#because it is once again fifth of the month AND barricade day

[rainsongdean]

endverse dean + castiel, supernatural // enjolras + grantaire, les miserables

[kanekiswiife]

Zombieland  PT. 1

Fem!Reader x Soobin, Yeonjun, and Beomgyu 

The collapse of modern civilization leaves you stranded in a wasteland filled with flesh-eating living-dead corpses. The decaying humanoid mutations plague the city, forcing you to leave your apartment in search of supplies despite you having zero (0) survival instincts. Of course the world has ended, but you'll be damned if that stops you from trying to woo the cute group of boys who you find yourself surviving alongside of.

 This is a zombieland movie inspired fic, meaning I am not original ! 

TW: This fic includes

Brains, guts, GORE! 

Hand holding!

Lame fighting scenes!

more gore! 

Homie-hopping reader!

Stolen scenes from the amazing movie that is Zombieland 

Bi female reader!

You were a hardcore survivor.

A ruthless zombie-killing machine with impeccable cat-like reflexes (learned through video games but that doesn't matter)

You could do parkour if you wanted to, really. I mean you've never really done it before but you were confident enough in yourself to know if push came to shove you could probably scale a building or pull yourself over a ledge with sheer upper body strength...because adrenaline, duh. Yeah, maybe even do a back flip if the occasion called for it, no biggie (you have never done a back flip in your life).

I mean how hard could it really be? Dying light, The Last of Us, Resident Evil, Left 4 Dead, all taught you what it meant to be prepare yourself in a zombie apocalypse. Yeah, you were a survivor.

Or at least you like to think of yourself as one.

In your twenty-two years of existence you would often describe yourself as a main character. You were good-looking, smart-enough-to-make-it-into-an-average-college smart, kind of athletic (passing PE with a C plus), and very heavily into video games and comics, but more importantly you were good-looking.

So once again, yes. You were a survivor. Or at least you were the textbook definition of a survivor given your current predicament of maybe being one of the last actual living, breathing, non-zombified person in the state...maybe even the country. The outbreak began in the United States, and the government was quick to close down national borders to prevent the infection from continuing to spread, though what have they done since then? Nothing. Or you assume nothing given that it had been eight weeks and no new information was being broadcast anywhere. You assume they cut their losses and decided to colonize another country; naming it the New United States of America, or something along those lines.

Honestly, it's amazing how quickly things can go from bad to worse. Shit hit the fan in a matter of hours after patient zero ate a contaminated pack of gas station sushi and subsequently ended all of America. Since then, it had been two months. The broadcasting systems began looping the same content after the fifth day, probably because the news anchors and production team were eaten. The only display on your TV for the next week after the initial outbreak was the the typical emergency alert warning citizens to stay indoors and barricade all windows and entrances, avoiding contact with the infected or any individual who might be exhibiting aggressive and symptomatic behavior.

You didn't have to be told twice. You stayed inside your cozy little apartment for the next two months (meaning: Until today). You remained hopeful that your dear country and aiding government leaders would come up with a plan to evacuate any remaining citizens but that hope quickly vanished and was soon replaced with bitterness. The only two good things about your situation were 1) you knew your parents were safe, probably house hunting in the Bahamas by now and 2) being that you were a broke college student you had bulk packets of long lasting cheap food and bottled water.

Yeah, the lucky bastards had decided to go on a vacation a week before the outbreak. Maybe If you hadn't been such an introvert then perhaps you would've accompanied them to their trip in the Bahamas where they were still staying at, safe and sound enjoying margaritas by the beach.

But no. the new season of Attack on Titan was dropping and you wanted to binge.

Unfortunately all good things must come to an end, because you were now down to your last ramen packet and the electricity—which had surprisingly lasted a while—had been cut off since three days ago. You knew your decrepit cheap ass apartment was probably an isolated building that experienced electricity loss since you knew for a fact the building owner never invested in newer appliances and thus your building would experience very frequent black outs.

All that being said, today was the day you were putting your survival instincts to good use as you were planning on leaving this dump and scavenging for supplies.

