#another older snippet cause I’ve not written recently*

[tracle0]

Snippet Sunday X

babes we reached 10 of them!!!! Here is a snippet to celebrate wahoo!

Wow,” he said. “That’s incredible. Why didn’t we notice anything was weird?”

“We did. We found the gods. But statistic wise… well, when did people realise you were a prophet?”

His steadily growing grin faltered. It was a hard question to answer - there was no one moment when anyone had known, least of all him. When he had been very young, both him and Cain had boldly assumed that some dreams would simply come true, which had resulted in a joint terror of coming home to find their parents replaced by overly zealous frilled lizards after Cain had had a nightmare about it. Perhaps his parents had begun to suspect when he had asked them about grand historical events or for clarity on complex, upcoming social issues he had no right to know about as a six year old. Or perhaps it had been when he had been seven, and had been able to repeat, word for word, the story his grandmother would tell at her upcoming birthday. It had been finally, quietly accepted when he was eight, after he pinpointed the exact grief his father had experienced when his uncle had died, and discussed obscure details of the time his mother had been bed-bound for two months with an aggressive strand of the flu with her, and when the cancer he had predicted three years prior had finally struck their cousin. 

“After every option has been exhausted,” he said instead. He was acutely aware of his hands. Why did they feel so present, so awkward? What did he usually do with them? Try the pockets. Hide them away. 

[alostsock]

An exercise in futility.

Summary/Snippet: “Did you think it hadn’t been tried, Booker?” Booker blinks, slowly turning to face Nicky.

“What?”

“Did you really think it hadn’t been tried? That everything hadn’t been tried? Everything that woman did, every experiment she ran. None of it is new.”

TW: self-harm, medical experimentation (nothing graphic), body horror, self-hatred, suicidal ideation

This is based on a headcanon by @dearpatroclus which you can read here, so thank you to them! Thank you also to @socvrates for the amazing beta, and to @shaolinqueen for the brainstorming, and for the line “Maybe next time, habibi” because it crushed me and so I included it.

Everything below the cut.

Part 1: Booker

“Did you think it hadn’t been tried, Booker?” Booker blinks, slowly turning to face Nicky.

“What?”

“Did you really think it hadn’t been tried? That everything hadn’t been tried? Everything that woman did, every experiment she ran. None of it is new.”

“You’ve been… wait no, you haven’t been taken in the past 200 years, I would have known about it. Science has changed, Nicky. There’s so much that they can do now that they couldn’t do in the 1700s. You don’t know -”

Nicky says nothing. He turns to face Booker, his eyes dark.

“I would have known…” Booker tries again, losing steam when Nicky continues to look at him with a carefully blank face. His shoulders slump. “When were you taken? Where? Was it you? Was it Joe? Andy? Was it when I was in Shanghai in ‘89? Or  Rennes in ‘27? Why didn’t you tell -”

“We weren’t taken, Booker. Or at least, nothing you don’t know about.”

Booker straightens up again. “Well then how would you know - ?”

“I tried it.”

“What?”

“I tried it myself.”

Booker looks at him in confusion. “What do you mean you tried it yourself?”

“I did the research myself.”

Booker knows there’s something that Nicky isn’t saying (as there tends to be with Nicky, his words always hinting at depths he won’t say) but it’s just out of reach, his mind failing to put it together.

Nicky pushes himself up off of the porch step and heads back inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

-----

Part 2: Nile

They’re in an apartment by the Bay of Naples when Nile finds them. It’s an old property, definitely older than Nile (as most things are), and the things scattered around the house show it. The pots are old, the fireplace is well-used, and some of the clothes that Joe pulls out of the closet look like they’re from the wrong century (they just might be).

It looks innocent enough, at first. In an alcove off of the living room there’s a tall bookshelf, full to bursting. Nile hesitates. They’ve told her time and time again that what’s theirs is hers now, but these old books, clearly well-worn and often looked through, feel personal. She leans closer, hesitant to touch anything. Some of them have titles still legible on the spines. Others are too worn to read, while others still don’t appear to have anything written on the spines at all.

There are a few worn classics in Italian, English, and French that Nile recognizes.

Boccaccio, Shakespeare, Hugo, Rabelais.

There are others in languages Nile can’t read.

Curious and vaguely emboldened, Nile pulls out one of the unmarked books.

The only things she really understands are the dates on some of the pages. There are a few drawings that might have been done by Joe, but most of the book is filled with what Nile recognizes as Nicky’s hand.

She thinks it’s in Latin. It might be in Italian, but she suspects it’s too old of a form for her to read with her limited skills. Flipping through a few more pages and unable to really make out anything meaningful, she carefully closes it and puts it back on the shelf, picking up another.

The next one is much the same.

The pictures, scarce though they are, seem scientific, medical. She knows that Nicky has a medical degree - possibly more than one. Maybe he wrote something and Joe did the drawings for him.

It isn’t until the fifth book that the language starts to tend toward a recent enough form that Nile can make some things out between her recently acquired Italian skills and the Spanish she learned in high school. Between that and the obvious progress over the tomes in methodicity and organization, Nile realizes what she’s looking at.

They’re records of experiments.

She feels dread building in her stomach as she sits heavily on the couch, unable to tear her eyes away. There are a few times she needs to pull out her phone to check a translation but it becomes very clear what the experiments were about: they were experiments on immortality.

Nicky experimented on someone - and given what she knows about the immortal… community, or lack thereof? It must have been Joe or Andy or Booker.

She sits in silence, trying to understand.

Kind Nicky, gentle Nicky, very-much-the-mom-friend Nicky, had it in him to cut out pieces of his friends. It doesn’t feel right. Didn’t doctors take an oath to “do no harm”? She supposes it didn’t stop Kozak, and she knows that anything that was done would heal instantly, but the idea of Nicky taking a blade to Joe or Andy or Booker willingly unsettles Nile deeply.

And based on the number of books here (and Nile is sure that, with the number of properties they have around the globe, this isn’t the only stash of them), Nicky did a lot.

The notes are meticulous, and even with the language barrier Nile gets a pretty good idea of the extent to which Nicky went. Even though they heal, it feels wrong.

She hears the padding of footsteps on the stairs and she can’t help but hope that it isn’t Nicky. She isn’t sure if she can face him just yet - if she can handle how much her perception of him has changed.

She lets out a breath of relief when she sees that it’s Joe. When he sees her sitting on the couch he immediately beams at her, and she feels guilt rush through her when his face drops as he notices the book on her lap.

She shouldn’t have looked.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he huffs out a breath before calling out “Tea?” and heading to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Nile doesn’t know if she can stomach tea.

---

When he comes back he places both teacups on the coffee table before carefully taking the book out of her hands, closing it, and putting it back on the shelf. She notices that he does it all without even looking down at the page. He keeps his gaze averted as if he can’t bear to look at it.

She’s speaking before she can stop herself. “Was it you?”

Joe freezes midway from the shelf to the couch.

“What?”

Nile gestures vaguely. “The… the book. Was it you?”

Joe frowns. “What? No… I mean… Nicky wrote it. He’s the one with the medical training, you know that.”

Nile blinks. “I mean… who did he… who did he experiment on. Was it you? I just… I can’t imagine he would, on you… and so much, too. Even on Andy, or Booker, I...”

Joe’s expression shutters. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment before hesitantly walking the rest of the way back to the couch and sitting down beside her.

He stares down at his own hands, fiddling with one of his rings. “Nicky never touched us.”

That does not make Nile feel better. She squeezes her hands together to stop them from shaking. If he wasn’t experimenting on immortals, then that only left… “He - he must have killed them.”

Joe whips his head around to face her. “What?”

“I… I know I didn’t understand everything, but some of the things he did, there’s no way they made it. He was just… just killing them. For the sake of what, science? Nicky? I never - ”

Joe cuts her off with a quick shake of his head, taking her hand in his.

“No.”

“Joe, have you read those? Even with my shitty Italian and no medical degree I can tell that -”

“No.”

Nile softens. She knows denial. Nicky’s been the love of his life for 900 years. “Joe…”

Joe clears his throat uncomfortably, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ve read them, Nile. I did the art… when I could handle it.” She waits, sensing he has more to say. “But… Nile… he didn’t hurt anybody else.” She opens her mouth, about to argue that it’s impossible when he continues, “The point was to test immortality, test how it can be… what it can do. If it can be harnessed. Testing mortals would have been pointless.”

“But you said he didn’t touch you. He clearly experimented on someone, Joe, he -”

“He refused to hurt anyone else.”

Nile blinks, confused, but Joe doesn’t say anything else. He lets go of her hand and goes back to playing with his rings, but Nile can see the anguish written all over his face. She reaches out a tentative hand to rest on his back, unsure how to comfort him, or even, really, what she’s comforting him for. 

“Joe…” But then, what he said seems to settle in her mind. “He didn’t hurt anyone else.” Joe nods, doesn’t look at her. “He didn’t hurt anyone else,” Nile continues. She thinks she’s going to be sick. “All of that… all of that, he did to himself?”

Joe doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

-----

Part 3: Joe

Joe loves and hates medical breakthroughs. He loves them because, having lived for so long, it’s such an amazing thing to see things that used to cause so much suffering no longer need to. He loves how many unfathomable things have become possible.

He hates them because every time something groundbreaking is published, Nicky gets a distant look in his eyes. Then come the days of scouring the literature, the planning, the hypothesizing. Nicky sinks into a dark hole that will only get darker, and Joe has to try to press food into his hands and drag his love to bed because if he didn’t, he knows Nicky wouldn’t stop to breathe.

What Joe hates most is that working himself to the bone is hardly the worst thing that Nicky will do to himself when he gets into it.

He hates that he knows that nothing he says will dissuade Nicky from desperately destroying himself.

He hates that all he can do is wait until he sees in Nicky’s eyes that it won’t work - until he sees that Nicky knows (however much he doesn’t want to admit it) that he’s tried everything, and that continuing is pointless.

He hates that even though, in the back of his mind, Nicky knows he’s done, he will continue regardless, doing the same thing over and over, still hoping for a different outcome. He hates that all he can do is pull the notebook out of Nicky’s trembling hands, press a kiss to his forehead, and brush back his sweaty hair before putting a hand under his elbow and helping him to his feet.

