#b-bomb wallpapers

[7r0773r]

In Search of the Great Dead by Richard Cecil

In Search of the Great Dead

In Paris, Vallejo's hotel near the Bibliothèque Nationale charges a hundred a night, and Ginsberg's seedy room on the rue Git-le-coeur sports flowered wallpaper now, and a couple of Michelin stars. Cabourg's Grand Hotel on the chilly Normandy coast, nearly driven from business by the sunny "costas" of Spain, rents "Chambre Marcel Proust" for twice the price of a suite— a week's pay for the profs who book it, months in advance, to lie in Proust's bed one night fighting sleep as they read his description of insomnia in his snail-paced masterpiece. And, speaking of Spain, in Ronda Rilke slept for a month in room 208 of the Reina Victoria Hotel, which exhibits souvenirs— some scribbles, a cancelled bill — that cold man left behind when he resumed his search for gorgeous emptiness hollow as his hollow heart. But if their names have jacked ridiculously the rent of the tiny, outmoded rooms they slept in for pocket change, like the "Taube" in Hemingway's Shruns, now a first class Austrian Inn with a three-color brochure where, for $2.50 a night, he polished The Sun Also Rises, abandoned his wife for his mistress, and blamed it all on Dos Passos — consider visiting their tombs.

In Cimetière Père-Lachaise in Paris you can stand for nothing by Alice B. Toklas's and Gertrude Stein's remains and stare at their blank stone — not a single word but their names after thousands of pages of chatter! From their excellent address in the capital city of death, avenues of genius fan in all directions. But if you prefer the lonely and isolated dead, Chateaubriand in St-Malo on an island linked to the mainland for an hour at ebb tide rests within the sound of the wind and the sea—and the tourists who photograph his inscription quick! before the causeway floods. Then they board the ferry to the sullen Irish coast to add William Butler Yeats to their album of poet's tombs. Graves's grave's in Majorca near the Chopin/Sand Condominiums; Dante's is in Ravenna, Keats's and Shelley's in Rome, where poets and Caesars lie whose marble cenotaphs barbarians burned for lime. Augustus paid Virgil and Horace to praise his empire and Virtue, then Nero slaughtered Lucan for winning a poetry contest, and Seneca for hating vice, but all of their tombs are lost. There is no place to stand feeling your heart expand at the greatness of the waste that lies between you and them; at the brilliance of their lines through centuries of gloom overshadowing patronage and hostility alike. First the houses they lived in, then their houses of death disappeared, and all that's left are their works—some of their works— some fragment of their works. Half of Livy's History, the juiciest parts of Tacitus were ripped out, charred, scraped off to make paper for another bible or wipe the ass of a monk. All that's left of Sappho is several hundred words caught drifting on the wind from the fire at Alexandria, and Gilgamesh, written on stone, is written on pebbles now— pebbles displayed like diamonds for crowds at the British Museum.

When the pebbles become grains of sand and blow away in the wind of a nuclear strike on London or the gentler breeze of erosion after the city's abandoned, that epic's only remnant will be Hatred of Death, which is the theme of Gilgamesh and also the impulse that drove its author to hack it in granite. "Now I'll never die," he said to himself as he wiped his bleeding hands on his shirt. And he hasn't, quite, yet, though bombs from the War for Oil rocked his ancient, anonymous bones recently and will again. The little wars and the Big One the lovers of death are planning will leave no monuments but rubble and rows and columns of identical soldiers' tombs next to the fields and trees or featureless, shifting dunes that thousands of xs and ys died for, not guessing why, and the unmarked humps of mass graves of civilians who got in the way. These, too, attract their visitors, veterans and survivors who've vowed never to forget, and, later, politicians for a century or two, but at last only the haters of death walk these bone yard acres shaking their heads and digging their nails into their palms, driving needles of pain up their arms into their brains to shake the drowsy numbness of so much nameless slaughter, exactly like the numbness that comes, reading Livy's History in bed, late at night. 10,000 Carthaginians slaughtered 10,000 Romans in 300 B.C. or vice versa — annihilating armies annihilated in turn until the Empire, secured, turned upon itself and Romans murdered Romans— fathers, sons, brothers— for four more hundred years. Their civil war graveyards, long buried by barbarians, must once have looked like ours at Fredericksburg and Shiloh, where every numbered marker listing Company and Regiment whispers, like Emily Dickinson, "I'm Nobody —are you Nobody, too?"

Oh, yes, I'm Nobody, too. My plot, reserved for a small down payment at Valhalla Memory Gardens, isn't a pilgrimage site; it's not on the tour bus route, not topped with a simple stone carved with memorable words, waiting, impatient, for me to die to make them immortal. My house, 912 East First, lacks a bronze inscription screwed into its plastic siding and will certainly be converted to a rental, not a museum when I leave it dead or, alive, determined to die in Florida or Southern France, like Yeats, desiring a year in the sun after a lifetime of gloom and greenness and peasant neighbors. That year's when I plan to write my deathless epitaph and enter it in the contest glutted with Baby Boom poets dying at the rate they were born. But first, I'll waste my life, like now, writing against the grain of drowsiness— I rose at 4 A.M.— with Olive, my black and white cat, kneading my arm with her claws— a pleasure so much like pain, a pain so much like pleasure, like dying after a long illness, then haunting the house you lived in, brushing the fabrics you touched, shoving ghostly feet into shoes, marveling at their size and weight, in which you once walked like a giant. For even the greatest dead, if death isn't just dirt in the mouth, must moan with their reedy voices for the life they lost to be famous.

***

Front Porch Visiting

On the nursing home's front porch swathed not in wool, but air smudged by global warming to an even, tepid gray, I'll think of cold blue days like this one with nostalgia. Wheeled out of my room for "sensory stimulation," and issued a docile cat to cradle in my arms, I'll look straight at the sun through gasoline haze and remember today's wintry glare falling on this page so brightly I have to shade it with my left hand as I write. And I'll remember the feisty cat rolling on my lap, her licorice-colored fur turned chestnut by warming light which drugs her defenses so that I can stroke her unguarded white belly.

Ranged on that porch beside me, strapped into their wheelchairs, my tranquilized companions will stare, like me, at the sun while chatting with dead husbands and wives about dead friends. I'll overhear their halves of intimate conversations as I have at public phones— pleading or angry voices transmitted over black wires to invisible listeners whose inaudible replies stir terrible emotions sometimes. Waiting to call a tow truck, I've eavesdropped on jilted lovers sobbing into receivers and viciously low-pitched voices threatening hearers with death while I shifted from foot to foot, and the dimes in my palm grew hot.

