#and then after that go watch frank and bugs stream of it

[smolcatpilot]

Some drawings that I made while watching frankenbugs shipwrecked 64 streams!

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

Seeing as how crane steam engines are a thang, and not just somethign made up for the show: harvey head canons?

Ho hum, I wonder who could be on anon asking about Harvey? <3

Sorry for the wait but honestly I had to watch Season 6 a lot and some seasons beyond a little in order to get some ideas churning.

Now thanks to you I really like the lil bug.

First of all, I mostly am going to steal pretty much every detail of Feige’s Harvey HC post. It is all fire and you should all go read it and reblog it.

But the most useful bit, to me, is their notion that Harvey was not actually made circa 1900 but rather a one-off reproduction commissioned circa 1940. I dunno, it just feels right. I look at that face and I see a guy from the 40s.

I also love Feige's account of Harvey's pre-Sodor history. I modify it, however, to Harvey not going directly from Barrow Hemelite Steel Co. to Sodor in 1974. I see him arriving about a decade later, right around the time the TV series is launching. On the other hand I think it’s unlikely that he got another job anywhere else after ’74 so he might have spent a good deal of time just sitting around Hemelite waiting to be leased or bought. I should also mention the Furness Railway Trust might have played a role here in buying Harvey, even if they couldn’t afford or weren’t interested in overhauling him; they saved a diesel shunter from this same steelworks.

My “joke AU” where lots of non-classic episodes didn’t really happen but reflect the engines getting extremely Machiavellian about their own portrayals and pitching the stories to HiT? Well, it’s increasingly not a joke. Anyway “Harvey to the Rescue” didn’t quite go down like that.

It wasn’t the engines who were down on Harvey for “looking different,” it was the railway board. They spent much of the 80s and 90s enjoying the N.W.R.’s impressive new TVS-related revenue streams and getting a real bugabear about controlling their “brand.” They were very big on “branding.” God, the engines came to despise the word “branding” (so did the once-indomitable FC2, who decided to just effin’ retire because he was completely over of some of these big new shareholders within five minutes of their arrival). By 1990, they still hadn’t approved Harvey’s purchase and there were rumors that they were going to “pass” on him altogether. They just didn’t think he fit the “brand” (which mostly meant the RWS engines… and even back in the 80s, long before Gullane or HiT or anyone else, the railway board kind of wished Duck and really wished Toby just didn’t exist. They couldn’t get rid of them, but they considered them deadweight for publicity. They considered BoCo and Bear the same and that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, let me get back on topic).

Anyway, the engines might have done the usual “frank and unflattering commentary when the see someone who looks different” thing, but they didn’t really give Harvey the cold shoulder because of that; that was just the usual light hazing.

Where Harvey did have an ongoing struggle was just… culturally. Industrial engines have a completely different etiquette from railway engines, who can also be casually classist about these differences. Harvey, bless him, did his best to adjust, but he couldn’t learn all the complicated ins and outs overnight and he kept inadvertently giving offense.

Some of the engines were more understanding than others. Guess which were which.

So yeah, Harvey once jumped the rails because he went too fast onto the loop line and tied up three trains, he (gasp) sorted trains in order of arrival instead of order of Importance, his eyes glazed over in boredom in a lot of yard and shed conversations making more references than he could keep up with…

… Add to all this that it’s generally very embarrassing for an engine when they make some mess that needs to be cleaned up; it’s worse still if you have to be bailed out of a jam by the new guy, and then if it’s “that ugly old hook-on-wheels”… oof.

Oh, then poor Harvey gamely tried to participate in the model-exchange method of bonding. He sent Murdoch a model of a Hornby 9F in B.R. black and Henry a wooden railway model of himself. For Christmas. Oh my God. Oh my God you guys. There was so much wrong here that it would take an essay just to unpack, although his biggest misstep was that the custom is supposed to be that you send your own model off to be accepted by the other. Sending someone their own model? What are you, some kind of creep?

(Henry did sort of spout off along that exact vein. In his defense, he’d taken a couple blows to his pride that year, and also he was very sleep-deprived due to some heavy timetables that month. But flippin’ Gordon and James put him in his place (“He didn’t give you his own model because he doesn’t have one, yeh big green plonker! Get a grip!”) Do you know how embarrassing it is to be schooled in empathy by James the Red Engine? Yeah. Henry finally woke up properly and realised that he was being an arse, that time. At the same time, Arthur was having a similar conversation with Murdoch, who realised that if Arthur was telling someone to lighten up about the rules of any particular thing, then maybe he should just grunt ’ah, thank’ee then’ and go back to sleep as the fastest way to restore peace.)

Then there were all Harvey’s many faux pas at washdown. Oh, washdown. Suffice it to say the politics of who cuts in front of whom at a railway washdown are immense. There are probably 28 different unverbalized algorithms by which the order is determined, and you might think that therefore reconciling all the competing factors is an art-form, but it’s not art, it’s a science and there is always only one correct answer. The North Western, if possible, has a pecking order even more labyrinthine than most railways because they’ve been mashing together rules from clashing cultures (different home railways, different B.R. regions, the sea-change that came post-dieselisation) for 70 years before Harvey even arrived. Even Duck can’t articulate why it is that Engine A goes ahead of Engine B but not Engine C, Edward won’t even try, Thomas actually was once the only engine pretty good at laying it all out in great, rambley detail but then again he hasn’t really needed to calculate it since the 60s because he’s tended to at Ffarquhar or he just always gets to jump to the head of the line, only exceptions ever being pending express engines or some sort of Special Special Special Special (that isn’t his own), and the workmen? They've given up trying to have the least say in it generations ago. “Back in the old days” they would have been in charge of maintaining this order, but it’s gotten completely beyond their ability to comprehend, and besides, they just don’t make ‘em as tough and stern as they used to, so now the engines sort it all out themselves. And while it’s possible to catch up engines whose ways were a little different, Harvey was completely lost and nobody could get him up to speed. Several different times, instead of trying, the offended parties just bitched at him. Harvey went through a phase of avoiding washdown completely, which only lead to getting written up.

This was a problem because, as said, by 1990 a significant portion of the railway board seemed to think the best course of action would be to send Harvey away. Him going around grubby and reluctant to pipe up did not help matters.

Finally… Percy Took Charge.

First, with the other engines. One day he just ran out of patience and flipped out on every single engine at Tidmouth, calling them out on what classist twats they actually were, had always been, had been to Percy for the past sixty years, and goddamn it he was not going to let them spend another generation putting down another useful engine just because he didn’t keep his pinkie out when he drank tea, FUCK Y’ALL. (This is paraphrased. I am taking this liberty, however: Percy was so pissed off that he had lost the powers of speech at different points in his rant and so a good bit of it was composed of angry whistling, hissing, clanking, and wheeshing that is incomprehensible to us humans. However, in engine language these sounds are all enormously eloquent.)

The paint fairly blistered off of them, the engines took this dressing-down with surprising mildness, a few even apologized to Percy privately for past slights, and, while of course it was impossible to unprogram themselves overnight, they made a conscious effort to be more considerate. After this, Harvey no longer felt like every day he was rolling into a social minefield.

In addition to Percy’s fury, the railway board’s indifference may have also helped Harvey’s integration into the N.W. family. Because by 1990 it seemed they were seriously considering “passing” on Harvey, even with the Fat Controller and other directors making it crystal clear what sorts of dark or dreary fates would probably await him. And, once the engines were filled in on this, they were most indignant. Even without having been schooled by Percy, they undoubtedly would have been on Harvey’s side. They were not okay with the idea that an engine (ESPECIALLY a steam engine!) could do good work for them for six years only to be sent away into the hostile world again. Sure, in the 1920s that sort of thing happened all the time, but now it was a chancy time to even be a steam engine, and the N.W. engines all knew it.

Besides, no one had “ol’ hook on wheels” ahead of “the foreign shareholders” on their shitlist.

Still, they were rather stumped on what to do. FC3 was already on their side, but there was a powerful faction on the board that he could not be guaranteed to shut down. And the last time they had sent a deputation to their “branding” board members, the board had formally voted to put it down the engines’ forwardness as a mark on FC3’s management.

So… Percy Took Charge, Again.

Knowing he was perfectly safe, he took a spill off the rails right within sight of the station where directors were disembarking for a board meeting, knowing Harvey would be dispatched to the scene.

Harvey was internally freaking out because his role is not supposed to be picking engines off the track and Percy you dumbass you didn’t.

However, Percy is a nice small thing, and Harvey was indeed just able to manage it. This rescue, right in the sight of a good portion of the railway board, did indeed do a great deal to lift Harvey’s reputation among them. This saved him from being “sent away” for some time.

But he wasn’t officially bought by the railway until much later in the decade when, with the issue still unresolved, the Famous Eight (well, actually minus Duck, who had some reservations about the propriety of this thing) put their funnels together and used their fictional personae For The Greater Good.

(They actually did a lot of this in the ‘00s. Long story. Well, many stories.)

Anyway, they found an ally in none other than Britt Allcroft, who agreed to start petitioning for rights to use Harvey in the TVS.

That changed the politics of the situation in a hurry.

In the end, the engines actually wrote most of “Harvey to the Rescue” themselves. It’s moralistic and preachy coz they wanted it to be a morality tale, both for children (they’d already had a good deal of practice in that sort of thing)… and for the railway board (they were sharpening their knives, y’all).

The young cleaners at Tidmouth—all teenagers—were drafted to transcribe their ideas. It wasn’t easy to parse what everyone was calling out and fussing among themselves over, but the cleaners had a ball. (They also teased Thomas greatly when everyone worked out Thomas’s “public-face” lines, reminding him how he would word this sort of thing when there were no kids around who might overhear!)

Percy was absent for the collaborative writing session. And he was pretty hacked off about his portrayal. (I’m afraid the others were pretty amused by their own cheek in the cutscene to Percy just getting shoved around and losing control of his trucks. “As usual… just another bloody Tuesday amirite…”)

Percy was on board for the engines’ rather savage detail that the railway board should be represented by half-a-dozen identical suit’d figurines. This idea was retained by David Mitton’s people with only minor adjustments:

Memetic.

The Sodor Gazette, about the only organ in the universe that had previously been terribly fussed over the camera-avoidant new N.W.R. boardmembers, was delighted. They now run that still as their photo whenever they report on railway developments that the venerable old newspaper is against.

The board was, as a whole, very displeased to be represented in the show, to have been preached to about how Special it is to be Different by the show, and to discover that this episode contained a writer credit for their own engines, whose writing endeavors they immediately banned from the show.

The engines have continued to pitch and draft ideas for TVS, albeit they never again were credited. (Even after the board was brought to heel, the show was no longer held in high enough esteem that the engines were that keen on taking the blame for some of the big-picture executive decisions. Instead any engines involved were simply “railway consultants.”)

However, despite the fury of some members of the board, there were quite a lot who now felt that there was plenty of rather public reason to onboard Harvey properly. So the purchase was at last completed, Harvey given an N.W.R. number, and there was no longer any thought that he would be sent away. Au contraire, he had a very good run of invitations to promo events by Gullane and HiT!

All this drama is now a couple decades old. Albeit it’s been a long and rocky road, Harvey is now quite happily settled on Sodor. He has been transferred to Vicarstown, where his crane comes in very handy when there are mishaps in the loading or unloading of car ferries, and he enjoys the rather undramatic company of engines such as Rosie, Murdoch, Neville, Molly, Sidney, and Whiff, who live there with him, and Arthur, who is often in and out with goods or passengers from Norramby. However, he is often drafted in to help when Tidmouth or any of the other harbors are facing a particularly busy spell, and he is perfectly content to be sent anywhere, for he’s quite one of the family now.

Ignore that CGI episode where Bill and Ben were able to get inside Harvey’s smokebox. It didn’t quite happen that way. They were pretty brash with their teasing during the one time Harvey was sent to cover for the Brendam shunter. Harvey is a pretty passive, easygoing guy, but he put a stop to that by 'accidentally' picking up Ben and swinging him about. (Accidentally! He swears it was accidentally! ... and it's Harvey, so who knows? Maybe it's even true. Maybe.) The trucks and the boats and basically everyone on site still haven’t let the twins live it down.

Also, yes, Harvey was well forkin’ aware that he could pull a damn train by that point. He didn’t need another well-meaning engine to tell him that. By God. Albeit his first venture onto the main line did basically go down the way it does in "Gone Fishing."

[suddenlysackler]

Limelight

Adam Sackler x Reader

TW: N/A (maybe a lil smidge of angst but nothing major)

A/N: This has been on the back burner for quite a bit and it’s a tad messy but I wanted to put it out for you all because I miss you and I miss my goblin bf and, ya know, Cannes 2021. Thank you for reading, I’m hopeful that I’ll be back more frequently in the coming weeks!

...

Adam Sackler had ascertained very quickly that he did not care for red carpets in the slightest. 

Given what he had found himself struggling through his late teens and seemingly all of his twenties, the relief of finally, finally, finally achieving some sort of steady stream of work and establishing himself as a serious actor provided relief that he could not be more grateful for. 

He liked being able to turn down the $800 a month from his grandmother and moving out of his apartment for good this time, trading up for some swanky new town house in upper Manhattan. He liked being able to afford to be choosy about what jobs he took and he liked that he was able to split his time between stage and screen. Hell, he’d even tried his hand at directing some dumb indie film that landed him right smack dab in the middle of Sundance.

Which is when he found out he hated red carpets.

He absolutely hated the insincerity of all of it — the rushed interviews, the posing for what seemed like hours on end for photographs that he’d probably never even see and he wasn’t allowed to smile for exactly like he’d want to. He hated answering the same questions over and over again and rubbing elbows with reporters from tabloids asking about off screen romances and making it blatantly clear to him that they weren’t interested in the art he had just helped create.

Along the way, maybe five red carpet events into his career, he met you. To his surprise, he didn’t meet you through a mutual friend or at a party or by yelling at you to stop taking food from open containers in the store he was working in. He met you because he accidentally took your coffee on a Wednesday morning before you could grab it and you promptly chased him down 45th street and cussed him out by using every single insult you could manage.

And that’s when things just clicked for him.

Everything fell into place after you came into his life and suddenly he felt even more fulfilled than he originally figured was even possible. He liked coming home to you after long days on set or at the theater. He liked bringing you to see different projects he was working on during production or bringing you to advanced screenings or dress rehearsals. Whenever he got a script, you were the first one he talked to about whether or not to even try for the role. He never wanted to object you to the horror that was a red carpet.

Not until now, anyway.

It was the first time that you had happened to be available for one and, yeah, he had invited you to all of the ones he had been to since you had been together but he didn’t necessarily want to take you. Of all of the things in his world that he wanted to show you, premiere events were the one thing he wanted to shelter you from. You knew about the drinking, the philandering of his early to mid twenties, the string of psycho ex girlfriends who he swore might show up at your shared doorstep at any given time to rip him a new one. Despite all of that shit, you’d some how managed to still like him, love him even. He didn’t want to chase you away with the bullshit that came with his career.

Maybe this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back?

You’d said yes without hesitation and his stomach dropped. He knew you never turned down an excuse to dress up, to impress him and make him feel proud of the fact that you were his girl, just his. So, on the night of the Tony Awards, he sat in the hotel room his manager had reserved for the two of you to get ready with the help of a team of aestheticians and hair dressers and tailors watching you twirl in what was probably the most expensive ball gown you would ever wear in childlike delight. Music of your choice played softly on someone’s phone and you could hardly stay still enough for the finishing touches that were being pushed into your face. You looked and felt like a million bucks and Adam knew that, but how was he supposed to enjoy it? He was too preoccupied with figuring out what he would do if you freaked out on him, threatened to leave him or some shit, after the circus act you were about to parade through in order to get to your final destination of the night.

“You look handsome.” You called from the chair you had been forced into, eyes opened wide for quick swipes of mascara.

Adam was so far gone, lost in his thoughts and strapped with worry. He didn’t hear you compliment him. He didn’t see you get up and he felt as though the force of you slotting yourself between his slightly parted legs was a ghost of a touch. “Hey, doll.” He mumbled when he finally did notice you.

One of your eyebrows quirked up. “You good, Adam?” 

He sensed some wavering in your voices, maybe some concern. Maybe some doubt? “I’m okay, just hate this shit.”

The other eyebrow followed the first. “What do you mean you hate this shit?” You ask as his publicist swept into the room and began to shoo the two of you out the door and down to stand for pictures and questions. 

He held your hand tightly as you weaved down the hall and into the elevator. “I just don’t like this part.” He shrugged and you squeeze his hand as you listen. “Worried it’ll bug you as much as it bugs me.”

“I mean, I’d walk over hot coals to see you in a tux.” You teased, eyes bright. When he doesn’t shoot back with a response characteristic of his normally playful bravado, some of that brightness leaves your expression. “You know I’m just happy to be with you, right? I’m proud of you.”

Adam hummed in response and squeezed your hand back. “I know.”

You weren’t having his clipped answers. “I don’t care that there are going to be pictures or tons of people watching. You know that shit won’t make me think differently of you.”

He remained quiet after giving you another shrug, still completely scared out of his mind that your words were just that, words. That you’d hit the ground running and never look back as soon as you realized just what supporting him at these things entailed.

The silence lasted for the rest of the elevator ride, through the lobby, and in the limousine and in the little holding room they put you in that is riddled with all of the snacks he would tease you for indulging in had the circumstances been different. He was tense, his muscles tight, tight, tight from his jaw to his calves, knee bouncing and free hand clenching and unclenching right until the moment his name was called. 

The moment wasn’t awful to begin with. It’s mostly pausing and stopping a lot of times for Adam to take pictures while you watch from the sidelines and, every so often, he pulls you in for a few. He doesn’t tell you that, in the moments he doesn’t have his arm around you, that isn’t kissing your cheek chastely and holding your hand, that he feels like he’s drowning. 

It didn’t phase you as you listened to reporters hound him about his female costar and whether or not they were seeing each other. It really didn’t even phase you when one man asked you to “step aside” and referred to you as Adam’s friend, despite his tight grip on your waist and the tender glances his stole every twenty seconds or so. And honestly, you didn’t really care that you might have gotten jostled up a little bit by photographers and other reporters as you stepped aside, more than happy to speed up the process for Adam.

But Adam would not have that, not at all.

“We’re fuckin’ done.” Adam growled, his eyes locking on your face as soon as he noticed you stumble a bit. He left without another word to any of the reporters and looked for his publicist, who was beyond livid at the fact that Adam was blowing off his responsibilities without much of an explanation. Before he went up to him, he grabbed your hand and dragged you along with him, not saying another word.

After a hushed but tense back and forth between the two men, the three of you stepped out of the view of the public and quickly found one of the many green rooms for invited guests to cool down and touch up hair and make up before heading into the venue. 

He paced and paced and paced for a long moment, leaving you to sit on the couch and watch with bated breath, praying that his older destructive tendencies didn’t suddenly find their way back to the surface of his psyche. 

After a long while, you finally spoke. “Can you come here?” You whispered, eyes round and, to be frank, a bit desperate. 

Adam came to you without a moment’s hesitation and knelt in front of you, placing his head in your lap and putting your hands in his hair. “Are you going to leave me tonight?” He mumbled into the tulle of your dress.

A soft smile crossed your lips and you shook your head, then moved to cup his cheeks and lift his face up to look at your own. “Now why would I even consider doing that?” You hummed. 

“After that shit show? Any sane person would leave.”

“Whoever said I was sane? Isn’t that why you like me?” 

He chuckled at that and nodded, biting back a comment about how anyone would have to be insane to want to stay with him for as long as you had. “That was just some totally bullshit and you know it, doll.”

You shrugged and shook your head once more. “Nothing I can’t handle, I’ve had my fair share of total bullshit with old haunts showing up on our doorstep, huh?” You made sure to keep your tone teasing, not wanting him to feel as though he needed to shoulder any of the blame for the situation.

Adam laughed again and relaxed visibly for the first time all night. “Do you want to even stay?” He asked, his own voice a bit more reassured. 

“Of course I want to stay, you’re up for an award, dummy.” You giggle, letting your head fall back as he moved up to pepper your exposed neck with kisses and playful bites. “And there’s the after party — I heard there’s going to be some damn good desserts and music.”

He flashed you a smirk when he pulled back and stood, then offered his hand to you. “What is it you always say when I ask to eat out on the way home from shit?” He proposed.

You stood and took his hand, intertwining your fingers and squeezing before walking toward the door. “What do you mean?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Adam’s smirk only widened as he held the door open for you and smacked your ass before letting you go. “We have dessert at home.”

[alinastracker]

If you’re still doing the prompts I have oneeeee hehe

" i mean... i-i'm cool with sharing the bed if you are. "

you got it baby 🥰

but i know something’s starting right now

It’s a sweltering Ravkan summer day, but nothing brings heat to her body like watching Mal in the pool, water droplets racing down his chest. His shaggy hair is a mop on his head, and she realizes this is what he must look like in the shower.

This is exactly why she didn’t want to bring him on the trip.

It’s the first week of July, and for the past three years, that’s meant a trip to the Os Alta Resort with Genya and Zoya. It’s a way for them to relax after exams and catch up now that they all attend different schools. But at the end of May, the two of them had FaceTimed her about a change for this year.  

“We were thinking of taking the boys with,” Genya says gently, nervous for her reaction.

Zoya is frank as ever. “It’s cheaper that way. Besides, after all this long distance, I could use a week of uninterrupted fuc—”

“Zoya!”

“Relax, Starkov. We’re all adults here.”

“Anyway,” Genya cuts in. “We’re just telling you in case you wanted to bring someone, too. Maybe Mal?”

“Mal and I aren’t dating.”

Only in her dreams.

“Might as well be,” Zoya mutters.

So in the choice between bringing Mal on what has basically turned into a couple’s retreat and going to said couple’s retreat alone, she’s chosen the former. It would be fine. Mal knows her friends. Him and Nikolai like to talk sports. Maybe it’ll be a little weird, being the only non-couple, but they could deal.

It would have been fine, if it weren’t for this morning’s check in.

"So it looks like we have you booked for three single rooms," the concierge says.

Alina frowns. "One of those should be a double."

The concierge checks again, each click of his mouse making her anxiety rise. He frowns. "Sorry, miss. It's showing me all singles."

"It's fine," Mal says. "Could we just upgrade it to a double, then?"

"Er, I'm afraid we're all booked, sir."

Nikolai claps his hands together, cheerful as ever at Zoya's side. "Well, I'll just switch with Alina, and Mal and I can — shit, Zoy!"

Zoya had stomped on his foot.

"We are not switching shit," she hisses under her breath.

Nikolai sighs. "My deadly dearest, certainly it's no big deal—"

"I bought us a new toy for this trip. We are not switching."

There is a brief moment where everyone freezes, then Genya groans, shaking her head as she murmurs apologies to the concierge, who is trying hard to pretend he hasn’t heard a thing. The tips of Mal's ears go red, and Alina is sure hers match. David, lost in his audiobook, is oblivious to all of it.

Nikolai clears his throat and turns to the two of them with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, mate. You're on your own."

The concierge slowly raises a finger and says, "We might be able to supply a cot?"

Alina can feel everyone's eyes on her, which is the last thing she ever wants. She has the strong desire to curl in on herself, but that only really works in the winter when she dons large coats and sweaters. But it’s summer, and she is in only a mustard yellow crop top and jean shorts, though she suddenly feels as exposed as if she were completely naked.

Mal takes one look at her and gently nudges his foot against hers. "I mean . . . I'm cool with sharing the bed if you are?"

Her brain is looking for anyway out of this whole conversation, so she nods.

So far, they have been in their room once to drop off their things and change into bathing suits, both of them dancing around the bed without ever touching it. The air in the room feels charged even with sunlight still pouring in. What would tonight be like?

More importantly, how was she supposed to handle sleeping beside him when she can’t even handle watching him in the pool?

Genya climbs on Mal’s shoulders for a game of chicken — David is, unsurprisingly, not in the pool, but sitting beside Alina on a lounge chair. She feels a pang of something like jealousy as she watches the game commence, which cannot be more ridiculous.

They can’t avoid the night forever, and it comes much too quickly despite how long they spend mingling at the resort bar. In their room, Mal lets Alina use the bathroom first. A kind offer, she thinks, until she realizes it leaves her to stake out a spot on the bed first. No more dancing.