“Maybe next time, habibi. For now, sleep.”

-----

Part 4: Andy

Healing is exhausting. The human body (even the immortal one) needs fuel. It needs rest.

It isn’t meant to be taken apart over and over, no matter how seamlessly the skin grows back.

After she walks in to find Nicky focused over a piece of his own liver, a frenzied, desperate look in his eyes for the umpteenth time, his cheeks gaunt and his face pale, she realizes the best and worst part of the progression of humanity is science.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten like this, and she’s sure that it won’t be the last.

She knows that Nicky carries guilt. She knows that horrors from his first life still haunt him in his dreams, and that he still sees himself as responsible for the atrocities committed centuries ago at Jerusalem.

She suspects that, in everything that he does, a part of Nicky is still trying to atone - a part of him still sees himself as owing penance.

She suspects that, in the deepest part of his heart, Nicky hates himself a little

She suspects that this will never really change..

She knows that no amount of pleading, of Joe’s tears, of reminders that nothing has ever worked, will stop Nicky from desperately hoping that this time, this time he can pull something out of himself that will save the world.

She has offered, Joe has offered, every time Nicky is convinced that something is different, now - that humankind has what it needs, to make it work this time - to be the sample, to be the source.

Nicky took a scalpel to Andy’s skin once with a quivering hand before leaving to throw up.

“You’ve cut me in training before. You don’t need to keep hurting yourself.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“What if… what if it’s the last time and I did it on purpose?”

“What if it’s your last time?”

Nicky turns away without a word, but Andy hears the “it wouldn’t matter” all the same.

[trashyslashers]

Hey I have a request. If you could do it I would be very thankful. It's for 2007 michael. So one day a nurse has to bring his sister with her so she can fill her position when said nurse takes the maternity leave. S/o meets Michael and when she fills her sister's place she get assigned to be Michael's personal nurse. For some reason she and Michael click and he gets a crush on her. He ask Loomis for help . And Loomis decided to help them. In the end Michael ends up living with so happily.

I think this is actually the first time I’ve written specifically for 2007 Michael!! Fun fact, the 2007 remake of Halloween was the first of ANY of the movies that I saw, and I saw it when I was like… 12 or 13? I spent the next several years thinking that that was how the original story went, so when I was like 14/15 and found out that it was actually completely different… [insert surprised Pikachu]. 

So to be honest, I had trouble figuring out how I could realistically write Loomis encouraging a romantic relationship between Michael and nurse!reader and then allowing him to live with her (given how I doubt they’d release him), so I kinda changed it a little bit and had it so Loomis encouraged a sort of almost-friendship between them (while they still secretly had a romantic relationship going on), and they continued said relationship as time went on. 

———————————————————————————————————–

The first thing Michael notices about you is how soft spoken, gentle, and kind you are towards not only him - but all the others there. Even the most violent, rude of the patients weren’t treated awfully or scorned by you, and something about that tugs at his heart in a way he’s never felt before. It reminds him of his mother, almost - she was always kind, smiling, loving to him, even when Ronnie was ranting and raving. 

You were young, probably the youngest nurse in the ward, and you were shadowing your older sister to learn the ropes so you could fill her place while she went on maternity leave. It was odd, but something about that rouse a desire to get close to you, in him - like he needed to protect you. 

The day came where you were on your own as your sister had to take her leave, and given how compliant Michael seemed to be with you, with your OK you were assigned to be his personal nurse. Your job was to make sure he was alright - escort him to and from appointments, bring him any meds that you were directed to, assist him with anything he wasn’t authorized to do on his own, and the like. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t slightly intimidated. Though it happened when you were still relatively young, you’d heard about his history, his murders, and that combined with his silent, hulking nature and his reluctance to show his face unnerved you to some degree. Though intimidated, you didn’t really feel threatened, surprisingly. The doctors as well as your sister had given you the rundown on him; only very brief, minor altercations with staff and other patients in the past that usually were provoked by them were the extent of his criminal history while in Smith’s Grove, and you hoped it would remain that way. 

A recent, newly found pro of constantly wearing his papier-mâché masks 24/7 was that they, along with his unkempt hair, provided ample cover for his eyes and he was able to leave them focused on you without your notice. It wasn’t a lustful or hostile stare from him; rather it was one of curiosity and blooming feelings of warmth. Sooner or later, Michael had developed a crush on you. He wasn’t well versed at all in romantics and had no idea that the warm feelings of adoration he suddenly felt for you were romantic, but if anyone had been able to read his mind, they’d be able to call it immediately. 

Though Michael never spoke during his sessions with Loomis, Loomis was able to note subtle differences in his general demeanor. A mention of your name resulted in him, very subtly, perking up; a slight tilt of his head, his head lifted ever so slightly, his shoulders not so sunk. It didn’t take too long for Loomis to realize that Michael was harboring some positive feelings towards you.

Dr. Loomis wasn’t ignorant to what as going on - though he wasn’t aware of the extent of it. He was completely shocked by how compliant and docile Michael was with you - for the most part it usually took a bit of convincing from any staff member to get him to do anything, but all you needed to do was say “Ready, Mikey?” and he seemed eager and willing to do whatever it was you needed him to do. It was a change, and it was the sort of breakthrough-esque change that baffled Loomis enough to encourage a sort of relationship between you and Michael. Not romantic, though, of course - it was illegal, unethical, and Loomis still stood by his word that Michael was still almost entirely an empty vessel of evil. 

You would’ve been full of it if you’d said you hadn’t begun to feel something awfully similar to a crush, and as the weeks went on and your 1 on 1 time with Michael did nothing to stop it. You noticed that Dr. Loomis had been acting somewhat odd, as well; asking more and more questions about what you and Michael do when you’re with him, if he’s spoken to you, shown his face to you, what you think about him, and so on. You couldn’t help but find it a bit odd, the amount of interest he seemed to have, but nonetheless you’d tell him snippets every now and then, enough to make him think he knew a lot, but in reality it wasn’t even nearly that.

Before you knew it, you found yourself in a sort of romantic relationship with Michael. It’d started one night; you were being relieved early as you had something else to attend to, and Michael sat somewhat slumped at the desk in his room as he put together yet another one of his infamous paper masks. With a deep huff, you ducked down, and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the rough and dry cheek of his orange mask - the pumpkin mask he seemed to like wearing more than the others. 

From then on, it was settled. Given how Michael didn’t harshly reject you, shove you away, hurt you, or anything like that, you took that as an invitation to continue and he seemed to enjoy it. Though he never really did reciprocate apart from wrapping stiff arms around you if you hugged him, every now and then he’d vaguely gesture to the part of his mask that you initially pressed your lips to as a way to ask for another kiss.

Loomis, in his endeavor to try and figure out more about Michael, his psyche, and what about you caused the sudden change, made sure that you were the one with him the most. Any time you were in the hospital, you were assigned to him - no one else. Not even the large, burly men that used to escort Michael to and from appointments in case he acted out - their presence was unnecessary now as Michael seemed much more content with you. Any time anyone spoke negatively about the situation, questioning if it were smart, if you were too young or too inexperienced to be one on one with someone like Michael, and so on, were met with an almost dismissive Loomis as he told them not to worry, he knew what he was doing, it was part of Michael’s treatment. 

Eventually, your elder sister returned and you were unable to keep such long shifts with Michael, instead swapping out with your sister. Despite this small hiccup, it was still insisted by Loomis that you work with Mikey whenever it was possible, and that was something both you and Michael were more than content with.

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

Worldbuilding

Inspired by Phanniemay 2018, Day 6

Prompt: Worldbuilding

Alternate Universe: Starts in 1983, skips to Danny age ~17

Pairing: Established Iambic Prose after time skip

Rating: G+

Author Notes: So I made this in response to the one my girlfriend made HERE, and all those snippets of Ghostwriter’s ‘stories’ are snippets of my own work in progress novels! I had a lot of fun writing them, so I hope you have a lot of fun enjoying them - I might post them separately on my writing blog later.

Summary: Andrew Riter, now going by the Ghostwriter, finds a curious keyboard when still getting used to his new state of life. He’s not quite sure what it does, but he might as well figure it out - it’s not like the dead had much time to lose.

Don’t forget I’m doing more cool things on my Patreon all the time! I also have a Ko-Fi so consider buying me a coffee if you can’t pledge!

Click here to see the other stories that were inspired by Phanniemay 2018.

::

“Hello… What’s this?” Pushing a few old papers aside that looked similar to aged newspaper, Andrew Riter blinked down at what looked like a sleek, white computer keyboard. “Strange.”

As usual, there was no one to answer his musings as he pulled the keyboard out - not that he was surprised. Andrew had only been a ghost for a few short months, but he knew he was alone. Even if there were other ghosts in this hell, he knew he wouldn’t want to meet them. He and his brother both had feared the dead too much- His brother… Randy.

Shaking his thoughts off quickly, Andrew swallowed as he sat back and inspected the keyboard more closely. It didn’t look anything like what he was used to and if it weren’t for the letters and numbers labelling the keys then he would have never guessed this was a keyboard. It looked like something from the future, not from the year 1983.

Turning it over in his hands, he noticed that there were no indents on the back or any places for wires to connect to or come out of. In fact, it almost looked like a toy - he would have passed it off as such if it wasn’t for the fact that the keyboard was… Not quite glowing, but there was something about the way it was made that gave him pause.

Sitting down on the floor where he had found it, Andrew set it across his lap, staring at it in contemplation. “It would be nice to use something beyond pen and paper to write, of course.” This library had not crossed over with the computers the college had and there was no trace of a typewriter in sight. He had been making due with the pencils and spare paper he had found, but he was getting low and desperate enough to contemplate using the empty pages on the back of the older books that had come with him to… wherever he was.

“Of course, you would only be useful with a screen, wouldn’t-” Something flashed in front of Andrew. He was up and on his feet with a knife pulled out in near a heartbeat, eyes wide as he saw… As he saw nothing. There was no one in front of him and no strange objects, but he had seen something. “He… Hello?” He wasn’t sure if he was grateful that there wasn’t an answer or not.