But calls from that future porch placed very, very long distance, will require my companions to speak up to be heard on the other end. Even with my deafness, I'll intercept their messages to the dead as I did in childhood, sprawled on my front porch, when the widower next door sat at his table with two glasses of beer and muttered to his dead wife. His voice rose in argument while I bounced my ball and swept jacks— onesies, twosies, threesies— and listened for her replies. I couldn't hear her talk, but when he went in I peeked over the ledge that divided our connected row house steps and saw that her glass was drained. So I knew she'd returned from the dead to silence his complaints.

They quarreled on their porch all summer as they had the summer before her heart attack and funeral. And then, that fall, their daughter took him to a "home." My mother said he was crazy talking to himself like that, but I knew he wasn't. I learned to hear her side of their talks as I lay flat on the concrete behind the ledge and listened to her indignant denials that she wasted money on doctors and kept a filthy house. "I'm too sick to scrub floors," she said, as she had in life, and he grumbled, "no, you're not," as if she hadn't died to prove it.

Between that haunted porch a nd the haunted one in my future everything I love will have turned into a ghost, even this winter sun, which has put the cat to sleep. The shadow she casts on this page prefigures the gray afternoons I'll sit with dying strangers mumbling to our dead lovers. But they won't come to us as Lilly did to Chuck next door, when I was six. They'll cling to their clear black vacuum sucking us toward them on the other side of the veil of smoke shrouding our planet.

***

Incident at Third and Woodlawn

The flaming trees, like girls on prom night dressed in orange and gold they'll change to gray tomorrow, distract me as I step into the street. A horn, a brake, a turning driver's scream— I dodge her bumper, hopping to the sidewalk, luckier than that squirrel laid by the curb. He's flattened, abstract, except for his glassy eye.

Meeting his stare reminds me I've been struck down twice by cars. Once, looking neither right nor left, I raced toward Carol Anne's yellow curls bobbing on her neck across the street. When I woke up, unhurt, one whole day off from grade school with an x-ray of my skull for a souvenir, I said I'd learned my lesson,

but twelve years later, many states away, musing on the date I hustled toward, I got knocked down again, by a swerving teen on her first day of driving and my last on earth, almost. Looking up I wondered if stars I saw were real, or the kind you see unconsciously in transit to your death.

They turned out real— the Big Dipper, Venus glittering green beneath the crescent moon. The stretcher crew so gently lifted me, I sighed like a taken-care-of child. Once more, x-rays showed no fractured bones, and when I knocked, hours late, at my date's door, my bruises turned her rage to sweet concern.

It's half a lifetime since her frown unwrinkled in dim porch light to wide-eyed sympathy, but I can see and feel that same change, now, as sun breaks through a rift in mottled sky and brushes my face like her unfisted hand. The smiling sun and her gorgeous daughter-trees, tossing down the favors of their leaves,

seem to love me as she seemed to, then, loving, really, only my persistence in trailing beauty like a bee in fall, when threatening frost turns flowers into gems and trees to flowers, and men in their forties to squirrel brains. Oh Nature, take my hand and help me safely cross to brown November.

***

Picnic in the Basement

For the last time this year I clip what's left of the stunted elm hedge— brown gaps in it like rotten teeth. Then I heave the picnic table no one's eaten at all summer onto my shoulders, like Atlas, and stagger through the garage to the black basement, stumbling over the broken trellis that held the climbing rose that died the month after I moved here. I reach for the wall to steady myself and grab a handful of plastic pickets I bought to fence the vegetable garden I sowed that first year with lettuce whose leaves tasted bitter as weeds. The table slips and luckily falls away from the wall of flowerpots filled with geranium skeletons blighted by frost last September, and lands in the center of the concrete floor an inch from my foot. I set it upright, slide one of its splintery redwood benches to elbow-resting distance from it, and, panting, take a seat. I'm finished with outdoor living for another year. I've oiled my push mower with the price tag still attached from ten years ago when I bought it downtown at the hardware store converted to a savings bank when the courthouse turned into a mall. I've taped the orange power cord slashed in six or seven places where the suicidal trimmer trimmed it almost in half but not quite. I shudder whenever I touch its coils, remembering the first time I plugged it in to a living room socket and dragged it outside. While I hacked the weedy hedge, my cats nosed past the screen door and wandered into the strange yard, bordering a street of speeding cars, hundreds of miles from where they were born. When, finished, I wiped sweat from my eyes, looked up, and saw the door ajar, I rushed inside and ransacked rooms, reached deep into closets and hidey-holes. Finally, desperate, I ran out again. Crying their names, I crawled the yard at cats' eye level until-what joy! I found them cowering under this table— new then, half rotten now, with its redwood paint bleached almost white. That family picnic was our last. Since then they've watched from kitchen windows each spring when I haul the grill outside, each fall when I haul it in again, though I haven't cooked meat on it for years. Now they're waiting for me upstairs. I hear their claws click overhead as they pace the kitchen, hungry, impatient. Why not invite them to scamper down the cellar stairs and join me here, each with her plastic dish of Friskies while I gnaw my bone of nostalgia? I feel my way upstairs and fling the cellar door open. Suspiciously, they sniff their way down every stair, while I slide the other bench up to paw-resting distance and set the largest pot of geraniums over the table's umbrella hole. It's safe here, sweeties, out of the glare of the murderous outside world that's dying for the eleventh time in eleven years. Nothing's scary here but corpses dragged in from the lawn and garden— steel cutting edges eaten by weeds, charcoal long ago flamed to ash, and our ghostly centerpiece— branching in your eyes of phosphorous— flowers of death that bloom in the dark.

[somnolentlady]

Recently finished watching the one piece live action show after finally choosing to pay for netflix lol. I liked it a lot!!

Syrup village kinda sucked to me, but i also didnt love syrup village in the anime the first time around to be fair. I did find the live action version to be way too Willy Wonka/Alice in Wonderland inspired, though, with the blue goo soup and the wigs and the crazy wallpapers and stuff.

It took me a little bit to warm up to the various accents from the actors, but i ended up loving that aspect, too. I thought the casting was really pretty bomb! The costuming was, of course, spot on. I really liked the liberties they took with the plot, the B plot of following Koby, and character personalities and stuff. The effects were a little rough at times, but some of the effects were also really good!

I liked Arlong a lot, though my husband didnt and he made very fair points as to why. Missed Hachi and the sea cow, but i get that it probably would have been too tough to make them turn out good : (

Most importantly: dont get me started on how insanely improved the Baratie looked omg they were COOKIN. ((But dont talk to me about the sanji backstory in this version, i will cry out all of the water in my body))

[kouhei-san]

BLOCK B WALLPAPERS

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[dragosfiction]

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[not-the-apple-pie-please]

Random headcanons for every state

Alabama: has a secret collection of Cardi B, Lizzo, and Cupcakke albums. They will likely never see the light of day but Alabama likes them so eh.

Alaska: has a giant dog who he named Tiny because he thought it was funny. Cannot cook.

