” she says, reaching out to open her suitcase, “is an understatement, Mulder. But I'll be okay.”

“I'm sorry, Scully.” He presses his hand briefly to her back before crossing the room to exit. “Meet you in twenty minutes? I'll buy you some coffee.”

She stretches, biting back another yawn. “Sure. Thanks, Mulder.”

He smiles at her gently before closing the door. It's enough to make her forgive him for sneaking up on her, enough to make her want a lot of things.

Arkie Seavers is indeed dead, strangled with his own belt. Scully is ready to classify it as a suicide, and even Mulder admits that it's a possibility. But he seems to be firmly attached to the idea that Judy Poundstone and her brother are responsible. He cites them as their main two suspects. He keeps his promise, takes them back to the hotel to let her sleep, but he suggests that they go interview the siblings tomorrow.

“That sounds like a reasonable next step,” she says as they re-enter the hotel room. “I can go visit Judy before I do Arkie's autopsy tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sounds good.” He bumps her elbow against hers lightly. “Right now, though, you should get some sleep.”

She smiles a little, just a little. Their detour to the jail was hardly a welcome interruption, but maybe she can finally get some sleep now. “Thank you, Mulder. Do me a favor and make sure I don't sleep too late.”

“I'll wake you up by eight,” he says teasingly. “Maybe nine.”

“Eight,” she says sternly—there’s no need to be unprofessional. “We can grab some breakfast before we go interview the siblings.” She's tempted to suggest they just interview the twins together instead of splitting up; it might not be very time-conservant, but it seems to make more sense.

“Good thing we thought to drive separately,” Mulder says before she can. He sounds a little awkward saying it, almost sad—like he regrets suggesting they drive separately in the first place—but still, he says it, and so Scully keeps her mouth shut. “That'll make tomorrow much easier.”

Scully yawns, rubbing at her eyes. “That's true,” she says sleepily.

Mulder opens the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Good night, Scully,” he says, for the second time that night. “Or… good morning, I guess.” He chuckles softly.

Scully chuckles, too, reaching down to unfasten her necklace. Her fingers accidentally curl around her ring where it hangs around her neck. “Good night, Mulder.”

The door closes softly behind him. Scully changes quickly and climbs back into bed, her eyes straying back to the door like a magnet. She slips her hand under her hair and unfastens her necklace, sliding the ring off, and closes her hand around it instinctually before setting it down on the bedside table and setting her cross down beside it. She touches the ring with the tip of one finger before curling up under the comforter, letting her eyes slide shut.

By some miracle, she manages to sleep dreamlessly and peacefully until the moment when Mulder wakes her back up. (At nine. Of course. She scolds him a little for being unprofessional, but secretly, she's grateful. They eat breakfast in the dining room together, hands accidentally bumping every time they reach for the salt or pepper or Sweet'n'Lows.)

#lmao remember when i said id #post regularly #xf rewatch #i wrote this #xf fanfic

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 years ago

Text

#1yrago My RSS feeds from a decade ago, a snapshot of gadget blogging when that was a thing

Rob Beschizza:

I chanced upon an ancient backup of my RSS feed subscriptions, a cold hard stone of data from my time at Wired in the mid-2000s. The last-modified date on the file is December 2007. I wiped my feeds upon coming to Boing Boing thenabouts: a fresh start and a new perspective.

What I found, over 212 mostly-defunct sites, is a time capsule of web culture from a bygone age—albeit one tailored to the professional purpose of cranking out blog posts about consumer electronics a decade ago. It's not a picture of a wonderful time before all the horrors of Facebook and Twitter set in. This place is not a place of honor. No highly-esteemed deed is commemorated here. But perhaps some of you might like a quick tour, all the same.

The "Main" folder, which contains 30 feeds, was the stuff I actually wanted (or needed) to read. This set would morph over time. I reckon it's easy to spot 2007's passing obsessions from the enduring interests.

↬ Arts and Letters Daily: a minimalist blog of links about smartypants subjects, a Drudge for those days when I sensed a third digit dimly glowing in my IQ. But for the death of founder Denis Dutton, it's exactly the same as it was in 2007! New items daily, but the RSS feed's dead.

↬ Boing Boing. Still around, I hear.

↬ Brass Goggles. A dead feed for a defunct steampunk blog (the last post was in 2013) though the forums seem well-stocked with new postings.

↬ The Consumerist. Dead feed, dead site. Founded in 2005 by Joel Johnson at Gawker, it was sold to Consumer Reports a few years later, lost its edge there, and was finally shuttered (or summarily executed) just a few weeks ago.