You had your laced your cute combat boots up extra tight and gave them a double knot so you didn't trip and fall. You squeezed into your favorite pair of jeans that made your legs and ass look amazing (You don't blame the zombies for wanting a piece of you, honestly) and an iconic cropped tight fitted T that said "Bite me" with a heart at the end (it's giving 2014 "she put her hair up in a messy bun" Wattpad fic but i just wanna emphasize how HOT you are)

You adjusted your baseball cap, grabbing a hold of your titanium bat and adorably small potted barrel cactus before flinging your duffel over your shoulder and letting out a determined huff. Thankfully your dog was with your parents in the Bahamas, so all you had to look out for was Flora, your cactus. Lulu was one lucky dog.

You gave your home one last look before exiting into the dingy hall way of your gross apartment building. Brown dried up blood sprayed the walls and some mysterious green substance pooled against the ceiling but those things had been there since before the outbreak, so had the cracked widows so really nothing out of the ordinary for you. You thot-walked to the elevators at the end of the hall and frowned, of course they weren't running, the electricity was out. You stopped for a second and used your big brain. you were in the fifth floor, jumping from a window was a no-go so you would have to settle for the scary emergency stairs you dreaded using even before the outbreak.

You held your breath as you made it out into the emergency exit hallway, peaking down and then up at the rows of stairs that were dimly lit by the dirty ass windows. You decided to drop a loose piece of tile down the five flights of stairs you had to go down, letting it crack loudly as it made contact with the ground floor, and then you waited. Listening closely in case you heard snarling gathering where the tile dropped, yet nothing but silence followed.

"Ok!" you silently cheered, looks like you were going to make it out of this building in one piece!

bouncing down the stairs happily, you began humming to yourself only to stop short as a pathetic yell startled you.

You jumped in place and stopped. Two beats of silence passed and your heart began decelerating. Had you imagined it? Had you imagined such a pathetic and voice cracked infused scream? Or was there really a twelve year old girl wandering these halls? You didn't have to ponder for long because a second later the door on the floor right above you slammed opened followed by multiple foot steps running down the stairs catching up to you.

You stood petrified as you made eye contact with the man who continued to let out pathetic whimpers as two zombies gurgled and moaned following behind him closely.

His eyes widen at your figure and he began waving his arms back and forth frantically

"Run! Run!" Yeah, there was no mistaking the voice cracks as he yelled at you, this had been the supposed twelve year old little girl, except it was a six foot tall man squealing. And said six foot tall man and his pack of zombies were approaching you quickly. You rouse yourself from your stupor and let out a wail matching the guy behind you as you turn and begin booking it down, even skipping some of the steps in order to reach the front entrance faster all the while the man is yelling more incoherent words mixed in with "Go's" and "hurry's"

"Why did you lead them hereee!" You finally make it to the ground level and immediately book it to the sign that read EXIT in big red letters. Your heart had leaped into your throat and the adrenaline that surged through you made you reach the door in two seconds flat. You throw yourself onto the door, slamming it open and then quickly do a 180, fully intent on slamming the door shut on this man-child who instilled the fear of god into you for no good reason.

You clutch the handle and go to slam it back shut only to make pitable eye contact once again with the behemoth of a man. He looked so sad.

Dammit. Pathetic men always got to you.

You hesitated and motioned with your hand for him to hurry leaving the door open just an inch for him to squeeze through. His long legs didn't do him justice, it felt too long until he was close to the door

and then...!

he trips!

You watch in what feels like slow motion as he clumsily tumbles over his giant feet before finally slamming onto the concrete a few feet from the door. You smile in disbelief.

There's no way haha...

without thinking you allow your duffel bag to fall off your shoulder alongside your cactus before flinging yourself back into the hall way bringing your bat up in position as the first zombie reached for you. You swing with all your might and thank GOD you make solid contact. The sound of it's jaw cracking followed by blood hitting the floor like thick water would have definitely made you hyperventilate (You just demolished a use-to-be person) but you didn't have time to process it as the second zombie crashed into you before you could even blink. You yell as it grabs you by the shirt and tugs you impossibly close to its clamping jaws except it only ends up biting your bat as you managed to bring it up between the two of you last second.

All you could hear were your own screams mixed in with the growling and gurgling of the infected. All you could feel were its hands ripping your cute shirt and suspending you in the air for a second before he was yanked off you. You thud onto the floor and gasp, inching yourself backwards until your back hits the wall, eyes frantically watching as the man you saved throws the zombie against the wall before he cocks his revolver (You were going to chew him out for not bringing it out earlier) and shoots the he-zombie point blank. You let out another gasp and bring your hands up to cover your ears as the loud boom echoed throughout the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel thick liquid and brain matter splatter onto your face and hair.