Arizona: collects license plates, sometimes straight off the vehicle it belonged to. Also collects pieces of petrified wood

Arkansas: the only personality trait of this man is wingman and that means that he will stand in the crowd and do nothing when you get beat up. Likes guns, dogs, and women. Very boring. 3/10

California: Super photogenic but cannot ever sleep, super lonely (duh) and is a vtuber

Colorado: makes fun of Utah for not being able to handle spice, is lactose intolerant and also allergic to gluten

Connecticut: got kicked out of his house once due to noise complaints and just started living on a yacht about 30 feet offshore in protest.

Delaware: has never been in a plane and is a sentimental old man who definitely has an old record collection

Florida: we already know too much about him, he's an open book.

Georgia: Once Florida thought it would be funny if he replaced his coffee with an energy drink to see what would happen, by brewing his coffee with straight red Bull. I'll let you guess how that ended.

Hawai'i: has never ever ever ever been to DC, but regularly wins the cruise lotteries and burns them out of spite.

Idaho: everything he eats has potatoes in it, everything. He once bought some fake beef because it was supposedly made out of potatoes. He has since stopped his only potato diet and now eats chicken every once in a while.

Illinois: has an obsession with Legos, and has definitely built a model of every house he's ever lived in.

Indiana: owns a fridge just entirely full of ranch. And soy milk. No one opens it.

Iowa: he's forgotten by the states a lot, more so than Wyoming, and as such has way more human buddies. He's a real killer at parties.

Kansas: whenever he gets hurt and starts bleeding, it is the duty of everyone in the surrounding premise to tell "ITS BLEEDING KANSAS" and he hates it.

Kentucky: is one of 3 states who had a human bride at one point, Virginia being deaf and mute. He was sad to watch her go, but he's kicking. Has horse wallpaper on all his walls.

Louisiana: cannot drive for shit, but it's okay because he manages to sneak alcohol anywhere.

Maine: His idea of a good time is sitting quietly and listening to the birds, but what actually happens is pretty much exactly the "This is fine" comic

Maryland: when that lady tried to copyright the word Hon, he joined in on the protests, calls District his "amputated third arm".

Massachusetts: has 3 degrees and uses none of them

Michigan: has a strange ability to tell different sodas apart just by taste, can tell the difference between fanta and crush, store brands and coke, can tell what additional flavors are in a drink without even looking at the label.

Minnesota: learned how to draw charicatures on a whim and has done one for every state and is working on one for Canada.

Mississippi: because he gets blamed for everything, he's been to jail at least 7 times, 6 if you don't count the DUI.

Missouri: has a passion for plants, surprisingly. He can grow whatever plant you give him, and has no problem keeping it alive. Just don't ask him to take a picture of it, he can't operate technology.

Montana: Tells ghost stories to his neighbors, which don't exist. He's a ghost. There's no one there.

Nebraska: for a while in the 1800s his house burned down and he was forced to run amok in the fields eating only corn. This is where the Midwest gothic comes from. It's Nebraska.

Nevada: has wicked cool scars on his arms of the nuclear bomb tests, you should ask to see it's pretty nifty.

New Hampshire: the whole "Live Free or Die" thing is really just a facade. He's all talk and no bite. Couldn't hit you with a baseball bat if you paid him.

New Jersey: Despite the bad smell, has the best hygiene out of everyone, and if he didn't smell bad, would smell like a perfume store sampler garbage can.

New Mexico: Has at least 14 Alien pillows, blankets, and assorted items. Tried to live in a Hot Air Balloon for a while.

New York: Does not own a car, despite popular belief.

North Carolina: likes airplanes. A lot. He lives in a renovated airplane shed, and still has an old 1930s crop duster he keeps for "reasons". It's really cool.

North Dakota: wasn't really a state until the 70s, and no one knew until south Dakota wouldn't shut up about it. He's the chiller of the two, but that's not saying much.

Ohio: Ohio is tattooed across his back and he doesn't remember how it got there.

Oklahoma: also collects license plates, but legally. Also collects signed footballs.

Oregon: is totally gay for Idaho but that's beside the point. His favorite school subject is astronomy, and knows every ones star signs.

Pennsylvania: is called Papa because he is like a cool dad. And by that I mean he goes too fast, drinks too much, and laughs too hard. He's a national treasure. Protect this man.

Rhode island: Canonically he's really short, but that's because he's basically been stuck at 13 years old for 250 years. He can drive because at this point it would just be stupid to not let him.

South Carolina: learned how to say "barbeque" in every language just to say his is better than North Carolinas. Hates women.

South Dakota: Proudly claims that he is over 100 years older than North Dakota (not really a lie?) Also is on the drugs. All the time. All the drugs.

Tennessee: the kind of person to carry around a guitar and badger people for a song to play. Despite being the state of volunteers, will never be the one to volunteer to bring food to meetings.

Texas: when he moved into the statehouse, he was given a normal bed, complained that he wouldn't fit until they managed to convince him that it was bigger than all the others.

Utah: has had 2 wives, seperated by about 130 years, and has now fathered 11 children. Loves the grid system and will preach about it more than the church, has served like 7-8 missions now.

Vermont: although he loves his organic sweets and syrup, he could care less about bread and can't tell sourdough from wheat.

Virginia: massive child, raised like 4 states and claims none of them. Used to be the leader of the states but have that role to DC when he could. Is a child and argues with everyone.

Washington: once he took a holiday down south and couldn't last 10 minutes outside the airport because of the heat.

West Virginia: the next time someone tells him John Denver was actually singing about Virginia he's gonna hit them over the head with a banjo.

Wisconsin: every so often he pulls an Alaska and vanishes into the woods for weeks on end. Most of the hunting trophies on display in the statehouse are his.

Wyoming: used to own a ranch in the 80s, but got spooked by the horror movies and scary stories coming out and sold it. He regrets it very much now.

[moscnios]

ONE PIECE CHARACTERS AS KPOP FANS+ / ☻

☻  /  commentary . . . full title would be one piece characters as kpop fans i’ve encountered. being kind of in and out of that community for the past 7 years now, i’ve encountered my fair share of fans. plus i just wanted to make some kind of shitpost between posts. kind of a call out post but all in good fun

NAMI

solely a girl group stan !!

doesn’t have anything against boy groups but she prefers girl groups

has a soft spot for 2nd and 3rd generation girl groups

her fave groups would be sistar, after school, t-ara, and exid

she knows their most popular choreographies

she would eat up touch my body by sistar

buys albums, lightsticks, and other merchandise in BULK, just to scam...i mean sell them to other fans online

ROBIN

a casual listener

she’s more of a ballad person as they soothe her and make nice background sounds

btob and iu are her go-to’s.

doesn’t have a preference over boy or girl groups. she’s honestly just there if the music is good

i like to think of her being a fan of groups with brighter/cuter concepts

enjoys late 3rd and 4th gen groups despite all of them being younger than her. she’s like a little proud mom watching them achieve their wildest dreams