Left side or right? Does Mal have a preference? Does she? How long until Mal finishes in the bathroom and comes out to see her staring at the bed like a mental person?

Right side, she chooses finally. She curls up on the left side of her body usually, so this way, she doesn’t have to face him as they sleep. Good call. As she untucks the covers from the bed, she secretly hopes to find something horrifying, like blood or bugs, so they can get a refund and leave. Sadly, it is a perfectly fine bed. Alina plops onto it and tucks herself in.

Mal finishes in the bathroom a few minutes later, and if he’s as rattled about their sleeping arrangement as she is, he does not show it. There’s plenty of space between them as he settles into bed. Maybe this won’t be as bad as she feared.

“Well, goodnight,” Mal says through a yawn.

“Goodnight,” Alina replies.

They each turn off their bedside lamps. Mal is softly snoring soon after, but Alina stays awake much too long for her liking, thinking of how close he is.

They fall into a similar routine for the next couple nights. During the day, all is fine. Their little group meshes well. Genya and Nikolai are often off together, both of them on a mission, it seems, to try every flavor of ice cream from Os Alta's ice cream bar. Or sometimes it’s Nikolai and Mal running off, joining a game of pool volleyball, both of them stupidly competitive. When Zoya gets annoyed with the overload of children at the waterpark, she joins David on one of the lounge chairs to read for a while — Zoya a smutty historical romance and David a nonfiction on modern space travel. We just shouldn't let Jeff Bezos come back, he argues to Genya later, while Zoya murmurs to Nikolai something she wants him to do to her that night.

Alina thanks the saints her room isn’t next to Zoya’s.

The trip is going so smoothly that she doesn’t realize what trouble Sunday brings with it. It’s always their favorite part of the trip: bottomless margarita night. They all have absolutely horrific, hilarious pictures and videos of themselves from the past three years thanks to bottomless margarita night at Os Alta. But the thought of being drunk like that while she’s sharing a bed with Mal?

Okay, so she just won’t drink tonight. Problem solved.

“You can’t not drink!” Zoya says, personally offended.

“Come on, it’s tradition!” Genya agrees.

But she’s determined to hold out. Only when she sees the others with their drinks, she decides one sip won’t hurt. One sip becomes one drink, and one drink becomes a couple. Soon enough, she’s drunk enough to sign herself up for karaoke, another Os Alta tradition.

“I dunno what I should siiiing,” she slurs, swaying lightly on her feet.

“I have the perfect song for you!” Genya cheers excitedly.

So that’s how she ends up on stage, drunk off her ass, horridly singing Taylor Swift’s We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together. She really gets into it, jumping and nailing the talking parts a little too well. But she can hear Genya and Zoya screaming the lyrics along with her, and it only encourages her.

Genya records a Snapchat of her performance, snickering to Mal and David about how she’s going to accidentally send it to the asshole Alina dated last year who’s still entirely too obsessed with her.

Nikolai is the only one of the boys drunk enough to sign up, taking the stage after Alina to perform a disgustingly off-key version of Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. They all agree that Freddie Mercury is rolling in his grave.

By the end of the night, the four of them are totally wasted. David, who had spent the night nursing one drink, his focus on getting Genya her drinks and ensuring that she didn’t trip over herself, has to help the aforementioned redhead up to their room. Nikolai and Zoya are a sight, both wickedly drunk, trying to help each other stay upright. Mal had only downed a couple drinks and is mostly sober, which Alina is very thankful for, as she can’t hold herself up to save her life. She nearly trips on absolutely nothing so many times that Mal finally scoops her into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way to the room. Alina giggles the whole way. 

There’s no getting ready for bed that night. Mal sets her on the bed, and she resigns to sleeping in her red summer dress. When Mal joins her after having a shower, drunk Alina has no qualms curling up against him and sniffing him.

“Mm, you smell good,” she hums.

Mal chuckles even as he tenses. Alina has her arm around him and her face pressed into his side. He’s not sure he can breathe. She’s too drunk to notice the blush on his face.

“That’s probably just because you smell like alcohol,” he hedges.

Alina giggles and shakes her head. “No, you always smell good.”

He doesn’t know what to do with this information, but he does a lot of thinking instead of sleeping as Alina passes out next to him.

Monday morning brings with it a pounding headache for Alina. She prepares for the bright sunlight streaming through the window, but the room is dark when she opens her eyes. Mal isn’t beside her, but he left aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand in addition to pulling out the blackout curtains. She falls in love with him a little bit more. 

The day is a quiet one. The girls and Nikolai spend their time at the spa, Mal and David off doing saints know what. She gets the best massage of her life, and while her head still aches despite the pain pill, seeing Nikolai get his toenails painted bright red makes every sip she had last night worth it.

When they’re in the room again after dinner, tucking themselves into bed, Mal says, “You told me I smell good last night.”

Alina pauses. “I did?”

The night comes back to her. She totally told him he smelled good, and she had closed the space between them on the bed, curling up right next to him. She remembers all of it, suddenly and painfully.

“Oh, saints. Mal, I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have—”

He cuts her off. “It’s okay, ‘Lina. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I don’t?”

Mal smiles an amused smile and leans over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “No, you don’t. Not you. Never you.”

Alina is almost positive she can hear her heart pounding as Mal reaches for something tucked in the drawer of his nightstand.

“For you,” he says, handing her a long rectangular box. “Saw it today when I was out with David and I just— I thought of you.”

She can’t even process the image of Mal and David out shopping together, needing to open this damn box. With shaky fingers, she lifts the lid. Waiting for her inside is a dainty necklace with a gorgeous gold sun charm.

“Oh,” she says softly.

Mal blushes, and this time, Alina notices. “Do you like it?” he asks. “I just thought of you singing last night when I saw it. You’re so bright, Alina. All the time. Just like the sun.”

She has no idea what this confession means, or how she earned it from drunkenly telling him how good he smells — which his really quite good — but her heart has kicked into overdrive. She isn’t sure what, or how, but she knows something’s starting right now.

“I love it, Mal.” She turns so her back is facing him and hands over the necklace. “Will you help me put it on?”

He wraps the chain around her neck. The sun rests perfectly against her heart. She notices every little brush of his fingers against the back of her neck as Mal works the clasp.

When the necklace is secure, they both lay back down, noticeably closer this time. Not as close as last night, but close enough that their arms occasionally brush, close enough that she’ll end up kicking him during the night. Alina sleeps on her right side. 

Their trip might be ending tomorrow, but something better was beginning tonight.

[bookandcranny]

Beatrice - Chapter Three

On a table in what she supposed was the dining room there was a floral centerpiece, dead and rotted. Freesias and baby’s breath were shriveled with blight and yet the dead petals remained frozen in place, refusing to fall. Gianna wondered if they’d somehow been preserved that way intentionally. She couldn’t imagine why, ugly as they were.

Soft footsteps padded across the tile behind her, and for a brief moment the anxiety resurfaced, seizing at her throat.

“Gianna?”

She took in a deep breath, letting floral sweetness flood her senses. “It’s me, Bea.”

Gianna was too stubborn to call out of work in the morning, but stubbornness only got her as far as until the gallery manager saw her flagging at her station and urged her to go home. The fumes from the conservators’ delicate chemistry could be dangerous on a good day if you weren’t careful, she reminded her, nevermind if you were already feeling sick. She wasn’t sick, just tired. At least that’s what she was telling herself. Still, she stopped by the drugstore just in case the faint nausea and light-headedness were indeed early signs of some bug.

On impulse, she also picked up some hair bleach and a box of dye. She hadn’t done anything new with her hair since before moving and her brown roots were starting to look more like branches. Normally this wouldn’t have bothered her except, well, for the first time in a long time there was someone she really wanted to look good for. If she was going to ask Beatrice out, first she needed to be in an attractive state of mind.

All her vanity was in vain however; by the time she’d arrived home whatever sickness had grabbed a hold of her was setting in in earnest, leaving Gianna feeling weak and off-kilter. With the last of her strength she managed to force down a couple painkillers along with a cold glass of water before collapsing into bed. 

When she woke up from her addled fever-sleep her skin was clammy and cold. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and forced herself to sit up, squinting in the dark of her surroundings. Something had woken her. The sound of that finicky overhead light blowing out after she’d passed out with it still on. Somewhere in between the passing out and now, night had swept over the city, but as was its nature, faint fluorescent light still streamed in from the world outside her window. She hobbled over and pried it open.

Though the breeze made her shiver, it also brought with it the sweetness she’d come to recognize as the combined scents of the Rappaccinis’ garden. The familiar smell revitalized her somewhat. Actually, she felt remarkably improved after just a few short minutes of sitting by the window. Maybe all this was just chemical fumes messing with her head. She’d never had a problem with it before, but she’d been working longer hours lately. That combined with the recent stress, of course it would leave her feeling poorly, she thought. 

Down in Casa di Rappaccini there were lights coming from every window and shadows moving before them. Gianna had never even entertained the idea of the family having company. Dr Rappaccini really didn’t seem like the kind of man to throw a house party in the middle of the week. 

Gianna pushed up the screen and went to climb down to her usual spot. It was only when she was hovering with her hands on the railing and her blanket still slung around her shoulders like a cape that she realized just how bad an idea that was. She was liable to break her neck or worse trying to climb down in the dark with a fever, and Beatrice certainly wouldn’t be gardening at this time of night. She was probably inside, socializing and having fun, impressing their guests with her vast horticultural knowledge and reciting poetry in Latin or something. Though it might get her attention, lurking around outside her party on the fire escape was not the way to get a woman to like you.

She returned to her apartment and to her bed, pulling the pillow over her head as if to guard against any more bizarre dreams. After a time, she managed to drift back into uneasy sleep, while violet eyes kept a watch on her window from below.

In the morning Gianna roused to a concerned call from work, but her groggy reply was more than enough to secure her another sick day. She went back to sleep for another couple hours, woke, forced down some more pills and some leftover stir-fry, slept, and finally woke again feeling not quite recovered, but at least somewhat rested.

She staggered to the bathroom and washed her face. Her skin was oily to the touch and her eyes were bloodshot but otherwise she didn’t look too bad, she thought. Recalling the night before, she went to sit by the window and indeed the fresh air made her feel worlds better. Whatever it was that was slogging through her system, she reasoned, couldn’t be too bad. Probably just some twenty-four hour flu or something.

As she leaned her head out the window she caught sight of Beatrice working in her garden as usual and she was out and shimmying down the ladder before she could remember her decision not to.

“Hey,” she called, her voice still slightly rasped with sleep.

Beatrice looked up and beamed at her, although her smile faltered slightly to see the loose curls plastered to her brow. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, is it that obvious?” she huffed, trying to pinch some life back into her cheeks. “I’ll be alright, just a fever or something.”

“That’s why you weren’t here yesterday. I looked for you.”

Something in Gianna’s gut twisted hotly. “You missed me?”

“Of course I did.” 

It was a much more frank answer than she’d expected, and Gianna felt herself blush. No need to worry about her color after all.

“I was worried, I guess. You were acting sort of strange the day before. I thought I might’ve done something wrong.”

“No way,” she assured. Wow, I really am that obvious. “I was just sleeping this thing off most of the afternoon. I sorta thought you’d be too busy to notice, with the party you were having.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “My father was having one of his dinner socials. I couldn’t have gotten away for long either way but believe me, I would pick you over any one of his colleagues in a heartbeat.”

Gianna raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that kind of thing hard on him? With his health, I mean.”

“He hires people for all the preparations and cleaning up after. Father can’t get out very much because of his condition, so this is how he… connects, I think. Otherwise he wouldn’t talk to anyone at all.”

“We all need to connect I guess.”

She nodded, looking away again. “He has his colleagues bring people for me too. Sons or nephews, you know. Boys he thinks would make a good match for me.”

“Oh. That’s… oh.”

“It’s sort of old fashioned, I know. I don’t really-- I don’t like any of them that way. You’re right though, we all need to connect. I used to think I didn’t need anyone else, but lately…”

Cautiously she met her gaze. Her brows were knit together like she was trying to piece together some puzzle in her mind. Gianna thought she should say something, offer some reassurance, but the image of Dr Rappaccini and his equally decrepit associates presenting her with an array of their eligible legacy offspring turned her stomach so sourly that she had to bite her tongue to keep from spewing something venomous.

Luckily or not, before either of them could speak there came a call from within the house.

“Beatrice, come here, girl!”

Gianna bristled but the young woman only turned and said sweetly, “Coming, Father!” She gave Gianna an apologetic glance and then added in a low voice, “There’s something important I want to talk to you about, but I don’t think I can do it here. Come over tomorrow?”

“You mean… like, in person?”

“Yes! Tomorrow my father is going to be out of the house from two to four o’clock. That doesn’t give us long but it’s the only time I can do it.”

Do what, she wanted to ask, bewildered and enticed all at once. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just get coffee somewhere?”

“The code for the door is 5214. Meet me here. I promise it’ll be worth your time.” She fidgeted her hands together. Her eyelashes fluttered. “Maybe I can even show you around the garden.”

Something about the way she said that made Gianna suppress a shiver. 

“Of course I’ll be there,” she said. She hated to miss more work than she already had, but she doubted they would suspect anything. Even now her fingers trembled and some of that clamminess was returned to her skin, but oddly enough, she was feeling better than she had all week.

-----

The name placard next to the buzzer read G. Rappaccini. It didn’t sit right with Gianna, the conspicuous absence of the apartment’s other occupant.

Even though she knew she was expected, she felt compelled to announce herself. She pressed the buzzer and after a moment a quiet voice came through the intercom.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” she said.

“Oh.”

She frowned. “Is that still okay?”

Beatrice let out a sigh. It sounded thin and tinny through the crackle of the speaker.

“Yeah, of course, come on up. Do you remember the code?”

Gianna punched in the numbers and made her way to the apartment. At least this complex had an elevator, saving her the strain of the climb. She was feeling less shaky but at the expense of her appetite which had vanished and made her wary of taking on too much additional strain. Her heart was pounding as it was, watching the floor numbers slowly tick by and thinking about how soon the two of them would be in the same room for the first time. 

Beatrice had never been too eager to meet up with Gianna outside their customary rendezvous, which Gianna had always attributed to her not wanting to leave her father alone for too long. She’d never analyzed her motivations too closely because doing so would mean having to take a serious look at her own.

The truth was, Gianna was scared. This thing she had with Beatrice was different than any relationship she’d had before, for reasons she couldn’t confidently place, and she was afraid that somehow breaking out of the pattern they’d established between them would change things, would tarnish the magic of it somehow.

Too close now to turn back, she stepped into the apartment. Right away the high ceilings and lavish spaciousness inspired a pang of envy. The furniture was antique, yet in pristine condition, everything so clean and crisp that it looked like something out of a catalogue. Not exactly homey. There were several signs of life however: books piled up on an end table in the living room, dishes drying in a rack by the kitchen sink, a stack of empty boxes piled up next to the garbage can. 

There was no TV or telephone, though she supposed that wasn’t so uncommon anymore. But paired with the furniture and the sterile environment it gave Gianna the feeling of being cut off from the modern world entirely. The very idea was stifling to her.

On a table in what she supposed was the dining room there was a floral centerpiece, dead and rotted. Freesias and baby’s breath were shriveled with blight and yet the dead petals remained frozen in place, refusing to fall. Gianna wondered if they’d somehow been preserved that way intentionally. She couldn’t imagine why, ugly as they were.

Soft footsteps padded across the tile behind her, and for a brief moment the anxiety resurfaced, seizing at her throat. 

“Gianna?”

She took in a deep breath, letting floral sweetness flood her senses. “It’s me, Bea.”

Beatrice looked different. Most notably because she was wearing canvas coveralls that seemed to be too big for her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows to make room for a thick pair of gloves. For all the times she’d watched her working in her garden, Gianna had never seen Beatrice actually dress like a gardener. It made her feel a little silly for dressing up herself. She’d, perhaps optimistically, assumed that the first time they met face to face without the span of the alleyway between them would be a special occasion worth dressing up for. Maybe Beatrice didn’t see it that way.

“Are you still feeling sick?” Beatrice asked. “You don’t look so good.”

Gianna forced a grin. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just happy to be here.”

“Here, sit,” she beckoned. “I wasn’t even thinking. I’ll make you some tea.”

“That’s okay, really. I’m not much of a tea person.”

“You’ll like this tea, trust me.”

Gianna found she didn’t have the energy to protest and soon she was sitting in the kitchen holding a steaming mug. It was far from her drink of choice, especially in the summer months, but she gave in and took a sip for politeness’ sake. 

It was good. More than good, it was delicious! As soon as it was cooled enough she drained half the cup in one go. Almost as soon as she had, she found herself feeling better. Her headache was gone and nausea abated. In fact, she was starting to feel hungry.

“Good, right?” Beatrice smirked. As if she had read her mind, she fished out a box of cookies from the cupboard and slid them across the counter to her. “It’s a family recipe, made with herbs from the garden. Everything that grows there is medicinal. You just have to know how to handle them.”

“That’s incredible,” she said between bites. Now that her appetite was finally back it seemed to be making up for lost time.

Beatrice flustered prettily. “It’s not hard when you get to know the plants like I have. The garden was my father’s before it was mine, we grew up together.”

“So the flowers are kind of like your siblings,” Gianna joked.

She beamed. “Exactly like that. Drink your tea. You have to drink all of it for it to really work.”

Gianna did so.

“I know I didn’t say it before,” Beatrice murmured. “But I’m really glad you’re here too. To see you, really really see you, I can’t… there aren’t words, Gianna. It probably sounds crazy but sometimes, when I couldn’t see you, when I couldn’t speak to you, I started to worry you’d disappeared and I would never find you again. Sometimes I even worried you were never real at all. That’s why I… I was afraid to invite you over here. I was afraid to break the illusion, to lose you.”

She stared, speechless, her mouth gone dry. 

“I know how that sounds, I just-- for so long my world has revolved around taking care of father. I didn’t think I could have this, didn’t think I’d even want this. Not as much as I do, at least.”

“Beatrice,” she whispered breathlessly. “I know how you feel.” She reached across the countertop to touch her gloved hand. “I know what it’s like to want something and feel like you shouldn’t. I know what it feels like to be stuck in the shadow of parents who don’t understand you. I promise, you’re not crazy, and you’re not alone.”

The girl made a wounded noise, half gasp and half whimper, and clamped a hand over her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what--”

“It’s okay.” She threaded their fingers together. “It’s okay.”

Beatrice shook her head. “Gianna, I have to tell you something. Something important. Before we get in too deep or you hear it from someone else, I want you to hear it from me. I’m not normal.”

“I know, you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“No!” she cried, frustrated. “I’m not--”

The door creaked open and she spun around, pulling her hand away. Standing in the doorway was the hunched form of Dr Giacoma Rappaccini himself.

“Ah, good,” came the rasping voice of the elderly doctor. “You made the tea. I trust you’re feeling better now, Ms Alexander.”

Gianna tensed, unsure of how to respond.

“Father, you’re home early!” Beatrice chirped with false cheer. “I’ll make you a cup too then.”

“No need,” he said with a dismissive wave of his leathered hand. He set down his bag and shut the door behind him. “I had some this morning, remember? Ah, you might’ve been out in the garden then. You have been busy today.”

She shrunk back under the weight of his stare.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, sir,” Gianna said stiffly with a hand outstretched. “I’m--”

“I know who you are.” His laugh was the sound of dry reeds in a breeze. “Gianna Alexander. I’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since you started to show an interest in my daughter. I was curious to see how things might progress between you two, but considering the circumstances I decided it might be time to intervene.”

“Father--”

“Beatrice,” he reproached. “Going behind my back? Making secret meetings? You know better than that. Apologize to our guest.”

After only a moment’s hesitation she turned to Gianna and said, “I’m so sorry, Ms Alexander.”

Gianna balked. “What? You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I’m afraid that’s where you’re mistaken,” said Dr Rappaccini. “You see, there are proper steps to be taken in situations like this. My daughter should’ve spoken with me so I could arrange a proper interview. We could’ve had dinner. It would’ve been so nice.

“Instead, I had to find out what you were doing and pretend to leave my own home unawares just to get us all in a room together. I’m getting too old to play these games with you, Beatrice. It’s disrespectful to me and it’s disrespectful to our guest.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Her voice had become empty, almost robotic, and she cast her eyes to the ground. Gianna felt a dawning sense of dread at the sight.

“Now then,” The old man pulled up a chair and sat with his hands folded over his lap. “Shall we get down to business? Beatrice, as you know, is a very special girl. In fact she’s the product of years and millions of dollars of research. 

“I’ve dedicated my life to studying the medicinal properties of plants and cross-breeding exotic species to develop into natural pharmaceuticals. Eventually I realized that no amount of remedies I could create in my lifetime would be enough to fix every inherent flaw of humanity, so I shifted my focus. Instead of searching for the perfect cure, I decided to create the perfect human being, one immune to mankind’s deficiencies. From my experience with altering and combining the genetic structures of various plants, I crafted a new, superior breed of human. Beatrice is the product of those tireless efforts.”

Gianna’s head was swimming. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dr Rappaccini smiled ruefully. “I’ve long accepted that I likely won’t live to see my quest come to fruition. It took trial upon trial just to bring Beatrice into the world, and she’s only the first step. More accurately, the first generation.”

He put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Someday, my Beatrice will be the mother to a brand new species, a new humanity. With their drastically increased lifespans, immunity to disease and disorder of the body and mind, and overall genealogical superiority, my creations will rapidly become the dominant species on earth, replacing the feeble excuse for intelligent life that exists now. And, well, with all that revealed, it’s obvious why I couldn’t let this little game of yours continue, isn’t it?”

He looked at Beatrice with an expression that was as a mockery of compassion.

“Socialization is fine, even healthy. I don’t blame you for that. It’s my own fault really, for not providing you with more enrichment and opportunities for companionship here at home. I’ll be more mindful of that going forward. In fact, if you want to continue these little play-dates I am in full support, as long as they’re supervised from here on out. Not for a while though, of course. That’s just what happens when you break the rules, my girl.”

Gianna stood up, slamming her hands down on the counter. “Are you completely insane? This is a person, your daughter, not a pure-bred show poodle!”

Dr Rappaccini spoke to her calmly, a faint amusement in his wrinkled features. “I don’t blame you for your anger, Ms Alexander, because I know it stems from ignorance. Beatrice is special but she also has a volatile, toxic nature the likes of which you can’t comprehend. She needs a guiding hand to help her control herself and make the right choice. Isn’t that right, Beatrice.”

“Yes, Father.”

Gianna stared at her friend in horrified awe. “Beatrice, you can’t possibly be okay with this.”

She didn’t move, she didn’t speak. She gave no indication she’d even heard her. It was as if she had been hollowed out, only the fragile husk of her remaining.

“You can throw as big a fit as you want,” Dr Rappaccini said snidely. “But as long as you are a guest in my home I have to insist you abide by my rules.”

Gianna glowered. She spared one last furtive glance towards Beatrice. Her chest ached. “Then I guess I’m leaving.”

--

next chapter

[buzzdixonwriter]

Tears In The Rain

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe…All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”

-- Blade Runner (David Peebles & Rutger Hauer)

The radar screen manufacturers -- RCA, GE, and others -- started jonesin’ for cash when the end of WWII dried up all that sweat & easy military materiel money.

Commercial consumer television existed before WWII in England, the UK, and Germany but it was a super-expensive technology confined to a few very wealthy homes in a few select markets or in Germany’s case, public venues such as beer halls.

Radar screens and TV tubes were basically different applications of the same thing, so the radar tube manufacturers shifted their production to TV sets pitched to post-war consumers as the must-have status symbol.

Problem: Said TV sets needed something to show and while there was live national network and local programing, most early stations filled their air time with old movies / cartoons / serials / comedy shorts.

That was the cultural gestalt I and other boomers grew up in during the 1950s, an era when much of the on air media dated back to the 1930s.

I’ve always been more culturally observant and curious than others in my generational cohort, and while they blandly / blindly watched Bugs Bunny and Popeye and Betty Boop and Our Gang, I was asking my parents and grandmother and aunt about the odd details I saw in old media (it didn’t hurt that we had a beautiful art deco edition of Collier’s Encyclopedia that my grandparents acquired in the 1920s in the house as well).

As a result I knew far more about the Depression and Prohibition and war rationing and other major cultural events and touchstones prior to our generation than did most other boomers.