There's a ringing in your ears and for a second this all feels fake. The aching of your arm after you slammed onto the ground, the blood running down your face, your nails digging into your scalp as you desperately try and block out any noise from entering your ears.

You don't care to look and see if the other zombie went down with the one blow you gave it, or if the man was still in front of you. You just wanted everything to stop.

There's no way this is happening There's no way this is happening There's no way this is happening There's no--

You feel two large hands press themselves against your own covering your ears and you allow your eyes to flicker open. Thankfully his tall frame kneeled in front of you blocked your view from the zombie gore, and the warmness of his hands stopped your blood pressure from dropping too much. You didn't feel like going into shock at this moment.

The two of you stare at one another for a few seconds.

You watched as his chest heaved up and down then his lips begin moving but you can't hear him. Slowly he releases his hands from atop your own and you unhook your nails from your hair.

"Are you okay? I-I'm really sorry for tripping like that and—and involving you—"

"Can you carry me?"

"W-what?"

"I...um, I don't think I can w-walk right now a-and I kinda really wanna get out of this hallway" You whisper. He stays silent for a second before nodding slowly then faster.

"Right, just close your eyes" you feel him getting closer and you instinctively squeeze your eyelids shut as he moves out of frame. His hands move underneath your knees which were already up at your chest and then his arm slips around your waist. You don't open your eyes until you feel the hot sun hitting your face and you hear the door closing behind the two of you.

He stops, and you can tell he doesn't know whether to put you down or give you a moment to gather yourself, so he awkwardly sways in place and then...he begins rocking you like a baby.

"Shh shh, it's okay" he pats your thigh. What the hell?

"Okay not too much now" You untangle yourself from his arms and flop down a little ungracefully to the ground while the guy runs his hands through his hair and looks around awkwardly yet again.

"Sorry, you looked like you were going to throw up or something—oh yeah, just like that" You interrupt him as bile projectiles out of your throat onto the the grass at his feet.

"That's—damn, okay" he mumbles side stepping from the splash zone. You yak and dry heave a few more times, placing your hands on your knees to balance yourself before bringing the back of your wrist up to your lips.

"Feel better?" You give him a side-eye and he smiles akwardly.

"I'm—ahem" his clears his throat after a voice crack "—I'm Soobin" he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet while waiting for you to introduce yourself but you don't.

"Ok...I'm gonna go, Soobin" Your voice is hoarse after all that vomiting, but you don't care. You stumble past Soobin, stopping for a second as you see how close your duffel bag and cactus are to the doorway of the building but you compose yourself much quicker and swipe down to pick them up before turning back around and reaching for your bat you assume Soobin had dragged out when he picked you up.

"Haha okay—wait no, I mean where are you heading? You lived in 507 right?" you hear him follow behind you as you made your way onto the street. You didn't know where you were going but at this point you didn't care you just wanted to find somewhere to sleep for the next 24 hours after this ordeal. Soobin seemed much more composed after just shooting a use-to-be-human in the head and watching his brain splatter against the wall.

"I was your neighbor—well not really, I lived on the third floor actually but I would see you from time to time getting your mail—which is why I know your name is Y/N L/N, right?" You stop and turn to face his creepy ass sharply.

"That was a weird thing to say, Soobin. You think just because you're attractive you can go stalking people like that?" His face pales

"No! I'm so sor—you think I'm attractive?" he sputters and you stare in half amazement and half in shock because no way is he getting bashful over a compliment after what you two just went through.

"Have you killed those things before?" He rubs his red tinted ears and gives you a goofy smile

"huh? Zombies?" you nod.

"Well um yeah, it's been about two months since the outbreak. Kinda hard to avoid them, you know? Is—was it your....first time?" you nod again before turning back around and continuing your journey to God knows where with Flora hugged tightly to your blood soaked chest.

Right, you were the only shut in who hadn't left her house since the outbreak began. Even this nerd of a guy had a few kills under his belt. You needed to catch up, there was no way you were gonna be a burden to ANYONE.