Swallowing and creeping forward, Andrew paused when he almost stepped on the keyboard. The keyboard. Sitting back down, Andrew dropped his knife and placed the keyboard back on his lap. Nothing. “Screen?” Purple light appeared and Andrew blinked as he stared at a screen. It wasn’t- It looked like a hologram. Or at least, it looked like how holograms had been described in the books he had read and the stories he had written.

“Right. Alright. Nothing to worry about. Nothing but a keyboard that can hear and respond to me. Right.” He had fallen into one of his novels and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Actually, if it was one of his novels then he was rather justly terrified. “Okay. Um…”

The screen was blank and purple and there seemed to be a trimming of green around it. There was nothing on it to indicate just what it was doing there. “Pull up new document?” The screen flickered and there was now a blinking cursor in the top left corner of the screen, Andrew staring with wide eyes and oh, wow. “Are- Are there any saved documents?” Nothing happened, Andrew frowning and okay, think like Ches- No. Bad. Ches was bad. Think like Peter.

“Pull up saved documents.” The screen flickered and a window was pulled up that was light green and had ‘EMPTY’ flashing across it. “Right. Great. Okay. Aha- Ha! Alright, then!” Was he panicking? Andrew was pretty sure he was panicking. Screw it, he deserved to panic. “Okay, okay, okay, um, new- New document.”

The window disappeared and he was back to staring at the blinking cursor. Swallowing, Andrew wracked his brain before lining his fingers up on the keyboard and typing out a simple line.

The oddity, fittingly enough, was found among scraps of old newspapers from long ago. Perhaps it was birthed from the past or perhaps it was left by someone who wished to return there, but the keyboard was sleek and shining and did not belong to the world it was in.

“Nothing happening so far.” Well, no, there were words appearing, but it wasn’t causing the world around him to self-destruct or any such nonsense, so this was already better than most things! Chewing on his lower lip, Andrew nervously tapped the keys lightly enough that none of them were pressed down. “Right. Um. Save?” ‘FILE SAVED’ flashed across the screen, Andrew blinking before frowning. “View saved documents.”

The window opened again, Andrew seeing that there was now a file in there labelled as ‘DOCUMENT 1’ and oh, no, he would not stand for that. “Close window.” Oh, hey, that worked! “Save file as New Beginnings.” ‘SAVED’. “Ha, easy as can be.” He’d have a breakdown later, but for now it was working. Right. What else could he do with this?

“New document.” The words he had typed disappeared and he was left with a fresh new page. Interesting. “Right. Right, a story.” Biting his lip, Andrew looked around the room for any inspiration before he sighed. “I suppose I can just rewrite what I’ve done before.”

“I lied, you know.” The words were softly spoken and Andrea half hoped that Peter wouldn’t have heard them. He did, of course. He always heard her.

“Oh? You might have to be a bit more specific. I have a feeling you’ve lied about a lot of things.” As reluctant as she was to admit it, that did get a laugh out of her.

“I… It wasn’t my dream to sign up for the Air Corps.” There was silence from Peter and Andrea knew he wouldn’t speak again until she was done. He was both kind and cruel like that. “I mean- I’ve always admired the Iron Admiral, you know? He’s the kind of hero you grow up hearing stories about! But I- I never wanted to join. It was- I was being chased.

“I’ve told you a bit of it by now, right? Foster brat bounced around different homes? I didn’t like the one I was in then so I left and I got into some trouble. It’s- When you’re on the streets you do what it takes. When you don’t have anything, you do whatever it takes to get something. Long story short, I took something from the wrong group. I don’t… I don’t know what they would have done to me if I hadn’t run into the Admiral. He wanted an excuse and I-”

“You told him you wanted to join the Corps,” Peter finished, Andrea nodding with a laugh that she knew didn’t sound anything like a laugh should. It was dark, and bitter, and drenched in the lie she had built around herself. “You don’t want to be here.”

“I didn’t.” Andrea looked out over the edge of the ship - her ship - and breathed in deeply. “I didn’t want anything to do with a kingdom that would throw their kids over the cliff just as soon as they would save one to look good. The royals, the system, the way it’s all done- It’s so stupid and I hate it all, but… I don’t know about the Corps, but this crew isn’t about just serving blindly, is it?”

“If it was, do you think I would still be here?” That managed to get another laugh out of her, Andrea looking down to her pocket watch and idly spinning the turner. It stayed silent as always. “We’re all here for one reason or another, Andy.”

“Yeah.” This was the ship full of those who were seen as the rejects. The lost and broken and damaged ones who had no use. This… This was the ship full of dreamers. “It’s funny, though, that I found a home in the last place I ever wanted to be in.”

“That’s typically how it works.” There was a warm silence, Andrea trying not to jump when she felt a hand cover hers. “I find that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, however.”

“No…” The ship that she had heard only stories of had become her home and she was finding she wanted her lie to become the truth. “No, I don’t think it is.”

A life of

Pausing to adjust his glasses, Andrew glanced back to the screen and promptly had the urge to throw it across the room because there was now an airship right in front of him. Taking a moment to stay utterly still and see if it was about to attack him, Andrew slowly let himself relax when he saw the airship was just… floating.

“Curiouser and curiouser, yes?” No one answered him, but Andrew couldn’t help but feel as if something agreed because that airship- It was The Singing Maelstrom. It was the ship Andrew had written about for years and it was the ship he had even dreamed about. If he squinted, he could almost make out two humanoid figures on the bow of the ship.

It didn’t seem to be real since nothing happened when Andrew threw the knife through it, but it was definitely there in front of him. A hologram made by the keyboard? Why? Shaking his head, Andrew took a breath and alright. Maybe it was The Soundless Clock that caused this to happen where he had put so much time and care into that book. Maybe one of his more recent ones would react differently?

“Fine! I’ll be in town cutting my hair, dying it black, getting a belly button piercing, and picking out a tattoo if you need me!” Slamming the door shut behind her as hard as she could, and displeased when it only made a muffled sort of noise, Sage near screamed as she stomped off into the woods. “You can’t keep me trapped here forever!”

Making a face at the people who were staring, because that’s apparently what people did in small towns, Sage headed into the woods as quickly as she could. She wasn’t stupid enough to step off the dirt path, but she quickened her pace so she didn’t have to be around that camp any longer than necessary.

“Stupid sheriff.” God, it wasn’t- Her mom had never once mentioned this Sheriff Greene and how, apparently, he was a childhood friend that she had grown up with- What even was that? That wasn’t- Sage and her mom didn’t have secrets. They didn’t… Hadn’t…

Picking up a rock and throwing it as hard as she could at one of the trees, Sage winced as she felt the strain in her shoulder which just made her even more irritated. “I hate you.” God, how had this all- She wasn’t even sure who she was talking to anymore. “I hate you.”

She didn’t stop walking no matter how much her body screamed for her to take a breath. She knew she was going to be screwed over later when it came to getting the strength up to go back, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care.

Sage wasn’t sure how long she walked until she started calming down, but when she finally did stop her legs were burning, her feet felt sore, and there was sweat everywhere on her. She didn’t let herself sit down on the ground, though, instead choosing to stand and look around the clearing she had ended up in.

It really was beautiful. She had always loved drawing and painting pictures of the woods that she had printed off from her computer, but now that she was here it just… A picture couldn’t compare. She kind of hated herself for how much she didn’t hate it, but, well. She was starting to get a little bit tired of hate. Maybe that meant she was getting better.

“Oh great and mighty woods!” Raising her arms out like she would when speaking to a god, Sage tried not to laugh as she pictured Stacy if she was here. She would be doing the same thing while calling her crazy, no doubt. “I ask you for your guidance!”

A breeze whipped around her, Sage laughing at the timing of it all. Closing her eyes, Sage took a deep breath and let the wind cool her down, some of the uncomfortable pain leaving for a few brief moments. It wasn’t fair that it was Sage standing in this beautiful clearing. Her mother was the one who had loved the forest. Stacy was the one who did strange little things that didn’t make sense and loved the ‘aesthetic’ of nature. Sage…

“Any advice would be great.” Sage was a city girl. She had lived in big cities and she knew her way around the dark streets and seedy transportation better than she would ever know her way around the woods. “This isn’t supposed to be my world.” It wasn’t. It wasn’t, so why was this starting to feel like home?

Sighing, Sage walked over to one of the trees, patting at it gently. “At least you don’t judge a girl for talking to herself.” Leaning against the tree for a moment, Sage looked up to the canopy of leaves that caused filtering sunbeams to flicker through. It was so beautiful and she kept feeling like she couldn’t even properly appreciate it.

Glancing around and seeing she was well and truly alone, Sage braced herself as she sucked in a deep breath. There was something she had always kind of wanted to do, but never had the courage to.

Cupping her hands around her mouth, Sage sucked in as much air as possible before she howled. She put everything she had into it. All of her frustration, all of her anger, all of glee, all of the wild abandon, and every scrap of courage that allowed her to finally do something so silly.

Her air ran out and the howl trailed off into silence, Sage breathing raggedly as laughter started bubbling out of her and-

A howl came from behind her.

Looking up cautiously, Andrew slowly grinned as he saw an image of towering trees and a wolf peeking out from behind them. The wolf blinked and disappeared. “Incredible.” Getting excited now, Andrew spaced down a few lines to start a new entry, wracking through his mind for his most recent novel. If it worked like the other two, then maybe…

“Nope, no, I changed my mind. Yeah, you know what, let’s just stay right here. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Star didn’t even get to stand fully before Ches was pushing her back down into her seat and buckling the belt over her. “Hey- Hey, no, that’s not- Kidnapping!”

“Star,” Ches sighed, cupping her cheek and probably making her flush as red as the ship they were on. “At your age it’s called abduction.”

“You ass.” Kicking him hard in the chest, Star rolled her eyes when he went down laughing. “Okay, maybe I do still want to do this, but I’m starting to think that maybe we shouldn’t use this ship? Or any ship of yours?”

“Hey! My ship is the best ship in the galaxy, I’ll have you know!” Ha- Aha! He couldn’t be serious. There was no way he was serious. This rust bucket looked as if it had barely managed to land when she first saw it come in at the docks. “There’s more to her than you know.”

