#assigned cop at birth or whatever. except you don’t even know it because it was covered up by konoha.

[everyitachi]

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence��slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

[beatriceportinari]

among many haunting things in naruto I am haunted by the fact that the uchiha symbol is STILL on the police station building even in boruto. like. imagine going to work as a policeman for konoha  post massacre (what was THAT recruiting process like) with the uchiha symbol on your work building when konoha massacred them because they planned a coup after being ostracized BY being like. assigned cop at birth or whatever. except you don’t even know it because it was covered up by konoha. 

[thebibliomancer]

50 More Days of Comics! 37/50: Dark Horse Presents #137 (1998)

An anthology! I love an anthology! Ask anyone!

Apparently Dark Horse Presents was the first comic published by Dark Horse. Which is fair enough. And it ran from 1986 to 2000 when it was cancelled. And then volume 2 of Dark Horse Presents ran from 2007-2010 and was published on MySpace!

Wild.

Anyway, this comic has the Predator fighting Nazis so it must be exceptional.

So the first of the three stories is Predator: Demon’s Gold.

The story is narrated by an Ecuadorian remembering back to when he was a child. The Nazis came and burned his village and killed everyone in it except for him. Him, they needed.

Narrator: “They wanted the same thing white men have always wanted from my land: silver and gold. They wanted what was hidden high in the Llanganati Mountains, the secret my village had kept so long.”

And they tell him they’ll let him live if he leads them to it.

Something I learned while googling the Llanaganati Mountains to try to find out where on Earth this was set is that the Treasure of the Llanganatis is a pre-existing legend and not something this comic made up.

Per the legend, it was the gold and silver and platinum and assorted other treasures hidden in the mountains by the Incan general Rumiñahui. He had been gathering it as a ransom for King Atahualpa but when conquistador Pizarro just went and had Atahualpa killed anyway, Rumiñahui hid the treasure and never revealed where it was.

Except in this story where he told somebody who passed it down to a nameless village and a nameless narrator.

Knowing that actually adds to the story weirdly enough.

When frightened boy Narrator leads the Nazis to the “sweat of the Sun, tears of the Moon” treasure, they plan to kill him anyway.

And like in the legend, if you renege on a promise to let someone live in exchange for two rooms full of treasure, you don’t get the treasure.

Because as the boy prays to the Inca gods, his prayers are answered in a way.

I don’t know why he was there but a Predator was there and he starts murdering the Nazis in his gruesome Predator way. 

Narrator: “These men who had butchered my village, they were ripe corn before the harvest blade.”

He kills the Nazi leader last, pulling his spine out by his head, like some kind of Mortal Kombat.

The boy assumes the Predator, who he thinks is a demon because sure, will kill him last “would demand one more sacrifice in return for protecting the sweat and tears” but with a swipe of his wrist blades, he cuts Narrator’s bonds and walks out of the cave.

Narrator: “But it spared me. And vanished back to whatever pit had given it birth. That was long ago: I’m an old man now. My own death draws near. You ask me where the treasure is? That secret I take with me.”

There’s so much intriguing potential here. Who was he telling the story to? Was this like a Titanic the Movie setup? Why was the Predator guarding Incan treasure? But alas, as far as I know, they remain mysteries.

STORY 2! My Vagabond Days.

Set April 4th, 1968 and centered around a boy named Martin who is generally unenthusiastic about school. But his teacher talks about Apollo 6 and tells the students to write three paragraphs on “What Would I Like to Accomplish.”

Martin and his friend Jerome already know they want to be astronauts!

And later at dinner, Martin tells his parents about his assignment, his mom noting he sounds excited considering he doesn’t usually do his homework without a spanking.

Martin: “I am! ‘Cause I know exactly what I want to be!”

Dad: “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Martin: “I’m gonna be ‘n astronaut!”

Dad: “Ha! Oh you are, are you? Is that what you think?”

Dad: “Astronauts get good grades, and they don’t get caught stealing an’ lying all the time. So where does that leave you, spaceboy?”

And Martin runs to his room to cry. Mom berates dad because this is the first time she’s ever seen him excited about his homework but dad says Martin will be lucky to get a job at all the way he’s going.

Later, Jerome calls Martin out to climb to the roof of their building and use binoculars to look at the moon.

They obviously don’t see astronauts on the Moon with binoculars.

Jerome: “So, what do you think you’ll accomplish in your lifetime, Martin?”

Jerome: “Martin?”

Martin: “... nothin’.”

Jerome: “No, I’m serious.”

Martin: “Yeah... Me too...”

Kids internalize stuff, parents!

This was kind of a bummer after seeing the Predator fight Nazis. Kind of jerking my emotions around, Dark Horse Presents.

Last story: The Ark Part Four

The last part of a multiple part story? You fooled me, Dark Horse Presents! Uncool!