When our history and social studies textbooks finally introduced these topics in junior high and high school, I was already intimately familiar with them.

As a result, I fell in love with the Marx Brothers and continue to love them to this day.

And while I watched and re-watched The Three Stooges, once I discovered Laurel and Hardy I left Larry, Moe, Curly, Shemp, Joe, and Curly Joe behind.

But the thing is, to fully understand and appreciate and know and love the Marx Brothers, you have to understand the pop culture of their era.

The same applies -- to a lesser degree -- to Laurel and Hardy.

The key difference is that The Three Stooges are pure physical mayhem:  There is nothing to understand.

They are imbeciles who inflict pain on themselves and one another, and while far, far inferior to Groucho / Harpo / Chico or Stan & Ollie, they will outlast them.

Anybody from any era or any culture can access The Three Stooges, but if you don’t understand a “gat” (short for gatling gun) is 1930s slang for an automatic pistol, then Groucho’s line upon seeing a automatic in a drawer with a pair of derringers -- “This gat’s had gittens” -- is absolute gibberish.

Likewise Laurel and hardy require some understanding of how American cultural values functioned in the 1920s and 30s; if you don’t get that, a lot of their humor is lost.

Our Gang / Little Rascals ages better because kids are kids and much of what they do is universal.

But even there much of their references have to do with the Depression or WWII rationing and scrap drives and if you don’t grasp that then those jokes zoom past you.

The situation isn’t confined to pre-WWII media, either.

The Marx Brothers and Laurel & Hardy might possibly be recognized by the current generation as something their parents and grandparents watched, but the Ritz Brothers are forgotten by all except those who specialize in comedy / pop culture history.  Wheeler & Woolsey are even more obscure, and Olsen & Johnson obscurer still, and if you’ve ever heard of Lum & Abner my hat’s off to you.

And holy shamolley, those are just the comedians we’re talking about.  There’s a whole universe of pop culture lost as fans of old B-Westerns die off, not to mention minor pop stars of music and small movies in the 1930s / 40s / 50s.

Silent movies have virtually disappeared from pop culture today; they are things of the past, historical artefacts.

Thanks to the Internet Archive and Project Gutenberg and Comic Book + and Digital Comics Museum and other sites, literally tens of thousands of hours of old radio shows and countless pulp magazines and comic books and other media are available, but who accesses them today except the truly die-hard genre fans or the pop culture historians?

Why morn their passing?

As Theodore Sturgeon famously observed, isn’t 90% of everything crap?

Yes, it is.

But that doesn’t make it any less of the cultural gestalt, the zeitgeist of the era than the few timeless gems that shine through.

. . .

As pop culture historian Jaime Weinman points out, the boomer generation -- the late 1940s to early 1960s -- offered a particularly fallow time for pop culture.

We enjoyed access to previous generations of pop culture, brought to us in curated form.  Even if those curators were costumed local cartoon show and horror movie hosts, we got at least some understanding of what led up to our own generation.

Weinman observes that because of technical broadcast reasons, only a few avenues fell open to new programming -- and that new programming could be rerun again and again to fill in gaps in local stations’ air time.

It created a generation with remarkably deep pop culture roots, even if relative few members of that generation were aware of them.

We were, to some degree or another, aware of a vast library of older pop culture media and icons and idioms.

Ironically, this began changing in the late 1960s, slowly at first, but coming full flower in the mid-1970s as music cassette recordings allowed us to create our own playlists off radio shows and record players, and cable TV stopped being something for the hinterlands and started penetrating urban markets, thus literally uniting the country with first dozens then hundreds and a virtually infinite number of channels and streaming options.

But the real nail in the golden age of pop culture’s coffin was the introduction of home TV recordings and time shifting, meaning we no longer needed to wait for curated programing but could watch what we wanted when we wanted.

Despite a wider range of options, older material became less and less popular, and the lack of curation is a big part of that.

With nobody to supply some sort of context -- even goofy horror host context -- older examples of pop culture became less accessible.

The newer generations look less to the past, more to the future.

. . .

As I’ve written before, endings fascinate me.

Right now I’m seeing a generational shift with the boomer generation’s pop culture rapidly fading to be replaced by Generation Z and the generations to follow them.

I look at the boomer era and wonder how much will survive.

Very little, I’m afraid.

And that includes losing some of the best our era had to offer.

For example, how many people today know of The Firesign Theatre?

In the mid-1960s through the early 1970s, they performed absolutely brilliant satirical comedy on radio and recordings.  Their album Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers received a Hugo nomination for best sci-fi drama presentation of 1970.

I still laugh when I hear their recordings -- but I laugh because I lived in that era.

Their humor relies heavily on topical subjects and the counter culture of the late 1960s-70s.  They were very much a Southern California phenomenon…and thanks to radio and TV and movies of that era, that culture permeated the entire country.

But that era is gone, and now when I listen to them I laugh, but to use a specific example I laugh because I know who Ralph Williams was and what he meant to Southern California pop culture in that time.

You don’t get that, you don’t get the joke, and the brilliance of The Firesign Theatre’s humor is lost.

Like tears in the rain.

. . . 

Cheech y Chong will survive, because like The Three Stooges, their appeal lies in their basic stupidity.

True, many of their routines make contemporary pop culture references, but material like “Dave’s Not Here” is timeless.

You don’t even have to get the drug references to find it hilarious.

Conversely, the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers will fade.

As characters, they are of a particular time and place:  Hippie dippie San Francisco.

They can’t survive transplantation, as was demonstrated in their last few stories.

Now there’s an animated series that brings them from the swinging 60s to to Trump 20s and it just doesn’t work.

The creators Don’t Get The Joke.

I don’t blame them for failing to get the joke, but updating the Freak Bros. would be like updating the Marx Brothers.

It can be done, but only badly.

. . .

Music will always have musicians and buffs who will track every obscure item they can find, but a lot of the best and most innovative work will be forgotten by mainstream culture.

This is because in many case, the best musicians are way ahead of the rest of their field, and their innovations are only made palatable by others who take them up and reinterpret them in a way to make them accessible to contemporary audiences.

Frank Zappa, as much as I personally love him as a cultural icon, will fade fast after the last boomer dies.

Basically, he didn’t make singable music.

There are a lot of brilliant innovations in his work, but his lyrics are so idiosyncratic as to be impossible to cover.

That, and a lot of his lyrics and subject matter would not be comfortably acceptable today.

Yeah, when he did it he was trying to make a satirical point, but when modern audiences hear it, they don’t hear the sharp commentary on the culture of his time, they hear songs that seem to glorify sexual violence and racial bigotry.

Most of the people who decry so-called “cancel culture” today are hypocrites trying to justify their own offenses, but there will be creators and components of pop culture who simply aren’t going to make the cut.

I can show you on paper why radio’s Amos And Andy was a brilliantly written show.

You’re not going to get modern audiences to accept white actors doing blackface…or black voice.

Zappa is acceptable today because there are still enough people who get the joke.

When we’re gone, so are most of his songs (his instrumentals hopefully will live on).

. . .

Quentin Tarantino’s star is already starting to set.

His copious dropping of the n-bomb seemed daring and edgy in the early to mid-90s now seems boorish and tiresome.

People don’t want to listen to that, and how can you make them watch what they don’t want to watch?

The Hateful Eight might endure since it gives a sorta context for its racial animosity, ditto Django Unchained, but even they will be problematic due to Tarantino’s Red Apple universe -- a world similar enough to ours to be mistaken for it at first glance but ultimately completely different.

Inglorious Basterds will ultimately fail the history smell test by audiences who will perceive it as wildly inaccurate.

Once Upon A Time In Hollywood probably has the least problematic elements in it, but it too is so firmly set in a specific time and place that only those who lived it can truly appreciate it.

When we’re gone, who can follow the pop culture breadcrumbs that lead us through the movie?

Tarantino is a brilliant writer / director, and film students in the know will study his movies to see how he pulled them off…

…but they’re going to move far past him.

(He may enjoy a revival 50 years from now, the way certain film makers get rediscovered a half century after their deaths.  If so, it will be by people able to see past the pop culture references to the real story beneath.)

. . .

Roger Corman and other exploitation film makers aren’t going to as welcomed once the boomer generation departs.

Boomers see them as transgressive artists, tweaking the nose of so-called respectable society.

New generations will see they as creeps who exploited violence and sexism.

(And we shouldn’t mourn its loss; most of it is soft-core pornography.  But there were a few shining moments that shine only if you know the context, and that is fading fast.)

. . .

Superheroes probably won’t die out just as Westerns never completely died out, but like Westerns their audience is rooted in a very particular time and place.

I mentioned B-Westerns earlier; once upon a time there were literally dozens of B-Western stars, each with their own face base and merchandising and movies…

…and now there are no more B-Westerns.

We remember Roy Rogers because he’s culturally referenced elsewhere (and Gene Autry because he left a great big museum in his name).

B-Westerns’ success was based on fulfilling audience expectations, essentially giving the same thing they’d seen before, only slightly different.

Superheroes have degenerated into that.

In their current form, they’re deconstructions based on what a previous generation’s pop culture produced.

The superhero market has been supersaturated in the past and collapsed before.

This time when it collapses it will take along countless near-identical characters and storylines.

What emerges from it will be as different from the current iteration of superheroes as The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly was from My Pal Trigger.

. . .

Likewise, if James Bond is to survive, there will be a drastic retooling of the property.

It is possible; Sherlock Holmes has been retooled often.

The original Connery Bonds, the ones we consider to be “iconic” will eventually be viewed as an embarrassment.

The world and its attitudes are changing, and while there will always be room for heroes, audiences will be a bit more discerning about which heroes they want.

The attitudes of the original Bonds will not fly with future generations.

. . .

Finally, one prospect that will make it into the future, though not necessarily on its own strengths, no matter how significant they are.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 has skewered pop culture via bad movies since 1988.

Supported by a legion of fans, there are several books and websites that annotate all the references found in the various MST3K series.

Scholars 500 years in the future will thank these fans and researchers for their efforts.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 and its various annotated spinoffs will be the Rosetta stone of 20th century pop culture.

It will provide a context to make the jokes understandable, but more importantly than that, it will open a window into what people were thinking and feeling in the last decade of the 20th century.

It and the films it spoofed will be studied with near Talmudic intensity (you think I jest; I do not).  They’ll provide insight that will help future generations and cultures understand this one.

  © Buzz Dixon 

[ducktracy]

177. dog daze (1937)

release date: september 18th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: mel blanc (police dog, spitz, russian wolf hounds), billy bletcher (st. bernard), berneice hansell (puppy)

around this time, friz freleng left warner bros. to reconnect with his former co-workers and friends, hugh harman and rudolf ising, over at MGM. he’d serve a relatively short stint as director there, coming back to WB as soon as april 1939. the backlog of friz cartoons would trickle out until early 1938, where he would then be replaced by ben hardaway and cal dalton. friz has seniority at the studio, going as far back as animating for the 1929 pilot bosko, the talk-ink kid. while this isn’t his last cartoon, it remains an intriguing talking point! he’d make his biggest splash upon his return, directing a number of great black and white porky cartoons and making other little-known characters such as yosemite sam and sylvester, to name a select few. let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, now: here, we’re treated to a number of spot-gags involving dogs—including a drunken st. bernard.

patrons stream into a theater advertising the local dog show. it’s not a ‘30′s cartoon without a celebrity caricature of some sort--a lumbering caricature of humorist/author irvin s. cobb moseys along down the street with his identical looking bulldog. he’s followed by william powell and his pooch asta, both featured relatively prominently in speaking of the weather just 2 shorts ago. and, furthering the connection to the aforementioned cartoon, we get another gag implying that the dog took a leak on a nearby pole: powell marches past a spare pole, when suddenly his leash is yanked from behind, leaving the audience to read between the lines.

another gag that is more reminiscent of the early days of animation: your stereotypical “fat lady” gag, underscored by a rather sardonic rendition of “oh, you beautiful doll”. the woman, in an attempt to fit into the seats, ends up shoving the entire row out of the way. not much to add here: fatphobia funny, right? (eyeroll)

cue the dog puns as we get a look at the line-up for the dog show. a bird dog (as in, dogs who hunt birds) is taken to its literal meaning, perched in a cage and whistling like a bird. the next pen over is an irish setter (sitter, get it?) perched on top of a nest. mama crawls out of the nest to reveal a line of eggs. one by one, they all hatch to reveal a trio of energetic, yappy puppies. points for surrealism. 

next up, a disembodied voice cries “RAIN BLOW THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN!”, curtains withdrawing to reveal a police dog donning a mountie uniform, howling (its howls, of course, provided by mel blanc). this is a reference to the ever popular renfrew of the mounted, a ‘30′s book and radio series about a singing mountie--frank tashlin’s porky in the north woods even served as an ode to it. after that features a spitz hound, chewing on a glob of tobacco and lobbing it at a spitoon. amusing at first, this gag quickly wears its welcome as its featured in a number of other cartoons. spitting gags themselves were more along the lines of the earlier ‘30′s cartoons, right at home in the cruder days of the early harman and ising films.

 a st. bernard booze hound is next to be revealed, drunkenly singing a wordless rendition of “how dry i am”. billy bletcher’s deep bellow is a perfect match for such a big dog: the dog, rather pluto-esque as we’ll come to recognize, will return throughout the picture. the animation of it is rather nice--the physics on the floppy jowls are great. after a fit of hiccups, the dog giggles bashfully.

so, to counteract that high of the dog, our next pooch?

oh, sweet hilarity!

time to make room for more puns, this time plastered on the curtain. the curtain advertises groaners such as “come see our itchings -- canine art galleries”, “are you in the dog house? get a new leash on life supply co.”, and so forth. the spotlight takes its sweet time to roam around each pun, allowing it to really sink in. complete with close-ups! i’m watching the newly restored version on hbomax (which looks gorgeous, by the way), and so i don’t know if it’s the fault of the restoration or if the original print had this issue, but the close-ups are a bit blurry, as if they were having some problems with the double-exposure effects. 

with eye-rolling puns out of the way (and i say this as a shameless pun lover), the audience is treated to a variety of k-9 vaudeville acts, starting with a pair of scottie dogs, who perform the highland fling. personally, i like the camel’s version better in porky in egypt. the spacing of the animation isn’t well distributed here--the movement feels too mechanical. 

the scotties are replaced by a pair of russian wolf hounds, who look like sticks when viewed from the front--a common place gag. animation of the hounds doing the hopak fares better than the scotties, and the barks at the end of the musical phrases are at least passably amusing. as the performance wraps up, the ushankas worn by the hounds turn out to be little black dogs curled up in a ball--once more, a tried and true gag that calls back to the days of the harman and ising era. 

just when we think we’ve had enough groaners: the next act, titled “dog eat dog” features a... wait for it! a dog eating a hotdog. at least the ironic commentary by the sarcastic, pitchy, violin rendition of “where oh where has my little dog gone” alerts us to some self-awareness regarding how lame the gag is. thankfully, the next gag at least got a polite chuckle out of me: the act titled “little man you’ve had a busy day” (in reference to the popular song of the same name) showcases a dog panting and flashing a guilty smile, a line of poles in the backgrounds. two piss jokes in one short! that must be a record! 

what could be considered the song portion of the short follows next, a group of prarie dogs singing “my little buckaroo” with alternate, dog-inclusive lyrics (mentioning pedigrees and the like). the drunken st. bernard from before cringes at the act, howling and carrying on. a hand off-screen shoves a muzzle on him to shut him up (don’t tell PETA!), prompting the dog to force it free. 

instead, the dog accidentally ricochets himself into an open trunk (labeled johnson skating act, a reference to background artist johnny johnson, most commonly associated with tex avery). and, as to be expected, the dog emerges from the trunk slipping and sliding on a pair of roller skates. the animation of the dog on the roller skates is certainly the high point of the short--even the dog’s emergence just slides like butter. definitely worthy of a frame-by-frame watch. 

the prarie dogs finish up the remainder of their song (once more bitten by the double-exposure bug, still wondering if that’s the restoration or the original print?), just in time to allow a shanghaied skating pup to slide across the stage. more great animation of the dog struggling on his skates as he slides into the other wing, his struggle animated on ones (you’ll also note the sign in the background advertising a gross of anvils). he eventually topples over, the barrel on his chest keeping him going until he crashes into a wall. the few smear frames leads me to believe that this is ken harris at work, though i’m far from confident on that claim.

even more great animation as the dog, pluto-esque in his struggle and frustration, struggles to get back onto his feet, his drunken hiccups sending him falling each time. i love when he resorts to grabbing his ass by his teeth to lift himself up, giving a self-satisfied grin at the camera before falling right back down again. frustrated, the dog grovels in his humility, a welcome burst of comedic timing as he shoves the lower half of his body down in frustration, free to mope and ponder in peace. 

next up serves as a rather deliberate callback to one of friz’s most monumental pictures (in notoriety, not quite in quality)--his 1935 entry i haven’t got a hat, that most famously marks the debut of everyone’s (okay, MY) favorite porcine. a shy little puppy timidly pokes her head out from a cardboard standee, clearly in no rush to get out on stage. ken harris’ animation of her resisting the push of the disembodied arm is full of character: her facial expression creased with worry is relatively scribner-esque, another bonus. 

finally, she’s thrown out on stage... facing the wrong way. a whistle summons her to turn around, where she recites “mary had a little lamb”, her squeaky vocals provided by none other than berneice hansell. she starts off... and, in an avery-esque break of character, growls to stage left “awww... this is SILLY!” a book is thrown at her in response. 

in the midst of the puppy’s recital (which is cleverly underscored by “puppchen”), the drunken dog from before still engages in his battle to get up. once more, the animation is more than a treat to look at: the dog, fueled with fury, scrambles to his feet with a running start. the animation glides as effortlessly as the dog, but something off-screen catches his attention: a trunk containing a flea circus.

as you can surely guess, dog crashes, and the fleas miraculously fly (suspension of disbelief!) out of the trunk, ready to cause trouble. in another ode to i haven’t got a hat, where porky was the one mixing up two poems in a recital, the reciting puppy mixes up her nursery rhymes (”mary had a little lamb, the mouse ran up the clock. and anywhere the lamb would go, hickory dickory dock!”) while watching a flea buzz dangerously close to her vicinity, eyes rotating 360 degrees and all.

inevitably, the flea strikes, and the puppy gives a strained remainder of her recital, itching all the way. the main ode to i haven’t got a hat stems here--the puppy’s voice grows exceedingly higher in pitch, the animation of her pacing from side-to-side and eventually off stage directly reused fom the short. it should be noted that, in the original scene, another hansell-voiced animal (little kitty) was giving the same recital of mary had a little lamb. this scene has the benefit of better animation and a little bit more humor, but it’s an interesting callback to such an important cartoon.

fade out and back in to the remainder of the fleas, who are having a hell of a time sopping up the spilled alcohol from the st. bernard’s barrel. one flea fishes in the liquor, another swimming, one more even licking it up straight from the source. the short comes to an end on a quartet of drunken fleas, singing a shrill, obnoxious, hiccup-ridden rendition of “how dry i am”. iris out.

i will admit that, as i reviewed this, the cartoon slowly warmed up to me. i wasn’t at all charmed by the first half: the puns are rather lame, the timing is bloated and slow, and it lacks direction, even for a spot-gag cartoon. it feels overwhelmingly half-hearted: when a director or its crew lacks enthusiasm, that absence is certainly felt. yet, the second half of the short definitely thawed my otherwise cold review. the animation of the st. bernard on roller skates is some absolutely gorgeous stuff. it’s very smooth, very funny, and very tactile. moreover, the puppy’s recital of “mary had a little lamb” was very fun and amusing--berneice hansell never fails to win me over with her vocals. with that said, however, i wouldn’t really recommend this cartoon: there are too many other good friz cartoons to check out. it lacks enthusiasm and conviction, and feels more like a relic of the past, from the prevalence of billy bletcher and berneice hansell (who dominated the pre-blanc cartoons) to the harman and ising-esque gags to the deliberate callbacks to i haven’t got a hat. mainly, i would persuade you to check out the second half for the animation of the roller-skating dog, and maybe add the recital sequence as an extra incentive. but, for now, this is a largely unremarkable cartoon that you can skip without feeling too slighted.

yet, with that said: the short is available on hbomax if you have it, where i got the screenshots from! if not, you can check out a lower-quality version here. better than nothing! 

[nicostolemybones]

The Battle of Area 51

“This is not a game,” Nico lectured sternly, and Percy snickered. “This is no laughing matter, Jackson! Okay, let’s run through the plan one last time! Ares cabin, Clarisse, you’ll lead the charge, take down the guards, lay down cover fire for the Naruto runners! Poseidon Cabin, Zeus cabin, you guys whip up a storm to help the Ares cabin! Apollo cabin and Hunters of Artemis, you’re the snipers, I want you on high ground firing arrows at them! Aphrodite cabin, charmspeak those guards to let us past and to give us access codes to all the rooms and spill all the secrets! Hecate cabin, use the mist to make decoys! Nemesis cabin, remember, this is vengeance for all the imprisoned aliens and that’s why you’re here! Demeter cabin, slow the guards down with thick vines and poisonous plants! Athena cabin, you’re working on infiltrating and hacking all the computers! Hephaestus cabin, burn down gun stations, jam missiles, Festus can burn down doorways, I want to see you guys working on all the technology we steal and I want you all to figure out all the machines inside and use them for our advantage! Dionysus cabin, get them drunk, make them temporarily mad, weaken their defences! Iris cabin, use your abilities to disorientate and distract the guards! Hypnos cabin- CLOVIS WAKE UP- send the guards to sleep when you can! Hermes cabin, you’re stealing and sneaking in whilst the guards are distracted! Hades cabin- well Hazel- summon obstacles and summon weapons, shadow travel aliens to safety. The rest of you, just fuck shit up with your abilities! Romans; same rules apply, and follow the orders of your Praetors, do not go against orders unless necessary!”

“LET’S CLAP SOME ALIEN CHEEKS!” Connor yelled. Nico glared at him, whilst the younger campers plus Percy erupted into giggles.

“There will be no clapping alien cheeks,” Nico sighed in exasperation, “no alien cheeks will be clapped by anybody, by Olympus what the Hades is wrong with straight people?”

“Wait you’re gay?!”

“Yes but that’s not the point, just- go blend in with the mortals! Solace- you’re with me, we’ll go in with the Naruto runners and you need to make sure we don’t infect the aliens and they don’t infect us, and treat the wounded.” Percy wolf-whistled, so Nico summoned a skeleton to smack him round the back of the head. The group of demigods dispersed amongst the mortal army- which wasn’t much, but between the Kyles, weeaboos, tumblr trash, and Naruto runners, there was a fair few, and some cosplayers, DnD players, and medieval recreation nerds seemed to have a fair amount of weapons and armour- even if most of it was plastic light sabers, Klingon Bat’leths, and various other fantasy weapons.

Everything was quiet for a while, and the battle was more a staring down contest between the guards and the civilian raiders. Phones were beginning to live stream, and that’s when the Stoll brothers yelled the immortal battle cry “DO IT FOR THE VINE!!!” and the mortal crowd roared and cheered, repeating the battle cry.

“PEANUT BUTTER!!!” Tyson yelled as the crowd surged forwards. Nico screamed, Naruto running as fast as he could towards the guards, summoning skeleton armies of Naruto runners to back them up, but as soon as the guards opened fire, many Naruto runners gave up and turned away running back, or decided it best to run “normally”. One dedicated man had turned his electric wheelchair into some kind of turbo charged mini tank shaped like a Dalek. Fortnite dancers fortnite danced as they charged, Harry Potter fans desperately yelled out Unforgiveable Curses. Stargate fans dressed as Jaffa and Goa’uld warriors charged with staff weapons and pellet guns, some wearing “Free Thor” t-shirts- but not Marvel’s Thor or the Norse God thor- but rather the tiny alien guy Nico recognised from when Will made him watch Stargate. The Stargate Atlantis fans came dressed as Wraith instead. Marvel fans were clad in full superhero gear, although some fights had broken out between them and the DC fans. Star Wars fans dressed in Jedi robes. Clad in armour, the demigods didn’t look out of place. Nico was pleased to see the Egyptian magicians being lead by Sadie and Carter Kane, Magnus Chase and Samirah al-Abbass leading the Valkyries, Alex Fierro next to Frank Zhang shapeshifting into whatever they could. Alex stopped occasionally so she could spray mace into the eyes of Terfs.