“Yeah. Okay. Right. Great. Can I leave, now?” Instead of becoming sane and agreeing this was too dangerous, Ches gave her cheek a pat and near bounced up to the control panel. “This is a very small ship for travelling the galaxy, you know.”

“Yeah, it is.” That was all she was going to get? Ches had rambled for weeks while fixing his ship about all there was out there and now was when he chose to get coy on her? Bastard. He knew it worked. “Right, we should be just about ready.”

“Just about? Why just about?” Blinking as Ches spun around in his seat - they could spin? - Sage swallowed when he looked her right in the eye. “Ches?”

“I need you to be honest with me right now, okay? Whatever I ask, you have to answer with complete honesty.” That… That didn’t sound like the goofy, hyper Ches she had come to know. She really should back out now. She shouldn’t leave her colony. There was no place for her out in the stars. She… “Do you have any living family in this colony?”

“Yes.” At Ches’ look, Star looked away. “Cora, at the diner? She’s my aunt on my mom’s side. She’s been helping to look after me since my family died.”

“Would she want you to come back if you left? Did you even tell her you were leaving?”

“Yes. I told her.” Star shut her eyes, trying not to think about the heartbreak in her aunt’s eyes when she had come down the stairs with a single bag and wearing the headband that had been her mother’s. “She won’t try to get me back.”

“That wasn’t my question.” No, it wasn’t, but Star wasn’t going to answer that one because she knew what the answer was. “Are you going to regret leaving more than you would regret staying-”

“Never.” The word escaped passed her lips before she could stop it, eyes cracking open to see Ches’ eyes looking back into hers. The swirling violet colors caught her attention just as they had when she had first seen them. “I’d regret staying for the rest of my life.”

“Do you want to come with me?” It was the same question that she had been asked over and over again before she had finally said yes with a voice full of hesitation and doubt. She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes.” The two were silent before Star gave a small, nervous smile. “Fly me away to the stars?” Ches stared at her before he grinned wild and free.

“To the moon and back, then?” Ches laughed, moving to flip a set of switches in an order that didn’t make sense, but that was okay.

“Beyond it. For as far as we can go.” Star had time to learn everything. She had time to see everything.

“Forever seems a long way.”

“Then we’d better get started.”

Star looked forward and felt the need for adventure stirring in her veins, her breath coming fast as she laughed and threw herself forward hands braced against the console and come on. Come on. The world is waiting and the stars are right there and-

“Let’s go.”

Much more eager when looking up this time, Andrew beamed and laughed in delight when he saw the ship from the story ready to take off towards the moon that was above it. He had figured he was a ghost and he knew he could do basic ghost things - flying and phasing through objects and becoming invisible - but this? This was something else entirely.

“Save as Old Ideas. Open new document.” The screen cleared and the images disappeared like fog on a summer morning, Andrew grinning as he tapped his fingers against the keys for a moment.

They say dead men tell no tales. Joseph Whitley would like to punch the person who had said that and then introduce him to the dead men who wouldn’t shut up.

::

Pausing halfway into the study, Andrew leaned against the doorway and grinned at seeing Danny curled up on the couch and, yet again, reading Andrew’s books. When he had agreed to tutor Danny Phantom he hadn’t expected the boy to know about his writing and he certainly hadn’t expected to learn how much he adored it.

“Hey, Andy.” Laughing to himself, Andrew walked over and pressed a kiss to Danny’s temple, peeking at where he was in the book and, ah. Dirty Paws, today. “So, be honest, how much did you base this dude off of Randy?”

“I believe the character’s name was Randy until I changed it in the final edit.” Grinning at the laughter, Andrew waved it off. “I don’t always base the characters off people I know.” Just the main characters.

“Alright, I’ll pretend to believe that lie.” Danny looked like he had more to say before he glanced down at the book and promptly got distracted, Andrew laughing himself this time.

“You act as if those books are your entire world.” He had never met someone as devoted to those books as Danny - especially Soundless Clock.

“They are.” Danny sighed, looking back up at him. “I know you don’t get it when I tell you this, but these books are- They were everything at one point for me. I mean- Jeez, Andy, when I first learned you wrote these I thought you were like J. K. Rowling or something!”

“I have more diversity.” It seemed Danny didn’t know whether to be amused or offended, but Andrew personally found his humor wonderful. “Thank you, Danny.”

“Yeah. Of course.” And now… “For what?” Adorable.

“Mm, everything, I suppose.” Twenty years of being alone and forcing others away and then a silly little half ghost had crashed in, destroyed a novel, and changed everything.

“That’s not fair.” Danny blushed far too easily, really, but Andrew supposed it was adorable. “That’s not fair, Andy.”

“Whoever said a writer was fair?” Laughing as Danny huffed and grumbled to himself, Andrew continued on to his desk, pausing as he caught sight of some yellowed old papers out of the corner of his eyes. “Vidya, what are those?”

A strain of tumbled notes flew through his head, his lair just as confused over the sight as he was. Frowning, Andrew walked over and brushed the paper aside, curious when he saw a flash of white and then… Oh. “I remember you.”

“Andy? What’d you find?” As Danny sat up on the couch, Andrew sat down on the floor and pulled out a sleek, white keyboard that wouldn’t be out of place among today’s computers. It looked the same as it had the day it was destroyed. “Is that your keyboard thing? Cool! I always felt kind of bad I busted it up.”

“You did,” Andrew said quietly, fingers brushing against the keys. He… He had stopped using it for writing only a few years after he found it and instead used the typewriter. A part of him, he supposed, liked to pretend he was still normal. Now, though? Andrew Riter had grown just as much as the Ghostwriter. “Screen.”

A purple and green edged screen flickered out in front of him, Andrew laughing as Danny near fell off the couch to fly over to him. “I didn’t know your keyboard could do that!”

“It could do a lot,” Andrew smiled, the smile getting wide as Danny sat down and leaned against his side. “View saved documents.” The window flicked up and Andrew paused at seeing there was only one file. “Well that can’t be right.”

“What? Is there supposed to be more?” Quite a few. Andrew had made hundreds before he put the keyboard away, so why was there only one?

“Yes, there is.” There was only one file, though, and it was one Andrew didn’t remember. “From the Beginning.” How strange a name. Still, though.

It couldn’t hurt to take a peek.

[mayordamien]

Title: Fallen Angel, Chapter 1: Old Friends Reunite

Fandom: Markiplier (Who Killed Markiplier)

Pairing: Hinted Damien x Fem!Reader [which will probably be explored in greater detail later]

Word count: 4, 304

Tagging: @markired – just thought you might like to see it!!

A/N: If there’s any fics you’d like me to write, or headcanons you’d like me to write, let me know! I’m looking to practice writing more!

Snippet: 

Your hand went over your mouth, but not before you turned and vomited, adjacent to Mark, falling to your knees. You couldn’t even scream—all you could do was tremble. Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, near where you had just come through, and you heard the detective. “Did anyone hear that lightning? Oh, my God! There’s been a murder!” As soon as he said the word ‘murder,’ however, another thunderclap echoed outside, a bright flash of lightning illuminating the window. You were still on your knees, a hand over your mouth.

Damien… where are you?

It had been years since any of them had gotten together, especially after a rift had formed between two of the key members of their friend group. The invitation to the party lie on the table, and the young woman looked at it, exhaling. (Name), as you were more commonly known as–had recently been named District Attorney, which was in and of itself a major responsibility. You were a twenty-one year old with (h/c) hair, and (e/c) eyes, but at the moment you were wearing a long, floor length red party dress, with your hair swept up into a simple, elegant style.

I can’t help but wonder why Mark did this—is it because I’ve been named District Attorney? Shaking your head, you exhaled one last time, applying a quick touch of lipstick before picking up the invitation. “At least I’ll get to see Damien tonight,” you murmured to yourself, a smile making its way onto your face, and a blush filling your cheeks. Damien was the mayor, a college friend of yours, and the object of your fancy. Much like how you had met Damien, you had met the host of the party, Mark, in college, and through Damien, had become friends with him. Mark was an actor who had amassed a great amount of wealth as a result of his fame, and only the most auspicious people were invited to his manor, let alone his parties.

Glancing at the clock one last time, you grabbed your suitcase and jumped into the back of the taxi waiting for you outside. “Markiplier Manor, please,” you said simply, holding on to your invitation. The taxi driver glanced back at you and then smiled, tipping his hat.

“Right away ma’am. You the new district attorney, eh?” he asked, and you nodded. “That there’s a big responsibility. Congratulations, bet the mayor is pretty happy to be workin’ with such a pretty lady as yourself.” You laughed at that and then sheepishly covered your mouth, another giggle escaping despite your best efforts.

“Well, we are old friends,” you said, and the taxi driver smiled, continuing the drive towards Mark’s mansion. The evening sky outside was gray, with only cloud cover in sight. “We went to university together.” A gentle shower of rain began to fall, hitting the window of the taxi. You closed your eyes and dozed off, and then awoke shortly thereafter when you felt the taxi come to a full halt.

In front of you was Markiplier Manor, the grand house that only the closest friends of Mark could even hope to be invited to. One hand holding your invitation and the other pulling your suitcase along behind you, you walked up to the manor, suddenly being surprised by the presence of someone you’d never seen before. It was a man much taller than you, wearing an outfit that was clearly that of a military man. He had a dark mustache, and quaint glasses—was he a friend of Mark and Damien’s as well?

When you walked up alongside him, he let out a surprised exclamation. “Oh, bully! And here I thought I was gonna be the last guest to arrive. My friends call me the Colonel.” With that, he bowed, hands behind his back in a standard military stance. He also had a strange looking hat on, one you could only assume was part of his uniform. Pulling himself out of his bow, he gestured with one arm to the door. “You’re welcome to do the same, should it please you. But, uh… after you.” You smiled amicably and gave a slight bow of your head in response, hand still clasping onto the invitation with your name written on it in Mark’s simple calligraphy.