“good for them”

SANJI

like nami, solely a girl group stan but for all the wrong reasons

is like those male fans you hear at the beginning of an idol’s performance who are screaming the fan chants. he knows all of the fan chants by heart

loves all girl groups

his fave group would be twice and no one can tell me otherwise

his phone wallpaper is a picture of either sana or nayeon during the feel special era. yes, feel special is his favorite song

camera roll is full of female idols, he could run his own update blog/fansite

album collector. buys all his merchandise from nami who overcharges him BIG time. but he’s too busy trying to buy every version of each album that comes out to add to his photocard collections

ZORO

could care less about actual fan culture, he’s just there for the music

was an AVID hater of kpop, thought it was dumb and he didn’t understand the appeal of it or why people dedicated so much of their time and money into these groups

until he discovered ateez through a fancam and he’s been a fan ever seen

his favorite song would definitely either be wonderland or answer

listens mostly to the title tracks, could hardly be bothered to listen to the b-sides

has a workout playlist full of energy-boosting songs that he listens to while he’s training

definitely shows luffy ateez music videos

USOPP

the gatekeeper.

you would think it’s his goal to go out of his way and stan groups who are underrated

and when they finally blow up, he’s always quick to remind people how much they slept on them

his pfp is definitely somebody from loona holding a gun

is a tiktok editor. all of his edits are amazing and always get a lot of love within the community

also posts videos of him doing girl group choreographies with chopper and nami

cannot name a single member of any boy group

CHOPPER

teen crush concept/bright concept enthusiast !!

his fave group is stayc

“stayc girls...it’s going down”

pretty much the opposite of usopp in this regard. he loves when his favorite groups get more attention and love because they really deserve it

definitely helps new fans with learning members’ names and personalities

is always getting into concerts, fan meets, and fan signs ( spending robin’s money on getting into these )

carries a photocard in the back of his phone case that he switches out every two weeks

LAW  (  me lmaooo  )

the secret stan who would rather die than admit they are a fan

looks around and makes sure everyone else is not around before he slips in his earphones and puts to love bomb by fromis_9

so help no one discovers he loves cute girl groups.

on the outside he’s just 😐😐😒😒 and then the music in his earphones is ✨🌸🎀🍬💖

supper yuppers is his most listened-to song right now, knows the choreography by heart, and every time he hears it he can’t help but do it. secretly he’s a really good dancer

has been caught by the other heart pirates who never let him live in down

KID

the toxic twitter fan who uses charting and views as a defense against other groups and their fans that he doesn’t like

“FLOP”

not only is he fighting other fandoms, but he is also fighting other fans within his OWN fandom

refuses to accept the fact that his faves have released a song he doesn’t like. therefore he will force himself to listen to it 20 times and like it just to be different

broke as hell. will probably never be able to get tickets to any of his faves concerts, is always watching them illegally on someone’s live stream

has a fake light stick because he’s too broke to buy the official one plus it looks real enough 

VIVI

the dance cover stan who learns the choreographies the day they are released and post them on tiktok and instagram

tends to dress in similar outfits as the members of the group

she posts a lot of those “kpop in public” videos to her youtube channel of half a million subscribers

was a big wiz*one. was absolutely devastated when they disbanded

loves female soloists, chungha and somi are her faves

JINBE

the well-seasoned fan who has been here in the community for YEARS

misses the good old days of when 1st gen was coming to an end and 2nd gen was starting up

a sechskies fan, nearly cried when they got back together for a reunion

is still around, isn’t really stanning any new groups though. kind of just there for the music. last group he stanned was probably girls’ generation

the one at the concert who doesn’t record or hold his phone out because he just wants to enjoy the moment

also, the protective one at the concert who doubles as security and makes sure everyone around him is safe and not in any need of medical attention

KIKU

the stan that other stan look up to and aspire to be despite her usually always being broke because she spends any money she has left on merchandise

she’s the one who has a fandom of her own somehow

has the aesthetic room you’d see on pinterest with posters, tapestries, and vinyl on the walls

is always dressed her best

she’s an f(x) and red velvet fan. f(x)’s pink tape was the first album she ever listened to and she hadn’t looked back since

does the fandom selca days with all of her biases from every group she stans

decorated her photocard toploaders with cute little stickers and they always look so pretty

© MANGEKYUOU. / ☻

[sholiofic]

Hiya! Here’s a prompt: Architectural Digest did a whole spread about the Zemo family estate back before the fall of Sokovia, complete with beautifully posed family pictures that included the old baron and the loyal staff, and interviews with the young couple about redecorating the nursery. Naturally the guys find out and…

They never would have found it if they hadn't been stuck for several hours in a tiny rural airport while waiting for the weather to clear so they could leave. The airport terminal, such at it was, consisted mostly of a one-room waiting area. The available reading material was mostly not in English, and what was in English was a collection of dog-eared paperbacks and magazines, most probably left by previous travelers, none newer than ten or fifteen years old.

Bucky claimed Architectural Digest, leaving Sam stuck with Practical Horseman. Zemo stretched out across a row of seats and fell asleep.

Sam was slogging through an article comparing the relative merits of horse dewormers when Bucky abruptly sat forward and nudged Sam in the ribs. "Look," he said softly.

He turned the magazine toward Sam, who opened his mouth to ask what was so fascinating ... and then left it open when he found himself confronted by a picture of a much younger but still recognizable Zemo, wearing a crisp, dark blue military dress uniform with gold and red piping. He had his arm around a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with a brilliant smile. There was some sort of palatial interior featuring ornate gold wallpaper and antique-looking furniture around them.

"The young b—" Sam began to read, then glanced over his shoulder at Zemo, still evidently asleep, and dropped his voice to a near whisper. "The young baron and his wife in the receiving room of the family home—what."

"I think this is his dad," Bucky whispered, flipping a page to an elderly man posing among rosebushes. He didn't precisely look like Zemo, but there was a certain hawklike intensity to his dark eyes, the way he stared directly into the camera, that did make Sam think of him. "It's a whole piece on the family estate, I guess?"

He turned another page, and this was a big picture spread showing the house. It was a rambling, multi-wing stone structure, with roses everywhere and ivy climbing the walls.

"I remember when that feature was done," Zemo said from his row of benches, without opening his eyes. Sam and Bucky both jumped and Bucky nearly dropped the magazine. "If it is the one I'm thinking of. Photographers taking pictures for two days. I recall my father thought it would be good publicity for our country. Not like the vision of it that one usually had in the West, of the constant wars and the bombed-out schools. This would show that we also had culture and beauty." He shrugged a little, and opened his eyes, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Everything in those pictures is gone now, except for me."

Sam looked down at the magazine, where a small inset showed another picture of Zemo and the woman who had to be his wife, facing each other. The caption was talking about the young heir and his wife preparing a nursery in the Rose Wing for their son.