Nico shadow travelled at the last minute, grabbing hold of Will and pulling him through the shadows. Will didn’t slow down when they emerged, and the image of Will Naruto running headfirst into a wall was going to be a source of laughter in Nico’s mind for many years to come. Thankfully, he didn’t do a Jason and knock himself out. “Ah fuck, I can’t believe you’ve done this!” Will gasped, and Nico raised his eyebrow. In the distance, they heard Grover cause a Panic- although it didn’t affect the guards about to shoot Will in the face, so Will let out a shrill whistle and Naruto ran for it.

“Dork,” Nico jibed, pulling Will into the shadows again. Nico meant for them to land inside an aircraft hangar- but it soon became clear that they were inside some kind of alien spaceship.

“Holy Hera,” Will gasped, “Nico THIS SHIP HAS A STARGATE! NICO LOOK THAT IS A STARGATE, IMMA DIAL ABYDOS-”

“Focus, Solace,” Nico warned, “we can do that once we get this back to camp. I wasn’t allowed to drive the sun chariot so I’ll drive this time.”

“I get the feeling I’m gonna die if I let you drive,” Will replied, and Nico huffed.

“That’s if I don’t kill your stupid face first,” he retorted proudly, and Will snickered, looking around the ship.

“OH MY GODS NICO THERE’S A LIGHT SABER HERE!”

“DIBS THE RED ONE,” Nico yelled, rushing over and grabbing one, almost decapitating Will in his excitement.

“We should summon up a certain ghost,” Will grinned.

“Are you suggesting we prank call Castellan?”

“Nico, dude. You have to, for humanity. Do it for our children.”

Several runs to McDonald’s later and Luke Castellan’s ghost was confronted by Nico in pitch black armour and a light saber to speak the immortal words: “Luke, I am your father.” Luke’s ghost laughed. The gods applauded from Olympus. Will was unable to get up off the floor through his raucous laughter.

After several minutes of exploring the craft, the two demigods were armed with phasers and now possessed the infinity gauntlet- although they both agreed not to let Percy near it in case he dabbed rather than Thanos snapped at monsters. Nico shadow travelled a fair amount of the loot back to camp, where Chiron stood facepalming and shaking his head. This is when Nico learned that the Party Ponies had joined the raid and found out that Monster Donut were sponsoring Area 51. Nico returned to find Will making a flower crown for a baby alien he’d found hidden in the glove compartment. “Is that what I think it is,” Nico questioned, and Will smiled.

“An alien? Well yeah.”

“No, I meant a baby. Are you seriously holding a baby?”

“Yeah, a cute little alien baby, I made them a flower crown and put a bow in their hair! Well I hope it’s a baby otherwise I just told a whole-ass adult I’m their daddy now.” Nico choked- Will didn’t appear to realise the innuendo his words would have turned into if the alien was an adult. Will appeared to have adopted an alien child and that somehow melted Nico completely. Stupid son of Apollo being a perfect dad to an abandoned alien baby found in the glove compartment of a space ship.

“You can’t just raise a child, Will, the parents won’t pay child support and you’re like- fifteen and you look- you look twelve, okay, you look like a foetus!”

“Nico I’m only two months older than you,” Will laughed, “I’m still fourteen like you are, idiot. Although technically you’re ninety, you can be the grandpa.”

“I’m not going to be your daddy, Solace,” Nico replied, forgetting how it may have sounded like an innuendo, and Will choked and spluttered.

“That word is officially banned,” Will squeaked, and Nico quickly nodded in agreement. Thankfully before it could get any more awkward, the alien child started to cry. “Oh my gods Nico what do I do with it?”

“Does it have an off switch or batteries you can take out like the babies they give you in school?”

“Um- I can’t see any off switch, Nico, what do I do?!”

“You’re the doctor! Sing to it! Just don’t do a Hera and yeet it off a mountain or out of a window, I don’t need you Percying this into a worse situation than it already is!”

“Oh my gods I’m a single parent before I’ve had the talk,” Will whined, trying to hum a lullaby to the alien baby, which screeched, turned into a bug, and ran. Will shrieked and Nico accidentally summoned a pile of alien skulls. “Hey! My singing isn’t that bad,” Will protested, and the alien bug screeched again and shot some kind of web at Will’s face. Will squealed, trying clumsily to wipe the webbing off his face. Once Nico stopped laughing, he helped to pull the webbing out of Will’s hair, although once he managed to detangle the last of the webbing, he found himself enthralled by the soft bouncy texture of Will’s hair. It was curly like Nico’s, but dryer to the touch, probably a testament to the hours of sunbathing Nico figured Will had to do in order to stay tanned all year round. He didn’t realise he was obsessively caressing his best friend’s hair until he felt Will’s hand on his shoulder. Nico gasped, snapping his hand back and muttering an apology, but Will merely smiled and gods that smile melted Nico. “Fellas, is it gay to kiss your homie at Area 51,” Will asked to nobody in particular, and Nico found himself turning puce as Will leaned in, placing a gentle but certainly not platonic kiss on Nico’s lips. Nico’s brain seemed to short circuit, skeletal butterflies resurrecting down his spine and in his stomach.

When Nico’s brain finally managed a coherent thought, all he could manage to say was “that’s gay.”

Will snorted, resting his head on Nico’s shoulder as he laughed silently. “You’re gay,” he finally replied through giggles.

“Well you kissed me, you’re gay,” Nico retorted with a huff.

“Yeah, but is it gay if it’s your homie and you’re in Area 51,” Will asked with an impish grin, lifting his head and giving Nico a mishievous grin.

“We are gay, you dumbass,” Nico replied, lightly shoving Will’s shoulder.

“I guess we are,” Will replied with feigned thoughtfulness lacing his voice, “maybe we should make out just to be sure.”

“Don’t push your luck, Solace,” Nico said sternly, and Will pouted comically. Nico stood on his toes and leaned up, but he was too short to reach, so Will leaned down and Nico was finally able to place a rough kiss on Will’s lips.

And of course, that just had to be the exact moment to hear a chorus of “two bros, chillin’ in a space ship, five feet apart ‘cause they’re not gay!” They broke apart immediately, startled by the presence of an Iris message showing Percy, Jason, Leo and Piper all grinning stupidly at them and Annabeth rolling her eyes.

“I’ll kill you all if you dare tell anyone,” Nico warned, raising skeletons to chase after them- although the skeletons were certainly not human. Leo and Percy screamed and ran, whilst Piper and Will laughed loudly. Jason merely raised his eyebrow, and Nico shrugged in response.

“So, that’s your type, huh,” Percy grinned, “I never thought we’d share a type!”

“What,” Nico snapped.

“Bossy blondes,” Percy replied, and Jason and Annabeth glared daggers.

“I agree,” Piper chimed in, “bossy blondes are worth the trouble.” This time, Jason and Annabeth both blushed.

Nico shrugged, looking back to Will, who seemed to be pre-occupied with the Stargate behind them. “Well, this one’s my bossy blond,” Nico replied fondly.

“Troublemakers are my type,” Annabeth replied, and Percy and Piper bowed proudly, “and Jason’s.”

“My type is pouty emo kids with long hair and sexy accents,” Will replied, and Nico blushed darkly.

“Your type is troublemakers,” Piper replied, “the ideal OTP formula is bossy blonde and troublemaking brunette, you can’t change my mind.”

“Whatever,” Nico protested. The Iris message cut off when a fight broke out between a Star Wars stan and a Trekkie.

“So,” Will began immediately, “can we be boyfriends now?”

“Only if you keep PDA to a minimum,” Nico replied, and Will beamed, glowing a warm amber light. Before they could do much more, however, a loud explosion ripped their attention away from each other. They both ran out to find the source of the explosion, and that is where they found Clarisse refereeing a battle between Shaggy and Thanos. The Stolls were running a betting ring, and Nico was sure they were all gonna die. But hey, it was a room full of Millennials and Gen Z, so nobody seemed particularly bothered by the danger of the situation, because this footage would certainly be legendary. Thanos snapped, and Shaggy disintegrated, only to reform using 1% of his power and steal the gauntlet. Shaggy dabbed, and Thanos was no more. Clarisse blew her whistle and the fight was over- the most epic showdown in human history and it had only taken seconds. Within minutes, lightening struck, and that was the moment Percy groaned loudly in realisation that the gods had been responsible for Area 51 all along.

“FUCK YOU, ZEUS,” Percy yelled, and the lightening would have struck him if it wasn’t for Shaggy eating the lightening bolt and letting out a loud burp.

“Do you have any wisdom, O mighty one,” Kayla asked, bowing at Shaggy’s feet.

“Sometimes you just gotta eat the enemy, man,” Shaggy replied, and the demigods let out a collective awed ‘ooohhh’. It was that moment that Shaggy burped out a heart-shaped arrow, and Nico realised that Shaggy had vored Cupid. Nico felt a smug grin break through his usually stoic expression, and Jason cheered loudly from the sidelines.

“Anyway, Shaggy said gay rights,” Will grinned.

“Actually, young man,” Shaggy said, gently resting his hand on Will’s shoulder, “I say gay and trans rights. And on that note, I think I might assassinate the president! Until next time, guys, gals, and non-binary pals!” And with that, and a wink to Alex Fierro, Shaggy dissipated into the wind, enraging the bigots and empowering the queer kids.

The raid continued into the night, the Stolls helping to take technology back to camp and Clarisse leading the charge against the military. It was only when Nico and Will made their way to the middle of the camp, all of the aliens freed and all technology liberated, that the end of the raid was in sight. Nico opened the final door, the entire raid party behind them, to find Rick Astley tied to a chair, singing Never Gonna Give You Up. It was then that they realised: they had been Rickrolled by the government.

[onestowatch]

Jimi Somewhere Dives Into an Angelic, Crisis of Faith on Latest Single "Jesus" [Q&A]

Jimi Somewhere is the brainchild of Benjamin Schandy, a 22-year-old artist hailing from Hokksund, a charming town in Norway. Jimi Somewhere's music is influenced by the imaginative work of renowned filmmaker Spike Jonze and the outstanding artistry of Kendrick Lamar, Kevin Abstract, and Frank Ocean. Jimi ties his contemplative lyrics with frenzy electro-pop, ornate hip-hop beats, trippy pop, and multi-layered vocals to produce his very own signature resonance.

Today, Jimi Somewhere shares his new single "Jesus” off his forthcoming debut LP, Nothing Gold Can Stay. We caught up with Somewhere for a quick Q&A about the track's grandiose and "larger than life" feel and the inspiration he pulled from the Christian summer camps he attended growing up.

Ones to Watch: This song has a very spiritual tone and is named after a spiritual figure. It sounds like throughout the song, the main character is going on a spiritual journey or crisis of faith. What is this song about to you, and how did this song come to be?

Jimi Somewhere: A crisis of faith is a good way to put it. That's what it's about to me: faith, doubt, and values. I grew up and out of the church myself, and after I stopped going, I kind of had to reflect on which one of these values to bring along with me in life. There was a lot I was taught in church that I didn't agree with, but then again, a lot of it is just about empathy and humanity. But I needed to have space to figure that out for myself without having any voices in my ears. That's what inspired me to write the song. I was just so frustrated with everything and needed to breathe. Music is also very therapeutic for me. I use it to get it all off my chest.

What was the creative process like for the single? What made you want to go for this very omnipresent, iridescent sound for the track? Were you inspired by anything in particular?

We kind of wanted it to sound like these Christian songs that we would hear at various summer camps growing up. They always had this "larger than life" feeling. You're in the crowd singing, and you feel like you are a part of this big thing. That's what we're chasing. A Hillsong type beat. Only felt right considering the themes on the song. Other inspirations for the song is Coldplay's early stuff, which has been very important to me. The emotional but pretty sadness they often present.

Do you consider yourself a spiritual person?

I'm not sure. I don't think so. I can, for sure, say I feel very connected though. Like I'll be in nature, and I'll take it all in. But on a day to day basis, I wouldn't say I'm very spiritual. It's something I'd like to dive more into as I'm getting older because I believe the universe is bigger than just us and what you see.

I found myself deeply connecting with a lot of the lyrics, especially the line "I've never met Jesus, but you're the closest to Heaven I've ever come." Do you have a favorite lyric from this track or one that speaks to you? What is your approach when it comes to songwriting?

"For everything I never told my mother, always comes back to get me" is a line I really like. Because it's so true to me. Every time I go against my mother's advice, it ends up negatively affecting my life. So listen to your mothers! They do know best.

Songwriting to me is just kind of throwing up. Just everything I have pent up inside. I don't want to overthink it because if it becomes too conscious, it's usually not that good. The best stuff just falls out.

Kacy Hill's voice is so stunning and perfectly compliments the sonic chaos when she comes in halfway through the song. What was working with her like, and how did she get involved with this single?

Working with her was so sick. She's literally the sweetest person. I've been a massive fan of her for many years and suddenly found out I had a mutual friend. So after bugging him to ask her to come to the studio, she did! I was so embarrassed the first time she came to record but because suddenly our audio interface didn't work. We got all sporadic and were trying to fix it but couldn't. I was thinking like she would hate us for wasting her time and that we blew our shot. But she was so nice about it and came back the next week.

She really just went into the studio and did that. Me and Milo were in the other room, shaking and jumping around. It sounded crystal clear and angelic from the jump. I think her verse brings this comfort and hope that the song was missing. Because it's not all bad, you know. There's light at the end of every tunnel. It was important to me to have that emphasized in the song, and she did that perfectly.

I know "Jesus" is a single coming off of your upcoming Nothing Gold Can Stay. How does it fit into the album overall?

It's one of the first songs on the album, and I thought it would be cool to open an album with such an honest track. Keep the book open from the beginning. The album is also me reflecting on all these things ending in my life. During the ages of 16 - 20, there's a lot of moving out, losing friends, growing up, graduating high school, etc. Faith & wanting a sense of belonging has been a big part of my life during those years so it was important to me to talk about it on the album.

What can people expect to hear from the new LP? I'm sure there's only so much you can share about the album and want to keep a lot of it as a surprise for your fans. Can they expect the same emotional, nostalgic, summery themes from your previous work, or do you feel like you're going in a different direction? Or is Nothing Gold Can Stay going to be a healthy mix of something old and new?

There's for sure a lot the same themes as in the previous work. This is my debut album, so we wanted to make it as "Jimi Somewhere" as possible. Everything else has been building up to this, so we weren't afraid of being a little cliche with it. I just think that's fun. There's definitely some new directions on it as well though. Both sonically and thematic. We never want two projects or songs to sound the same.

Has the pandemic effected you or inspired you as an artist? If so, how?

It just gave us time to create a lot. I live with my producer, so when lockdown happened, we kinda were like, "Ok, let's just be here and work!" We've made so many songs this year. I also got to add that I live in Norway, and we handled it all pretty well in the beginning, so life has been a lot more normal here than what it looks like in the States.

Once the world comes to a state of a new normal, what's the first thing you want to do?

Go back to America! I had so many plans before the pandemic, so I'm trying to make them all happen once I can. But it's just not safe, yet so I'll stay on this side of the ocean until then.

When shows and concerts are back, who do you want to see, and who do you want to tour or play with?

I was supposed to see Taylor Swift live this summer, but it, of course, got canceled. Hopefully, I'll get another chance next year. Just so cool to see such a big production. There's always that dream of doing stadium shows in the future, so I would be in the crowd taking notes. I'm also a huge Taylor Swift fan, so it's the best of both worlds.

Dream tour would be with Lorde because she's been such a big influence on me, and I love her live show. Would not mind hearing 'Writer in the dark' live 30 nights in a row. I also feel like I could learn so much from her. She's only a couple years older than me but seems so wise. So yeah, Lorde, I'm here if you need me just call!

Who have you been listening to throughout the pandemic? Are there any Ones To Watch?

I've been going through so many phases. I had this big Jill Scott phase, where I just listened to "The Light" on repeat all day. Watched this movie "Weathering with you" and got obsessed with the soundtrack. When it comes to Ones to Watch, I wanna recommend this Norwegian band Veps. They're completely new, but my friend sent me their music during quarantine, and it's so good. My favorite song, "Do I Hear a Maybe," is this really sweet, garage rock track with a big hook that I've been screaming around the apartment ever since I heard it. Very fire.

Stream “Jesus” below.

[pettyprocrastination]

I Don’t Think We’re On Earth-65 Anymore Cop!Frank Castle x Spider! Reader

@wolfmothar @marvelobsessedteen @majorcdanvers @jarvis-ismy-copilot

Summary: Jitterbug learns more about the harsh anti-hero from this universe.

Chapter Twelve

“So, you're from another dimension?”

Frank had seated himself on an empty crate and watched the woman slowly examine the inside of the tarnished tech. When she began to work Matt had gone out to guard the building for cops and Frank asked if she needed any help. After seeing her “glitch” as she put it, he got protective and antsy, wanting to do what he could to keep her from harm's way.

“Sure am.”

“And what’s your name?”

She didn’t look away from her work to answer his interrogation. “Jitterbug.”

He raised a brow. “Certainly leaning into the gimmick, aren’t ya?”

She snorted and dropped the tools in her hand. “Oh I’m sorry. I should have picked something way more subtle, like The Punisher.” The man fell silent and she sent him a smug grin over her shoulder. “Nice vest by the way. Really gets your hot topic aesthetic across.”

Frank cracked a smile. He had a pretty smile, it reminded her of when her Frank would have his kids stop by the precinct.

She ignored the way the term Her Frank made her stomach twist into knots.

“I guess you got me there mam.” A silence lulled over the two as she worked. The Stark-tech was salvageable enough and if she worked hard then maybe she could get home. But the real question was whether she had time before her body disappeared into a scattered pile of molecules.

“So youre the uh, Spider-Man in your universe? What’s with the color scheme, somebody already snag up red and blue?” She could hear him smile at his dumb joke.

“Says the guy wearing all black.”

“Touche.”

Frank left his spot and walked over to her, sitting on the edge of the table as she worked.

“Red told me you're real fast.”

“That’s an understatement but okay.”

He chuckled at her boast. She was certainly confident.  “Alright then, so why aren’t you using that spider-speed right now?”

“Going fast can be..too much sometimes.” She never took her eyes off of  her work as she spoke, her hands moved fluidly along the machinery. Frank was impressed. “It can cause me to miss things, and right now there's zero margin for error.”

“Well, anything I can do?” She looked over and saw the concern on his face. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Frank scrunched up his brows. “What’s got you gigglin’?”

“Nothing I just-” She remembered her Frank having the same look on his face whenever she charged off to save the day. Granted his was accompanied by pulling his hair and shouting after her, but it was the same look of “Please don’t die” that she had learned to appreciate. “I can’t believe how different you two are, but still so damn similar.” She went back to her work. “It’s crazy.”

“Who, me and Red?”

“No. You and my Frank.”

The vigilante raised a brow. “Your Frank?”

“Yeah.” She paused for a moment and realized what her words meant. “I mean Frank from my dimension! Not my Frank as in my my Frank. Just, the Frank I know. You know?”

“Uh hu.”

“Stop that.” He laughed from behind her.

“Stop what?”

“You’re smug, I can hear it.”

He leaned against the table and shrugged. “Naw, just curious is all.”

“Curious of what exactly?”

She should be working. She really should. But seeing his cocky stance and taunting smirk, she couldn’t help but humour him.

It was almost like talking to her Frank-the Frank from her universe. Constantly snipping at one another but knowing that if shit hit the fan, they had each other's backs.

“What I’m like.” He explained. “Am I super hero like you? Spandex and all?”

She snorted into her hand. “God no! You hate heroes. Barely tolerate me to begin with.”

“That so Bug?”

She smiled. Even in a different username she still had that stupid nickname.

“You're a cop, actually.”

Frank scoffed pushed himself off of the table. “Get outta here.”

“No really! You're a real good one too, leader of the special crimes task force and everything. Bit of a hard-ass though.” She didn’t tell him that she and Gwen secretly called him Captain Tight-ass behind his back. Or the fact that she thought he actually had a pretty nice ass.

That little tidbit would just stay with her.

“Me as a cop?” He shook his head and smiled. “Hm, yeah that’ll be the day.”

She turned back to her work with a shrug. Thank God for whatever all powerful being was watching over her, because she had all the right tech laid in front of her to get it done. “Your kids really seem to get a kick out of it.”

Frank’s head shot up like he had been slapped. “What?”

“Yeah. I've seen ‘em visit you at the precinct before. It’s real cute.”

“My kids are alive?”

Jitterbug froze. “Of course they are. Why wouldn’t-” She turned to the man and what she saw shattered her heart. The once big and harsh hero turned small. His eyes wide and teary, broad shoulders sunk in and he just stared at her in shock. She didn’t know anything about this Frank Castle besides his use of guns and odd attire, she had been completely in the dark that his family had been massacred until that very moment. “Oh, fuck. Frank- I. I didn’t know I’m so sorry.”

“My wife.” His hand shot out and gripped her wrist, tugging her close. “My wife alive?”

“Yeah.” Jitterbug assured him. “Your entire family is. You-you had two kids, right?” Jitterbug prayed to God he did. She couldn’t just get his hopes up like that.

“That’s right. I did, little Lisa and-and Frank Jr.” He smiled through the tears and laughed.”My precious babies are alive?”

Jitterbug bit back her own tears. “Yeah, they're all alive Frank but,” She remembered overhearing some cop talking about their captain and the divorce he was going through. It had been a civil affair from what she heard. That they worked better as friends than lovers, and stayed family with no bad blood. But she didn’t think he’d understand that.

“But what?” His grip on her hand turned iron hard. “They hurt?”

“No!” She laid her hand on his chest in reassurance. “They're safe but, not,” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. To let him know his entire family was alive, but not happily married would surely break him.“-Not with you, Frank.”

He frowned. “The hell does that mean? Not with me? They-they missin’ Jitterbug? Is that what you're telling me? You tellin’ me that-”

“You got a divorce, Frank.”

He let go of her and fell back into his chair.

She took a cautious step toward the silent vigilante.

“Listen, it’s not that bad I-”

She jumped in surprise as he began to laugh. A loud, howling, belly-shaking laugh.

“Frank.” Her voice was a meak whisper, “It’s okay I-”

“Even when they're alive,” She could see the tears streaming down his face as he laughed at the bitter irony of it all. “I can’t be with them. Fuckin’ christ! Show me the irony in that, right?” His laughter slowly melted into silent sobs, each shaking his body as he mourned a new loss of his family. A sick twisted joke by God no doubt.

Frank Castle. A man destined to be alone, no matter what dimension or universe.

Jitterbug’s one way home was forgotten as she wrapped her arms around the larger man. He didn’t push her attempt of comfort away, he just stood still as she laid her head on his.

“If it’s any comfort. They really do love you.” It was a weak attempt to help him, but she honestly had no idea what to do in this situation. Her Frank never showed any emotion besides annoyance and concern.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah thanks.”

“No really. You uh, you take them for rides in your car. Pick ‘em up from school like that and everything.” She smiled at the memory. She just stopped a robbery when she saw captain tightass himself drive up to a middle school in his squad car, loudly announcing for Lisa and Frank castle Jr. to come out with their hands up ready for a hug.

“They like it?”

She snorted. “God no! Theyre thirteen year olds, they get all red and embarrassed and pretend you don’t exist.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” He chuckled at the image. Surely Frank Jr. would stomp right by him into the car, grumbling about how he was the worst. Lisa would be embarrassed as well, but her smile would break through at the sight of her dad.

“You're such a dork.” She’d huff as he gave her a big hug.

“You know it sweetheart.”

“They really love you frank.” He looked at Jitterbug. She was kneeled in front of him, hands on his shoulder as she looked into his eyes. Her eyes were big and brown, filled with worry.

For a moment she looked like Maria.

“They're safe, Frank. Safe and happy and loved.” He blinked the image away. Christ, even her voice. So soft and cautious, like speaking to a frightened deer. It was just how his wife spoke when he first got home, nervous but caring. “That’s all you could want for them man. Believe me.”

This wasn’t Maria. She isn’t Maria. This was a completely different woman. One with a head of thick curls and the ability to shoot webs from her goddamn wrists. One from another universe, no connection to his loving wife and kids besides knowing his police officer counterpart.