When the door opened, you were greeted by a man even taller than the Colonel, wearing the outfit of a butler—you could only assume he was Mark’s butler, after all, the man was rich enough that he could certainly afford to hire a butler. The butler had light brown hair slicked back neatly, and curious blue eyes. “Ah, bonjour! Welcome to Markiplier Manor. Your invitation, please.” You held out your invitation to him, and he took it quickly—but your eyes were not on the butler; they were on the man further behind him, Damien. “Very good, very good. Right this way. Good luck at the table tonight. I shall fetch you a drink forthwith.”

It took you a moment to remember, but then you nodded. That was right, this was a poker party. Forcing yourself to stand upright, a smile immediately made its way onto your face when you saw Damien. He was wearing a well pressed suit as he always did, with a white rose over his right breast pocket, and a ribbon declaring his status as the mayor. And sure enough, as you predicted, he was leaning on his cane, a simple black one with a rounded, silver top, yet again another symbol of his status as mayor. Your heart raced despite your best efforts, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath. Damien was in mid-conversation with another man, who looked to be a detective based off of his clothing.

As soon as he saw you approaching, however, Damien made a motion to the detective indicating that the conversation would resume later, and a bright smile made its way onto his face as you walked over towards him. “Oh! There you are, old friend. How are you settling into your new office?” He reached forward and embraced you for a moment, and you inhaled the comforting yet familiar scent of his cologne. Withdrawing from his embrace, you smiled cheerfully.

“I’m getting used to it. It isn’t easy, but I am quite enjoying it. It’s rewarding, albeit a little difficult since some still have a rather negative attitude towards me simply because I’m a woman,” you murmured with a pout, and Damien laughed heartily, tracing a finger over your cheek, causing you to blush even more.

“Now I know it’ll take some getting used to, but there’s no one I would rather have alongside me to protect this great city of ours. Now, I’ll see you at the table soon, but try not to rob me blind again. We’ll catch up,” he declared, heading off towards a different room, leaving you standing in the entryway in an embarrassed daze. Shaking your head lightly to clear it, you walked a little further through the room, and turned to the left, finding yourself in the dining room, where a chef stood at the table with a ladle and an empty dish.

The chef looked to be a little older, with a tangle of long black hair cascading down his shoulder. As soon as he saw you, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you’re looking for hors d'oeuvres, I’ll get ‘em when I’m good and ready! And stay out of my kitchen!” As he uttered the warning for you to stay out of the kitchen, he held up his ladle as if he were trying to be threatening, blocking the entrance to the kitchen. You stepped back quietly, wishing Damien were there, but to your chagrin, he was off somewhere else in the manor.

You heard the butler pipe up from elsewhere, “Now, now. Let’s not be rude to our guest,” and you exhaled in exhaustion. At least the butler was friendly. He had a tray covered in champagne flutes in one hand, and handed one to you with a smile. “So sorry about that. Here’s your champagne. Enjoy your evening.” You turned to look at the grand staircase in front of you, and sure enough, Mark was descending down, wearing a long red, silk robe. It had been years since you had seen him, but he hadn’t changed.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all! My name is Markiplier. Thank you for joining me on this auspicious evening. So good to be surrounded by such close and trusted friends.” He descended down a few more stairs before glancing at you. “Now, this evening, it’s not all about the poker. It’s not all about me. It’s about you,” he continued, gesturing at you, and you looked at the ground—was it really about you? “ So drink up and be merry! Life is for the living! And who knows? I could be dead tomorrow.” With that, Mark threw his head back and laughed, and you took a sip of your champagne, before completely downing it.

Due to being a little bit of a lightweight, you became drunk quite quickly. Through your haze, you played poker with the group, and also watched as Mark played, the only sober one out of everyone, save for Damien, though you were so drunk you could honestly barely tell if he was intoxicated or not. At some point you looked up from your drink and your game of poker to see Damien doing a keg stand, and a drunken laugh escaped you. Out of all the things you would have expected to see that night, your love interest flipped upside down over a keg of alcohol was not one of them.

Amidst other things, you also noticed the Colonel doing what looked like Russian roulette with the detective—who was also intoxicated. You didn’t remember what exactly you said, but you must have said something to irritate the detective, because in his stupor, he swung back and hit you right in the face, knocking you to the floor. “God, my head…” you murmured, putting a hand up to your temple—but you were quickly intercepted by Damien, who stood above you protectively. Through your stupor, you could hear him yelling at the detective angrily.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Not only did you just hit a woman but you hit a drunk one!” he growled, as you shut your eyes. You could only assume that Damien carried you back to your room as your head hit the pillow—the last thing you saw before falling asleep was the clock reading 1:30 AM.

Damien sighed to himself as he placed you in your bed and pulled the covers over you. You should have known that drinking would only end badly for you, but you had gone and done it anyway. “You really haven’t changed from university, have you?” he murmured to you, pushing some of your hair out of your face. Shaking his head, he sighed once again. “Get some rest, you troublemaker.” With that he shut the door and headed to his room to get some sleep.

The alarm went off the next morning, awakening you at 8:30 sharp, and you yawned, forcing yourself out of bed. Glancing at your bed, you realized that you had been tucked in, likely on purpose. “Was it Damien…?” you murmured, blushing bright red as the realization hit you. The last thing that you could remember before falling asleep the previous night was Damien leaning over you, and then his arms lifting you up, carrying you to the upper floor. Shaking your head to clear it, you pulled on your bathrobe—it was almost time for breakfast. When you opened the door, you were greeted by the butler, who was once again carrying a tray with cups on it.

“Ah, good morning. Hope you’ve had a good night’s rest. I’ve prepared for you a seltzer with cocaine. Best thing for the morning after, if you ask me,” he said with a smile and a wink, and you glanced down at the cup incredulously before taking a sip. You could only assume he was joking. Your heart leapt into your throat when you were greeted by the sight of Damien standing outside your door, and your face flushed a deep red as you recalled what you could vaguely remember of the night before.

Damien stepped forward, a grin on his face. “Ah, there’s our little monster! You really knocked 'em dead last night. I haven’t seen you go wild like that since our days at university. Good to let the beast out every once in a while, eh, old friend?” You grinned in response, and were slightly surprised by what Damien did next. He slipped one arm around your waist and drew you to him, resting his forehead against yours. “Then again, I’m-I’m still not exactly sure as to what we’re supposed to be celebrating here. I mean it’s good to have the gang back together, but…out of the blue like this seems… Anyway, now is not the time to become conspiratorial. Life is ours to choose, as I always say. I have some work to finish, but I’ll meet you at breakfast. We’ll all catch up soon.” He gave your waist a gentle squeeze with his hand before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead and then departing off towards his bedroom.

You looked at the receding outline of the mayor, and your fingers unconsciously touched your forehead. Did he… just…? Face flushed pink again, you headed down the staircase to wait for everyone to come down to breakfast. Looking around the house aimlessly, you were suddenly shocked by a loud thunderclap and were greeted by the sight of Mark’s body lying on the floor, sprawled out—dead.

Your hand went over your mouth, but not before you turned and vomited, adjacent to Mark, falling to your knees. You couldn’t even scream—all you could do was tremble. Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, near where you had just come through, and you heard the detective. “Did anyone hear that lightning? Oh, my God! There’s been a murder!” As soon as he said the word ‘murder,’ however, another thunderclap echoed outside, a bright flash of lightning illuminating the window. You were still on your knees, a hand over your mouth.

Damien… where are you?

A moment after the detective had come in the room, the butler followed suit. “Excuse me, did you hear light—Oh, my God! Murder!” And once again, as soon as the word ‘murder’ was uttered, another bolt of lightning followed by a thunderclap occurred.

Shortly after the butler entered the room, the chef entered. “Did you—? Muuurder!” And yet again, the thunder and lightning went off as soon as the word ‘murder’ left the lips of the chef. You were still on your knees, still shaking, though at this point you had wiped off your chin, and the butler grimaced at the sight of the mess on the floor left over from your stomach’s upheaval.

Completely ignoring the fact that you were obviously not feeling well, the detective grabbed the front of your bathrobe and pulled you up, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “What the hell happened here? Who’s in charge around here? Trick question: that guy,” he yelled, pointing at Mark. “And he’s dead now, which makes ME in charge. So you better listen up good, bucko. 'Case you haven’t been paying attention, there’s been a bit of a….killin’.” 

Unlike before when everyone had said ‘murder,’ there was no lightning. Was it a coincidence?  “And you’re my prime suspect! So you better get to explaining right quick as to the what, where, when and why you happen to be here upon this man’s death!”

You grabbed at the front of your robe and pulled yourself away from the detective, hazel eyes narrowing as you straightened your collar. “I just got down here. Why the fuck are you accusing me?!” Your eyes, much to your chagrin, filled with tears, and you internally cursed yourself. Not only were you falling apart in front of the detective, but everyone in the room was looking at you as if you were guilty. God, where’s Damien when I need him?!

Interrupting the argument, the butler turned to the detective. “Sir, the body is cold. He’s been dead a while.” You hadn’t been paying attention, so you could only assume that the butler had measured the temperature of Mark’s body.

Instead of doing or saying anything else, the detective chuckled, crossing his arms. Much like you, he was in a bathrobe, which clashed notably with his hat, which he was still wearing—had he even taken it off? He chuckled. “A likely story! That I happen to believe completely. All right, you’re off the hook for now, but I’m a detective, and—“ The detective looked annoyed when the chef interrupted him.

“Oh, yeah? Prove you’re a real dick!” He held up his ladle to the detective, and while it looked like he was trying to be threatening, all he was succeeding in doing was making everyone’s eyebrows raise in unison.

The detective pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge at the chef, but then a whole line of pictures fell into view, all of him with different people. “Here’s my badge. Asshole. Those are my old partners. Don’t ask me about them.” When you only stared at him in confusion, he rolled his eyes. “Fine! I’ll tell you. Each one of them died. Each death more tragic than the last. A few of them even died in ironically hilarious ways. Which made it all the more tragic. But hey, you look like you’re up to the task. You’re my new partner.”

You shook your head vehemently, still incapable of forming words at the moment. The last thing you wanted was to be part of a whole chain of people who had died just by working with this man. But despite your answer, the detective just laughed. “That’s what all my old partners used to say. Right before they died. All right. Hand me that fingerprinting kit behind you, partner.”