↬ Bibliodyssey. Quiescent. Updated until 2015 with wonderful public-domain book art scans and commentary. A twitter account and tumblr rolled on until just last year. There is a book to remember it by should the bits rot.

↬ jwz. Jamie Zawinski's startling and often hilariously bleak reflections on culture, the internet and working at Netscape during the dotcom boom. This was probably the first blog that led me to visit twice, to see if there was more. And there still is, almost daily.

↬ Proceedings of the Athanasius Kircher Society. Curios and weirdness emerging from the dust and foul fog of old books, forbidden history and the more speculative reaches of science. So dead the domain is squatted. Creator Josh Foer moved on to Atlas Obscura.

↬ The Tweney Review. Personal blog of my last supervisor at Wired, Dylan Tweney, now a communications executive. It's still going strong!

↬ Strange Maps. Dead feed, dead site, though it's still going as a category at Big Think. Similar projects proliferate now on social media; this was the wonderful original. There was a book.

↬ BLDGBLOG. Architecture blog, posting since 2004 with recent if rarer updates. A fine example of tasteful web brutalism, but I'm no longer a big fan of cement boxes and minimalism with a price tag.

↬ Dethroner. A men's self-care and fashion blog, founded by Joel Johnson, of the tweedy kind that became wildly and effortlessly successful not long after he gave up on it.

↬ MocoLoco. This long-running design blog morphed visually into a magazine in 2015. I have no idea why I liked it then, but indie photoblogs' golden age ended long ago and it's good to see some are thriving.

↬ SciFi Scanner. Long-dead AMC channel blog, very likely the work of one or two editors and likely lost to tidal corporate forces rather than any specific failure or event.

↬ Cult of Mac. Apple news site from another Wired News colleague of mine, Leander Kahney, and surely one of the longest-running at this point. Charlie Sorrel, who I hired at Wired to help me write the Gadget blog, still pens articles there.

↬ Ectoplasmosis. After Wired canned its bizarre, brilliant and unacceptably weird Table of Malcontents blog, its editor John Brownlee (who later joined Joel and I in editing Boing Boing Gadgets) and contributor Eliza Gauger founded Ectoplasmosis: the same thing but with no hysterical calls from Conde Nast wondering what the fuck is going on. It was glorious, too: a high-point of baroque indie blogging in the age before Facebook (and I made the original site design). Both editors later moved onto other projects (Magenta, Problem Glyphs); Gauger maintains the site's archives at tumblr. It was last updated in 2014.

↬ Penny Arcade. Then a webcomic; now a webcomic and a media and events empire.

↬ Paul Boutin. While working at Wired News, I'd heard a rumor that he was my supervisor. But I never spoke to him and only ever received a couple of odd emails, so I just got on with the job until Tweney was hired. His site and its feed are long-dead.

↬ Yanko Design. Classic blockquote chum for gadget bloggers.

↬ City Home News. A offbeat Pittburgh News blog, still online but lying fallow since 2009.

↬ Watchismo. Once a key site for wristwatch fans, Watchismo was folded into watches.com a few years ago. A couple of things were posted to the feed in 2017, but its time has obviously passed.

↬ Gizmodo. Much has changed, but it's still one of the best tech blogs.

↬ Engadget. Much has changed, but it's still one of the best tech blogs.

↬ Boing Boing Gadgets. Site's dead, though the feed is technically live as it redirects to our "gadgets" tag. Thousands of URLs there succumbed to bit-rot at some point, but we have plans to merge its database into Boing Boing's and revive them.

↬ Gear Factor. This was the gadget review column at Wired Magazine, separate from the gadget blog I edited because of the longtime corporate divorce between Wired's print and online divisions. This separation had just been resolved at the time I began working there, and the two "sides" -- literally facing offices in the same building -- were slowly being integrated. The feed's dead, but with an obvious successor, Gear.

↬ The Secret Diary of Steve Jobs. Required reading at the time, and very much a thing of its time. Now vaguely repulsive.

↬ i09. This brilliant sci-fi and culture blog deserved more than to end up a tag at Gizmodo.

↬ Science Daily: bland but exhaustive torrent of research news, still cranking along.

The "Essentials" Folder was material I wanted to stay on top of, but with work clearly in mind: the background material for systematically belching out content at a particular point in 2007.

↬ Still alive are The Register, Slashdot, Ars Technica, UMPC Portal (the tiny laptop beat!), PC Watch, Techblog, TechCrunch, UberGizmo, Coolest Gadgets, EFF Breaking News, Retro Thing, CNET Reviews, New Scientist, CNET Crave, and MAKE Magazine.