Soobin continues to talk for a second before he realizes you had continued to walk and clumsily makes pace behind you

"So really um thank you! For not slamming the door in the face, I kinda thought 'no way she's gonna totally close the door and leave me locked in!' But then you didn't and ahh...yeah. Thank you! Again." He rambles. You don't have the heart to tell him you were about to close the door on his face.

"Thanks for saving me too" you say, finally stopping once you reach a four way street.

"Why don't you lead the way because I don't know where I'm going"

                                                                ♡

[script-nef]

How their relationship gets revealed (ii)

Characters: Hinata, Kageyama, Kozume, Suna

Category: fluff

Hinata Shouyou

This ray of sunshine. This absolute sun

Talks about you so damn much with so much enthusiasm

Somehow brings you up on every topic and situation

“[Name] taught me that!” 

“[Name] once cooked that for me!” 

“I once went there with [Name]!” 

“[Name] is the cutest person alive!”

Like no child, you are

Anyway so everyone knows he��s dating someone but not what you look like because you’re camera shy

And he loves it when you blush in photos 

In one of the matches, which Black Jackals win, you visit to cheer for them 

Hinata doesn’t know though, because you didn't want to distract him

For some reason, he’s high on adrenaline even after the match finishes 3:2 (It’s like he can feel your presence)

And he spots you standing behind the plastic barricade, just meters away from him

You wave to him shyly and he’s on autopilot

Immediately runs and leaps into the audience, hugging and lifting you into the air

Rests his forehead against yours and rubs his nose with yours as well

He’s so happy and smiling like every bit of fatigue and stress has left him

Everyone is taking videos and photos and you become flustered

He has to go back to change out of his uniform

But not before kissing you. On the lips. For like a solid 5 seconds. In front of everyone.

Internet in Japan broke that day

(You become essential to their matches because Hinata plays at his 150% when you’re there)

Kageyama Tobio

Kageyama buys a lot of things from the airport shops when coming into Japan, even though some of them are blatantly contrasting with his style

Like cute little keychains and expensive sweets, makeups

Even though he said in an interview that he’s not fond of them

So all his fans question the owner of the items, suspecting parents and his sister

One day, he comes through the gates visibly tired and lethargic

Because he was gone for months and is homesick

All his fans are yelling at him to take care of himself and rest

He waves at them in thanks and just. Stops. 

You're there, standing a bit away from the large crowd

He runs towards you, ignoring everyone around him

Crashes into you, snuggling against the crook of your neck and enjoying your warmth

Your giggling is so nice and he missed your presence so much

Phone calls and video-chatting is nothing compared to the feel of your skin against his

He’s lifting you up into the air and you have to lightly slap his shoulder to make him let go of you

Photos of y’all circulate rapidly because he’s smiling like the sun with you in his arms

Everyone is shook, including his teammates

He holds your hand and walks away from the huge crowd, talking about what he bought you

Memes of “Kags the boyfriend material” starts circulating

To the point where he becomes a model for a clothing brand

Kozume Kenma

Our boy Kenma is super famous in the YouTube community

Because he’s amazing at games, is a CEO while juggling university studies

So he was doing a YouTube live 

And you’re in another room doing whatever but doesn’t know he’s doing a livestream

He just finished a level and momentarily left the screen to get some apple pie

While Kenma’s gone, you stroll in to get something you forgot 

And people can see you and is like “who the hell is that???” “does he have a girlfriend?”

You can see the screen flickering with messages and go to see if it’s important

And in the process give them a very clear shot of your face

The moment you realise you’re on live, you leave the room immediately

And complain to Kenma (cutely though) about letting you know about lives

His soft laughter and sweet apologies can be heard over the microphone 

Anyway so when he gets back all everyone is talking about is you

He tells them little facts about you and enjoys how everyone says y’all are cute together

Someone asks if he’s going to marry her and he stops

Then starts blushing with a small “Yeah, soon. Hopefully.”