“It’s (Name),” you corrected, crossing your arms before handing him the fingerprinting kit. “If I’m going to help you, you can at least call me by my name.” The detective huffed, but leaned down to inspect Mark’s body.

“Thanks, partner,” he replied. Damien entered the room next, and you dashed over to him—he automatically wrapped an arm around you protectively. You were still shaking, despite the strong face you were trying to put on, and he tightened his grip on you, wrapping another arm around you, pulling you more fully into his embrace.

“What the hell happened here?” he asked, and you buried your face in his chest, not wanting to look at the body—or anyone else in the room—anymore. Damien’s dark eyebrows drew together and he frowned. Mark’s body had been covered by a blanket before Damien had come in, fortunately, but the memory of what you had seen was still imprinted into your mind.

The butler started in surprise, but his eyes darted back down to the blanket, his expression sorrowful. “Oh! Mr. Mayor. I’m so sorry. There’s been a murder.” Once again, the thunderclap went off, and you jumped slightly in Damien’s arms, and he glanced down at you in momentary confusion before his brown gaze darted back up to meet that of the butler.

“A murder?” Cue the thunderclap—it was almost routine now. Every time someone said the word, the lightning went off. “Who?” Damien was slightly surprised when he felt a slight bit of wetness on his suit, and he glanced down to look at you, who still were hiding your face in his shoulder — were you crying? 

“It’s Mark,” the chef piped up simply, yet sadly.

The detective stood across the room, hands on his hips, his gaze moving from the mayor to the body. “I’m afraid he’s telling the truth. Mark’s been…killed.”

Damien’s grip on you tightened unconsciously, and you glanced up at him, wiping at your eyes slightly before you wrapped your arms around his waist and squeezed gently to offer some small form of comfort. His eyes were pained now that the gravity of the situation had hit him, and you could feel him shaking as well. “Why? Who would do this?” His normally stable voice cracked, and you squeezed his waist again, and you could feel him reciprocate the action.

“That’s exactly what me and my new partner here are here to find out,” the detective answered, gesturing to you with one hand rather flippantly. The butler raised one eyebrow and spoke up shortly thereafter.

“Um, excuse me. I feel like we should call the authorities for them to handle this matter,” he pointed out, and the detective rolled his eyes in response, letting out a frustrated huff.

“Look, buddy, as far as you’re concerned, I AM the authorities. The fact of the matter is, I believe the killer is right here amongst us in this very house. With that freaky lightning storm outside, none of us would get very far, anyway. So, in the meantime, we’re stuck here. But I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. The rest of you, get back to your rooms, hunker down, and pray to God you’re not next to be murdered,” he said simply, and then as if on cue, the thunderclap occurred.

As if accepting defeat, the butler sighed. “I’ll…I’ll check on our other guests.” With that, he left the room, and the chef seemed to agree with that notion, adding, “I’ll get back to cooking. All this death made me hungry.” He followed the butler out of the room, and left only Damien, you, the detective, and the body in the room. Damien released his hold on you, very visibly shaken by everything that had happened.

“I…I-I need to talk to the Colonel about this.” He touched your face gently but then withdrew when you went to reach out for him, turning away, cane in one hand as he left to go find the Colonel. You could only reach for him but then let your hand drop to your side.

“Damien…”

Ignoring everything that had just transpired, the detective spoke up, throwing you out of your train of thought. “All right, partner. It’s time to get to work. Judging by the temperature of the body, I am sure Mark was killed around 1:30 a.m. last night. So what were you doing at 1:30 a.m. last night?” he asked. You crossed your arms over your chest and glared at him.

“Damien carried me upstairs after a drunken evening where you decked me in the face, and I fell asleep at 1:30,” you said pointedly, and the detective whistled a small tune, as if he was acting like he didn’t do a thing.

“It checks out. So, we need to figure out where everyone was and what they were doing around that time or, at the very least, who saw Mark last. You need to get out there. See if you can piece together the story of what happened last night. I’ll stick around with the body and run more tests,” he said simply, leaning down to the body. You turned on your heel, glad to be rid of him for the time being. Your first priority, whether it would help the investigation or not, was to make sure Damien was all right, though you had no idea where he had headed off to.

Heading down one of the hallways, you heard Damien yelling through one of the doors, which was cracked open slightly. Damien didn’t normally yell—he was often quite calm, so hearing him this angry was rather frightening in a way. You could only assume he was yelling at the Colonel, and sure enough, based off the conversation, your suspicions were confirmed. “How can you be so flippant?!” he shouted.

Sure enough, the Colonel responded shortly thereafter. “Flippant?! I’m taking this matter very seriously.” Damien snorted in disbelief, and you pressed your ear up against the door to hear what they were saying better. You assumed the Colonel was farther in the room, as Damien was the only one you could see, and he was obviously distressed.

“Oh, don’t give me that horseshit! I know you hated him, but…goddammit, he reached out to you!” Damien growled, and the Colonel shot back, “Oh, what do you want from me?”

Damien gestured widely with his hands, his cane still in his hand, as usual. “Wh—I want you to care!” The Colonel shot back once again, “Just because I’m not weeping like a child doesn’t mean that I don’t care.” All you could see was Damien, who looked as if he was considering what to say to try and reason with the Colonel, but upon realizing it was feeble, turned and headed towards the door. “I can’t believe you. You come find me when you pull your head out of your ass!” When he opened the door, you jumped back in surprise, and his stare roamed over you for a moment before he continued on his way, his body language exuding tension. “Excuse me.”

You glanced back at him silently, unsure of what to say. You would have spoken to him, but he was already far away, so it was a pointless endeavor. Shaking your head to clear it, you entered to speak to the Colonel, who was sitting on a chair across the room, looking to his left, his hand up in frustration. “Damien, I don't—Oh!” He stood up as soon as he saw you, and despite himself, he grinned a little. “Ah! Good to see you again! You were quite the rapscallion at last night’s festivities. But you’re probably here to help the detective with his ‘investigation of murder.’” The Colonel made mocking air quotes as he said the last part, and then the lightning went off. “Anyway. I’ll help you, I’ll tell you what happened to our dear friend Mark.”

That caused your heart to leap into your throat, but you nodded. “Go ahead. If you know, please, tell me.” Could this be the information you needed?

[kimmyiewrites]

fanfic ask game: F + P :)

Thanks for the question! You can find the others from this post found right here

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Okay so first of all I have way too many fics so I went with the one I completed recently: Wasted which is my fic based off of Chris Evans’ movie Gifted. If you wanted another dive into one of my other fics let me know and I’d be more than happy to do so. These types of things are kind of my favorite lol.

"Ryn Sterling how do you know the defendant?" Evelyn's lawyer asked, motioning back towards Frank.

"I've known him since, when was it Frank, first grade?" She asked, looking at Frank instead of the lawyer.

"Ms. Sterling if you could refrain from actually speaking to the defendant." The judge, who didn't look amused, stated.

"Right, sorry." Ryn apologized, still looking to Frank for an answer. Frank hid his smirk and nodded which caused Ryn to try and hide her smile as well. Behind Frank's shoulder was an older African American woman who was watching the exchange with interest. She too smiled when she saw their smiles. All she knew now was that Frank better fight to keep that sweet child and make sure this Ryn stayed with them.

"I've known Frank and the Adlers since first grade." Ryn finally replied to the question.

So why I’m proud of this scene is that this is the first time Ryn actually speaks that isn’t in a flash back and plus it’s full dialogue. Right away it shows a bit of Ryn’s personality. She’s laid back, doesn’t particularly care to be in the situation she’s in and she’s going to do what she wants without getting into trouble.

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an “architect” or a “gardener”? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

I’d say I’m definitely more of an architect but with gardener tendencies. Basically I do tend to outline my stories in how I want them to go but if my characters take a turn that doesn’t follow the outline then I go along with it and then try and figure out how to get things to go back on track or see what the turn leads to and plan from there. I hope that made sense.

[tmae3114]

*kicks down a door* WHO WANTS A FIC???

So this is... a way overdue fic I started on last year (New Year’s joke a week after New Year’s go me) (but seriously it was months in the making it’s way overdue)

Anyway, so, @mismagireve, @hnybnny, this one’s for you guys bc it was your headcanon I just went I’ve gotta fic that and then took months to do it.

The Man In Green

Some things are constants. Not many things, certainly, but some. Things that, across universes, you will find in every culture in every species. Things that, no matter where or when in space and time you travel, you will always find.

Urban legends, though they are not always called such, are one of these. Tales told in hushed voices between the young in the dead of night, whispered across campfires by the older, passed along from mouth to mouth until nobody is quite sure where they came from in the first place.

Lore is no exception to the rule. If anything, with the saturation of the magic in the world, Lore has a richer history of such tales than most. Adventurers who bear claims of mysterious wingless dravir who appear only for a passing moment before vanishing, tales from farmers who swear up and down that they have seen horses that walk on two legs, warnings to travellers of odd young waifs who appear at the edges of paths in the forest, asking for help only for those who follow them to vanish forever... the tales of Lore are as varied as they are many.

And, as with any such tales, some are known to only specific areas, and others travel widely, changing in accordance to their locations.

And of these, none are as widespread as that as the Man In Green.

Be you hailing from or travelling through the kingdom of Greenguard, the mountains of Volkenraand, the forests of Tkaanie, the deserts of Kaer Sterra, even the vast Shapeless Empire, the people around you will have heard of the Man In Green. As far as such tales go, this one is a close to universal as it comes.

And, perhaps even more bizarrely than simply the spread, the tale does not change much from place to place.

Always, there is a man dressed in green who appears. Always, nobody has seen him before. Sometimes his arrival is to towns and villages, sometimes in the path of travellers on the routes between them. Always, he will approach someone who is present. Always, he will ask them if he can have a picture. If one agrees, he will appear happy and pleased, thank the one with whom he took the picture, and then leave. If one declines, he will appear disappointed – in some tales, sad – and leave without any further interactions.

There are variations to this tale, of course, but even these variations have constants. In some, he arrives appearing upset and brightens up when he sees the person he requests a picture with. In others, he approaches more than one member of a group. In yet others, he appears to look for someone among a group and seems disappointed, then leaving without asking for a picture.