Anyway, near as I can gather, there was an alien spacecraft that got shot down and unleashed a bunch of alien monsters who seem animalistic and not gleep glorp take me to your meepmorps.

Also they’re fairly resistant to bullets.

There are several convicts from the nearby prison and some prison guards or cops? who are with them and worried that the prisoners will attempt to escape in the confusion and then there’s a main guy maybe called Guidry.

He has the idea that since the town of Pruitt has been evacuated, they can vent the natural gas pipes underground, saturate the town, and then drop a match. Boom, no more alien monsters.

On his way into the sewers, Guidry cautions everyone not to take up smoking.

Jonas: “No problem. I’ve got a rule about cigarettes. Only after sex... Or when somebody punches up Leann Rimes on the tavern’s juke box.”

Guidry, later: “I’d like to buy her a carton of Marlboros, and I don’t mean for some country-pop listening party...”

Once the gas has been vented, the group runs into another problem. Somebody has to set it off. And there’s a monster now between them and the manhole.

Then somebody steps up to take the sacrifice.

Narrator: “I don’t know what prompted Dylan to do what he did. Was it out of some suddenly-discovered sense of obligation? I doubt it. Serial arsonists rarely undergo that sort of epiphany. But I can’t help remembering the look on his face. He wasn’t thinking of the pain, or the finality of death. He was looking for the cleansing embrace of the flames. I only hope it was all he had ever dreamed.”

And then the town blows up.

And all the monsters blow up. Except for the biggest and meanest of them. And now its pissed.

The four survivors flee the surviving monster and wind up back at the prison.

Guidry: “Guns, grenades, hell, Warden Moeller probably keeps whips and leather in the basement -- That doesn’t work, we can throw cafeteria food at the thing till it pukes to death--”

Hah.

The warden won’t let them in, even though one of the survivors is Sheriff Hiatt from Pruitt. So Jonas just kicks a prison bus open and drives it through the fence.

Jonas tells Warden Moeller to stfu and the prison guards open fire on the monster, to no avail.

Guidry has one last plan though and tells Jonas he’ll need her help.

So he aggros the monster to chase him through the prison -- and holy crap, this thing is tearing through prison bars like they’re twizzlers -- and all the way to the electric chair room.

He dodges behind the chair to trick the monster into skewering it with its claws and then Jonas turns on the power.

The monster is finally dead. And Guidry voluntarily turns himself in to serve out the remainder of his prison sentence because Pruitt (the town that’s currently on fire and flattened) is his entire life and home and between another six months in jail vs never seeing it again? Easy decision.

Plus, he’s also sweet on Jonas and she seems to be into him too. “I’m a firm believer in rehabilitation.” So, yeah, that’s disciplinary action waiting to happen.

[ahumanintraining]

oriented x 3

sometimes, it’s just the right person in the right place at the right time. —shallura, space cops au. (for @shalluraweek, day one: time; space.)

also read on: ffn // ao3 notes: for anyone who wants to know where the title came from, in medicine, one of the measures of consciousness is if a person is oriented to person, place, and time. and well… that’s relevant in this fic, i suppose.

Even many years later, his blue-and-green planet Earth never lost its charm.

Shiro tries to peer closer at his home planet, but almost bumps his nose into the window glass. He frowns slightly, suddenly feeling a little homesick.

After all, it’s been quite a while since he’s been back anywhere close to Earth. It would have been one thing of his chief had assigned him permanently at Earth’s police space station, but for the past few years, Shiro was shuffled back and forth across the galaxy and many light-years away from his hometown on Earth’s crust.

Today is his first day stationed back on Earth since half a decade ago. He is most certainly going to take up as much of the view as he can while he has it.

“Beautiful, huh?” a voice asks behind him.

“Yeah,” he replies without looking.

And then he looks and regrets he ever did so in the first place because his tongue slips and he repeats, “Yeah, beautiful,” with his wide eyes looking straight at hers like he’s dumbfounded by her oval deep blue eyes and generous ivory smile.

She laughs. “First time here?” she asks him.

“No,” he immediately blurts, half-stuttering because he’s relieved she didn’t notice his small misspeaking. “But this station’s changed a lot since I’ve last been here.” He points toward the parallel gray tracks across Earth’s atmosphere. “Those power network gridlines didn’t exist when I was on Earth — and that was only five years ago.”

“I mean, Earth was a pretty technology-primitive planet before finally opening to the intergalactical inventory exchanges eight years ago,” she says, taking a long sip from her cup and staring out the window for a while. His eyes start to wander, and he notices the three stars on her collar — indicating her rank as police captain. He tries to look over her shoulder and read her nametag from the angle he’s at, but she catches him staring at her before he could see.

He ducks his eyes away but he can’t help but return his eyes back to her smile.

“You’re from Earth, aren’t you?” she declares, almost accusatorily.