Nonetheless. She had the ability to calm the caged beast, something he hadn’t felt since his wife’s sweet voice would anchor him to reality in his worst moments. Before it all turned to shit.

The moment was broken up when Matt walked into the building and cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

Jitterbug looked at him, then back at Frank. Surely it seemed...intimate. She cleared her throat and got up, groaning as she did. She always did have bad knees.

“Just swappin’ stories Devil-Dude. What’s up?”

“We got people coming, cops from the sound of it.”

“But I need more time.” She was nowhere near done and still had to test it to even see if it would work.

Frank gripped her arm. “It won’t be done at all if the cops catch us at the scene of the crime.”

“But what if-” She fell into his chest as she glitched once more, gripping his vest and shouting out in pain before she stabilized again. “Son of a bitch that smarts!”

He looked toward Daredevil, worry evident on his face. “Red we gotta get her out of here. Don’t think cops will see being from another dimension as a good alibi.”

She pushed herself away from Frank, pacing back and forth before groaning. “Fine!” Jitterbug webbed up her work from the last hour into a little white cocoon. She pointed a finger at Matt. “We’ll meet back up at your house and pray I can get this technological jigsaw puzzle working before my atoms start sizzling like an egg in a goddamn frying pan!” She shot a web to the ceiling, pulling her up and swinging out of an open window and sailing into the night sky.

A police siren alerted the two men to the cops presence, sending them sprinting out the back door and down an alley.

“You keep some weird company red.”

“I’ve started to notice.”

Another chapter! Woo!! I’m doing some one shot fics spinning off of this whole story about frank and jitterbug because i love my two crazy kids!! Anyways my inbox is open and it is ALWAYS open for frank and jitterbug babes. Have a lovely night!<3

[youcantkillamutant]

The Mystery of the Golden Fang: Part 4, The Discovery

Part 1: The Collision–––Part 2: The Enlightenment–––Part 3: The Exploration

Author: youcantkillamutant

Fandom: Marvel (Black Panther)

Pairing: Erik Stevens/Killmonger x Black!OC

Summary: A girl stumbles into another world. A baby disappears. A private investigator wonders if this will be the case he can’t solve.

Warnings: Mentions of blood and death, cursing

Words: 11.5K+

A/N: So…here’s another one of those AU’s that absolutely no one asked for! I only own my original characters of course, Marvel don’t sue me I’m broke.

Listening To: Ride by Lana Del Rey, Ridin’ by Lana Del Rey & A$AP Rocky, Nuit de baise II by YELLE, Barton Hollow by the Civil Wars, Bones by MSMR, Promises by India Arie and Godspeed by Frank Ocean

Part 4: The Discovery

—l—

Of all the languages the moon has mastered, magic is her favorite. Spells and enchantments slip from her lips like an endless waterfall and trickle down into every world she visits in her trips through the starry sky. Her power falls into the hands of the good hearted and strong willed, leaving them with a key to worlds otherwise unknown.

—l—

Earth Stream 328: October 20, 2040

5:06AM

Grooved rubber resting on the hard packed dirt. Golden pipes hugging the pitch black sides. Short handles cased in black, gleaming with reflective glass. A glittering silver grill beneath the engine. One piercing headlight, and the name Killmonger etched above the seat like a promise. This is the bike Harley had dreams about. Sleek like a silver bullet, so loud she could feel it reverberating in her bones, this bike is the first and only thing Harley had ever coveted.

Killmonger sat on the beast, sliding on black leather gloves and taping his foot on the dusty ground. Void black leather groaned beneath him as he shifted. Harley had finally emerged from the club, having spent the past few days preparing with Shuri. She hadn’t stepped foot into the Golden Fang, not without Ayana, and certainly not with the Golden Jags looking at her like that. They stared like she was already a lost cause, destined to be cannon fodder for Killmonger.

“Took you long enough.”

“I’m early.” The pair had agreed to leave at 5:30AM, but Killmonger had been waiting since 5. He wanted his daughter back. No matter how early he had to drag his ass out of bed.

“Whatever witch, let’s get going.” For Harley, it was too early for Killmonger’s shit. She’d tolerated his forked tongue for too long.

“Okay first off, watch your fucking tone Monger. Second, if you want my help you need to call my by my actual name. Not ‘witch’ or whatever else you come up with.”

“Fine.” Harley quirked her eyebrow. That was too easy. She needed more, and Killmonger knew it.

“Fine Harley.” Killmonger resisted the urge to savor the name as he said it. This witch was nothing more than a babysitter. She’d never be anything more to him. She shouldn’t be anything more.

“Great.” After a curt nod, Harley shoulder her bag and approached the bike. It was even more beautiful this close. She could smell the engine oil and longed to feel the bike purr. Killmonger pulled a smirk as she swung her leg over the bike seat and grabbed onto him, resting as little of her body as she could against his back. With a tap to his stomach to tell him she was situated, Killmonger really smiled as he started the bike with a roar.

The duo made it onto the open road in a cloud of dust, both of them reveling in the sound of the engine. There was something about riding west, the wind whipping around them, the sun beaming on their backs that made the both of them feel…whole. Not in a way that family or relationships bring, in the way that solitude could promise anything but loneliness. For a moment, Harley and Killmonger breathed as one. After all they both wanted the same thing. To find Ayana. And maybe a bit more. But for the first part, they drove west, past the mountain range and into the Cactacae Forest.

Juvian Sparrows survived on the liquid they could pull from the cactus and the few flowers the cacti bothered to grow. The cacti in this forest were known to bloom under the light of the moon, and anyone knew that a spirit touched by the moon could do amazing things.

The two barreled up the only road in the copse of towering cacti, saguaro’s on one side, and prickly pears blooming on the other. Killmonger took in the pointed orbs behind reflective shades, and Harley thought they reminded her of something, or someone. Monger rolled to a stop as the road fell to the overgrowth of a wildly growing barbary fig. A few small hedgehog cacti sat below it, small and plump with their bright white flowers.

“Look’s like we’ll have to walk the rest.”

“And where exactly is the rest wi––” Killmonger caught himself and shook the word out of his head. “Harley. Where is the rest Harley?”

“According to my research, about 5 miles in.” Harley’s research hadn’t been entirely scholarly. She remembered some of the legends of the Juvian Sparrow, and followed their trail. Apparently, the bird liked to rest on the highest spike of the largest golden barrel cactus in the forest.

“We’d better get going. We only have until noon.”

“Noon?” Harley only nodded, already having brushed past Killmonger to tread deeper into the forest. The time constraint was something she tried to ignore, Finding the sparrow would be hard enough, she didn’t need the added pressure of watching the clock. Besides, they had almost a week until the full moon. They’d be fine.

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 21, 2040

1:23AM

Hazel had never met a witch. Especially not one so small. Bug was tiny. Teeny tiny if she was being descriptive. Point is, the baby girl didn’t look like any witch she’d ever seen on tv and movies. She was a kid. A kid that could apparently bring her through a faery ring into another world. Though that information didn’t matter much now, all Hazel needed to know was how to get back.

“You can send her through the faery ring first. She’ll be fine.” The Queen Mother said this so nonchalantly that Hazel almost believed her. The question tripped out of her mouth anyways.

“How will she know what to do? She’s an infant.”

“She did find her way into another world. Seems to me like she’s a natural.” Shuri said this with a grin and a shrug, tickling Bug with lightening fast fingers. She giggled so much Hazel thought she might shift her skin right in her arms. Ramonda sighed before answering with an annoyed sort of gravitas.

“She’s a witch. This will come naturally to her. It’ll be as easy as breathing.” Fixing her gaze on Hazel, her lips pulled tight. “You are the one who should be worried. Humans don’t usually make it out of faery rings whole.” That statement was enough to stutter Hazel’s thoughts.

“Um, what?”

“They usually lose their minds. Or their limbs. Or both.” A shrug from the Queen Mother.

“Oh. Great. And how exactly would I prevent that?”

“You’ll need a talisman from your home world and a blessing from a fae. Blood would be best, but I doubt you’ll be able to get that in time. The full moon is almost here.”

“Okay two impossible things to get to keep my sanity and a time constraint. Easy peasy.” N’Jadaka, Angel and Shuri recoiled from Hazel’s last words, something about it sitting uneasily in their ears. Human’s are so strange.

“Don’t you have a talisman already? What’s that black rectangle you carry in your pocket?”

“My phone?”

“That’s a phone in your world?” Shuri found herself feeling sorrier and sorrier for the human. In her world that tech was old they didn’t even call it tech.

“Okay you’ve got the talisman, does anybody know a faery?” N’Jadaka did his best to keep his annoyance at bay. The Queen Mother was only helpful when it suited her, and he needed all of the information up front if he wanted to get his life back. Humans are, in a word? Cumbersome. Not to mention the kid. Terra loved her sure, but she didn’t belong in this world. Neither of them did.

“I might know a guy who knows a guy. As long as you don’t mind a trip south.” Angel’s voice treaded lightly into the space between the group, unsure of her status. The Queen Mother wasn’t exactly what she was expecting; regal and enchanting for sure, but a little colder than she was hoping for. N’Jadaka might have been right about meeting your heroes.

“How far south?”

“You know where I’m from.” Angel shrugged as she answered N’Jadaka. They had started talking when she first made it to the Golden Fang and hadn’t really stopped since. The pair knew a lot about each other by now.

“Uh, I don’t.” Humans.

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 21, 2040

7:16AM

“So, I just have to wait and see if she comes back on the next full moon?” Erik didn’t like the sound of that.

“From what I can gather, yeah.” Nakia’s voice crackled over the line, and though the words were no help the sound of her voice was a comfort. Erik was at the end of his rope, and this call transported him back in time.

When they were in university, Erik, Nakia and Okoye were a set. Most of the campus referred to them as the ‘Three Musketeers’ though Okoye curled her lip at the lack of ingenuity and Erik rejected the name for the sheer fact that the French were colonizers. Finals season had always been hard on Erik, quietly desperate to excel, and Nakia had always been the one to talk him down from 48 hour study sessions and coax him into sleep. Her voice took on that same tone now.

“Kia, I can’t just wait around.” He’d been waiting for nearly a month. Jules Fay had been waiting.

“I had a feeling you were going say that.” Nakia wondered if there would ever come a day when Erik would be patient. She supposed if there did she should get him to a doctor.

“So give me another option.”

“You said yourself that she’s a smart girl. I’m sure that no matter where she is, she’ll figure it out.”

“I made a promise––”

“You always do Erik.” Ever since he’d started as a PI, Erik made it a point to promise his clients a resolution. He always delivered, even if it wasn’t pretty.

“Nakia I have to do something.” This case was burning a hole in the pit of his stomach. The fact that the girl had gone to another dimension meant nothing to Erik. He still had a case to solve, and getting her back was his first priority. Answers would come after, but he needed her back here, in this world. Jules Fay needed her back too.

“Well go talk to the witch doctor again! He’s the one that came up with the theory in the first place.” Erik didn’t like the idea of going back, but it was all he had. Besides, Nakia was rarely wrong.

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 15, 2040

5:14PM

Two days of traveling in the car had Terra and Bug growling at each other playfully while Hazel read all she could about Faeries. N’Jadaka, Angel and Hazel were the only “adults” on the journey. Shuri protested being left behind, especially when N’Jadaka brought Terra and Hazel refused to leave Bug alone, but the Queen Mother insisted.

“This will be a lean journey Shuri. They’re on a deadline after all.” No pressure or anything.

N’Jadaka spent most of the drive south staring between Angel and Hazel, marveling at their mere existence. The two were clearly similar, most would guess twins and they acted like it too. N’Jadaka would know, he’d met his fair share of vampire twins. Still, they weren’t just similar, in looks they were exactly the same. Even through Angel’s sweet soucouyant accent certain words the pair said were identical. From the pull of their jaw to the tenor that vibrated from their lips.

“N’Jadaka, are you done staring at us, or do you need another few minutes?” Angel question with a smirk, pearly fangs flashing in her laughter as Hazel whipped her head up in shock.

N’Jadaka for the most part wasn’t cowed. So he got caught staring at a beautiful vamp. He’s gotten caught doing worse. Still, he turned his attention to Hazel before Angel could get another rise out of him. He didn’t like the way she pulled every… emotion, laugh, smile, grimace, everything out of him with a turn of her lips. Pushing his black leather boot to kick Hazel’s paint and sticker covered sneakers he asked.

“Why are you reading that?” Hazel did her absolute best to ignore the fact that she was the knife cutting the UST between N’Jadaka and Angel, and answered with a finger pointed to the title. Fae, Fairies, and Earthen Magic.

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” For all intents and purposes, Hazel knew nothing about the blessing she was supposed to get. She’d never even knew there was a difference between fairies and faeries. N’Jadaka let out a laugh at her reasoning.

“We’re all the Devil’s creatures. Haven’t you heard?” He smiled that extra wide grin that made his fangs gleam. Hazel repressed a shudder, knowing N’Jadaka was doing this to be annoying. He did the same thing to Shuri all of the time.

“Are you always this unhelpful or is this a special occasion?”

“I am when you’re reading books that old.”

“Shuri game it to me. She said it might help.” Hazel had a hard time believing that Shuri would do anything to lead her off track. The girl had been so kind to Hazel this whole time. She’d been the one to explain all of the tech shit, kimoyo beads being the most important.

“Sorry to say, Shuri might be wrong on this one. This book is older than my grandma, and she’s like twelve centuries old.” Angel said this with a small shrug, sliding the book out of Hazels hands, leaving her grasping.

“Well what exactly should I be doing because I am the only one at rick of losing an undisclosed amount of limbs or my sanity in this faery ring!”

Hazel had done her absolute best to stay calm. She really had, but her heart flinched every time Bug shifted into her jaguar fur, and she shuddered every time some vampire dropped their fangs on the street. None of this was normal, or her normal, and it was all starting to add up. Angel could see her counterpart beginning to crack and tossed the book at N’Jadaka, ignoring the grunt he released, to pull Hazel into her side.

“I’m not saying you can’t do research but this book is way too old. Faeries have changed, hell, all creatures have changed since this was written. Change, evolve, adapt. It’s what we do, It’s in our nature.

“So I’m just supposed to fly blind?”

“No, but we won’t let anything happen to you or the little shifter. You’re safe with us.” Hazel shook her head even as Angel extended her own kimoyo beads towards her. They didn’t get it. They didn’t understand that all of this was life and death for Hazel. Hell, she had a hard time understanding that herself. Angel let Hazel wallow for only a minute, knocking her with her shoulder.

“Hazel, do you trust yourself?”

“Well yeah.” Out of everyone here, she trusted herself the most. Sure she somehow got sucked into another world, but she’d been smart enough to keep herself alive up till now.

“Then trust me. I’m basically you.” Angel finished her declaration with a smile, and Hazel couldn’t help but bark a laugh. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Fine.” Angel clapped and took a peak out of the window.

“Good, and not a minute too soon. We’re here!”

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 21, 2040

7:16AM

“You need to call her.”

“Oh hello Okoye, so great to see you, please come in.” Okoye rolled her eyes and placed a cup of hot coffee on Erik’s desk. His attempts at making coffee were shitty at best.

“Erik, you need more help.” He raised the cup in thanks before taking a sip. Black and burning hot, just how he liked it.

“I don’t. I have you.”

“This is more than I can handle. Erik. Call Nakia, ask her to come down for this.”

“I’m not going to pull her away from the work she ‘actually loves’. Besides I already called her. She gave me whack advice.”

“Oh will you get over yourself?! You two had that fight years ago and you’re still licking your wounds. both of you! “

“I’m not––” A knock interrupted what was sure to be another lie from Erik and Okoye was grateful.

Jules Fay waited at the door, hand poised to knock again. It fell to her side as Erik pulled her into his office, guiding her to a seat and offering her water or juice. Anything but his shitty coffee. She waved it all away.

“I came to see if you’ve found anything about Hazel?”

“I’m sorry Ms. Fay, I haven’t yet. most of my investigation has come up inconclusive but I still have a few more leads to follow.” He didn’t have a few more leads to follow, but he couldn’t tell Jules Fay his working theory either.  

“If it’s money, I don’t have much but I can––” Erik waved off her words, walking around his desk to kneel in front of her. On his knees, he was nearly eye to eye with the woman. He could see fear in her eyes, exhaustion, and worry. He wanted to make all of that go away. He promised to make all of that go away. He would make good on his promise. By the full moon, he would get Hazel back to her mother. Somehow.

“Ms. Fay, it’s nothing like that. I assure you I’m working to find Hazel, it’s just that her case is particularly different than the others I’ve investigated.” A silent nod from Jules had Erik speaking again, if only to fill the silence. “I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. I will find Hazel.”

“Of course he will, he’s assembled the best team in the country.” Nakia entered Erik’s office, the third person today to come in uninvited.

“Ms. Fay, Erik is the best at what he does. We’re going to find your daughter.” Jules Fay nodded with more confidence. Nakia had that effect on people. The woman who had assured her that Hazel would be found oozed a confidence she had never seen, and there was no choice but to believe her. Jules Fay was out the door before long, and Erik raised brow at Nakia.

“You always knew how to make an entrance.”

“And I haven’t missed a beat.” Nakia mirror his gaze, raising her brow in return. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

—l—

Earth Stream 328: October 25, 2040

5:06AM

They were decidedly not fine. Killmonger grew more impatient by the day and Harley was starting to lose hope. They hadn’t even seen a Juvian Sparrow, let alone caught one. Cacti bloomed and grew before them as they waited each day, coming earlier and earlier when Harley read that Juvian Sparrows are easiest to find in the dawn. The pair tried everything they could, approaching from different angles, splitting up, setting traps, and still no sparrow bones.

They were running out of time and they could feel it. Each night on their drive home the moon appeared fuller and fuller. If they were ever going to get Ayana back, they needed to find that sparrow today or else Harley would need another plan. Harley and Monger made it to the forest before the sun began painting the sky. Harley took a moment to send a prayer up to the falling moon and marveled at the stars winking above.

They trudged through the forest in silence for a while, doing their best to avoid the pricks of the cacti around them. Sometimes they weren’t so lucky. Harley hadn’t said anything, but Killmonger knew that this was the day. The Last day they’d be able to search for this Bast forsaken bird. If they didn’t find it, well Killmonger wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what Harley had in mind. he had a feeling it would churn his stomach.

“Did you know Ayana’s mother well?” Harley’s voice pulled Monger out of his thoughts. It was softer than he expected from a witch, but then again, Harley was turning a lot of his preconceived notions on their head.

“Well enough.”

“Was she…a shifter?”

“I…I don’t know.” Harley’s question was cautious and Monger tried to remember more than her brown skin and his bedsheets. He couldn’t.

“So you didn’t know her well.” Monger rolled his eyes at Harley’s remark. Maybe she was right but he didn’t have to admit that. Not now at least.

“Look, I don’t know what she was, but she had power.”

“Like magic?”

“Like I don’t know what. Why do you care?”

“Because, kids take after their parents. We already know Ayana is a shifter but if her mother was a––” Harley stopped before the word witch could fall from her lips. Monger had done a good job of respecting her, he’d even seemed to thaw to her for a bit, but she didn’t want to push it. Not now at least.

“If her mother had power, then it stands to reason that Ayana has that same power. Add the magic that crackles through the town and our girl is a ticking magical time bomb.” Monger pushed down the warmth that bloomed around his heart at Harley’s indication that Ayana was ‘their girl’ and tried to process what exactly she was saying. If Ayana’s mother had turned out to be some kind of creature, then…well that could mean anything. The possibilities scared Monger the most.

“You do know that I didn’t send Ayana anywhere right?”

“I––You’re the only witch around my kid. What was I supposed to think?” Harley was happy to hear the hint of regret in Monger’s voice.

“That I love and cherish her just as much as you do and would never let anything happen to her!”

“Well I didn’t know that then!”

“Well you know it now. Don’t fucking forget it Monger.”

“I’m only letting that slide because your stupid fairytale is sitting on that goddamned cactus.”

“What?” Harley’s voice dropped to a whisper as her head whipped towards the center of the field. There on the largest barrel cactus in the forest was the Juvian Sparrow. The birds wings were black as the night, but seemed to be changing as the sun rose, red rising through its body as the sun glided into the sky. It cocked it’s head this way and that, and Harley held her breath. When it looked away, she released it. She turned to Monger and before Harley could blink, Killmonger was an elegant, golden beast.  

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 25, 2040

10:14AM

Zuri had that feeling again. It was a tug at his gut, a reminder that there was more to come. That someone would be coming. A pinch between his eyes, that signaled him this would require more than a cursory conversation. This would need him to use his brain, encourage him to think and hypothesize. Excitement thrummed through him. He rarely had feelings like this.

Erik, Okoye and Nakia wandered into Badu’s Botany with hopes the shouldn’t have bothered to bring. Erik had warned them that the man was eccentric to say the least. The pair didn’t believe Erik, and why should they. The man was a scientist, a brilliant one at that. They had no reason to think of him otherwise. The wealth of potted plants was their first indication that what Erik said was true. The wind chimes at the door were the second. As they studied the shop, with its figurines and paper piles, the evidence only grew.

The detective was back. Energy shot through Zuri’s body as the bell ringed above the door. He knew the man was searching for someone, the girl that slept with beasts. From the looks of things, he hadn’t found her.

“Detective Stevens. a pleasure to see you again.” He nodded to Okoye and Nakia. “Ladies…”

“Ten years ago, you wrote a paper. A Study of Universal Convergence.”

“I did.”

“Have you found anything that proves your theory?

“Have you?”

“A girl is missing. If you know something, anything––”

“Dr. Badu.” Zuri still at the name. No one had called him doctor in a long time, but Nakia pressed on. “We’re looking for someone who we think…fell into another world. We need to get her back. as soon as possible.”

“Trust in the universe. The moon is her daughter, she’ll see the girl home.” Erik scoffed at the man. If he ‘trusted in the universe’ he’d still be seven years old, waiting for his father to breathe again.

“Forget it. I should have known this would be a waste of time.” Erik couldn’t believe he’d wasted precious time talking to this…ugqirha.

“Don’t worry detective. She will fall into the nest of her making soon enough.” Erik pushed out of the door so hard the chimes screamed his exit.

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 25, 2040

12:49PM

The Isle, like plenty of other things in this world, is unlike anything Hazel has ever seen. Not technically an island, the large land mass was surrounded by water on three sides, so the name stuck. There was also the matter of the water that flowed through it. Rivers and streams parted the land like hair, slicing through the sandy brush and practically glowing blue. Hazel had only ever seen water that blue in pictures.

Two vampires, a human, a shifter, and a sleek golden jaguar tumbled out of the car and into a boat. Angel’s manager sputtered as she shut the door in his face with a placating wave.

“Rocko, I’ll be fine. If I’m not back in 3 days, call search and rescue, otherwise I don’t want to hear you on my line.” The boat sped off before we could hear his response.

“Where to Miss Haze?” Angel didn’t seem alarmed that the boat driver knew who she was. In fact, she grinned and patted him on the back. N’Jadaka watched their contact with an eagle eye.

“I need to see an old friend.” The driver nodded, and with that they were on their way.

The streams were like side streets, the rivers like highways. Hazel wondered at the houses that stood tall and covered the land mass they reseted on, making them look like they were floating structures instead of tiny islands cut to creation by the waters that ran through the Isle. N’Jadaka stared hard at the driver, wondering how he knew exactly what Angel wanted, before he shook himself out of his jealousy and turned his attention back to the situation at hand. They were pulling up to a bar, if you could call it that. There was no signage, nothing to signify that this wasn’t the shack of a murderer, but Angel hopped out with glee. She gave the driver a tip and a kiss on the cheek and gestured for the group to follow her.

The group pushed through the sorry excuse for a door, wooden slats stapled together and moving on a pair of rusted hinges. Inside it was hazy and red. Sunlight filtered through the holes in the walls, only covered by thin white sheets, and blood red couches littered the space around a small stage. More of a platform really. A duo on an electric piano and colorful soundboard crooned something in what sounded like French, and Hazel took in the scene. Vampires lounged on the couches, velvety and soft, a few humans were bleeding, but other than that, nothing nefarious was happening. Maybe she came at the right time.

“Well slap my cat and call me Lucifer! Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but you young lady, look awfully familiar.”