As tales of his nature go, the Man In Green is rather benign. Never has there been a tale with his negative reactions going beyond sadness or disappointment. Despite what variations there are, every story about the Man In Green that there is seems to agree on one simple fact – he just wants a picture, nothing more.

There are many theories as to what precisely he is and even more about why he wants the pictures. From an otherworldly being seeking to build an army out of those whose pictures he takes, to a tricksy fae playing an elaborate joke, to a ghost wandering the land searching for his loved ones, almost every possibility that there could be has been suggested at some point or other.

Those who subscribe to the ghost theory have no idea just how close to the truth they are.

The box had been on the kitchen table when Warlic entered the room and he had promptly given it the wide berth that such a threat deserved.

He knew that he hadn’t been the one to leave it there, after all, which meant the only possible culprit was Cysero. And things that Cysero left lying around places were usually better off left alone if they were spontaneously combusting or exploding, as they had a tendency to do. Especially when they looked as innocuous as the box did. Appearances deceive.

It was on Cysero’s side of the yellow line anyways, so he had no reason to spare it any more thought.

Deciding not to spare things any more thought is generally a good and viable tactic where creations of his roommate are concerned, he discovered fairly early on. The ability to ignore utter chaos in the background of your life unless it directly affects you was a hard earned, hard trained skill, but one that came in useful quite frequently when living with the Mad, Magical Weaponsmith.

On this occasion, however, it turns out to be a double-edged sword.

He bites back several rather uncouth words as something crashes into the back of his legs, sending him stumbling and bracing a hand against the counter to stay upright. He whirls around to identify the cause and fixes a glare on the pair of laundry golems – who’s entry he must have tuned out - clearly in the middle of a fight on the table. They both freeze and then flee the scene together, whatever conflict led them there in the first place seemingly forgotten.

He redirects his gaze to the floor, looking for whatever hit him.

It’s the box from before, clearly knocked flying by the tussle. Because, of course, despite the yellow line being enchanted to keep the myriad of experiments and accidents (on both their ends, much as he hates to admit it) from crossing over, there was nothing to stop an object propelled by force alone.

It’s also lying lid down, cracked open with the contents scattered across the floor.

He sighs and then crouches down, with every intent to scoop the box's contents back into it, stick it back on the table and just go about his day. He turns the box over, moves to start and-

His intentions fizzle out when he realises that each of the small objects - bits of paper, it seems - are written on in a language that he doesn't even remotely recognise.

That means that it's either a language from a very secretive people, or it's very, very old.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he picks one of the things up to get a closer look. It feels more like card than paper and the light catches it in a slight way that gives away that it's glossy. Very odd paper, it seems. 

But then, this paper is Cysero's, so he supposes he shouldn't be too surprised that it's odd.

He turns it over and his train of thought speculating what they could be grinds to a halt.

A photogaph?

A high quality photograph, at that. Somewhat faded, presumably with age, but high quality nonetheless. It's of Cysero and a young pink-haired woman that he doesn't recognise. She has a slight point to her ears, a gleam to her eye, and a giant wrench of unmistakeable design holstered across her back, all of which belie at least partial gnommish heritage.

He sets the photo down in the box and picks up another of the objects. Flipping it over reveals it to be another photograph, this one most likely older than the last.

They're all photographs, he realises. A snippet of an old tale dashes through the back of his mind and an idea starts to niggle, but he pushes it aside. No need to jump to conclusions, especially not with so little evidence.

The photograph currently in his hand is of Cysero and a young girl with teal hair and green eyes, clearly sitting in the branch of a tree in an orchard. She's grinning at the camera and has a green apple in her hand, identical to the ones born by the branches in the background.

A part of him chides him for going through what is so clearly a personal belonging, but the curious part of him just can’t help himself. He lets himself slip from crouching to sitting, his legs halfway tucked under him.

The next one is Cysero and an individual who looks to be some kind of elf. At least, he’s pretty sure that they’re an elf, though he can identify which type. There are a lot of elven species and for the life of him he can't remember which ones have green hair and blue-purple skin.

The fourth looks more recent than the others, showing his flatmates and another young woman, this one holding a frying pan who has firey red hair tied back in a pleat.

The fifth picture is much, much older and gives him such a shock that it feels like his heart has stopped. His fingers go loose and he very nearly drops the photograph.

It's Jaania, looking exactly as he remembers her, smiling brightly at the camera. Through the trees behind the two, there's a wall visible, and his heart pangs as he realises that this picture must have been taken the very same day that she first arrived in Swordhaven.

He sets that photograph down in the box with a shaking hand. The idea in the back of his head is starting to grow and become harder to shove back down. He debates with himself whether or not he should pick up the next photo.

The part of him that wants to not do so, that wants to just get up and walk away, loses.

He wishes it hadn't.

His hand shakes all the more and he closes his eyes. It does nothing to dispel the image of the photograph though, right there in his mind’s eye as though painted onto the back of his eyelids.

Alex.

Younger than he had ever known him, certainly. He’s not sure if he could even estimate an age for him but he’s probably early teens at most and still undeniable and recognisably Alex. Cysero is crouching down next to him, looking just the same as ever, grinning at the camera and making bunny ears behind the young boy's head. Behind them he can see the buildings of Lymcrest.

Without prompting, his mind layers fire over the image, roaring and burning and destroying and-

His eyes fly open and he drops the photo into the box with a slight gasp, snapping himself out of the unwanted images. He tucks his shaking hands against his stomach, closing his eyes again, and sits and just breathes for a few moments.

This is what he gets for prying, he supposes. Brought it on himself, didn’t he, really? He really shouldn’t go snooping through someone else’s belongings.

Magic tingles at his fingertips.

The idea is still nagging at the back of his mind. Curiosity prowls around him like the cat it always kills.

He opens his eyes again and flicks his fingers in a small, swift movement.

Every photo remaining on the floor flips over.

The photos all vary in age, that much is immediately visible. Most of the faces are unfamiliar but a few... a few he knows.

The idea isn’t in the back of his head anymore.

He sweeps up the photos and puts them all back in their box, fits the lid back on and picks the box up, standing in the same movement. He strides over to the table and sets it down.

On his side of the line.

He pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling a tome on ancient languages over from one of the many piles of books lying around the room, and settles in to wait. Cysero is rarely home, but he’s seen all the signs of him being home and sticking around for a while recently, and he’ll have to come to the kitchen either to eat or to pick up his box eventually.

And they really need to talk.

He startles to wakefulness when the book slips from his hand and thuds against the floor. He blinks blearily at the room around him, the lightning look almost like it’s dusk. Or possibly dawn. A midway time, at least.

Cysero is sitting in the chair on the other side of the table, the box just to his side and open, and number of photos spread in front of him. There’s a slightly curved twig sitting on the box’s lid. That’ll be how he got the box back across the line without crossing it himself, then.

“Ever the scholar’s mind, huh?” Cysero says. His head doesn’t move in the slightest but Warlic feels the sudden sensation of being looked at and knows he must have looked up under his hair.

“Wha-?” is his supremely intelligent reply.

Cysero just smiles, rather more cryptically than he usually does, and holds up one of the photos, the back with the writing facing Warlic.

“It was the writing that got you, wasn’t it?” he says, something almost sad in his tone “A language that you don’t recognise, let alone know. That’s what grabbed your attention,”

He feels himself snap from still half asleep to focused and aware in an instant.

“Ah, there you are,” Cysero says, very quietly as though he doesn’t mean to be heard.

Cysero then places the photo back down on the table, back facing up, and fans out several other photos in a line alongside it, all with their backs facing up. He sits back slightly with a small smile and seems to just... watch.

Warlic’s brain makes the connection it didn’t before in a millisecond.

“They’re dates,” he says.

“Mostly. Also names, and notes on differences and stuff,” Cysero says, sweeping the photos back up and dropping them all into the box again. “But that’s not what you wanted to talk about, is it?”

“You’re the Man In Green,” Warlic says.

Cysero shrugs, picks up the twig and fiddles with it.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he says, sounding somewhere between flat and amused.

“I have so many questions,” Warlic says, his own voice incredibly flat because he isn’t entirely sure which emotion to go with.

Cysero’s mouth quirks in a way that indicates it was probably accompanied by an eyebrow. Warlic takes it for the silent invitation that it is.

“Why?” he starts with, summarising about five questions with one.

“Long story,” Cysero answers.

“How?” is his next one. There are structures older than he is in some of those – and he’s not entirely sure he’s talking about his human self when he says that.

“Long story,” Cysero says again, shrugging “Same long story, actually,”

“Will you tell me the long story?” Warlic asks.

“It’ll take a while,”

“I have time,”

“Wow,” Warlic says, when the long story is finished. “...wow,”

“Yeah,” Cysero says.

Warlic looks at the box of photographs.

“So those are all...?” “People I knew before the Reset, yeah,” Cysero says, looking at it almost wistfully. “Not all of them. There’s some I haven’t found yet and some refuse to take a picture with me, so it’s not ever going to be all of them, but...”

He shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” Warlic says.

Cysero shrugs again.

“For what?” he asks “There wasn’t anything you could have done to change it, and it’s a time long gone now anyways. I’ve... come to terms with it. Mostly,”

There’s silence for a moment.

“Actually...” Cysero says, breaking the silence and drawing out the word “...this does remind me of something,”

And then there’s a device in his hand that Warlic has never seen before but finds eerily familiar all the same.

“I never got your picture,” Cysero says, gesturing with the device. “Would you mind?”

Warlic smiles.

“I’d love to,” he says.