Screenshots taken and gifs produced

“Soon” becomes a year

Suna Rintarou

He uploads photos of him just lazing around and food

And going to pet cafés to hang with the animals

Also some of his teammates and family

He looks so damn tired of this world but his smiles are so nice

Has many fans, from volleyball and his photos because he’s half-professional by now

He took a photography course once and met you there

You’re a professional photographer, one of the best in Japan

In all of his photos, there’s a figure in it

Just snippets of clothes or limbs intruding in the background of his photos

But never your face because he values your privacy like a good boyfriend

His fans realised that it’s the same person over and over again though

On the fifth anniversary of your relationship, you rent a photography studio

A lot of people turn up because you have a lot of fans

The display is made from your time with him over the years

With little annotations like “first date” or “2 weeks without you” after you went overseas for work

Everyone’s surprised that you’re dating him

But if you look at the photos, everything is framed around him

And wow, this is love

He visits too, under a mask and hat, but you recognise him immediately

PDA soothes my soul guys, PDA will save all of us

Articles are written and supports are given

(The photography exhibit’s title was “The Seasons of Love”)

[halothenthehorns]

The Full Moon

Maybe it was how stressed he'd been over the past few days, maybe it was the new environment that Moony had never been in, but whatever the reason, when his transformation was complete he hardly seemed to recognize his companions like usual.

It started off like normal, and clearly as painful as ever. Dark gray fur began sprouting all over, as his normally dark green eyes took on an amber glow, all the life of Remus Lupin draining out to be replaced by a senseless animal. His arms elongated, his jaw began tearing out of his face and even before the fangs sprouted a ferocious howl began ripping out of his throat.

Prongs and Padfoot were long since waiting, but they weren't prepared for his roaming eyes to land on them and lung right for Prongs' throat. It was like their first meeting all over again, his desire to bite winning out and those long powerful arms tried their best to latch onto the larger body, hot breath snapping towards a jugular, but Prongs tossed his head back and managed to drag himself out of the way just fast enough he only received a few deep scratches into his ribs while Padfoot collided with Moony the rest of the way knocking him off course. The two canines tossed around for a bit, Moony winning out the fight but the scuffle enough to make him pause and reassess. He released another guttural howl, now eyeing the bed and instead lunging onto that, ripping off one leg with a flick of ease and snapping it in between his teeth like a carrot, his claws digging into the carpet below like he was trying to burrow himself right out of the room.

Padfoot let out a little whimper, edging closer and sniffing gently, and when Moony's nose twitched back in his direction, dropping the block of wood and a snarl already turning his lips back, Padfoot dropped onto his belly and wagged his tail in a friendly gesture, his back legs still prepared to pounce away at a moment's notice.

Moony's nose was still twitching furiously, his ears falling back as if asking 'where are we' but at least they'd moved away from his more violent question of 'who are you?'

Prongs came prodding back forward, letting an antler drop down and edging his side in a rebuff for attacking him, before giving him an even firmer buff and now asking as if to play. Moony was in no mood, using a back leg to kick him away and nearly taking the others snout clean off as he began pacing the length of the room, growling horribly at the door now, a clear question 'why can't I stretch?'

The two of them still tried to rope him in and keep his better attention, jumping forward and acting as if still looking for a game, but Moony was in no mood, swiping and biting at either of them if they got too close. When he didn't hit fur, he began turning on himself and letting his own claws scratch against his own hide in frustration, but neither of the others would let that last long before they came forward and began the game again. It was a small room, so they each received far more injury than they had since their first night they'd pulled this off, the one and only difference being there wasn't a rat scampering in between all of their feet as a further distraction to all.

So the pattern continued long into the night, until the waning began. By this time Moony had absolutely destroyed the room, deep claw marks leaving great chunks in the wall Prongs could have stuck his head through if not for the magic keeping everything pinned in this room, and the bed was no better. It was just a scrap of material, so Remus came back into himself and landed on a mangled frame. Sirius was at his side in an instant, pulling his wand out and muttering some spells on instinct, coupling in a few he only knew because he'd looked them up, Madam Pomfrey had stopped questioning long ago why Remus' injuries had subsided after his fifth year but his friends had learned them anyways.

James double checked both of his friends, recognizing how terrible they both looked with Sirius sporting his own amount of injuries and realizing he probably didn't look much better, but not willing to leave the others in suspense a moment longer then he had to. It took quite a few minutes to undo all the charms they'd barricaded themselves inside with, and then he had to repeat the process to get inside his infant's room, but when he did get the door open he feared he'd have to duck another amount of spells he startled the two so bad.