“Nix.” The man in question approached Angel with open arms and a grin that showed off his platinum fangs. As he got closer, Hazel could see that all of his teeth were platinum. Angel couldn’t keep the grin off of her face. Between touring and writing and producing and life, she’d missed her childhood friend. She’d missed home.

“Well if it isn’t Little Miss Hazie.” The two were a gathering of brown skin and strong arms as they hugged tightly.

Nixie.” He scrunched his nose at the nickname, pulling away from there hug as N’Jadaka tamped down the jealousy the bubbled up in his gut.

“Yeah yeah, you’re too cool for that nickname, owning your own blood club and shit.”

“Well shit, I thought for a second you were a ghost, but not with a mouth like that.” The pair erupted into laughter, and N’Jadaka let them laugh for a minute before clearing his throat. Something about Angel’s smile was different here. Her eyes closed a bit more, her nose scrunched tighter, her shoulders fell back in laughter. She looked more than relaxed. She looked happy. Happier than she had been in Metropolis.

“Right. Sorry guys.” Angel righted herself and Nix. “You got an office?” Nix shook his head.

“I’ve got a bar.”

“Close enough.” As the group approached the bar, Terra prowling close to N’Jadaka with Bug on her back, Angel and Nix spoke in animated tones. Hazel couldn’t understand a word they were saying, though she wasn’t quite sure they’d switched languages, it was more like they had fallen into a vernacular that she wasn’t quite familiar with. Something southern and black and french? Though she couldn’t even be sure France existed in this world.

“Now Haze, I’ve known you for a long time, and never once did you mention having a twin.” Nix busied himself with wiping the bartop, obsidian black flecked in gold, and pulling a few glasses down.  

“She’s not my twin, she is me.”

“Care to explain?” Before Angel could elaborate A tall stocky vampire, with milk white skin sauntered into the bar. Most of the patrons turned their backs on the guy, returning to the conversations with a fervor. A few stronger looking vampires pushed off from their place on the walls of the bar and stood tall. The man in question either didn’t notice the reaction or didn’t care as he sauntered up to the bar.

“Nix! Serving straight from the source now? Very nice touch.” Angel and N’Jadaka pushed Hazel behind them and bared their teeth at the stranger.

“Clive. These are my guests, you’d do well to treat them as such.”

“Well what about that little lamb?” The man shucked his chin to Bug, still sat on Terra’s back in her jaguar fur. “I’ve always loved veal.”

“Back off Clive. You can order something on the menu or you can go. Either one suits me.” Nix balled his fist on the granite bartop and Clive sneered a grin. He knocked on the granite, flashed his fangs at Hazel and sauntered out of the club.

Angel released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She’d promised to protect Hazel, and she didn’t take her promises lightly. N’Jadaka could see that Angel was shaken, and took the lead no explaining things, still keeping Hazel behind him and beckoning Terra closer. Sure the human and shifter were annoying, but they’d grown on him. And he was almost rid of them, it would suck for something to happen before they completed their little ‘quest’.

“We need to find a faerie. Preferably a nice one.” Nix blew out a big breath at Angel’s request.

“Tall order kid. I’ll give you the info you want. For a price of course.” Though his words were serious his tone was teasing and Angel couldn’t fault his hustle. Keeping a blood club this nice in the Isle couldn’t be cheap.

“What do you want Nix?”

“You got any old tour merchandise?”

“Seriously?” Of all the things she expected, this was not it. She had plenty of that shit locked up in storage, it was an easy trade.

“You seem to forget just how popular you are little Haze. Vintage shit sells like crazy.” With a few dozen shirts, Nix could expand the club and improve the sound system all the while investing in a few local businesses he personally wanted to see flourish.

“I’ll have it sent to the location of your choice as soon as you give me what I want.” Angel wasn’t worried about the merch or the money, she knew Nix would use most of it for the good of the community. Under all of his tough, bar owner exterior, he was a nice vamp. She would know, she grew up with him.

“His name’s Roaen and he lives in The Sink.”

—l—

Earth Stream 328: October 25, 2040

6:19AM

Killmonger and the Juvian Sparrow danced. Monger leaping silently and landing on the tips of his paws and the sparrow, fluttering like its life depended on it. It did after all. Harley watched in awe of the pair. Each time the sparrow flew above the cacti, she could see the dark night sky under its wings, once she even thought she saw stars twinkling in the feathers. She was just about to give up, and try to find another when when the bird squawked. Monger had it between his teeth, fangs bared and pinching.

The Juvian Sparrow never made another sound, even as monger snapped its neck and set it on the gritty ground. As quickly as he had become a jaguar, Killmonger shifted back into his human form. Of course that meant he was standing naked in the morning sun, blood streaking his chin and golden fangs glinting beneath his lips. Harley pushed her focus onto the bird, ignoring the way his perfectly brown skin gleamed in the sunlight.

“Okay, so, there’s your bird.”

“Alright.” The pair stood there staring at each other. Harley waiting for Killmonger to shift, and Monger waiting for Harley to do something…magical. Then the pair spoke at the same time.

“Well aren’t you going to––”

“Can’t you just use magic to––” Harley gestured for Killmonger to finish.

“Can’t you just use magic to get the bones?”

“The spell won’t work if I use magic to procure the ingredients. I can’t upset the balance like that, not if I’m asking for something in return.”

Years ago, when she had first discovered magic and powers and spells, Harley attempted a prosperity spell. Or rather, she summoned a load of cash to use for a school field trip her parents told her they couldn’t afford. With a candle and a wish, the money appeared to her and she took it. She never blew out the candle or thanked the elements for bringing her the money, never once thought about where the money came from at all, but as she found, especially in magic, you can’t get something from nothing.

In the end the money ended up burning a hole in her pocket, literally. She buried it deep within in the earth, giving it back to the soil to do with it what it may. She didn’t go on the field trip, and she didn’t try another spell until she turned 18 and began her own grimoire.

“Everything about magic is reciprocal. I can’t upset that balance.” Monger looked dumbfounded.

“So magic has rules?” Harley waved her hand in the universal sign for ’50/50’ as she responded.

“More like follow the laws of nature and you’ll be fine.”

“Well it’s a good thing I shifted back. I have a feeling I’ll need opposable thumbs for this.” Harley rolled her eyes at the ridiculous statement but Monger didn’t miss the smile that curled on her lips. He liked it.

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 26, 2040

2:57PM

The trio ended up at Oakies, seated at the bar and shooting the shit, just like old times. The bar was a classic jet black, polished to perfect and currently clear of any patrons. It might have been a little early for a drink, but after their visit to the witch doctor, they all needed a drink. The couple on stage wailed about dead men walking over a country guitar.

Won’t do me no good washin’ in the river. Can’t no preacher man save my soul.

They all had their drinks. None of them had changed their orders, though today, they all ordered an extra set of shots. Erik eyed the glasses slid on the table. A Pimm’s Cup for Nakia, whisky from the highest shelf for Erik, and for Okoye…To be honest Erik still had no idea what Okoye was drinking, but he stayed away from her glass either way. The one time he took a sip from her cup, he woke up the next morning with no recollection of the night before.

“So do you think he’s right?” Okoye didn’t know what to say about Zuri Badu. At the very least the man was an enigma and Okoye had been out of her depth with this case since Erik stepped foot on her campus. At this point, she was just along for the ride.

“About?”

“Letting the universe work itself out? It’s not like he said much more. The man wasn’t exactly a sparkling conversationalist.” Erik was still bitter about that part. He had hoped he would learn more about Badu’s working theory of converging universes, but the man had been just as ambiguous as before.

“That is an understatement.”

“So E, answer the question, what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think Kia. The man speaks in riddles. Do I feel like he told us something useful? Maybe, but I’m not sober enough or drunk enough to decipher it.” With that, Erik slammed his shot back and waved for another. Zuri had plenty to say, but none of it made sense to Erik. He wasn’t nearly as poetic as he needed to be if he was going to solve this case by the full moon.

“Well I think he was telling us to prepare for her. ‘She will fall into the nest of her making’ and ‘The moon will see her home’? That’s not telling us to sit around and wait. It’s a promise. She’ll be back on the full moon, and we have to be ready for her. You have to be ready for her Erik.” Nakia had seen Erik at his worst, and this surpassed it. By a mile. Or two. She’d never seen him so broken up about a case.

“Okay. So I go back to the Golden Fang and I just wait? What about all of the people?” After three days, Erik had recommended that Jules Fay take her case to the police as well. Just to have it on file. He had no doubt that they would screw things up, and the Ortega precinct did not disappoint. They turned the alleyway into a media circus. People were always there, taking pictures right where ‘that girl disappeared’.  

“Try and get it cordoned off. Remember, we’re supposed to rid the location of any malicious beings.”

“Right.” Erik knew what he would have to do to get that alleyway cordoned off for the night of the full moon. Nakia knew he knew too. She also knew he’d drink about five more shots before acknowledging it.

“You should call the Chief.” Erik slammed back another shot. He’d already made up his mind to go visit him tomorrow.

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 26, 2040

11:09PM

The Sink isn’t actually a sink, Hazel was relieved to find. According the Angel, the Sink was in the center of the island. Angel led the four of them out of Nix’s bar and waved her hand as a few boats whizzed by before one stopped for them. N’Jadaka handed the driver the money before Angel could even bother and she stuck out her tongue. She was the popstar and the one with a doppelgänger apparently. She could pay for a boat ride.

Angel told the driver where to go in her soucouyant tongue. To Hazel and N’Jadaka the words were a garbled birdsong, confusing but enchanting all the same. There was just something about the way the words rolled off her lips that kept their attention. Hazel would have thought that she was a siren if she didn’t know any better. Being in this world for nearly a month meant that she does know better.

This boat driver wasn’t as tactile as the other, but Hazel thinks its because N’Jadaka was staring the guy down. Still, they floated their way towards the center of the Isle, passing houses and shops and even a floating hospital. As they travelled on, the buildings grew sparse. Trees grew wider and wilder, enormous frogs bumped into the boat hard enough to rock it, dolphins puttered through the water and the world grew quiet. Verdant foliage obscured the ground, and eyes peeked through the underbrush. Not silent, Hazel could still hear the crickets chirping and the waves cresting, but everything was quiet. Calm.

The driver docked at the shore of a tiny house. It was built of stone, with a wooden door and a paneless window. A few pieces of the thatched roof scratched at the house as the quintet unloaded. Terra prowled a close perimeter and returned with a snuff. Whatever she had found, she didn’t like. Bug seemed to feel the same way as she squirmed in Hazel’s arms. Soon enough the baby was on the ground, shifting into her jaguar fur and being nipped up by Terra.

“Come on.” Angel had heard of the faeries in the Sink. She’d never met one, but there’s a first time for everything.

The group padded to the door slowly. Angel knocked, and they waited. And waited. The moon was high in the sky for a moment Hazel wondered if they all shared the same one. The door creaked open before she could think any more of it.

“Uh, woah.”

The little thatch cottage was not so little, and not nearly as quaint as the exterior alluded to. A vast room stretched before them. The room with its shiny cherry wood floors, divine golden mirrors, and creatures of all kinds, could not be real. It was at least three times as large as the cottage itself. There was just no way.

“Don’t sound so impressed Hazel, this is faery magic.” N’Jadaka whispered this to Hazel, but the point was moot. He was surrounded by beings with heightened abilities.

“You scorn the name of my people and yet you come to me with a request. Interesting introduction N’Jadaka Udaku.” Angel cringed. They already had an impossible ask, and N’Jadaka was not making things easier. Any other time, she admired his snark, but now it was killing them.

“I assume you’re Roaen.”

The man in question was draped in women. Hazel wasn’t even positive he was wearing clothes. All she could see was brown butter skin and animal print. He was lounging on a tiger fur, and the women around him all wore that same print. Roaen gave a nod to Angel’s statement, and Hazel was taken aback.

Aside from the fact that she’d never even seen a faery before, he wasn’t as small as Hazel expected. Faeries in her world had always been perceived as tiny, cute, bell like beings with adorably short tempers. This guy was…not tiny by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he was built like a house. Young, but carrying himself with the weight of a thousand years. Not dissimilar from N’Jadaka, though Hazel was smart enough to keep that thought to herself.

“I am.”

Roaen stood, and the fur beneath him took shape, morphing into a tiger. The dress the girl was wearing did the same and she was left naked, peering up at the man with hazy eyes. Jagged grey wings unfurled from his back, the only ugly thing on the man, and he jerked his head to the side. A signal for the girl to leave.

“Is he?” Hazel nodded to Bug who was lounging on Terra’s back, but N’Jadaka shook his head. The man wasn’t a shifter, just a faery. Magic is a powerful tool. Angel stepped forward discreetly, pushing Hazel behind her.

“Dia dhuit ársa amháin.” Roaen’s brow raised at the use of his native tongue, as mangled as it was, and responded with a grin. He loved messing with the young ones.

“Well, well, well. Two vampires, a human, and a shifter walk into a bar. There’s got to be a punchline there somewhere.”

“I––” Angel stuttered for something to say. This was her turf after all. “Arsa ársa, táimid tar éis teacht ar do bheannacht.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want as long as you stop butchering my language with your soucouyant accent. Dia.” Roaen laughed, and continued before Angel could close her gaping mouth. “Y’all must be in some deep shit to need a blessing from me.”

N’Jadaka, Angel and Hazel all exchanged a look. A look that debated on telling this stranger the truth. A look that implored the others to be reasonable. A look that annoyed the faery standing before them.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“Oh no Mr. Faery––Roaen––Uh, sir.” After that, the words fell out of Hazel’s mouth like apples shaken from a tree. By the end, she was winded. “So, I need your blessing to stay sane.”

“Interesting indeed.” A pause. “I’ll do it, but you need to do something for me. Quid pro quo and all of that stuff.” Hazel nodded. “I need you to get me a stone from the bottom of the Middle Well.”

The Middle Well was dangerous. At least, that’s what Angel had always been told. The well itself was rumored to be gorgeous, tranquil, enchanting, but Angel had never met anyone who had seen it first hand. No creature ever wanted to bother with the place. It was steeped in bad energy. Even N’Jadaka knew the tales of the south. That the Middle Well was more than just a scenic view, that it was a passage. An access point for those in the afterlife. That was no place for Hazel. No place for a human at all.

“No. No way. She is not diving down there.” Angel knew the faery would ask for something, but she figured it would be money, or tour merch, not this. The Middle well has no bottom. No creature has ever made it out of that water alive, let alone returned with a stone.

“Angel, I’m sure it’s not––”

“Hazel, you don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. That well is on faery land. You don’t know what you’re risking.” The stories Angel’s mother told her as a child were more than that. They were second hand accounts, memories of friends who had dived in for fun and never returned. “It’s a suicide mission.”

“It’s true that the well was built on the land of my people, but the well itself was made by the hands of hers.” Roaen nodded to Hazel lazily. “Humans built that well, and as such, we magical creatures have a hard time pulling from that place. Her on the other hand, should be fine.” Angel and N’Jadaka knew faeries couldn’t lie, but Roaen only said that she should be fine. That is not enough of a guarantee. Not by a long shot.

“Should be––” N’Jadaka had done his best to hold his tongue, he really had, but things were spiraling.

“There has to be another way––” Angel couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t let her alternate self die. They had to find another way out of this––

“I’ll do it.” Hazel had been silent through most of the argument, letting Angel take the reigns. She was just a human after all. Apparently, in this instance, that worked in her favor.

“Hazel you can’t––”

“Angel, do you trust yourself?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust me. I’m basically you.” Angel relented to Hazel’s weak smile and shrug, hating that her words worked against her. She’d just have to find a way to keep her alternate self alive. No pressure.

—l—

Earth Stream 328: October 26, 2040

8:18AM

“Alright, I’ll pluck it and you shuck it.” Monger would be damned if he had to do all of the work for this witch. In all honesty, he didn’t mind the hunt, the early morning rides, even the cacti, but he needed a resolution. This bird was the key to Ayana and he’d done more than his fair share.

“I don’t know how to do that!” Harley’s frustration oozed out of her words, though it wasn’t all directed towards Monger. This may be the first time she wished she knew how to debone a bird, but that didn’t make the feeling any less true. Up until now, Killmonger had done all of the work and it irked her to no end that she still needed help.

“You’re a witch, ain’t dismemberment in your blood?”

“Oh fuck off Monger.”

“You seriously don’t know?”

“No. I never had a teacher okay?” Oma and Shuri were the closest Harley had come to having any sort of mentors, and they were a 4 hour ride away.

“So how did you learn control?” Killmonger wasn’t stupid. Sure he blamed Ayana’s disappearance on Harley, but at this point even he knew that was bullshit. There were bigger things at play here and he’d seen Harley’s powers enough to know that she had a good grip on them. He’d watched her play with Ayana, pulling rabbits from behind rocks and making the sand shine as she blew it from her fingertips. Harley had control, and if she didn’t have a teacher, how did she get it?

“I had to teach myself for the most part. My siblings helped sometimes. Sort of.” Harley cringed at the memory of performing magic in front of her family. The required love that lasted until you moved out of the family house, or were kicked out. Whichever one came first.

“Well come over and I’ll teach you.”

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 26, 2040

11:09PM

Hazel knew clicking her heels with a chorus of ‘there’s no place like home’ wouldn’t be the thing to get her back to her own life, but she didn’t expect diving for some stone would be the answer either. She supposed she shouldn’t have even tried to guess at this point. She was out of her depth, literally.

N’Jadaka made Roaen state the deal before they left. He’d mentioned to Hazel that even though Fae couldn’t lie, they still loved to omit things and play with promises. She was glad to see that N’Jadaka and Angel wouldn’t let that happen to her.

“The Middle Well was built by your kind. Or shall I say on your kind.” Roaen began his story as they trekked through the woods behind his home. The streams were small enough to hop over now and Hazel savored the crunch of the leaves as she jumped. Bug  and Terra were having a grand old time too.

“That does’t make sense.” Angel and N’Jadaka spoke in sync and Roaen rolled his eyes. He was surprised at how…dutifully they protected their human charge.

“The early humans, the ones here before vampires and shifters and phoenix’s, they had an idea about the afterlife. You see they studied the tides. The watched them give and take. They watched the waves roll out into the sun and they thought that that was the only way to Elysium. Through water, through the ocean.”

“When they found this land, laden with streams and rivers all rolling out into the ocean, they decided to craft a well. A funeral space basically. For centuries they burned the bodies of their dead, praying as the fire kissed them to ash. Then they came to the Middle Well, they sprinkled the ashes into the water and watched as the connecting streams and rivers pulled their loved ones away, away, and out to sea. Out to the sun, moon and stars.”

They made it. The Middle Well was not what Hazel expected. It didn’t look like a well at all, more like a pool. It was in the shape of a half moon, stones built up on the sides to guide the water. Four streams connected to the mouth of the well, pushing the water to ebb and flow.

“This doesn’t look deep enough to dive into.” Hazel had been swimming. Hell, she used to dive in high school and this pool was not nearly deep enough. She couldn’t exactly see the bottom of the pool, but there were only three stone steps leading into the pool. It couldn’t be deep enough.

“The last human I met here said promised it was plenty deep.”

“So you do this a lot to humans?” N’Jadaka couldn’t stand the faerie’s casual tone. If Hazel was about to dive to her death for some pebble, the guy could at least show some respect.

“This well may have been build by humans but it is on fae land. It’s deep enough.” Angel could see the tick in Roaen’s jaw. His annoyance was obvious and she wondered if her hid a monstrous face behind the pretty one they saw. For a moment, she wished she could see beyond his faery glamour. Just so she knew exactly what they were dealing with.

“Alright well, wish me luck.” Hazel had stripped down to her underwear while the vampires were studying Roaen. She padded to the stone steps and Bug did her best to follow her on four legs. She turned, pushing the cub back towards N’Jadaka and Angel. Terra came and grabbed her by the scruff. Then she sat at the top step with Bug, like they were already waiting for Hazel to return. Hazel didn’t bother looking at her promised protectors, knowing their worry wouldn’t help her now. Instead, she turned to Roaen.

“Just one stone?”

“Just one. Ádh mór.”

She waded into the pool slowly. Counting each stone step she took. After the third, the world dropped out from under her and she fell. N’Jadaka and Angel had to hold themselves back. They knew interference was against the rules. if the so much as touched that well, their whole deal could be nullified by Roaen.

Hazel drifted back to the surface of the clear water, doing her best to stay clam. She had no idea what she was doing, but she decided to tread towards the sides of the well, hoping to catch an errant stone from there. After about five minutes of scrambling with her hands, she made peace with the fact that there would be no shortcuts. Not on Faery land.

Three strokes brought her to the center of the pool. A deep, swimmers breath filled her lungs. Then, heart in her chest and eyes wide open, she dove. The water was cold, pricking at her skin as she pushed. Deeper and deeper she swam, knowing that in a while she’d be too deep to save herself. She hadn’t swam in a long time. She wasn’t nearly as strong as she used to be. Deeper and deeper still, and no stones. Not even moss, or frogs or kelp. Nothing lived down here.

Before she could turn back she heard something. A sigh, no, a scream. The sound rang through Hazel’s ears, clear as day. She swam deeper, towards the sound. Breathing was the least of her worries if someone was down there. A few strokes further and an image flashed across her eyes. A bloody chest, scaly tail, and a face like hers. Hazel pushed back, away from the image, but it was in her head. More started coming, more blood, more pain, more death. And it was all her, every different version of her as she died, crying and screaming and gurgling through their last moments.

Hazel felt paralyzed. She let the water pull her deeper as the visions flashed through her mind. She cried as she saw her death over and over and over. Hazel was trapped. Stuck in this well, a hostage to the universe’s plans for her alternate selves. Then her hand brushed something smooth. The feeling of something in this empty pool, anything was enough to shock Hazel out of her stupor. She grasped, and pulled a stone free. It came loose easily, and the visions stopped. No screaming or crying or blood.

She was free. Hazel kicked her way up, up, and up. Further and further as her vision faltered. Her heart was on overload, she wasn’t going to make it. She didn’t have enough breath in her body. She couldn’t have enough breathe in her body. It was humanly possible. Her vision blackened as she rev another push, and then she broke the surface. Sputtering, gasping, alive, Hazel made her way to the stone steps, rock in hand.

Roaen was there to pull her up, and he sat with her at the mouth of the well. He hovered his hand over her shivering body, and murmured something ancient. She followed his hand, and for a second she thought she saw claws. He continued, and she peered up at his face. It was hideous, half peeled and rotting. His blessing came at a cost to the both of them.

“There, you’re blessed.”

“That’s it?” Hazel could hardly believe it. She didn’t feel any different, but she wasn’t a faery either. Roaen nodded.

“Now, leave me. I’ll need some time to reconstruct my glamour.” Hazel nodded, noting how he never turned from her, keeping his back to everyone else. “Oh and one more thing,” He tossed the stone to Hazel. “Hold onto this. I have a feeling you might need it one day.”

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 27, 2040

9:22AM

The Ortega precinct was just as quiet as Erik remembered. Kinsey and Roles were still at their desk through sour worms at each other, Coles was still color coding her reports, and Frig still sat in his sergeants chair taller than he should. The receptionist waved him in with a manicured nail and a bitten lip and Erik rolled his eyes. Every little thing reminding him exactly why he left the force.

He mocked a salute to Kinsey and Roles as he passed his and Okoye’s old desks, still empty. They weren’t bad cops, just goofy. Frig straightened even taller somehow nodding to Erik as he knocked on the Chief’s door. There was no nameplate glistening at the handle or glittering on the glass. Just shuttered bulletproof windows that vibrated when the Chief’s accented voice shouted ‘Enter.’

“Well if it ain’t my favorite detective. Stevens, how the hell are you boy?” Erik cringed like he always did when the chief called him ‘boy’, but exchanged pleasantries either way. After being ushered into a set before the Chief, Erik finally relaxed. This used to be his normal, bringing cases to the Chief’s office with Okoye and finding new angles, sitting before the Chief and groaning about the grind. Though it was comfortable, in the end, it wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t nearly enough for Erik or Okoye.

“Well then, what brings you by? I know you’re not here to rejoin the force.” The Chief stated this with a pained laugh, and Erik shrugged it off. He didn’t need to feel guilty for leaving.

“Chief Klaue. I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Tomorrow night, I need you to cordon off the alley behind The Golden Fang.” Erik didn’t mention anything about full moons or alternate universes. He had a feeling The Chief would be less inclined to help if he though Erik had gone off of the deep end.