“I’m that obvious, huh?”

“Well, no,” she replies, gesturing to his ears. “Just that your ears are round.”

“Ah,” he says, watching her turn back to the window. He only notices her pointed ears then, as well as the magenta marks on her cheeks — quite honestly the only visible signs that he could differentiate himself from whatever alien species she is.

“An Earthling,” she repeats, as if testing the word on her tongue. She has an accent that reminds him of jasmine tea with the lightest amber honey.

“And what about you?” he asks, to fill the silence, but more likely because he’s curious.

“Altean by blood, wanderer by nature,” she tells him, as if rehearsed. She hears the pause in his voice and then turns to him with a small smile. “I could never stay in one place for too long,” she confides, leaning in toward him.

He holds his thought for just a second longer before he’s sure what to say. “Altea was one of the planets destroyed by the Galrans during the Great War,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression doesn’t crack, but he sees her eyes assuage. “That was a long time ago,” she replies, tucking a silver strand of hair behind her ear. “I suppose I haven’t yet found a new place to call home.”

She takes another sip from her cup, and he realizes only now that she’s standing close enough for him to smell her drink — a warm cinnamon aroma that reminds him a bit of horchata. Then she looks up at him again and smiles, noticing his eyes on her mug. She raises her drink to him. “Want to try?”

His right hand reaches up to take up her offer without further thought. He’s distracted by how small and round her nose is, how broad and strong her jaw is. While she exchanges the drink to his grasp, brushing hands briefly, he suddenly wishes he had used his left human hand rather than his metal one.

“Thank you,” he says, before raising the cup to his lips. The drink indeed tastes like it smells — but much creamier and thicker in substance, with a light tangy acid aftertaste he doesn’t expect.

“Quirple,” she explains. “A beverage from planet Fresia.” She looks him up and down, observing him under a quiet gaze. “How do you like it?”

“Reminds me of something I used to drink all the time on Earth,” he tells her. “I grew up in California, but just along the border of the United States and Mexico.” He bites his lip, catching himself. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

She laughs softly, taking the drink back from his hand. “At least I know you’ll be great company during stakeouts.”

He groans at the word. “I hate that part of our job the most,” he admits. “Literally just waiting around and ninety-five percent of the time you find out nothing more except when the subject uses the bathroom.”

“You mean you don’t like being a Defender of the Universe?” she asks him with a smirk.

He gives her a crooked smile. “Is that what they call us now these days?” He looks back to the window, mulling over the words. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“At least that’s how they’re trying to sell our job to recruit new members,” she says, turning to lean her back against the wall.

He feels her eyes on him again, and he resists trying to catch her eyes.

“So what’s with this arm of yours?” she asks.

He knew she’d ask at some point about the arm. Everyone does.

“It’s kinda hot,” she adds.

Well. Not everyone says that.

He deflects a flushed smile to the ground, and then decides to tease things up a bit. “I work homicide,” he lies, off the top of his head.

“Do you now?” she inquires, crossing her arms and looking at him through thick eyelashes.

He’s terrible at lying. “Just missing persons.”

“Well, no need to pretend about that,” she tells him. “Missing persons is just as honorable and intense of a department.”

He laughs breathily. “Yeah,” he simply agrees.

He feels so comfortable with her that he almost slips and tells her about Matt, but then he holds his tongue, thinking that dropping a backstory about a missing team member might be much for a first conversation with a stranger.

“So what about you?” he asks instead.

“You mean what department I work for?” she replies. And when he nods, she tells him, “Homicide.”

“Ah,” he says. “No wonder you didn’t believe me. You would have already known me if I worked the same department.”

She grins. “Well even if I was in homicide, our training does teach us how to detect lies.”

His heart flutters when he realizes she was playing along with him. He snorts. “Clearly I didn’t pick up those skills at the garrison.”

“I’m sure you’re a skilled officer,” she assures him, tapping the stars on his collar. “They don’t just give these to just anyone in the force, captain.” She turns to him, putting down her mug onto the windowsill. “I just caught you off duty,” she tells him, nudging him to turn toward her. “Let’s have one more go.”

He can’t help the smile that stretches over his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

“I know you know this game,” she says. “Two truths and a lie.”

“So…”

“How about you start?” she suggests, her eyes twinkling. “Tell me two truths and one lie, and I tell you which statement is the lie.”

He blinks, trying to think fast. He can’t think as clearly when she’s smiling so cutely like that.

“Okay then…” he says, in the meantime. “Okay. Got it. Two truths and one lie: Before joining the police force, I played competitive laser tag…  I’ve had this white tuft on my head since birth… and…” he drawls, as his smile widens, “…I think you’re very beautiful.”

Her eyebrow arches at his last sentence. He can’t meet her eyes for more than a second before becoming even more flushed.