"You, uh—you mind us looking at this?" he asked.

"It is a matter of public record, Sam," Zemo said. He lay back down and threw his arm over his eyes.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

Zemo sighed a little and turned to pillow his head on his arm and the ruffed collar of his coat. "I know. But it was a long time ago. I was a different person then."

Sam's eyes were drawn back to the picture of the young couple. In this photo, Zemo was looking down at his wife and smiling in a way Sam had never seen him smile. It was for the camera, yes; he could tell that there was a performance going on. But it was also genuine, a softness and openness that he couldn't imagine on Zemo these days.

It suddenly seemed too invasive. If Zemo wanted to talk about those days, he would. This felt unfair.

Sam pushed the magazine back at Bucky, having no desire to look further. Bucky went on flipping through it. Sam opened his horse magazine again.

"You want to know what I'm learning about deworming horses? Because it's really interesting."

"Please no," Zemo said with his eyes shut. Bucky appeared to be actually reading the article.

A shaft of sunlight pierced the fog outside the window, and a few minutes later Zemo's pilot came in to let them know they had been cleared to take off. Sam rolled to his feet and shouldered his duffel.

He almost missed the byplay going on behind him. Bucky extend the magazine toward Zemo, a question on his face. Zemo looked at it for a moment; then he shook his head. Bucky nodded a little, and hesitated briefly before laying it back in the pile of outdated reading material on the table, left behind with the past as they filed out onto the rain-wet tarmac.

[victorluvsalice]

Sims Challenge Wednesday: Fallout 4

And for my second challenge -- one themed around the settlement-building mechanics of Fallout 4! Because that felt like a better fit than trying to do the main plot. . . here we go!

Fallout 4 Sims 4 Challenge

Premise: It was all going – fine, you suppose. Sure, you were living in an embarrassing imperialistic and xenophobic nation, which was fighting a terrible war with the other superpower over the last of the oil reserves in the world, but you yourself were doing good. You had a nice home in a little suburb, you could take advantage of personal domestic robots, you were getting enough to eat despite the food shortages – all in all, your life was pretty okay!

And then some asshole had to go and drop the bombs. By sheer luck, you’d been admitted to nearby Vault 111 mere minutes before the alarm sounded, and you made it there just in time. The staff there was very friendly too, telling you that your new life underground could start just as soon as you were decontaminated in these weirdly-cold pods. . .

210 years later, you wake to discover that:

a) you were totally lied to and you’ve been frozen for the past two centuries as part of some mad experiment

b) you are the only survivor of that experiment – everyone else’s pod failed, and a revolt by the security staff six months into your freezing means they all either died or skedaddled long before you woke up

c) oh, and the revolt was over dwindling food supplies, so you can’t even stay in the vault, you’ll starve

So out you venture into the world, to find – hmmm. People seem to be surviving, but they could probably use some help. Good thing you’ve got nothing but time on your hands. Time and the desire to make proper homes for the new friends you’re finding. Time to build a settlement and make it something this post-War world can be proud of!

Now if only you could shake the feeling you ought to be looking for someone. . .

This is a challenge loosely based around being the Sole Survivor of Fallout 4, specifically being the General of the Minutemen and building settlements. The goals are to build up the world of Brindleton bay from some ramshackle farms into a bunch of thriving settlements, create and manage a club for helping others and improving the world, and defeat the nasties that are making life harder for everyone else.

Packs required: Get Together, Get To Work, Cats & Dogs, City Living, Eco Lifestyle, Cottage Living, Island Living, Discover University, StrangerVille

Your Sim: Create your “Sole Survivor” in CAS. They can be a Young Adult or Adult, and have any traits. However, they are only allowed to have two outfits – a set of everyday wear (for everyday, formal, athletic, party, hot weather, and cold weather), and a set of underwear (for sleeping and swimwear). They will get more clothing as they survive out in the world.

Optional: Rather than start right out of the vault, you may play a brief one-week “pre-War” period with your Sole Survivor to gain some skills and whatnot. The Military or Law career is recommended if you want to follow the actual given backstories of the Fallout 4 Sole Survivors (Nate and Nora respectively), but you’re welcome to give them whatever pre-War occupation you like.

Their World: Set up the rest of the save file as per these guidelines:

Go to Brindleton Bay and wipe out all the existing architecture – you can keep the pre-made families, but not their houses. The apocalypse has happened, and the world has got to look the part! (If you really want, you can keep the lighthouse on Deadgrass Isle, but give a makeover to look wrecked.)

Pick one lot in either Sable Square, Whiskerman’s Wharf, or Cavalier’s Cove to serve as your “Diamond City” marketplace. This should include a small bar, a small clothing store, a grocery stall, a food stall, and whatever other stalls and vending machines you think your Sole Survivor could use to survive out in the wasteland.

In a different neighborhood to “Diamond City,” pick another lot to serve as your “Goodneighbor.” Build a lounge there (The Third Rail) with a bar, microphone for a singer, and plenty of seating. If you want, you can double up and have your lounge in the basement and put a little spa-type building (The Memory Den) up top. Feel free to throw in a goodies stall too.

All remaining mainland lots should be residential, and need to have the “Off The Grid” and “Simple Living” lot challenges enabled. You may enable other lot challenges or traits at your discretion (“Filthy” is recommended, given the state of post-nuke Boston in Fallout 4).

Pick two residential lots on the mainland (in different neighborhoods) to serve as “raider outposts.” Build up these lots to have three or four beds under minimal shelter, and off-the-grid compatible appliances. Each of these lots should have three or four Sims on it, all with either the “Mean,” “Hot-Headed,” “Kleptomaniac,” and/or “Slob” traits. Put all these Sims into a “Raider” club (you may choose your own gang name) and set their club activities to encourage them to “Be Mean,” “Fight,” “Swipe Items,” and “Sabotage Items.”

Set up the remaining residential lots with the bare minimum for survival: If the lot has Sims living on it, make a small hut for them to sleep in, with just enough beds for everyone, and one outhouse with a toilet and sink. No working lights, and they must have only a small fridge or cooler. If the lot doesn’t have Sims living on it, you can only have two beds maximum, and no food source at all. You can build whatever structure you wish there. Regardless of whether or not it is occupied, each residential lot must have a woodworking table, and an outdoor cooking station of some description. Other crafting items (candle-making, juice-fizzing, fabrication machine, robotics station, etc) may be placed at your discretion.

Choose an uninhabited lot for your Sole Survivor to start on – once they are moved in, set their money to zero.

Goals: Your Sole Survivor is looking to complete the following:

Build up every empty residential lot in the world so it can support at least five Sims, one pet, and one robot helper

Improve the occupied residential lots so everyone has adequate food, water, and shelter

Complete the Master Maker aspiration

Complete the Leader of the Pack aspiration as the “General of the Minutemen” and build up the club to full strength by befriending the other “settlers” in the world

Defeat all of the raiders in fights and force their club to disband

Rules:

Your Sole Survivor cannot have a normal job, as those just plain don’t exist anymore. They must earn their “caps” via selling things they have found or made (or, with the right traits, swiped) to other Sims, or via doing Odd Jobs for the people already living in the post-War society.