“That shitty club? Why?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Is that someone going to be in that club?” A breath and another question. “Stevens are you into anything illegal?”

“No Chief. This isn’t illegal.”

“Then why not go through the proper channels?” Erik rolled his eyes at the thought of getting a permit from City Hall. He’d been in his late eighties before the paperwork even went through.

“It’s for a case. A very time sensitive case.”

“A case that isn’t police business. Stevens I can’t just––” Klaue could, and Erik knew that. It’s why he was here in the first place. The Golden Fang was in his jurisdiction, and he only needed the alley blocked off for a night. He just needed it empty long enough for Hazel to…come back.

“I’ve never asked you for anything Chief. Not one damn time. Even when I was on the force. Trust me when I say I’ll never ask again, but I need you to do this. Officially.” Chief Klaue heaved a sigh. The damn boy was right. If this was the biggest thing his best detective could ask for, he’d better count his blessings.

“Fine. I hope you find who you’re looking for. And call me when you’re ready to rejoin the force Stevens. We miss you around here.”

—l—

Earth Stream 947: October 31, 2040

7:12PM

They pulled up to the Golden Fang as the sun was setting. The journey back had been…difficult to say the least. Bug started teething. Sure she had fangs as a jaguar, but her human teeth were pushing through now, and the girl was not happy. The car was filled with her pained cries as the supernatural creatures in the car stuffed their ears. Hazel did her best to placate the baby, eventually giving her her finger to naw on. It turned her cries into whimpers, and they were all grateful. The second they hit the blood club Hazel was behind the bar, filling a clean rag with ice cubes.

Finally. You’re back! I’ve been waiting ages! How did everything go?” Shuri paused. “Wait. What is wrong with her?”

“She’s teething Shuri.”

“Yikes.” She shuddered and turned to N’Jadaka. “So?”

“Well, we got the blessing.” Angel snorted at his tone. There wasn’t much ‘we’ about it, Hazel had done the heavy lifting, and she respected the human––her alternate self for that. N’Jadaka did too, though he’d be loathe to admit it.

“And just in time. Better hurry, the moon is almost up.”

The group made our way towards the back of the bar, standing at the door where Hazel first entered the Golden Fang. Bug had stopped crying, and she was chomping happily at the icy cloth in her mouth. Tear tracks dried on her face, but she looked more like she did when Hazel first found her.

“Okay, Queen Mother told me what to do, so…I’ve got this.” Shuri waved to Hazel and Bug. “I’ve got to put you two into a salt circle, so, uh…” Shuri pulled the pair into a hug, doing her best not to squeeze too tightly.

“Thanks for proving me right. Especially because I got to prove N’Jadaka wrong.” She winked and pranced back, making space for N’Jadaka and Angel. Terra barreled between them and pounced on Hazel. Tackling her and Bug into a hug. Hazel let the two play one last time as she turned to N’Jadaka and Angel.

“So, uh, thanks for not eating me the first time we met.” N’Jadaka’s mouth quirked in a smirk and he shrugged.

“You’re not really my type, but you’re a better human than I expected. Even if you are a little slow––” Angel cut off his teasing with a smack and pulled Hazel close.

“It was nice to meet you. Or well, me. You still have the stone right?” Hazel nodded reaching into her pocket to feel its smooth edges. “Good. That way, you can come back and visit.” Angel squeezed Hazel a little tighter, and stepped back, taking Terra and N’Jadaka with her.

“Okay. Moon’s almost up, We’ve got to move.”

Shuri positioned Hazel and Bug before the door. She drew a semi circle of salt around them, lighting four candles on the way. She spritzed them with moon water, and sent a prayer to Bast. Then, she turned to Hazel.

“You have your talisman right?”

“My phone? Yeah.” Hazel fished it out of her pocket and pressed the home button, still disappointed when the screen didn’t illuminate.

“Tragic.” Hazel rolled her eyes.

“Shuri.”

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, Hold your phone and think of your world. Only your world. When I open this door, I want you to step through, and let go of Bug.” Hazel’s eyes flashed to Shuri in alarm. She wasn’t just going to drop a baby.

“Trust me. She’ll make it back to her world and you’ll make it back to yours. This door opens the universe, so you have to stay focused on your world or you could end up somewhere else completely. Again.” Hazel nodded and gripped her phone. She gave Bug one last glance and a kiss on the forehead. She’d miss the little troublemaker. Then Shuri opened the doorway and it was filled with the moon.

—l—

Earth Stream 328: October 31, 2040

8:16PM

Jet at the north. Celtic salt at the south. Cypress root to the west. The bones of a Juvian Sparrow to the east. A scrying bowl full to the brim with a dark, witching potion. All connected with a chalk circle on the wooden floor of the Golden Fang. Oma suggested that she do the spell and scrying in the place she was most comfortable, and even though Monger looked about ready to blow a gasket from his place behind the bar, he allowed her to stay. He even closed out the bar for the night. She only saw the moon as the Jags stumbled out, it was full and brighter than she’d ever seen. Hopefully that was a good sign.

The spell was easy. She had all of the components. She’d spoken the words until they slipped from her lips in her sleep. She knew her magic wouldn’t fail her in this. The scrying was the hard part. She’d only done it a few times more since that first time with Oma, and the nerves licked at her calm like flames.

Surrounded by candles and crystals Harley knelt on the paneled wooden floor. The spell was done in minutes, opening up the space in the circle to…anything. Hopefully she’d be pulling Ayana through the crack she’d created and re-warding the place as soon as possible. Harley hated the idea of opening the Golden Fang up to anything. One never knew what waited in the veil between worlds.

She turned her attention to the scrying bowl, grabbing it with both hands and sitting it in her lap. This time, as she saw her reflection in the liquid, she did her best to hone in on Ayana’s energy. Monger watched as Harley stopped blinking. He’s pretty sure she stopped breathing, but she’d warned him not to interrupt her. Not for anything.

Harley started with the version of herself she’d seen wrapped up with Ayana’s aura. Pale yellow curled around fuchsia. Now that she knew what she was looking for, they weren’t hard to find. The girl, and her rockstar counterpart were both mingling with Ayana’s essence, but before Harley could coax her aura out to pull Ayana back, the baby fell. Only, she wasn’t falling to the ground. Ayana was tumbling through worlds.

Harley could see tens and hundreds and thousands of creatures like her. A mermaid in one. A succubus in another. A crane. A child. A snake. A knight. She was everything and one thing, but Killmonger appeared in them too. He was her equal, then opposite, her friend, then enemy. Everything and one thing.

Harley tried to focus. Tried to follow Ayana’s aura streaking through the universe. Tried to grab a hold of the girl she cared so deeply for, but somewhere between her queen self and shaman self, she lost her baby girl. Killmonger couldn’t watch any longer. Harley hadn’t breathed in nearly two minutes. He wanted Ayana back more than anyone could know, but he wouldn’t let Harley die searching for her.

Rounding the bar and breaking Harley’s chalk circle Monger reached a hand to her arm. Electricity crackled up to his shoulder as Monger’s fingers wrapped around Harley’s arm. Her inhale was so sharp her body rolled. Shoulders fell back, down her spine. Head lolled away from her scrying bowl, but her eyes, her eyes were still blank.

Monger slid his hand from her arm to her chin. Gentle fingers lifted her face to his. Eyes unfocused. His mouth curved around her name, just a whisper. A breath ghosting past her lips. And then, a pop.

“I told you she was a trouble maker.” Harley was lucid enough to see that Monger finally had his arms full again, and she grinned right before passing out.

—l—

Earth Stream 245: October 31, 2040

9:25PM

Hazel landed on the hard asphalt with a thump and a huff, the wind rushing out of her. She could see the moon, full and bright shining down on her from its place in the deep dark sky. She breathed in the crisp fall air, and her phone began to vibrate in her pocket. It wouldn’t stop actually, buzzing with a months worth of missed notifications. Hazel breathed out a sigh. She made it. Limbs and sanity intact. Just as she was about to cry in relief, someone cleared his throat.

“Hazel Fay?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Erik Stevens. I’m a detective. Your mother hired me to find you.”

“Oh.” A pause as she processed this, and then. “Oh shit.” Erik’s lips curled into a rueful grin.

“Can you tell me where you’ve been?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth.” Hazel shook her head after responding. Hell, she could hardly believe what had happened.

“Try me.”

Here’s Killmonger’s bike inspo in case you were wondering!

Translations

ugqirha: witch doctor

—l—

Dia dhuit ársa amháin: Hello ancient one (Irish)

Arsa ársa, táimid tar éis teacht ar do bheannacht: Ancient one, we’ve come to you for a blessing (Irish)

Dia: God (Irish)

—l—

Ádh mór: Good luck (Irish)

A/N: So that’s that on that. Baby Ayana is home safe and sound! So is Hazel!

 Low-key why do I write about bars so much I don’t even go to bars????? And I never really have????? Anyways…..here we are! The end. Didya like it? Did y’all have fun on the journey? This was as much a writing exercise as it was a passion project for me. I wanted to see if I could (1) even write a mystery (2) incorporate magic in a vaguely realistic way (3) ONLY write four parts and (4) write everything ahead of time and release it weekly like a TV show, while still keeping people interested. I feel like I low-key did that lolllllllllllll

That being said I can’t wait to revisit this and turn it into some type of script because I def want to expand on these worlds and characters even more. Especially Detective Erik, even though he’s the most human, there’s something more I think he deserves that I couldn’t quite get my finger on just yet. 

I have an inkling of an idea for a future take, but that won’t happen for a while I think. Writing this was my break from writing my book, and even with life stuff not going perfectly, I’m finally feeling good about diving back into my book and my characters! I’m so close to being done so wish me luck! 

My faerie Roaen is Irish, so you see Angel speaking Irish in that one scene because I have a light obsession with Celtic mythology and Ireland in general. I love that place. Everything is so damn green. 

Finally, I want to thank absolutely EVERYONE for reading and liking and reblogging and sharing this story. It really means the world to me especially as a fairly new writer. (This is only my second fic lol) You guys lift my spirit every time you read and I truly am blessed to have y’all reading my story. 

The Mystery of the Golden Fang Mood Board

A Map Made in Heaven

Masterlist

Taglist: @princessstevens @muse-of-mbaku @k-michaelis@queenamaniii@thatrandomfangirl98@dreadedphilosphy@killmongurl @thelovelyliterary@elaindeereads @thedom223 @muse-of-mbaku@bidibidibombaclaat @panthergoddessbast @writingmarvellousimagines @someareblindtoitsbeauty @jozigrrl@iamrheaspeaks @purple-apricots @thadelightfulone@janelledarling @killmongersgurl

[bux-blurbs]

Dystopian fictions depict a negative view of "the way the world is supposedly going in order to provide urgent propaganda for a change in direction”. Susan Collin's Hunger Games, Veronica Roth's Divergent series and James Dashner's Maze Runner series are popular dystopian science-fictions which consist of a few similar concepts and they really are amazing novels to dig into. I much prefer to read books before watching the film adaptation so that I can imagine and creatively picture the characters and events. Dystopian worlds have existed in all sorts of forms - whether we look at Narnia under the White Witch or George Orwell's Animal Farm or Frank Herbert's Dune - but these science fiction dystopians are a new twist on the genre. A few glaring similarities between HG & Divergent: One guy character who is so incredibly perfect you wonder where they make these men. (Peeta, Four) Check. One main female character who emerges as a leader and grieves for the losses she has suffered as a result of War. (Katniss, Tris) Check. The main guy is subjected to some treatment which makes him think that his female love interest is his enemy. (Peeta is implanted with fake memories, Four is injected with simulation serum) Check. The people are divided into different sections and each section's population acts in a particular way or engages in a specific profession. (Districts, Factions) Check. We can find young protagonists who are pitted against each other in winner-take-all battles to the death which reflect to what adolescence have turned into. If you spend your early teens being told that your future depends on how well you do on your exams and on effectively simulating the appearance of a socially, politically, and artistically engaged super-being.... well, you have no problem identifying with youngish heroes who must emit a constant stream of miraculous exploits or be crushed. HUNGER GAMES The Capitol is the cruel Government of the twelve districts of Panem which holds a tournament every year called the Hunger Games. Each of the country's 12 districts must offer one girl and one boy between the ages of 12 and 18 to fight to the death on live TV. Katniss Everdeen, a 16-year-old girl from District 12, volunteers to take her younger sister Primrose's spot in the tournament. From her district, she's joined by Peeta Mellark. In the second book, Catching Fire, the Capitol are furious at Katniss for starting a second rebellion, so they create a special version of the Hunger Games for all the previous victors, which means that she and Peeta must return. During these games, they create a team of victors, who manage to destroy the arena and escape to District Thirteen, which most people thought did not exist. However, the Capitol capture Peeta, and they destroy District Twelve. The last book, Mockingjay tells the story of Katniss leading the revolution. They rescue Peeta, but he has been tortured and now he hates and fears Katniss. A team of rebels including Peeta and Katniss then go on a mission to assassinate President Snow in the Capitol, but Katniss' sister Primrose is killed by a bomb. Katniss later discovers that the president of the rebels made this bomb, so she kills her own president in place of Snow. She then returns to her home, District Twelve, to try to recover with Peeta. At the end of the book we see them married with two children. DIVERGENT When I first read Divergent, I was so awed that it got me hooked straightaway and I finished it in less than 24 hours. The story revolves around a young girl name Beatrice, aged sixteen, who lives in a divided society where people are split into five factions according to their personal qualities. The factions are Dauntless (the brave), Candor (the honest), Abnegation (the selfless), Amity (the peaceful) and Erudite (the intelligent), and each individual must choose a faction at the age of 16. 'Abnegation fulfills the need for selfless leaders in government; Candor provides trustworthy and sound leaders in law; Erudite supplies intelligent teachers and researchers; Amity gives understanding counselors and caretakers; and Dauntless provides protection from threats both within and without.' Her aptitude test result is Divergent which apparently means that she possess multiple personality traits. She eventually choose Dauntless during the Choosing Ceremony and strive to be a member of that faction, otherwise she'll turn out to be a factionless, in complete isolation and in abject poverty which sounds like a fate worse than death. Once, she entered into the Dauntless faction, she changed her name to Tris. Divergent reflects the contemporary division of our society and also all those who find it difficult to fit in, can also relate. I wonder what would have been my aptitude test and which faction I would ultimately choose and came to the conclusion that Candor and Amity suit me best. 'We Will Rock You' style: Clap, clap, stomp. Clap, clap, stomp. Clap, clap, stomp. Clap, clap, stomp. We are, we are DAUNTLESS We are, we are DAUNTLESS Beatrice, Now called Tris, Made a big change Playing on the trains, She became a Dauntless one day She's got mud on her face A parental disgrace Now she'll be kickin your ass all over the place Singin' We are, we are DIVERGENT We are, we are DIVERGENT Tobias is a Dauntless, Divergent Shoutin' to them all, We can take on the world today Erudite got blood on their face We'll put them in their place Into the past, out of our Fear Landscapes Singin' We are, we are INSURGENT We are, we are INSURGENT The simulation training is really fascinating. 'The simulation stimulate the amygdale which is responsible for processing fear, induce a hallucination based on fear, and then transmit the data to a computer to be processed and observed.'  'Learning how to think in the midst of fear is a lesson that everyone needs to learn.' 'It's basically a struggle between your thalamus, which is producing fear, and your frontal lobe, which makes decisions. But the simulation is all in your head, so even though you feel like someone is doing it to you, it's just you, doing it to yourself.'  The less number of fears you've got and the less time you take to confront your fear, the most successful you are. This also left me wondering about the numerous fears I'll face if ever I'd taken part in such simulation. The last book, Allegiant, revealed blatant truths about the world Tris was living in which boost up my excitement but that did not last longer. The fun and laughter is over. I remember finding myself staring blankly in disbelief as it was an ending I absolutely didn't see coming and to be honest, I find the main character's sacrifice comes off as utterly meaningless. As it turns out, the world has apparently been so full of assholes that the government decided to eliminate the genes in citizens that caused dishonestly, selfishness, cowardice, stupidity, and aggression. Unfortunately, this backfired and just created more assholes that were more asshole-y than before, that is genetic damaged people. Hence, the government constructs gigantic city-sized behavioural experiments all across the country and get volunteers who had their genes screwed with to have their memories wiped and stick them into a city and force them to choose a faction. Eventually these people will reproduce enough times until they finally manage to have "genetically pure" (a.k.a. Divergent) babies that are free from messed up genes. The story shifted from the old unresolved conflict between the factionless and the factions to a whole new conflict between the genetically pure and the genetically damaged people. Much time and energy are spent fighting for something that isn't really a problem for the most probable reason: they have been taught that it is a problem. MAZE RUNNER The story starts off with a boy named Thomas who find himself in a strange place called the Glade where there are other guys known as Gladers. Outside the glade is a maze which has to be solved for the Gladers to be out. There is one threat stopping them from figuring out the maze, one threat stopping them from going out at night and from going too far into the maze, horrific animals that go by the names of grievers which are giant bug-like creatures. Many of them lost their lives fighting grievers and finding their way back, but eventually the rest of them made it till the end only to discover that they are all suffering from the most horrible disease known to mankind called The Flare. In the second book, The Scorch Trials, some of the boys discover another group of girls who also underwent the same experiment. Solving the maze was supposed to be the end but instead of freedom the Gladers find themselves faced with another trial. Burned by sun flares and baked by a new, brutal climate, much of the earth is a wasteland. They met Cranks who are people covered in festering wounds and driven to murderous insanity by the Flare, roam the crumbling cities hunting for their next victim... and meal. They must cross the Scorch, the most burned-out section of the world, and arrive at a safe haven in two weeks. In the last book, The Death Cure, we learn more about the Flare. The Flare virus was engineered by the founder of World In Catastrophe Kill-zone Experiment Department (WICKED) in an attempt to control the human population because there was so many people dying, the founder says that the virus was supposed to wear off after a while but the virus got out of control and now only the immunes can stop it before the virus kills all of the human species. Nothing mentions on how the immunes were suddenly 'immune' to the virus, and the number of them is massive, it is like as if it is an experiment to see who is strong enough to withstand the heat, this basically indicates that if they can survive the Flare virus, they can survive the heat, but that got out of control so they are now killing and experimenting on the immunes. In the end, everyone goes through the Flat Trans, and on the other side is a paradise. Like a legit paradise with green everywhere and an ocean and everything. So, eventually the Gladers really made it and are free. But that's not really the end. We get another epilogue with a memorandum from Chancellor Paige. In her memorandum, she says that the paradise for Thomas and the 200 or so Immunes was WICKED's Plan B. Once their Plan A had been ruined, they decided the only way to save the human race was to get a bunch of immune people to start civilization all over again; to do this, she made Brenda and Jorge help Thomas make it to paradise. In the end, WICKED does end up saving the human race, despite the awful crimes they've committed against humanity.

[nedraggett]

Thoughts on 2018

No need for me to be fancier than that!  And yeah I realize that nobody should be using Tumblr any more but until I figure out a proper revive of my old Wordpress site, this will do for now.

So anyway: I wrote this up for a private email list reflecting on the end of the year in terms of things I especially enjoyed culturally. Well, why not share it?

My year went very well — steady at work and in life, being 47 means more aches and pains but you have to learn to live with it.  The state of the world is something else again of course and we need not spend more time on the blazingly obvious.  That said, the history bug in me has been constantly intrigued by the slow drip of the investigations (and revelations) and were it all fiction, I’d be thoroughly enthralled instead of quietly apprehensive, of course.  November did provide some partial relief on that front so bring on the new year.  In terms of my own written work, nothing quite equalled my heart/soul going into last year’s Algiers feature for NPR, but my two big Quietus pieces this year — on Gary Numan’s Dance  and Ralph Bakshi’s Lord of the Rings  — were treats to write, while my presentation on the too-obscure Billy Mackenzie at PopCon was a great experience.

In terms of music this has been one of the most concert-heavy years I’ve spent.  Even having moved to SF in 2015 I only did the occasional show every so often — there was so much going on (even in a local scene lots of long-timers say has been irrevocably changed) that I was almost spoiled for choice, and part of me also just wanted to relax most nights.  But deaths like Prince’s and Bowie’s among many others served as a reminder that there’s no such thing as forever, and you never know what the last chance will be.  More veteran acts than younger ones in the end for me — greatest missed concert regrets this year included serpentwithfeet, Lizzo, Perfume Genius and Emma Ruth Rundle among the younger acts, while being ill when Orbital came through will be a lingering annoyance, still having never seen them live.  But the huge amount of shows I did see outweighed that, ranging from big arena stops like Fleetwood Mac to celebratory open-air free shows like Mexican Institute of Sound to small club sets by folks like Kinski, Six Organs of Admittance, Kimbra and many more, including, for the first time in years, a show in the UK, specifically a great performance by Roddy Frame of Aztec Camera.  If I absolutely had to grade my top picks among shows, Cruel Diagonals, Johnny Marr, Wye Oak, Peter Brotzmann/Keiji Haino, John Zorn/Terry Riley/Laurie Anderson, Laurie Anderson again separately, Nine Inch Nails, VNV Nation, Jarvis Cocker, Beak and, in terms of no real expectations turning into utter delight and thrills, a brilliant set by Lesley Rankine under her Ruby guise, with Martin Atkins on drums.  Best damn combination of righteous ire, hilarious raconteurism and compelling, unique approaches to how performance can work I’d seen in a while.  (As for recorded music in general, uh, endless?)

TV, as ever a bit sporadic, with a few things on my to-do list — still need to catch The Terror for sure, and what I saw of The Alienist looked good; I love both books so I need to see how it all worked out, similarly with the just-dropped version of Watership Down.  Pose I definitely need to catch up with since it sounds like Ryan Murphy stood out of the way to let the best possible team do the business on it, but my real unexpected delight of a show this year was also Murphy-based, American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace.  While not down the line perfect, it was absolutely more compelling than not, and in fact at its best was a shuddering combination of amazing music cue choices, a reverse structure that helped undercut any attempt at making Cunanan seem sympathetic or an antihero, and, at its considerable best, a ratcheting up of terror and horror that a friend said was almost Kubrickian, and I would have to agree.  And, frankly, Darren Criss really did the business as Cunanan, a controlled and powerful turn. Only a few of us seemed to be following it at the time, but when it scored all those Emmys, then while it was as much a reflection of Murphy’s status, it honestly felt well deserved.  Meantime, you’ll pry my addiction to all the RuPaul’s Drag Race incarnations from my cold dead hands but it’s the amazing online series that Trixie Mattel and Katya do, UNHhhh, which remains my comedy highlight of the year, with at least a few jaw-dropping/seize up laughing every episode. (Kudos as well for Brad Jones’s The Cinema Snob, ten years running online and still funny as fuck while digging up all kinds of cinematic horrors.) Also, tying back into music a bit, late recommendation for something you can only see on UK TV/streaming so far, but get yourself a VPN and seek out Bros: After the Screaming Stops, in which the two brothers in the late-80s monster hit pop band Bros (never had any traction here but pretty much owned the entire Commonwealth and beyond) try for a comeback.  It’s an unintentionally hilarious and harrowing portrait of two twins who have a LOT of issues, have clearly been through a LOT of therapy, but are still…not quite there.  UK friends said it was a combination of Spinal Tap, Alan Partridge and David Brent and they were ABSOLUTELY RIGHT. 

Movies, less specifically to choose from — I remain an essentially sporadic populist when it comes to what I see in theaters, but I can say for sure that Spider-man: Into the Spiderverse is a hell of a thing and will almost certainly prove to be a real year-zero moment down the line.  Possibly the most affecting watch was Bohemian Rhapsody, in that I also saw this in the UK — in Brighton, which besides making me think of the band’s song “Brighton Rock” is also notably the country’s most LGBT-friendly city; those I was with felt the movie’s themes, successes and flaws/elisions deeply, and the constant discussion of it for the next few days was very rewarding. As for books, John Carreyrou’s Bad Blood, delving into Theranos and the amoral duo behind it, was properly enraging and compelling, while Beth Macy’s Dopesick, if not perfect, nonetheless adds to the good literature on the opioid crisis, while as ever indirectly calling into question who’s getting the focus and care now as opposed to in earlier times and places. My favorite music publications as such probably remain the two I most regularly write for, The Quietus and Daily Bandcamp, while Ugly Things is the print publication that I most look forward to with each issue, and am never disappointed. 