“Well…” she says, looking a little embarrassed herself. “I can only presume that...” she thinks out loud, as she leans in closer to him. “…your white hair wasn’t congenital.”

She is so close. He holds his breath, but then remembers he has to tell her the answer.

“You’re right. It isn’t,” he tells her.

“I suppose that will be a story for another time,” she responds, looking at him as if trying to read his history off his eyes. She inhales after a moment, straightening. “Okay then,” she says. “My turn. Two truths and one lie.” She thinks for a bit, and then lists, “I work protective services… and my name is Allura… and I would really like to see you again.”

His eyes immediately drop to her nametag, but she covers it with her hand immediately.

“No cheating,” she teases.

He’s still processing the fact that he was so forward with her… and that she returned it back! Or perhaps… maybe he’s thinking much too optimistically about this and she’s just joking around with him again. He really hopes she’s not — especially now because he can’t think of anything but taking her on a date to watch the stars.

“Your name isn’t Allura, is it?” he asks. His heart is beating so so fast.

She gives him a soft smile before removing her hand to uncover her nametag.

Allura, it read.

She leans in. “And I work theft and recovery,” she murmurs, voice tickling his ear.

Then she withdraws, before she raises her hand to brush his bangs off to the side. Her hand continues to fall, trailing down his left arm until her fingers dangle loosely in his hand. She tucks a slip of paper into his palm, and she smiles up at him.

“Call me. I’ll meet you,” she tells him, before stepping away with a wink. “Just tell me a time and a space.”

[sage-nebula]

Hydrangea and Lavender

Hydrangea: What inspired you to begin writing in the first place?

Hah, well, there were three stages to this!

The first story I ever wrote, as embarrassing as it may be to admit this, was Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction when I was in first grade. We had an assignment to write a story about anything we wanted, and, well, that’s what I wrote. I was super jazzed when we were first given the assignment because I loved reading and making up stories, and I enjoyed every second of writing it. I even drew some really bad illustrations to go with it. I mean, the story itself was bad too, I’m sure, but I was also about six or seven years old, so … I can be excused, I think. Either way, I knew at that point that I loved creating stories, although since I was so young it hadn’t really clicked in my head yet that I, too, could write books of my very own.

Fast forward to fifth grade. Stages two and three took place in that year. The first stage was when I was still attending my first elementary school, before I moved, and I was once again given a creative writing assignment. At my first elementary school, the fifth graders would write a short book every year that would be hard-bound and put in the school library. I was super mega psyched about this, because I had recently beaten The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask and I wanted to write a sequel to it. (Note: My sequel idea was horrendous, good god, self. But again, I was ten, so I think I can cut myself some slack.) My teacher vetoed this idea, saying that it was plagiarism to write a Zelda story, which I was very offended by because, hey, I was making the plot and the words all by myself, that’s not plagiarism! Either way, I moved out of state before the project ever came to fruition anyway, but my first fifth grade teacher and I both clearly had very different ideas on the legitimacy of fanfiction.

Either way, I moved out of state for the spring semester, and at my new elementary school I met a boy who … you know those kids who would always brag about having super famous relatives or whatever to seem cool? He was one of those. He found out that I really liked video games, and although I was a huge outcast nerd that no one actually liked (trust me, I was very unpopular, I’m not exaggerating), he made up this whole story to me about how his uncle worked at Nintendo and was looking for new game ideas and that, if I gave him one, he’d pass it along to his uncle and it would get made.

And I, dumbass ten-year-old that I was, fell for it.

So I spent ages writing in a notebook, coming up with this game that was basically a Zelda rip-off, except the protagonist was a girl, had a dragon that she rode around on, there was no princess (although there were four female oracles to represent each season who were basically like royalty / demigoddesses), and there were fifty temples. No, really, I had conceived something like fifty temples because I was sad that my games ended and wanted one that would last FOREVER. Anyway, when I finally had all of these (terrible) ideas written down I took them to the boy, who then told me that, oops, the deadline had passed. I got upset because he had never told me there was a deadline, but it had passed and there was nothing that could be done. I spent some time being bummed about this (I put in all that work) before I realized … wait a second … I could turn this into a book … I could write this …

And that, my friend, is when it finally clicked in my thick head that I could write my very own books and when The Dream™ to become a published and beloved author was born. My original plan, when I was an idiot child, was to have a book published right away. I am now twenty-seven and feel I am not even close to that, but I also feel that I’ve improved a lot, and I do have my original fiction project that I’m working on, so … maybe someday. I hope. I dream. Please let it happen, universe. (In truth the universe can’t let anything happen. This power lies within me. I just have to utilize it. I must.)

Anyway, I know it might seem like all I write is fanfic, but I do have that original project as well. Fanfiction just helps keep me in practice … when I actually write it, anyway. I have got to get back in the groove.

Lavender: What is the most important thing to you as a writer?