[themusicenthusiast]

Saturday, June 3rd, 2017 – A Picturesque Day, Delicious Craft Brews and Great Tunes from Dawes and Others Allow Index Fest Fort Worth to Deliver an Ideal Festival Experience

It was almost as if Mother Nature was trying to conspire against Index Fest. Not that this would have been the first time. After a successful, sold-out event in Austin the recently rebranded craft beer and music festival (formerly Untapped Fest) was returning to Panther Island Pavilion in Fort Worth. However, as Saturday started off, many were wondering if the gates would even have the opportunity to open. Scattered storms were predicted throughout the weekend with flash flood warnings in place all over the metroplex; and if Friday had been any indicator -- several streets in D-FW becoming impassible due to high water – Saturday was going to be a wash out. However, much to everyone’s pleasant surprise, mere hours before Index Fest was scheduled to get underway the approaching line of storms fell apart, the sun piercing through the clouds as it suddenly turned out to be a gorgeous summer day ideal for a festival. And it was a go. Due to the delays caused by the weather earlier in the morning there did wind up being a bit of a delay, something several people weren’t privy to until after showing up. As a result, the gate times had been pushed back an hour from what was originally scheduled, VIP now getting in at five-o’clock, while the other various ticket types were moved to six. The set times for the artists remained the same. While understandable (the delays), conversations that were overheard from the line revealed some annoyed patrons unaware of what the holdup was, having missed the announcement online as they traveled upwards of an hour from other parts of the metroplex. Because of that, many simply enjoyed the sounds of Fort Worth’s Oil Boom, the rock outfit sounding pristine as they rocked out a variety of older songs from 2014’s Red Metal along with some new offerings from a forthcoming release. They sounded even better than I’ve heard them before, more force being injected into the songs they played, in turn making them more commanding. And, in usual Oil Boom style, there were some jokes to be had this day.

Bassist Steve Steward couldn’t resist mentioning DJ Sober (who had played a set before them and was spinning music in between the acts) and what an odd name that was for someone to have at a beer festival. “You know I’ve been waiting all week to make that joke,” he added. The masses began streaming in right as they finished, the people immediately dispersing to tents of the plethora of breweries. Eighty-five breweries in all, ranging from ones close to home like Lakewood Brewing Co and Rahr & Sons to ones as far away from Juneau, AK (Alaskan) and Brooklyn, NY (Coney Island), collectively they offered over 300 craft beers to indulge in, Sampling glasses in hand, the festival goers were ready to try as many as they could and maybe discover a new favorite beverage in the process. The sheer number of participating breweries may sound staggering, though everything was neatly laid out, divided into a handful of rows of tents that were easy to navigate. While that and the music were the main draw, there were plenty of other ways to unwind, too. Some games were set up on the back side of the festival grounds, including a couple of Ping-Pong tables and even a large Jenga set, while some live art was even being made, artists even offering the attendees a shot at winning one of the canvases to carry home. All in all that cultivated a great atmosphere, one where having fun and making memories was paramount. Musically, there was something for almost everyone, each artist falling on a different spot of the musical spectrum, with Shinyribs being the most diverse sounding act on the lineup. A hodgepodge of soul and funk wrapped in a swampy country sound, Kevin Russell and his band mates took the stage by storm, ready to ensure everyone at Index Fest was having a good time. That was easy for them, Russell busting a move when he took the stage, spinning around and demonstrating some slick dance skills, his demeanor affirming they were there to have fun. Complete with a horn section and some backing vocalists they wowed many with their smooth, rich sounds, “I Gave Up All I Had” perfectly capturing their soul side as it brought out the best of Russell’s voice. “I AM SHINYRIBS!” he growled in a guttural tone afterwards, picking a guitar up to use (and ultimately wail on) for a surprising cover of “No Diggity”. That classic from Blackstreet was the one that got the spectators most energized, even resulting in some singing along as they ran through their charged rendition of it, adapting it to better fit their brand of music. That wasn’t their only cover of the day, either. After a handful of other originals, including the rousing “Take Me Lake Charles”, which boasted some divine harmonies, they got to the final track of their six-song set, and in the midst of that number, they brought a disco flare to the stage, breaking into a snippet of “Stayin' Alive”. It capped off their set perfectly, bringing it full circle, ‘cause really, is there any music that’s more fun than disco? Especially when spliced with this brilliant and compelling concoction that Shinyribs has created. Russell and company provided a perfect start to the day, their music sounding as cheery as the day had turned out to be, their 34-minute long set being brief but allowing them ample time to show everyone why Shinyribs is becoming one of the most talked about bands in Texas. With a half hour between each band, patrons were given plenty of time to wander around and check out the vast selection of beers; and when next people returned to the stage, they were treated to something a little more chill. Johnnyswim had been tapped as the main support act for Index Fest, an additional guitarist joining husband and wife duo Abner Ramirez and Amanda Sudano for a more bare bones performance of their material. They had some die-hard fans in attendance and almost immediately utilized that connection as they worked to build a rapport with everyone else, most of the onlookers providing a beat as they clapped along to “Don't Let It Get You Down”. And that was just the start of the crowd participation, Sudano later encouraging everyone to sing along if they knew the songs and wanted to. Furthering the tightknit rapport they would develop was the conversations they often engaged in, even if they were more one-sided. For example, Ramirez acknowledged they were like everyone else, not certain if they’d even get to play or not, adding the possibility of the event being cancelled was the last thing they wanted to hear after the plane they were on touched down in D-FW. It was obvious he was ecstatic it all worked out, though, the three of them being delighted to be on that stage. Most of the bands seemed to have at least one song that was behooving of a beer festival, and for Johnnyswim that was “Drunks”, Ramirez providing some insight as to how the song came together, with the primary reason being exactly what’s expressed in the lyrics: thy wanted a song that could unite people and get them to sing along. Something that showcases the power music has to provide people a chance to set aside their differences, and what a lovely and well written song “Drunks” is to accomplish such a task. Perhaps the best thing about this acoustic set from Johnnyswim was the fact that it allowed their harmonies to shine more brilliantly than normal, and that song highlighted them better than any other, the three-part harmonies being stunning and gorgeous, making them truly captivating. “Take The World” was personalized some, being dedicated to a newlywed couple that was there enjoying the festivities; and while they were having a blast, seemingly to the point that they would have been happy being up there for another hour, they ended things with a bang, “Home” seeing the husband and wife singing into the same microphone, sharing a moment, as they brought things to a fiery finish. Johnnyswim may have provided a more relaxing segment of the festival sonically speaking, though that’s not be confused as being a lull. The three of them delivered a spirited performance, their energy rivaling that of what Dawes would lay down, the fact that Ramirez and Sudano were getting such a thrill out of performing making their set all the more engrossing. The sun had set, a cool breeze descending upon Panther Island Pavilion, a fitting end to what had been a picturesque day, being sunny and warm without much humidity to turn standing outside into a grueling experience. And to top off this perfect day was the perfect band, Dawes. They’ve had a busy 2017 with their An Evening with Dawes tour, and after a well-deserved month-long break, this appearance at Index Fest marked their return to the road for another rigorous stint. It was an event Taylor Goldsmith would state they had been eagerly anticipating, “itching” to play again, and they sure appeared delighted to be back on a stage and in front of a loyal fan base. The clanging guitar chords served as the call to arms, most everyone back by all of the beer tents flocking to the stage where the quintet soon launched into “One of Us”. It was a perfect way to begin the show, a vibrant opener that put them right in their element and let the spectators know just what they could expect from Dawes this night. Guitar and piano solos abounded as they traversed their dozen song set, highlighting the astounding musicianship they possess; and during “Fire Away”, Taylor ceded things over to his brother Griffin Goldsmith, the drummer singing the last bit of the charged number. With each song they became more of a force to be reckoned with, the fans becoming all the more enthralled by the set that seemed to include everything they had all been hoping for. Even the new songs from We’re All Gonna Die received a warm welcome, people cheering as “When The Tequila Runs Out” got underway. Taylor jokingly apologized about it, acknowledging that it wasn’t a beer song but it was the best they had. No one minded, especially once the fun vibe that song captures began to take hold. “All Your Favorite Bands” was undoubtedly the song everyone was patiently awaiting, that closer that became a sing-along seeing everyone out wonderfully, the hopeful tune acting as a nice way to part ways, Taylor, Griffin, Wylie Gelber, and Lee Pardini waving at the crowd as they made their exit. As the mass exodus began, people were already reminiscing on what a great day Index Fest had provided. The delayed gate openings seemed like a distant memory to most, having instead been replaced by a slew of good times hanging out with friends, sampling some new drinks and checking out some incredible bands. Really, if the delayed opening was the worst of it than that’s certainly not the worst thing that could happen. Patrons were also already shrugging off the soggy (and in places, muddy) mess the field had been transformed into, and indeed, it wasn’t that bad. The rain from the previous day had left its mark on Panther Island Pavilion, no doubt, but so long as you watched your step you were alright. The worst of the mud was at the back end of the grounds were little was set up anyway, and nearly everyone had already prepared for such a scenario by wearing old shoes or even boots made for outdoor wear and tear. It was an incredible day, Index Fest providing more of an all-encompassing festival experience from what many events do. By focusing on quality over quantity in the music field they were able to ensure everyone saw acts that were nothing but memorable; the mid to late afternoon start being more ideal since it eliminated having to stand out in what’s typically the hottest part of the day. The staggered set times allowed attendees plenty of time to roam about the grounds and see what else was going on without feeling like they were missing anything. And, for those not too invested in a particular act, everything was located far enough away from the stage to be able to carry on a conversation amongst friends as you savored everything else Index Fest had to offer. On that note, the art was a nice addition, the artists attracting decent crowds, all marveling at the work they were putting in to bringing their creations to life. One of the reasons for rebranding, it will be interesting to see how much more art will factor in to Index as it continues to expand. An excellent environment, it was suitable for the whole family, a few young kids being seen in tow with their parents this day. The whole family applied to dogs as well, several people bringing their furry friends with them, and people of all ages, from twenty-somethings to some in their sixties, were out to partake in the festivities. Perhaps the threat of more rain kept some people away from this installment of Index Fest, but those who did venture out were rewarded with a joyous experience. In the end, Mother Nature smiled upon everyone, the conditions being flawless. There may well not be another day this summer with such great temperatures for a festival, people being able to derive the ideal festival experience from Index Fest, having had a fun filled day where there was always something going on to keep one stimulated. That’s two down and three more to go, a Houston installment of Index Fest scheduled for September, with San Antonio getting one at a TBA date. Index Fest Dallas is slated to go down on November 11th. More details on all of those (when available) can be found at the event WEBSITE.