Your Sole Survivor is only allowed to purchase basic build mode items (e.g., walls and wallpaper, floors and flooring, roofs, doors, windows, columns), animal sheds, chicken coops, and basic pet supplies (food bowls and beds) directly from the catalog. Everything else must either be obtained by scavenging (dumpster diving for items or harvesting wild plants), building it themselves (making furniture at the woodworking table or using the fabricator), or “purchasing” it at the DC marketplace (either by genuinely buying it from a stall or visiting the lot and spending money on SOMETHING to represent a shopping trip). This includes clothing – you may either visit the marketplace once every three days to buy a new outfit for any category, or “scavenge” one by finding something that could reasonably contain clothing from a dumpster.

In order to increase the variety of their scavenging, your Sole Survivor may visit the Bramblewood of Henford-on-Bagley, or go on brief vacations to Granite Falls. Other locations depend on if you can make them look suitably post-apocalyptic (for example, creating a post-apocalypse Newcrest or Forgotten Hollow shouldn’t be too hard, but I think you’d be hard-pressed to justify San Myshuno!).

Your Sole Survivor must build up every lot in their world to the standards of a good settlement – enough food, water, and sheltered beds for all residents, along with power for items that may need it: Food is produced by farming crops and owning livestock. A small crop counts as 0.5 units of food; a tree or over-sized crop counts as one unit of food; a chicken coop with at least four chickens, a cow, or a llama counts as two units of food. (Yes, you are strongly encouraged to regularly trade animals for meat – or, if you feel bad, ingredients and produce.) You must have enough units of food to cover all residents (so a minimum of six). Water is produced by setting up dew collectors or water generators. Each dew collector or water generator counts as one unit of water. You must have enough units of water to cover all residents (again, a minimum of six). Sheltered beds are beds in an enclosed area with a roof. There must be one bed per Sim – you may use double beds, but they only count as one bed for one Sim! (Think of it as making sure there’s “spare beds” for anyone passing through who may stay overnight – Fallout 4 has traveling traders, after all!) Power is generated by generators, solar panels, and wind turbines – each provides one unit of power. You don’t technically need any power on your lots, but it will make your settlements happier if you can actually power things like salvaged TVs and computers.

Once a settlement is set up with all the basics, if it is empty, your Sole Survivor should go out and find homeless Sims to populate it. You may move the Sims in normally, or ask them to be roommates – though given your Sole Survivor will be moving to each settlement in turn to “renovate” it, it’s recommended you move in at least one Sim normally to look after everyone. Once you have all the human Sims, your Sole Survivor should adopt a stray cat or dog, then build a helpful robot to help with gardening, repairs, or generally just keeping people happy. Optional: If you have the Dream Home Decorator game pack, you may, at your discretion, allow your Sole Survivor to join THAT career and make use of it to renovate the lots of settlers who already live in the world. Given how buggy the pack is reputed to be, though, I’m not sure how much I recommend this! (Though I guess if you’re just willing to go room by room, since those gigs seem to work relatively well. . .)

Your Sole Survivor needs to form the “Minutemen” club to help out others in the wastes, by befriending other Sims living in the world and inviting them to join. The club’s required activities should include any of the activities from the following list: Be Friendly Tend Animals Tend Garden Fish Woodwork Work Out Build Robots Fabricate Objects Fight (Raiders)

Related, your Sole Survivor needs to get rid of the Raiders making life harder for the people just trying to survive in this world! Have regular fights between your Sole Survivor and their Minutemen versus the Raiders and keep track of the winners and losers – once each Raider has been bested in at least one battle, disband the club. Your Sole Survivor will then take over their outposts to turn them into functioning settlements. The Raiders themselves can either be moved out or rehabilitated and allowed to live in the new world so long as they don’t start too many fights.

Optional Hard Mode – Expand The Map: More space, more problems – rather than setting up in Brindleton Bay, set up in WINDENBURG. You are allowed two community lots to build up “Diamond City” and “Goodneighbor” in this instance, and a third of your choosing.

Optional Hard Mode – Join The Clubs: Your Minutemen are not the only faction out there in the Wasteland – there’s three others, and oh look, they all seem to hate each other. Set up three other clubs, one each for each of the mainland neighborhoods:

The Railroad – required activities “Debate,” “Hack,” “Be Mean (Institute),” “Be Mean (Brotherhood of Steel).”

The Brotherhood of Steel – required activities “Swipe Objects,” “Work Out,” “Be Mean (Railroad),” “Fight (Institute)”

The Institute – required activities “Build Robots,” “Use Science Objects,” “Fight (Railroad),” “Fight (Brotherhood of Steel)”

All members of these clubs should live and hangout on the same lot (The Old North Church and its basement for the Railroad; the Boston Airport for the Brotherhood (though if you think you can make the Prydwen, go for it); the CIT Ruins and the labs beneath it for the Institute). Make sure they all dislike each other, and make them all “invitation only” clubs. Your Sole Survivor needs to join all of these clubs, work toward becoming the leader of each other, then decide who stays and who goes based on your “ending:”

Railroad Ending – Disband the Institute and the Brotherhood of Steel once you’re the leader. Exile the members of each from the world.

Brotherhood of Steel Ending – Disband the Institute and the Railroad once you’re the leader. Exile the members of each from the world.

Institute Ending – Disband the Railroad and the Brotherhood of Steel once you’re the leader. Exile the members of each from the world.

Minuteman Ending – Disband the Institute once you’re the leader – at your discretion, the members may keep their lot, though they have to give up their basement labs and live in the ruins up top. The other two clubs may remain depending on how friendly their members are with your own Minutemen club. Check everyone’s relationships with each other – if the majority of either club hates the majority of the Minutemen, that club must be disbanded.

Given the size of this hard mode, I would recommend running it in tandem with “Expand the Map” above so you have more room to breathe with each club!

Optional Hard Mode – Automatron DLC: Create a placeholder Sim, get their Robotics up to ten, have them make a Servo, then kill the Sim and either let the Servo live on the lot alone or have them wander as a homeless NPC. In order to get access to the Robotics station, your Sole Survivor must find and befriend this Servo.

Optional Hard Mode – Vault-Tec DLC: One of your lots is not a traditional settlement, but an unfinished Vault-Tec vault! This settlement must be built entirely underground, and does not have any beds, water, or food when your Sole Survivor arrives. However, it does have at least three generators for power! Also, the first Sim you recruit to live there must have either the “Good” or the “Goofball” trait.