HMMMM, I don’t know if there really one “most important thing”. I mean, when it comes to actually constructing the narrative, I feel like there are two main things:

The sentences — These are the framework of the story. They have to have the right amount of snap to keep the reader engaged. It doesn’t matter how creative your ideas are; if your sentences are garbage, your reader will not be able to get through the story. You have to have the mechanics down in order to get the story told, and so the sentence quality is massively important.

The characters — Your story is nothing without fantastic characters. You can have a myriad of plot twists and beautiful themes, but if your characters are boring, flat, or exist purely to be tropes or devices, your story is going to be tossed aside in no time at all. Further, your characters are what carry your plot; if they’re not strong enough to carry the plot, the plot will not be strong enough to support the reader for the entire ride. Really allow your characters to shine; they are what make the plot in the first place.

The second one also contains things like character development, relationships, dialogue, overall characterization, et cetera. All of those things are incredibly important.

Don’t get me wrong, the plot is important, too—you have to make sure it makes sense, that there aren’t gaping plot holes, et cetera. But your sentences and your characters are what make or break your story, at least in terms of whether or not the reader is going to toss it aside on the next page. I mean, for instance, I cannot read Tolkien’s work because, in my opinion, his prose is godawful. I understand that he set the stage for many of the high fantasy works that followed, that he gave birth to a lot of the tropes that we still see in use today, that his works were incredibly important for the genre. However, the man spends two pages describing goddamn trees. I cannot get through his prose. Even when it comes to The Hobbit, which is supposed to be for kids, I found myself so bored I wondered if I was reading an encyclopedia instead. Similarly, Neil Gaiman’s writing isn’t necessarily terrible, but I ended up disliking American Gods by the time I was halfway through the book because he was using similes or metaphors every other sentence, and so it felt like he was trying oh so very hard to seem impressive, which had the exact opposite effect. I distinctly remember rolling my eyes during the sex scene with Bastet because of yet another simile (or maybe it was a metaphor, can’t recall). I felt so annoyed at how smart he was trying to sound, and so his writing style is simply not for me. (Terry Pratchett, on the other hand? That man could write. His writing style is what made Good Omens one of my favorite books. Thank god he tempered Gaiman on that one. Thank god.)

So your sentences are incredibly important, but so are your characters. Your characters are everything. I don’t care how brilliant you believe your theme is, or how many plot twists you have; if your characters are garbage, that plot is not going anywhere. You will either get stuck when trying to write it, or your readers are not going to care about it. Readers like interesting plots, yes, but readers prefer fascinating characters. I mean, look at fandom. Sure, people talk about the plots of their favorite narratives, but what do they draw fanart of? What do they spend countless hours writing meta for? What inspires them to write fanfiction? The characters do. We don’t care about the Harry Potter series because of the plot. We don’t watch Star Wars because of the plot. We don’t really care about the plot of the superhero movies that we see and gush over. Again, aspects of the plot can be interesting, but the reason why we care is because we care about and connect to the characters. If your story does not have well-written, lovable characters (at least some of them have to be lovable, unless you’re explicitly trying to write a story in which everyone is loathsome and that is what causes the fascination), then it isn’t going anywhere, no matter how intelligent or witty your plot may be.

(And note: This is not to say that your plot isn’t important, because it is, of course it is. You need to put care into maintaining your plot as well. But it is to say that your characters must come first. Your characters are why your reader sticks with your story. And it’s worth pointing out that there are plenty of television shows that have great cultural longevity despite not having much in the way of a plot (e.g. Seinfeld, or The Office, or Parks and Recreation, et cetera), whereas it’s much harder to think of one that has lasted and been thought of as wonderful because it had a deep and intricate plot, but absolutely boring and dreadful characters. So your plot still is important, no doubt about that, but you must tend to your characters first.)

With all of that said, aside from that, originality is also important. Everyone should write a story that is theirs. And I don’t mean that cop-out I often see going around, about how, “just take someone else’s plot, because if you’re writing it’s automatically unique!” because that’s not true. Idea theft / idea plagiarism does exist, and I’ve seen it far too often in fandom (often done to my own works; I’ve been plagiarized in at least three different fandoms and it hurts like hell every time) to feel comfortable. However, although there are certain stories which are told time and again in different ways, they’re told in unique ways. You can see the narrative similarities between Harry Potter and Star Wars, for instance, but they’re both so incredibly different that you’d never feel that one was a direct copy of the other. The same goes if you throw Lord of the Rings into the mix. And although the His Dark Materials trilogy was written as a Take That at C.S. Lewis because of The Chronicles of Narnia, the two are still so different that if you didn’t already know that beforehand, you wouldn’t see how Lyra has elements of both Susan and Lucy in her. So I do think that originality is very important, and that everyone should strive to come up with something that is very much theirs, rather than just taking another’s idea and copying it wholesale. Don’t plagiarize. It never ends well and it’s incredibly hurtful to the person you do it to.