↬ Dead or quiescent: GigaOm (at least for news), Digg/Apple, Akihabara News, Tokyomango, Inside Comcast, Linux Devices (Update: reincarnated at linuxgizmos.com), and Uneasy Silence.

Of the 23 feeds in the "press releases" folder, 17 are dead. Most of the RSS no-shows are for companies like AMD and Intel, however, who surely still offer feeds at new addresses. Feeds for Palm, Nokia and pre-Dell Alienware are genuine dodos. These were interesting enough companies, 10 years ago.

PR Newswire functions as a veneering service so anyone can pretend to have a big PR department, but it is (was?) also legitimately used by the big players as a platform so I monitored the feeds there. They're still populated, but duplicate one another, and it's all complete garbage now. (It was mostly garbage then.)

My "Gadgets and Tech" folder contained the army of late-2000s blogs capitalizing on the success of Gizmodo, Boing Boing, TechCrunch, et al. Back in the day, these were mostly one (or two) young white men furiously extruding commentary on (or snarky rewrites of) press releases, with lots of duplication and an inchoate but seriously-honored unspoken language of mutual respect and first-mover credit. Those sites that survived oftentimes moved to listicles and such: notionally superior and more original content and certainly more sharable on Facebook, but unreadably boring. However, a few old-timey gadget bloggers are still cranking 'em out' in web 1.5 style. And a few were so specialized they actually had readers who loved them.

Still alive: DailyTech, technabob, CdrInfo.com, EverythingUSB, Extremetech, GearFuse, Gizmag, Gizmodiva, Hacked Gadgets, How to Spot A Psychopath/Dans' Data, MobileBurn, NewLaunches, OhGizmo!, ShinyShiny, Stuff.tv, TechDigest, TechDirt, Boy Genius Report, The Red Ferret Journal, Trusted Reviews, Xataca, DigiTimes, MedGadget, Geekologie, Tom's Hardware, Trendhunter, Japan Today, Digital Trends, All About Symbian (Yes, Symbian!), textually, cellular-news, TreeHugger, dezeen.

Dead: jkkmobile.com, Business Week Online, About PC (why), Afrigadget (unique blog about inventors in Africa, still active on FaceBook), DefenseTech, FosFor (died 2013), Gearlog, Mobile-Review.com (but apparently reborn as a Russian language tech blog!), Robot's Dreams, The Gadgets Weblog, Wireless Watch Japan, Accelerating Future, Techopolis, Mobile Magazine, eHome Upgrade, camcorderinfo.com (Update: it became http://Reviewed.com), Digital Home Thoughts (farewell), WiFi Network News (farewell), Salon: Machinist, Near Future Lab, BotJunkie (twitter), and CNN Gizmos.

I followed 18 categories at Free Patents Online, and the site's still alive, though the RSS feeds haven't had any new items since 2016.

In the "news" folder, my picks were fairly standard stuff: BBC, CNET, digg/technology, PC World, Reuters, International Herald Tribune, and a bunch of Yahoo News feeds. The Digg feed's dead; they died and were reborn.

The "Wired" feed folder comprised all the Wired News blogs of the mid-2000s. All are dead. 27B Stroke 6, Autopia, Danger Room, Epicenter, Gadget Lab, Game|Life, Geekdad, Listening Post, Monkey Bites, Table of Malcontents, Underwire, Wired Science.

These were each basically one writer or two and were generally folded into the established mazagine-side arrangements as the Age of Everyone Emulating Gawker came to an end. The feed for former EIC Chris Anderson's personal blog survives, but hasn't been updated since his era. Still going strong is Bruce Sterling's Beyond the Beyond, albeit rigged as a CMS tag rather than a bona fide site of its own.

Still alive from my 2007 "Science" folder are Bad Astronomy (Phil Plait), Bad Science (Ben Goldacre), Pharyngula (PZ Myers) New Urban Legends, NASA Breaking News, and The Panda's Thumb.

Finally, there's a dedicated "iPhone" folder. This was not just the hottest toy of 2007. It was all that was holy in consumer electronics for half a decade. Gadget blogging never really had a golden age, but the iPhone ended any pretense that there were numerous horses in a race of equal potential. Apple won.

Still alive are 9 to 5 Mac, MacRumors, MacSlash, AppleInsider and Daring Fireball. Dead are TUAW, iPhoneCentral, and the iPhone Dev Wiki.

Of all the sites listed here, I couldn't now be paid but to read a few. So long, 2007.

https://boingboing.net/2017/12/29/my-rss-feeds-from-a-decade-ago.html

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