[kouhei-san]

BLOCK B WALLPAPERS

1080 x 1920 px

please like/reblog if using

[kpopsomenthing-blog]

BASTARZ - B-Bomb

[mishellinnn-blog]

[katerix]

(How old is New Vegas? And it’s still my fav part! I feel like I need more Raul content even after all these years🥺)

Drink with the living dead

Characters: Raul Tejada x Reader Summary:  Courier and her companion returned to New Vegas after a long wandering to get a drink and gamble, but faced serious inhospitality. Six was not ready to leave her friend behind, so they changed their plans. Warnings: - Words: 2781

***

It was almost half past midday, when a dusty dirty road to New Vegas welcomed the wanderers with just another sandstorm without any declaration of war. Courier’s mirror aviator sunglasses could hardly stand that gusts of winds, so she decided to hide it in the pocket of her jacket until the better times. Six and her ghoul-companion were on foot for nearly five hours, and now the hightower of «Lucky 38» looked huge in contradiction from its look an hour ago.

It was not their first visit to New Vegas, but every time she saw a glowing and sparkling casino’s signs, she was bringing up the idea of going there and wasting an evening gambling and drinking. Just like everyone does. The fact that she spent here some time, passing all the entertaining places by, met with Mr. House and performed several missions for NCR ambassador, but still never took a break to try some of those things, these poor fellows from all Mojave wasteland were arriving for - was a crime by its definition.

Coddling this thought, Courier continued to trudge the nasty weather, until they walked up to the Northern gates of Freeside.

- What’s the plan when we reach Strip, boss? - asked Raul, shaking his dull-green jumpsuit down: it all was full of pervasive grains of sand, as well as the girl’s clothes.

- At first I wanna visit the «Lucky 38» apartment and change the outfit, then go to the bar and win big in the kazino!

- Perfect plan, chief, ironclad like my revolver. - the ghoul was sarcastic as usual, but didn’t evince any sight of disagreement.

When she turned around to continue movement, he added: “Wait, amigo, there's a tuft of straw stuck under your collar.” - and carefully extracted an annoying piece of flora, stuck to during the storm.

“Gracias!” - Six smiled widely and made a fast gesture of gratitude with her hand. Without wasting time, they passed heavy metallic gates.

Freeside met companions with a funky, stinking smell. She still couldn't get used to it. Dusty air seemed to mar the cityscape: it looked much pale and lighter than from the outside. Just fifteen minutes and they’ll reach the destination. The picture couldn’t be called unusual for this time of the day in this part of town: one or two shabby hobos against the dingy walls, kids in wrecked clothes playing a tag-game in the area of the «Mick & Ralph's», random citizens with roving glances, sneaking around, wasting their time in an idle attempts to figure out how to spend their life in this Dump. On the other hand, there are many places where people live even worse: take a look at Westside, for instance.

«What a hopeless sight, - thought the girl. - Hope the Followers are really able to do something about this in the future».

- Something on your mind, boss? - it felt like nothing could hide from Raul’s inquisitive look.

- Just thinking. I find this picture quite dismal, like there’s no tomorrow, and humanity is still doomed. Like there’s no chance to restore life, as it was before.

- When we are on the road again, I’ll tell you about the Football Cup in Mexico, if you like to hear another one “before the Bomb” story. - he obviously picked up on her mood and decided to cheer up the girl, carefully diverting the theme.

- I do. Have you attended it?

- Sure thing. That was a big day. We drove to the capital to see it with our own eyes.

- Sounds pretty good! Let’s not ruin the intrigue.

- You asked.

They passed a small cross-road, which didn't have to be called like that anymore, as it was just one of the ghosts of the past with it’s burned skeletons of cars, left here motionless as evidence of human lost ambitions. The air in this part of the town was stale, despite the fact that they were in the streets, the smell of some broiling meat and spoiled vegetables was sticky like an ant's nectar. Sudden wild cryings and shouts were heard from the nearest dead end. 

One glance was enough to understand that the Kings had cornered swashers, their prey, who were too fucked up and all-fired sure of themselves to attack the town’s main showrunners just a couple of minutes ago. And the Courier was not going to do anything about that: she herself was nearly butchered by one of them, shown up from nowhere. If it was not her loyal companion who dealt with it with one precise shot, she, probably, would be dead by now.

It took more than ten minutes to cover the distance between the East and Strip gates - right now there was no reason to hurry. As they got closer, the protectrons took up their positions immediately. One of them articulated “Move along” with a familiar metallic cold of lifeless voice of his, when companions were passing by.

“Never liked these guys. They are like slow mines: you never know what they do the next second.” - grunted out the Courier, as two of them found themselves on the first line of the Strip between “Lucky 38” and “Gomorrah”.

“Hey, so who is an old one here?” - the ghoul chuckled in response.

She went ahead, so he could never see how her lips slightly bended in a ready-to-laugh smile.

***

Presidential luxe met nomads with a deep, wrapping silence of a broad, gloomy space. This was definitely not the place a person could wish to stay in: walls with, once being gorgeous - now - greasy dark-wine wallpapers were giving an oppressive feeling. Six was happy that they didn’t have to stay here for long. Only to sleep or change the outfit maybe.

She got near to the wardrobe in her room, where the majority of things, accumulated during the long travels, were stored. Took out two dresses, went to the guest-room with a billiards. Raul was civilly waiting for her there.

- What you think? Which one?

He raised up his head, looked from under the sunglasses for several seconds, examining, and answered in a casual tone:

- It’s really up to you, boss. - made a pause, then added, like a little confused: - But I like the pink one. Might look graceful.

- Great! Exactly the one I wanted to pick.

The ghoul just gave her a hesitant nod, wondering if she noticed that detail. Courier went back to her sleeping-room and returned after some minutes, informing: “Ready to go! The next stop is “Ultra-Luxe”, yee-haw!”

***

After a while they were in the street again. All they needed was just to reach the second line of the Strip and pass a hundred meters to the “Ultra-Luxe”. Lots of NCR soldiers were hanging around, goofing off, as long as they had a chance, and indulging in lust in the nearest private clubs. Nothing unexpectable. When they passed by a small group of drunk, barely balancing on their feet big guys, Six suddenly heard a hushed voice from behind her back, addressing his teammates. “Do they let ghouls on the Strip now? Perfect, let’s make it a spooky ghost-town.”

“Yeah. That’s why civilization will start floating away again. Our attempts are meaningless.”

Only just Courier wanted to turn around and shout out something to those sons of a b or event take out a gun and shoot beneath their feet, Raul caught her arm:

- Hey, hey, calm down, that’s okay. NCRs are many here, you know, even for a dashing rider like you, boss. Even with me backing you up. From behind the farthest stone.

- But we can’t simply swallow that shit, Raul!

He just spreaded his hands:

- Fine, then go shoot them and be killed by protectrones because of two drunk idiots. Very helpful, chief. I’ll stay all alone, without my beloved companion but with a protected pride. Thank’s.