So yeah, those three things: Sentences, characters, originality. I think they’re all pretty important!

[she-who-is-two-sizes-too-big]

Character Sheet: Evan Butchman

Character Chart Character’s full name: Evan Butchman Reason or meaning of name: He wanted as generic a name as possible so he wouldn’t be profiled for his Palestinian heritage Character’s nickname: Grumpy Bear (by his friend Cherry), Bubbo (by his friend Penny) Reason for nickname: Grumpy Bear because of his trademark cynicism. Bubbo because Penny calls everyone that. Birth date: April 3rd, 2000 Physical appearance Age:15 at begin of story, 18 at end  How old does he/she appear: 15 Weight: 126 lbs Height: 5″6 Body build: Fairly skinny  Shape of face: Combination of round and blocky Eye color: Hazel Glasses or contacts: None Skin tone: Olive Distinguishing marks: Bags under his eyes, messy hair Predominant features: Messy hair, dead look in eyes  Hair color: Black Type of hair: Uncombed Hairstyle: Uncombed Voice: Fairly deep but can go higher pitched if scared or angered. Overall attractiveness: Middle of the road Physical disabilities: None.  Usual fashion of dress: Like he just put on whatever was closest in his closet Favorite outfit: Black hoodie with three red arrows pointing diagonally down, and jeans Jewelry or accessories: Chest binder Personality Good personality traits: Funny, activist, refuses to give up, smart.  Bad personality traits: Depression, apathy, single-minded occasionally Mood character is most often in: Sad. Sense of humor: Dry wit Character’s greatest joy in life: Someone using his correct pronouns Character’s greatest fear: His father somehow coming back Why? His father is very close-minded and not accepting of trans people What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil? - Getting arrested  Character is most at ease when: At home, away from most people Most ill at ease when: Surrounded bypeople Enraged when: Authority figures exploit their power, when people spout racism, when he sees a pedophile Depressed or sad when: Most of the time Priorities: Dismantling capitalism and overthrowing the government Life philosophy: “If it benefits the rich, the poor should get it too.” If granted one wish, it would be: End prejudice Why? He hates prejudice and would much rather force prejudice to leave than “peacefully” coexist with his oppressors Character’s soft spot: He tends to have extra pity on those that have rough home lives, like he did Is this soft spot obvious to others? He only makes it known if he’s aware you’re in a rough spot  Greatest strength: Very intelligent for his age  Greatest vulnerability or weakness: Naturally cynical and will automatically assume the worst about most people until shown they’re good people.  Biggest regret: Not spending as much time with his girlfriend as he could have before she died. Minor regret: Once gave money to a corrupt cop once he found out that cop’s mom was abusive Biggest accomplishment: Getting the schools of his state to recognize Indigenous People Day instead of Columbus Day Minor accomplishment: Organized a protest  Past failures he/she would be embarrassed to have people know about: His rally to stop the War On Drugs ended with him getting arrested Why? He’s worried that’ll affect his social life Character’s darkest secret: He killed his abusive dad by accident because he didn’t want his dad to kill his mom Does anyone else know?  His mom Goals Drives and motivations: He wants to make the world a better place for all marginalized folk and minorities Immediate goals: Graduate high school Long term goals: Overthrow the government and establish socialism How the character plans to accomplish these goals: Riots. Lots and lots of riots.  How other characters will be affected: The classmates will graduate with him, and his riots will fail Past Hometown: Creek Valley, USA Type of childhood: Abusive father, supportive mother Pets: None First memory: His dad calling his mom a racial slur  Most important childhood memory: The first time he stood up to his father Why: It showed he wouldn’t take his crap any more.  Childhood hero: The Wachowskis Dream job: Political activifst Education: Elementary School Religion: Muslim Finances: Working class Present Current location:  Creek Valley, USA Currently living with: His mother Pets: None  Religion: Muslim Occupation: High School Student  Finances:Working Class Family Mother: Anaisah Handal Relationship with her: They love each other very much, even if Anaisah accidentally misgendered him when he first came out to her  Father: Jakob Butchman Relationship with him: Fearful, strained, they hate each other  Siblings: Jillian and Memona.  Relationship with them: They don’t talk much on the account of one having moved out and gotten a job at a sex toy store, and the other currently in college, but they get along. Spouse: Dated Christina Angelico until she died of cancer at the end of sophomore year Relationship with him/her: Strained at first due to vastly different political leanings but grew closer over time Children:  None, he’s a kid Relationship with them: N/A Other important family members: Favorites Color: Blue Least favorite color:  Pink Music: Rage Against The Machine Food: Mahishi Literature: 1984 by George Orwell Form of entertainment: Stand-up comedfy Expressions: Anything sarcastic Mode of transportation: Bicycle Most prized possession: His Antifa flag Habits Hobbies: Laying in bed, listening to music, playing video games. Plays a musical instrument? Nope. Plays a sport? Nope How he/she would spend a rainy day: The same as every other day Spending habits: Volunteered to pay for therapy bills himself so mom wouldn’t have to  Smokes: No Drinks: No Other drugs: No. What does he/she do too much of? Mouth off to authority figures What does he/she do too little of? Spend time with family  Extremely skilled at: Political activism Extremely unskilled at: Basically everything else Nervous tics: Shaking and twitchy left eye Usual body posture: Slouched and laid back Mannerisms: Stuffing his hands in his pockets Peculiarities: Gets really panicky if he does something a cop can even slightly misconstrue as violent crime Traits Optimist or pessimist? Pessimist Introvert or extrovert? Introvert Daredevil or cautious? Daredevil Logical or emotional? Bit of both Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? Messy Prefers working or relaxing? Relaxing Confident or unsure of himself/herself? Confident, unless he’s being reminded of his father. Animal lover? He doesn’t really hate animals, but he’s not one to keep pets Self-perception How he/she feels about himself/herself: Like he’s making progress, one step at a time. One word the character would use to describe self: Depressed. One paragraph description of how the character would describe self: “Man, a whole paragraph?  What is this, a school essay? Well, I hate most people, most people hate me, so it’s a mutual sort of thing there.  I, um, I hate cops. And capitalism. As if you couldn’t tell from all that crap above this section. I can be a bit....moody at times, but that’s a side effect of just seeing how much of a dumpster fire reality actually is.” What does the character consider his/her best personality trait? His refusal to back down from any of his beliefs What does the character consider his/her worst personality trait? How unintentionally condescending he can come off. What does the character consider his/her best physical characteristic?  His flat chest What does the character consider his/her worst physical characteristic?  His vagina. He’s saving up so he can officially complete the transitioning process when he’s 18. How does the character think others perceive him/her: He just assumes everyone hates him, aside from his close friends. He doesn’t really care, though. What would the character most like to change about himself/herself: Depression, and the body he was born into. He’d much rather have been labeled a man, as that’s what he truly wants to be. He was merely assigned female at birth.  Relationships with others Opinion of other people in general: Hates most people, authority figures especially. Except for his friends Does the character hide his/her true opinions and emotions from others? No. He can be very blunt. Person character most hates: The principal of his school. Either that or Trump. He’s not too fond of Larry MacDougal, either, but he doesn’t outright hate him.  Best friend(s): Penny Dropsocket, Cherry Beamshine, Christina Angelico, and Soon Yi Kim Love interest(s): Christina Angelico (deceased), (may give him another love interest, will have to wait and see) Person character goes to for advice: Penny Person character feels responsible for or takes care of: Himself. Person character feels shy or awkward around: Memona (his older brother) Person character openly admires: Malcom X, Martin Luther King Jr., basically any civil rights activist Person character secretly admires: His art teacher ,Mrs. Etcherson. Most important person in character’s life before story starts: His mom  After story starts: Christina, even though she’s dead;