Podcasts now consist of a lot of my regular cultural engagement, kinda obvious but nonetheless true.  Long running faves include My Favorite Murder — Karen and Georgia are an amazing comedy team who have figured out how to reinterpret their anxieties in new ways — The Vanished, which at its best often casts a piercing eye on how official indifference from law enforcement is almost as destructive as their more obvious abuses (recent discovery The Fall Line does this as well, even more explicitly), Karina Longworth’s constantly revelatory Hollywood histories You Must Remember This, Patrick Wyman’s enjoyable history dives on Tides of History, my friend Chris Molanphy’s constantly excellent investigations into music chart history Hit Parade, the great weekly movie chats by MST3K vets Frank Conniff and Trace Beaulieu along with Carolina Hidalgo on Movie Sign With the Mads, and The Age of Napoleon, which really has hit my history wonk sweet spot.  New to me this year was It’s Just a Show,  a really wonderful episode by episode — but not in exact order — deep dive into every episode of MST3K ever, by two fun and thoughtful Canadian folks, Adam Clarke and Beth Martin. (Adam also cohosts a new podcast, A Part of Our Scare-itage, specifically looking at Canadian horror. It’s not just Cronenberg!). Among the excellent one-off series this year: American Fiasco by Men in Blazers’ Roger Bennett on the failed US World Cup attempt in 1998, Dear Franklin Jones, a story about the narrator’s experience growing up in a California cult and how his parents came to be followers in the first place, and the Boston Globe’s Gladiator, their audio accompaniment to their in-depth story of the life and ultimate fate of Aaron Hernandez. Finally, totally new series this year that quickly got added to my regular listening: American Grift, a casual and chatty look at various scams and schemes, overseen by Oriana Schwindt, The Eurowhat?, a running look at the Eurovision competition throughout the year from the perspective of two American fans, and The Ace Records Podcast, an often engaging series of one-off interviews with various musicians, fans and so forth by UK writer Pete Paphides (I highly recommend the interviews with Jon Savage and Sheila B). Hands down my two favorite totally new podcasts of the year were The Dream, a more formal story of American grifting in general hosted by Jane Marie — this first season’s focus was on multilevel marketing, and Marie and company’s careful way of seemingly backing into the larger story makes it all the more compelling and ultimately infuriating, especially in the current political climate — and the hilarious Race Chasers, a RuPaul’s Drag Race-celebrating podcast by two veterans of the show, Alaska and Willam, loaded with all kinds of fun, behind the scenes stuff, guests and an easy casualness from two pros that strikes the perfect balance between going through things and just shooting the shit.  Returning podcast I’m most looking forward to next year: the second season of Cocaine and Rhinestones, hands down.  Check out the first season for sure.

And there ya go!  Keep fighting all your respective good fights.

[tngrayson]

Memories - Headstone

A/N: Written for @thorne93 ‘s challenge roulette. My prompts were Scarlet-Character death and Magnolia-”Don't threaten me with a good time”

Fits into the Break My Heart universe.

Word count: 700ish

Pairing/Characters: Billy Russo x Reader, Curt Hoyle, Frank Castle

Warnings: Angst, character death

“Here’s to you, Frank,” you whispered, sitting with your back resting against your brother’s headstone in the cemetery. It was a chilly night, but the alcohol kept you from caring. Your phone rang. It was Billy calling…again. After a nasty fight a few days ago, you left, saying you needed space. Since then, Billy had been calling you, upping the frequency every so often. Instead of answering, you tossed the phone. It hit another headstone, cracking on impact and tumbling to the ground.

You took a few heavy gulps from the bottle of whiskey. “Hey,” you said, turning towards the headstone, “you remember that time in high school when we vandalized Jack Thornton’s car?

****

Tears streamed down your face as you walked out of your bedroom and down the hall. You passed Frank’s room but stopped, backtracking to knock on his door frame. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, not looking up from his book.

You heaved a sigh. “Jack Thornton cheated on me. Wanna help me destroy his car?”

At that Frank looked up, giving you a once over, particularly noting the backpack of supplies over your shoulder and you wiping at your tears and sniffling some.

Frank closed his book. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he said as he got up to come with you, making sure to grab his baseball bat that rested by his door on the way out.

****

“You surprised the Hell outta me that day.” You took another swig. “We totaled his car with a couple bats, some spray paint, and our bare fucking hands.

“You said ‘nobody messes with my little sister.’ You always put your family first…even after most of us were gone.”

You finished off the bottle and tossed it. It landed somewhere near your phone. You stared at the stone and shook your head. Without any prior thought, you started punching it as hard as you could. The skin of your knuckles shredded and bled as you shouted at it; letting out everything you’d been holding in since Frank died with each punch.

Curt was walking toward the gravesite when he saw you. “Y/N?”

By the time he got to you, you had your head rested against the headstone; your punches now weakly tapping the stone as you cried into it. “I needed you here, Frank! I’m still right here...”

“Come on, Y/N,” Curtis said from behind you, grabbing your arm to get you up. You were so drunk you didn’t even flinch at the sudden intrusion.

Curt found your phone and the empty bottle and then helped you into his car. “You know Russo’s worried about you,” he tried to get you talking. After you didn’t respond, he spoke up again. “We all miss him, Y/N. If you want to talk-“

When curt looked over, you were asleep. Your head resting awkwardly on your arm against the passenger window. When he reached your apartment, he woke you gently and helped you into the building.

Billy opened the door and you strode in past him without saying a word.  You went into the kitchen to clean your hand with warm water and antibacterial soap while he talked to Curtis.

“Thanks, Curt,” he said with a sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Where was she?”

“Went to see Frank,” he said as he fished your broken phone out of his pocket and handed it to Billy. “That hand’s gonna need some patching, I can stay and wrap it up for you.”

“Nah, Curt, you’ve already done enough. I’ll take care of it.”

Curt looked to you in the kitchen as you watched the blood swirl down the drain.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Billy closed the door behind Curtis. He grabbed the first aid bag from the bathroom and met you in the kitchen. “I was worried about you,” he said, reaching for your hand and turning off the faucet. He uncapped the peroxide and poured it generously over your swollen knuckles. You clenched your teeth as the burning sensation settled in. Billy was gentle as he patted the area dry and wrapped a bandage around your hand before cracking open an instant ice pack for you.

“Thank you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper as you headed for the bedroom.

He called after you. “You gonna do this every time you think about him? You can’t keep going like this, Y/N.”

“You know his birthday is next week? I just want my brother back,” you said weakly.

“I know...” Billy said with a sigh as he followed you into the bedroom where you finally gave in. You didn’t talk; only cried until you fell asleep while Billy held you together in his arms. 

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[ducktracy]

32. it’s got me again! (1932)

release date: may 14th, 1932

series: merrie melodies

director: rudolf ising

starring: n/a

another cartoon with more “firsts”! this is the first cartoon to credit tom mckimson, one of the mckimson brothers (bob, charles, and tom) who would later serve as one of bob clampett’s layout artists, bob mckimson of course becoming clampett’s top animator (tied with rod scribner) and later moving on as a director. this is also the first warner bros cartoon nominated for an academy award! unfortunately it didn’t win, losing to disney’s flowers and trees. warner bros would receive many nominations as we’ll see, but only won 5 awards out of 1000+ cartoons! (tweetie pie, for scent-imental reasons, speedy gonzales, birds anonymous, and knighty knight bugs) anyway, enough names. this cartoon features the antics of a gang of jolly mice, which are rudely interrupted by a hungry cat.

in the middle of the night, a mouse takes furtive footsteps out of its hole. it sneaks around a mouse trap, but the chime of a clock scares it and its tail gets caught in the trap.

he seeks his mouse hole for refuge, and the trap slips off its tail and hits the wall. safe from the metal clutches, the mouse cautiously makes a return and steals the cheese. all is well.

there’s a lovely pan of the room as the mouse makes its way to the other side, tiptoeing over an xylophone, squeezing through a french horn sliding down a violin, bouncing off a drum, and sliding onto the crank of a phonograph, giving it a few whirls.

music gets going and the mouse declares “okay fellas, on with the dance!”

an armada of mice stream out of the hole, using an accordion to lower themselves down. there’s even an elderly mouse on crutches (ha!) that keeps spinning around his crutches when the little mice run between his legs.

the mice sing the titular number of “it’s got me again!” while frolicking around the record, the one mouse on the record tripping and spinning around in endless loops. frank marsales’ music score is beautiful as always! the mouse flies off of the record, bouncing off a horn, a banjo, etc, using a metronome as a javelin to pull himself back on top of the phonograph.

process repeating as the mouse gets thrown off of the record again, he slides through a clarinet, and out come a tiny army of mice. they jump on the drum, completely synchronized with a rolling snare drum march! i can’t eat this up enough! the animation is so tactile and fun, and the music is synchronized perfectly. a mouse plays “the girl i left behind me/the waxie’s dargle” on a fife, the mice sitting on the exposed holes of the fife sprinting into the air with each note played. animation reused from hold anything gives us a line of mice (who uncannily look like mickey—i know all the mice and foxes do, but they’re sporting pants and shoes too) who march in time with the beat.

one by one the rodent soldiers take their exit, except for one, who trips on a nail in the midst of a hurry to catch up with his brethren. he falls and lands straight into a spittoon, much to his public ridicule. he gets out and blows a raspberry into a tuba. i love that! it amuses me to no end how many raspberries are used in these cartoons. spittoons are another common object.

meet the enemy, a hungry cat in a rainstorm. the cat looks inside at the festivities and licks its lips—trouble is brewing. i love how ugly this cat is, especially the big irises and conjoined eyes. good design on their part!

we cut back to a piano, where two mice burst out and tinker around on the piano in a fight. a gangster and a hapless victim! i wasn’t expecting that whatsoever. i wonder if friz freleng animated this sequence? the musical timing and the suspicious tinkering around accompanied by piano music reminds me of his sylvester and tweety cartoons. this is a great scene though, synchronization on point and the concept of a mobster mouse is hilarious.

back to the cat, who’s made his way onto the roof, looking in through a skylight. he shoves himself into a chimney, granting himself entrance into the house through a fireplace. spotting a cuckoo clock, he attacks the bird that comes out of it and swallows it. as all cats do. consequently, each time the cat opens its mouth, a “cuckoo” sounds, which alerts the mice.

time for a good ol’ cat and mouse chase! the cat corners one of the mice, who bursts into a rendition of “it’s got me again!”, doing an al jolson impression. i’ll say it once and i’ll say it many times again (so be warned!), the music is phenomenal! frank marsales really adapted well to the various moods of the cartoon, from the suspicious opening to the celebratory party, to the furtive nature of the cat to the hurried chase sequence, and now to the warbly, jazzy “farewell” underscore (it’s hard to describe, but it’s to the same effect as this great scene, one of my favorite daffy scenes ever because of the music).

just as the mouse’s family is going to have to shop for a tombstone, we get a view of a group of mice using a musical bow as a hunting bow, complete with a drumstick arrow. the drumstick shoots the cat squarely in the ass, sending it running.

more mice join in on the fun, using a harp as a bow and sending an armada of drumsticks flying. great sound design with the plucky harp strings playing each time a shot is fired! the cat tries to dodge the arrows, but to no avail.

of course, we have a flamethrower too. i LOVE THIS IT’S SO SMART. you lull your audience into a certain mindset, expecting more musical macgyver patented weapons... and then you randomly pull out a flamethrower from nowhere. it’s genius!

the cat runs into a bass drum and briefly becomes dazed. however, he has little time to rest, as a mouse blows a streamer in the cat’s face, sending him running. and possibly best of all, we have a shot of a mouse shooting needles from the record player like a machine gun, complete with the sound effects! the cat leaps out of the window, and all is well, iris out.

certainly worthy of it’s academy award nomination! the pacing was just right, as was the story structure. frank marsales’ music was beautiful as ever! a LOT of fun visuals, like the mice being divided by the clarinet and jumping on the drum, and the mouse shooting needles at the cat. this is probably my second favorite merrie melody after you don’t know what you’re doin’!. certainly worthy of a watch!

[betweensceneswriter]

Jimjeran-Chapter 5:“Alone”

Claire's never been very good at being alone.

Click Here for the Table of Contents

Click to download & listen to the Audio Version--05_Alone.mp3

    “SSSSsssshit, that’s cold!”  I swore out loud as the frigid water splashed on my shoulders and streamed down my body.

     “Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.” I chanted, as I wrapped my towel around myself, grabbed my sundress off the hook, shoved my feet into my flip-flops, exited the little outdoor shower stall, and ran back into my apartment.

    I hadn’t thought I’d ever be cold again after the first sweltering day on Arno, after I’d sweated through the day and kept sweating through the windless night.  I was obviously wrong.

    I filled my cooking pot full of water and after two tries got the kerosene stove to light.  Now what?  I wasn’t going to be pouring cold water over myself, so I needed to wait for it to boil.  Standing there with my towel draped around me, I was freezing and feeling incredibly sorry for myself.  I’d already taken the 5 gallon bucket to the well this morning and spent a good half hour trying to fill it.  Laura had said that the pump water in the clinic was from the catchment, which collected a limited supply of fresh rain water, only for drinking,.  For washing, I needed to be using the well water.

    Laura had showed me the technique to flick my wrist as I lowered the rope in the well so the coffee can “bucket” would turn on its side, sink, and fill completely with water, but I was terrible at it.  I kept banging the bucket against the stone wall of the well, which was only succeeding in slowly crushing the can so it would actually hold less water.

    I’d finally filled the bucket and then wrestled the forty pound weight across the yard into my shower stall.  I’d gotten undressed, trying to hang up my towel and the little sundress I had thrown on for coming outside, and then I’d grabbed the plastic bowl Laura said was to be used as a dipper and dumped the first bowl-ful of water over myself.

    Laura had told me I could always boil some water to add to the cold well water.  I hadn’t thought I’d need that luxury since it was so hot on Arno.  I was wrong, I told myself, I totally need it.

    I could see a hint of pink in the sky over the lagoon, so I dropped my towel, pulled the dress back on, and headed outside to watch the sun rise.  Certainly more beautiful than watching a pot boil, I told myself.

    I strolled across the yard, approaching the beach.  I’d come out here last night, when the tide was high.  Now the tide was low, and the sand was pinkish white in the faint light of sunrise.  Streaks of crimson, fuschia, tangerine, and poppy filled the sky, radiating up from the horizon behind the islands on the other side of the atoll, which somehow looked closer now.  In places I could actually see the shapes of coconut palm trees.

    It was beautiful, and then I looked off to my left.  There was a dark blob on the beach a quarter mile or so away.  The dark blob lengthened, and then walked back up off the beach.  I glanced to my right and saw another dark blob in the distance, low to the sand, which then stood up and walked off the beach.  I suddenly felt like I was intruding.  I turned around and headed back to the cabin.  It was probably one of the most scenic places for a morning potty break I’d ever seen, I thought.

    I took the now boiling pot of water out to the shower stall, poured it into my bucket, took the pot back to the house, grabbed my towel, and tried again.

    This time the water was lukewarm but not unpleasant, and I gratefully rinsed the salty sweat from my body and hair before drying off and going inside to get dressed.

    I made myself some instant oatmeal and powdered coffee, a disgusting and dissatisfying breakfast, and got ready to head to the clinic for my first day.

     “Deoderant!”  I exclaimed.  I went over to the bunkbed and pulled out the big box I’d used for storing my extra toiletries.  I’d bought enough for six months, even though I could probably get back to Majuro once or twice before then.  “Deodorant…deodorant…deodorant…”  I shoved different items aside until I found a three-pack of deodorant, cut the plastic wrapping, dropped the two spares back into the box, and shoved the box back against the wall.  I wouldn’t be smelly for my first day of work.

    She had a sweet little name, “Sharbella,” so I guess that’s what I had expected.  Instead my translator was wide and solid, middle-aged, and mannish.  But she spoke English and fluent Marshallese, so that made her the most beautiful person I’d met on Arno thus far.

     “Nice to meet you, Claire,” she said, as we entered the clinic.  She’d brought out the white board and marker for the women to sign up for appointments, and she knew where Laura had kept the well-child records, so she assembled the binders, ready to fill with the newest figures.

    I took a deep breath, went to the door, and slaughtered whatever name had been written first.  “Plu-Rose and Si-na-na?”  I said.

    When I’d poked my head out, I’d been greeted with a chorus of, “Good mo-ning, Miss Peachay!” The women, sitting with their babies in the grass in front of the clinic, smiled and laughed at my pronunciation.

    Sinana was a beautiful little 11 month old with brown eyes, wispy black hair, and a beautiful smile.  She had several large circular bumps on her forehead, a centimeter or more in height. From the appearance and feel of the skin they seemed to be boils, but boils are often infected hair follicles and there was no obvious point of infection.  I cleaned the skin with a warm salt compress, showing Plurose how to repeat the procedure at home, and gave her some topical antiseptic to use for cleaning Sinana’s skin for the next few days.

    We weighed the little girl, measured her length and head circumference, and sent our first patient on her way.

    When the second and third babies also had boils on their heads, I turned to Sharbella.

     “Why do all the babies have boils?” I asked.

     “Nutrition, and hygiene possibly?  There aren’t a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables available out here.  Bananas, papayas, breadfruit, sometimes limes, but not all the time.  They don’t wash their babies very often.  And the babies can get mosquito bites, and then scratch their heads.  It’s very common here, and not only for babies.  If you look at the children’s legs, you will often see scars from boils.  You have to make sure to wash with soap, and scrub your legs and arms with…like a sponge?”

     “A loofah?” I asked.

     “Yes,” Sharbella answered.

    The rest of the morning was a flurry of names and faces, adorable dark-haired babies and toddlers and beautiful mothers.  Many of the women wore brightly colored polyester dresses with elasticized necklines.  When they fed their babies, they just popped their whole boob out of the neck of their dress and kept on doing whatever they were doing, talking and laughing with their friends.  No surreptitious covering of the baby and breast, no shuffling with nursing bras and cover-ups.  Men and children walked by, and no one gave the nursing mom a second glance.  It was refreshing and disconcerting at the same time.

    When the last child had been weighed and measured and the record books put away, Sharbella stood and walked off heavily down the road.  “See you tomorrow,” she had said.

    She left, and I was again alone.

    After Laura had left the previous afternoon, I’d stood in bewildered paralysis in the center of my apartment for a full five minutes.  And then I’d sprung into action.  Before leaving for Majuro Laura had set off a bug bomb, to try to cut back on the number of cockroaches, she told me.  But that meant that all the dishes stored in the open-air cupboard were misted with toxic dust.  I started a pot of water so I would be able to wash the dishes.

    While the water was heating, I unpacked one of my boxes.  Pictures first.  One of Frank in his leather jacket and aviators in front of his 65 Mustang went on top of the dresser, one of us together right after he asked me to marry him, me pointing delightedly at my ring.  One of us cuddled up on the couch at my parents’ house at Christmas.  One of us together in Hawaii, me in a bikini, Frank in low-slung swimming trunks with his hands on my hips.  Looking at the picture, the way dark hair descended from his navel, I felt a pang of unfulfilled desire.  Suck it up, buttercup, I said to myself.  You chose this.

    The stationery supplies went on the desk.  I had stuck in a little lamp, so that went by my bed.  A row of books would be my nighttime entertainment.  I’d also brought along a box of medical resource books, but those were already in the clinic.

     I looked through another box.  Multiple bottles of shampoo and conditioner, eight boxes of tampons, boxes of soap, laundry detergent, dish soap, and mosquito spray.

    Ah ha!  I interrupted what I was doing to take the can outside and spray myself.   In a few places the screens on the windows were torn, and I was continuing to get bitten.

     “Tastes like evil Christmas,” I muttered to myself as I accidentally got some of the “Back Woods” scented spray in my mouth.

    When I looked up from violently spitting on the ground, I noticed a little girl watching me from the road.  She grinned, then covered her face, slowly peeking out from behind her fingers.  Finally she seemed brave enough to approach.

     “What’s you name? What’s you name? What’s you name?” She asked, three times in a row.

     “My name is Miss Beauchamp,” I responded.

     “Hi, Miss Peachay!” she said.

     “What’s your name?” I asked her.

    She pointed at herself.  “Kay-tee,” she said.

     “Oh, Katie.  Nice to meet you.”  I stuck my right hand out to shake hands, and she grabbed it with her left hand and swung it back and forth a few times, then dropped it.

    She asked me a few questions in Marshallese, but when I couldn’t answer her, she waved and meandered off.  I thought she might be around four or five years old, walking down the road, without a parent in sight.

    Back inside, a steaming pot of water was next on the agenda.  As I washed, rinsed, dried, and put away, my mind started wandering.

    Seeing Frank’s picture had brought one of our final conversations to mind.  We were in our bedroom, and I was packing.

     “Do you expect me to be celibate for 18 months?”  Frank’s tone was irritated and even slightly bitter.  “I have never had the goal of practicing celibacy for a couple years when I turned 31. I certainly didn’t choose the life of a priest, Claire.”

     “Well, you didn’t choose the life of a married man, either,” I said, instantly regretting the words as they came out.

     “Oh, so this is punishment, is it?  Because we never set a date?  Because we never signed a piece of paper, and you never wore a puffy white dress?”  Frank stared at me as I came out of the walk-in closet with an armload of sundresses.

     “I’m not trying to punish you, Frank.  I just realized that if I don’t do this now, I probably never will! And yeah, if we were married, I might not be doing it.  But I know we’re going to get married and have kids.  And then after they’ve been with us for 18 to 20 years and move out, we will be so settled in our lives that the thought of adventure and service will have faded from my memory.”

    Frank sighed.  He’d heard this before.  “I repeat,” he said.  “Do you expect me to remain celibate?”

    I stared at him.  “Well, don’t you expect me to be faithful?”

    He narrowed his eyes.  “I don’t think you can.”

     “Now, what is that supposed to mean?” I asked indignantly, haphazardly flopping clothes into my suitcase.

     “Which one of us is it who can’t seem to go longer than three or four days without sex?” he asked.  “Which one of us is more likely to initiate sex?”

     “I’m just an affectionate person,” I said, tugging on the zipper of the suitcase.  “You’re lucky I like to make you feel good, that you don’t have to hunt me down, that I rarely reject you, and if I do, I make up for it.  You don’t seem to complain about it most of the time.”

     “Hmmm,” Frank said, looking thoughtful.  “I’m pretty sure you initiate for yourself, not just for my sake.  You are too sexual for celibacy.  I give you a month; and then you’re going to find some dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned island man that you’re dying to take to bed.  And he’ll take you up on it, too.”

    I stood there, dumbstruck, staring at him.  What was I supposed to say in response?

     “Just be sure to use protection,” Frank said, threateningly.  “We’re getting tested when you come back, and I’m not sleeping with you unless you’re clean.”

    I glared at him, horrified.  “Do you really think so little of me?  That I don’t love you enough to be faithful?”

     “For eighteen days, maybe,” Frank said quietly, looking down at the quilt on our bed.  “Maybe for eighteen weeks.  But for eighteen months, Claire, I don’t think so.  And if you’re not going to be celibate, I don’t want to be, either.”

     “I think you’re wrong,” I said.  “But, let’s just promise to be honest with each other.  If we sleep with someone, we say so the next time we write.  No details, just the word sex, or not celibate.  I can write, “You were right.”  You can write, “Fuck you, Beauchamp.”

    I had started crying then, and Frank had come to me and put his arms around me.  He was too angry to take me to bed then, though I wanted him to, to show me that he forgave me, that he wanted me, that he trusted me; but later that night we made love with an earnest urgency that we hadn’t had since our first year together.

    It was going to be fine, I knew it.  He was definitely wrong. I would keep my distance from the locals.  I would befriend women and children, and I would stay away from any man 18 or older, except in social situations.  I would remember that I was planning to go back home, that I was engaged to marry Frank Randall.  That I loved him, and that he loved me, and that we were going to be together forever.

    Still, as I finished up my packing in Majuro, I had packed one more thing—a small shiny black cardboard carton, now tucked into the box of toiletries, concealed behind the tampons and deodorant.

Warning--the second picture of little baby "Sinana" is a little disturbing. Adorable girl, though!

On to Chapter 6 : Night Noises

”Miss Peachay…I want to talk to you…”