"Bloody hell James," Lily moaned, darting to his side in seconds, her hands ghosting over a particular spot on his face which he'd technically deserved letting his antlers get caught from a swinging claw while the other had gone for his eyes. It had only been a glancing blow at the time, clearly it had developed into more. "You've never come back looking this bad."

Harry was hovering behind his mother, looking pearly white as he gave his father several once overs and stuttering out, "are, are you bleeding?"

"I'm going to live, I promise," he got out, pushing Lily's hands away when they went to pull up his robes and look at the wound. "He had a bad night, he's used to getting out more, it's nothing we can't handle, or haven't before. We know plenty of spells to heal the worst of it, we'll sleep off the rest."

Neither of them looked pleased, but James pressed on loudly, "did you two get any sleep?"

"No, of course not," his wife scoffed like she thought he was going mad. "We might not have been able to hear anything but that doesn't mean we couldn't stop thinking about it." Lily really couldn't help it though, she may have known James went and did this once a month, but never before down the hall from her where she couldn't do anything to help. Even if she did trust James and Sirius to handle him as well, she never could take her eyes off her baby, just in case something had gone wrong, just in case she'd needed to defend him from jaws with no man's mind behind them.

James gave a deep sigh, pulling them both into a tight hug and ignoring how hard that pulled at his side as he promised, "we're all fine. We're going to get Remus fixed up and then we're all going to get some sleep."

Lily looked like that was the last thing on her mind as she got out of his grip, grabbing hold of his hand and pushing him into the chair in the corner, pulling out her wand and beginning to cast her own healing charms.

[maggyme13]

Fictober 2020 Day 1

Prompt: Fish

Character: Bane

Warnings: no

Wordcount: around 800

AN: From now on I will be trying to post one short fic for every prompt from my Fictober list.

Gotham had been under siege for two months now.

Two months with no food imports meaning the supplies had dwindled quite much. Luckily there were other means of getting something to eat if one owned certain skills.

And that was what the young woman was doing at the moment; armed with a bow and arrows, she sneaked her way through the concrete jungle to one of the many big parks within the barricaded city limits. She had grown up in a small town that was surrounded by wilderness and where hunting was as common as wiping ones ass after taking a shit.

It was her fifth trip since this all began and just like the last times she went when the sky had fallen dark. Tonight it was planned to return home with either a rabbit (or other kind of rodent) or some fish.

She had a few areas in mind where the water wouldn´t be frozen because of thermal springs and was close to the first one, when she had to hide behind some huge dumpsters: A block in ahead of her a group of men had stepped onto the streed she had been traveling on.

Even from the distance she took the nearly one dozen men to be those of the masked captor.

Fear settled in her heart, what was about to happen to her when she was found hiding with a weapon. Hoping her dark clothing would camouflage her enough in the shadows, she pulled her scarf over her mouth to stop her breathing from freezing in the cold air and calling her out like that. Luckily there had not been new snow that day, so there would be no footprints to make out on the streets.

The men seemed to take forever to pass her hideout, one of them even stopping at the corner to the valley she was hiding in.

Please keep going! Please!

Being extra careful, she waited another small eternity before she continued her way and it was two hours later than planned when she reached the most promising spot at Grant Park.

There at the edge of the water two ducks and a school of carps were resting just two meters of shore with the fish being just barely under  the surface.

Deciding two carps would be better than one small duck, she prepared three of her arrows with some fishing-line and took aim.

Four shots later the young woman made her way back home; two dead fished securely hidden in her backpack.

.-.-.-.-.

Moving shadows on the floor around two hundred meters in front of her caught her attention and she wanted to hide again in an alleyway  when another movement in that alleyway made her turn.

There, barely an arm-length away stood danger incarnate. The masked captor Bane; his hands gripping the shoulder straps of his protective vest and his eyes looking straight into her eyes.

Shit

With huge eyes of fear she took a step back, only to hit a parked car.

“No place to hide this time, little one.”, the giant chuckled, ”Now, what is a young female doing out at this time with a bow and arrows, I wonder? Trying to kill me and my men?”

Hurriedly she shook her head no. “N-No!”

“No? Then tell me what it is, Please.”, he added the last part after a short pause. In the meantime ten men had surrounded her.