Six stood still for some seconds and nodded after that.

- Fine. Whatever.

Then merely continued walking in the direction of the cazino. The ghoul hesitated for a bit. He understood that she was acting out of good intentions and she just wanted to protect her partner, as she was the one who had a right of speech here. And that made his heart melt and he was silently praising her for that, because nobody seemed to do anything like that for him in a while. But picking a fight with these dummies, who fill the streets of Strip like water fills the canyon, was not wise.

“Sorry for that, Niña. I really appreciate what you do. I just don’t want you to get in trouble because of me. You don’t notice, but there are often lots of sidelong looks and hardly heard whisperings along the way. I'm used to it and don’t want it to affect you.” - he tried to lighten things up.

The girl turned her head a bit just for him to see her glance softening.

- Let’s just reach the bar and relax.

*** 

An unexpected trouble struck them further - black line has not ended yet. Courier already picked her place at the bar desk in the distant hall and ordered a glass of whiskey, when a bartendress leaned over and said in a low tone:

“I’m sorry, but here, in “Ultra-Luxe”, we serve only the citizens and guests of the Strip. I’m able to bring a drink only for you, ma’m.”

That was the last drop of her patience. The girl slowly raised her head at the bartendress, ready to blow up, and responded:

- Are you fucking kidding me?

- That’s the rule. I don’t need problems. You can ask any guard or another worker.

She bowed her head and gave a fast hidden glance at her ghoul-companion. He was sitting there next to her and looking straight at his arms crossed on the desk, like he had nothing to do with it. But he, of course, heard every word. His eyes weren't moving, just a finger was slightly knocking the air, producing a rhythm he alone knew. Six couldn’t even imagine what her friend might feel at the moments like that. An anger came upon her.

“Are you all that scumbags here? Keep your drinks for acceptable ones. Ma’m.” - the girl said, getting up from her barstool and heading towards the exit.

Raul stood up without a word and, as he always did, followed Courier. He had mixed emotions. On the one hand he was glad they left that place and that Six is such a kind and loyal partner, but on the other hand he felt a little guilty for himself. After all, it was him who was the reason for such inhospitality in some kind of place. Even now she couldn’t get what she wished for so hard. Her idea of “winning big” in the kazino seemed to be falling apart, as together they won’t be even let to the gambling table. And she, obviously, won’t leave him in the street and have fun on her own, and an old ghoul didn’t want to be a ball and chain.

- Boss? Are you sure we need to leave? Maybe you’d better stay there? And I’d wait for you somewhere else or go back to “Lucky 38”. Fresh air won’t do any harm for my old lungs.

- What are you even talking about? You know, even the best drink worth nothing, if there’s no one to share it with.

- You have a heart of gold, chiff. - these words came fast, in an undertone, as if he was embarrassed, - Well, I saw a small sign in Freeside. I believe we’ve never been in that part of the city before.

- Hope it’s not an «Atomic Wrangler».

- Nope.

- Great! You lead. They passed the ruins, generously spread all over the suburbs, while every their step sounded louder thanks to trash, small pieces of brick and other rubbish. The sun was already going down and the heat was getting less intense.

Finally they reached a small inconspicuous wooden door. Only a little sign next to it represented that place as a bar.

As they entered, nothing changed. There was not much to be changed. There were no crowds of gamblers, no fancy casino machines and no shiny-polished bar desk. Bartender was a man in old ragged clothes, probably in his late fifties. He was slowly wiping cut glasses with a gray dusty piece of fabric full of holes.

When the companions stepped in the room he just looked up at them without raising up his head and got back to his plain, simple activity. There were not many customers besides the two of them. A woman was sleeping on the table in the far corner - her head rested on her arms while her shoulders were calmly going up and down. Another guest settled down at the edge of the bar desk.

“Fancy,” - giggled the girl.

“Ah, let’s get down. Ladies first.” - Raul just waved his hand.

Six made a few steps in the direction of the bar desk and sat down, Raul followed her.

“Barman! Two beers, please”. - she laid some bottle caps in front of him.

The barkeeper took them and then put two opened bottles onto the surface.

“Bon appetit.”

Courier took her bottle up and clinked it loudly with Rauls one. His soft non-blinking sight of half closed eyes was locked on hers, while he made a sip. His heart always went pop when it felt like there were just two of them in the world, though he never showed that.

Raul looked around and suddenly his eyes stopped on a guitar lurked behind the racks.

“Hey, can I…?”

The barman followed ghoul’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders: “This piece of wood? Be my guest.”

In the next second he was on his feet. The courier raised her eyebrows as she almost forgot if she saw him that agile. Raul approached the metal shelves, put aside some garbage and waste paper, then carefully extracted the instrument and blew away the dust.

Six and the bartender were watching him closely. The ghoul got back to his chair, sat down crossing his legs to position the guitar more comfortably. Then pulled the first string to check out the tuning. It was no surprise that it was out of tune, so the next minute Raul spent trying to fix the instrument.

When everything, as he thought, was ready, he played a couple of notes in fingerstyle to flex some life back into his fingers. After nearly 200 years the skill was obviously weakened.

“I didn’t know that you could play the guitar.” - said the girl.

“Sure you didn’t. I never told about that.” - he looked back at her with a little smirk, - “What was the point if there were no music instruments left anyway?”

He laid his right arm down on the body of the guitar, fingers on the cracked wooden surface, and took a deep breath.

At first Courier could hardly hear or see the slightest movement of ghoul's fingers on strings, but soon the sound became more clear. She was sitting there with a bottle in her hand, unable to look away from her companion.

The sound of slow mexican melody floated across the room, filling every corner of the room with itself. The windows were closed with wooden boards from the outside, so the sunlight was trickling down through narrow gaps between them. Warm light was leaving gold-yellow lines on the walls, tables and the bardesk where the Courier and Raul were sitting. She could even see the tiniest specks of dust freeze in the air. The ghouls face was half hidden by a shadow and the sunbeams were highlighting one of his eyes which now looked like a beautiful transparent crystal and his hands all covered with veins and partially with thin skin.

The whole space imbued with peace and calm, even the impenetrable bartender set his glass aside and leaned his head on the hand, listening to the sensual music.

They travelled together for a while now, but never before had Six seen him the way she did now. Something new was arising in her soul.

“Hey chief,” - Raul closed his eyes and slightly threw back his head grinning a little, fingers still dancing over the strings. - ”You’re the best friend and partner one could ever wish for, you know. Thank you for always being on my side.”

“Raul, I’ll never leave my partner in crime behind!” - she chuckled as she felt like something pinned her heart.

The ghoul continued playing the tune without opening his eyes. A grin turned into a soft smile and the feeling of joy span all over him for the first time in a while.

“I’m following you to the world’s end, boss.”

Also, here’s a link to this fanfic on my AO3 (gif is mine \ use credits if repost)