[violet-in-the-void]

My DUDES my abusive step mom just finally disowned me so she could get out of making an excuse to miss my wedding 😂 I was absolutely pissing myself laughing bc this is so ridiculous and I’m so fucking happy and relieved.

this woman has been an absolute nightmare for TWO THIRDS OF MY LIFE without a scrap of empathy or decency to her. One of our first interactions, before I’d even ever actually meet her, was her threatening to call the phone company AND the cops on 8 year old me when I was trying to get a hold of my dad one night and my mom insisted I call repeatedly until he answered - y'know, the shy, people-pleasing child crying in the backseat not understanding why everyone was yelling or what I did wrong.

Any time we were upset with something she did, or more ludicrous b yet any time our mother lost her shit and went off, she’d plant us at the kitchen table for a “sit-down” and p much just let into us for having feelings at all or go on for up to an hour about how our mother wasnt well and every reason why what she did was unacceptable or illegal and how they could take her to court. At eight and eleven years old, up through seventeen and fourteen. My brother might have still dealt with it, I’m not sure. I stopped going over the second I was eighteen and didn’t legally have to anymore.

She called me fat, or “buff”, or asked if I was still working on weight loss or what I was doing to trim down nearly every time she saw me. Even though she insisted on trying on 14 year old me’s jeans because we weighed the same - barely 100 pounds. She also insisted on activating the schools SharePoint site to monitor my grades against my dad’s wishes because I got a c on a quiz, as I REMAINED an honor roll student, then proceeded to bitch at me about being lazy because I hadn’t turned in assignments… THAT HADN’T BEEN GIVEN YET.

At 15 she called me disgusting in front of my father because I refused to sit and listen to her berate my mother and sneer at me about whatever legal bullshit they were in then and when she told me that was childish, I told her NO, childish is thinking it’s at all appropriate to smear your step child’s other parents in front of them and yell at them like they’ve ANY control over what any of you do.

At 16 she threatened to slap me and throw all my shit out on the lawn because I dyed my hair black - after they said I could because I got straight A’s, as I ALWAYS did. I tested it - I would tell her I had my hair dyed professionally and she would say it looked great - though I dyed it myself. And when I flipped it the other way, she told me it looked terrible and I missed spots, except it was done professionally and no the fuck they didn’t. I also started researching and practicing Wicca that year, and she went off on some shit about how I was going to get my ass kicked one day for representing things I don’t understand (because I was wearing a pentacle necklace that SHE thought was satanic) and wouldn’t let me in the house wearing it. Even though she has a tarot deck handed down from her grandmother and does cartomancy (divination by reading playing cards). She also tried to bribe me away from it saying she was glad she didn’t have to worry about Christmas or birthday presents anymore since I didn’t believe in that sort of thing… Except y'know, Yule exists and who the fuck ever said pagans don’t celebrate birthdays?

When she found out from my father I wasnt a virgin anymore she screamed at me about being irresponsible and wanting to get pregnant - even though I’d been trying to get birth control for almost a year because my periods were so debilitatingly painful.

That same year I had two friends over for Thanksgiving and after we ate she kicked us out for laughing too loudly, and sent back the cake my friend had brought for them.

They also had a little red Civic they said was mine as soon as I learned to drive, which they sold like nine months later without a word and when I asked about it she started rattling off all the things wrong with it I’d have no way to know about and demanding to know why I was so entitled and why I’d ever think they would ever let me drive it.

She demanded to be invited to every major event like graduations or our upcoming wedding, but without fail never showed up to a single one.

At my first college the financial aid office fucked up their paperwork and caused me to owe the VA a semester of back stipends and she demanded to know what I really did with the money because there was no way the school botched it (they submitted the wrong dates on the form, showing I had attended for both the summer and fall terms when I was only there for fall) and kept pushing it and calling me a liar until my dad stepped in and said YES they did fuck it up, here’s their email saying so. At my new college, she decided to pay off the remainder of my final tuition not covered by my dad’s GI bill (which she constantly told me I was selfish for using bc they couldn’t put my brother through college too, even though he had no interest in going), which was just over a thousand dollars, spent twenty minutes repeating how this is her graduation gift to me, then on graduation day not only bailed, but went to my Facebook and dug through TWO YEARS of photos to find something to be offended by: a whisper I DIDN’T WRITE I had shared that said “I had a stepmom growing up. I guess you could say I was living a fairy tale” that I commented “aw that’s fucked up” on that she SOMEHOW took to be about her, and sent in a group message to me and my father saying she wished she seen the before posting off my tuition and she thought I’d evolved since high school. I told her it wasn’t about her or even my content but it was her prerogative if she wanted to be offended by something someone else said. She said “done” and never responded again.

She decided to put me on her health insurance in January, without my knowledge, which DID really help. Her original deal was to pay for it for one year, then I had to start paying her for it. Which is reasonable. Then she decided to drop me six months in because I couldn’t call her one day. I was busy working with loud machines and I was also certain she was going to try to talk me out of going to dinner with my pawpaw, who ASKED for me to come and I didn’t even know was in town until my brother told me. Even though they live five streets from me.

When I officially announced our engagement, even though they had known unofficially we were planning to get married for over a year and she offered to book an engagement photographer for us, according to my brother my dad was minorly miffed my love didn’t “ask for my hand (why the fuck he thought we’d do that anyway idfk) and SHE said well if THAT tradition is out the window, I guess so is the bride’s family paying. When we never asked them for that EXACT reason and planned from the start to part it all ourselves.

And now apparently asking a question and expecting an answer is giving her attitude lmfao not to mention according to my mother that’s been a nurse my entire life and worked closely with insurance companies, she didn’t need my information at all to drop me. Y'all… I can’t even fuckin deal anymore, literally what the fuck are you doing with your life you need to be that goddamn extra with someone half your age you’re supposed to be kind to and take care of 😂😂 I was never a problem child. I never snuck out, or “borrowed” the car, or asked for money all the time. I can count on one hand the number of house parties I’ve been to, then AND now. I’ve had family friends tell me they expected me to be a pregnant drop out or a drug addict or drunk by 16 with all the shit in my childhood, and all I did was REALLY love the library and develop three mood disorders. All because homebitch couldn’t be an adult and be kind to a child bc of her own obsessive and eating disorders and because my dad would never be just hers. So I mean, thanks for making it easy to not feel bad for giving no fucks and I hope you get right with that god you were so worried about me shunning bc man I think he’ll have some shit to say to you 😂 fuckin BYE✌️