Gulping nervously, she felt her panic rise and heartbeat tumbling over itself.

“We are waiting.”

“F-Fish.”

“Fish?”, he repeated her word as a question.

“I got fish at Grant Park- Lake.”

“With bow and arrows?”, a male from her left asked.

“Y-Yes. I can show them to you.”, you offered.

“Barsard will check that. Hand him the bag Miss.”

She did as asked.

“Two Carps with arrow-wounds. She is speaking the truth. Now, what are you doing with these fish?”

“Surviving.”, she admitted.

“A good treat anyone should master. Where did you?”, Bane wondered.

“Home, in a rural town. I swear! I don´t want to kill anyone.”

“Well then; Swim along little fish and be careful. You don´t want to get eaten by the sharks.”, Bane rasped, “Who knows, maybe this fish will become a dragon one day. Barsad, keep an eye on her. I wonder what she will be hunting next.”, he spoke once the young woman had disappeared around a corner, two blocks north.

“Yes, Boss.”

Taglists:

Permanent:

@jadepc@pacifyhxlsey

@thankyoukarenclifford

@thankyouforanonymity  @punkrockhufflefluff

@scarletraine

@ambrosialyn

 @markusstraya

@graveyard-groupie

@buckycaptspideypool

 @markusstrayya @randomgirlkensy @the-soulofdevil

[hyunqlns]

adventure to his heart ❦ hyunjin pt.3

⇴ genre: apocalypse!au ; angst ; future fluff

⇴ part : 3         | 1 ; 2 ; 4 ; 5 ; 6 ; 7 ; 8 ; |

⇴ description: just when you thought your crush, the well known school heartthrob hwang hyunjin, was your biggest problem, a crazy alien invasion managed to prove you wrong.

⇴ author’s note: inspired and based on the book and movie “the fifth wave”

⇴ warnings: apocalypse, swears

⇴ word count: 1214

the second wave was a literal wave. how, you might ask? well, you’re not a specialist regarding the others' strategies and attacks, but from your perspective the others had dropped some kind of a metal rod from the upper atmosphere which lead to massive earthquakes and tsunami waves. it wiped out all coastal sities on this planet. new york, tokyo, london, sydney, los angeles and way more. goodbye.

the second wave lasted for about a day. it took out approximately 3 billion people. it put the number from the first wave to a shame.

you remember that day. you were walking with your sister melanie, after filling your empty bottles with water from the lake. you weren't expecting anything but that's when it happened. an earthquake occured first. you had dropped the water bottles and ran for our life. you didn't know where were you running towards to. you just did. when the earthquake passed, you thought and prayed that was the end.

but you were wrong, really wrong. in front of your eyes, the trees had started collapsing once again. you could clearly hear and see the waves and the water crashing into them. so you ran again. towards a thick tree that you climbed and sat on. waiting for the wave to be over.

in your city, you had only the lake to worry about. but by the ocean, you could only imagine. . .

the third wave started as a plague that wiped out nearly 97% of the remaining human population. the third wave was spread through the globe using the birds as the carrier of the disease. the others couldn't invent better delivery system.

do you know how many birds are there in the world? take a wild guess perhaps? maybe one billion? how about three billion birds? that is about 75 birds for one family consisting of one child, a man and a woman, that are still alive after the first two waves.

the virus took up residence in the lungs. a bad cough follows. a high fever. a very high, torturing fever. the coughing is soon substituted by spiting blood. people become a viral bomb and when they explode - they blast everyone around you with the virus. you all had different names for the it— the red death, blood plague, the red tsunami.

that's how you lost your parents. your mom was a doctor. dad - owned a small family hotel. you and my family waited out the third wave barricaded inside your small house. maybe because there was a quarantine and because the outside world was a disaster. but mostly because your dad didn't want to leave mom. she was too sick to go anywhere. and you couldn't leave without her. your dad couldn't.

your mom wasn't easy though. she kept telling your dad to go. it wasn't about her anymore. you all knew she was as good as dead. it was a matter of time and knowing about the happening now, that was going to be soon. it was about you and melanie now. about keeping you alive. your dad didn't fight back or argue with her. he knew she was completely right. it was about time he thinks of the possibilities and the consequences.

but he didn't leave either. your dad just quietly gathered supplies and made sure your mom feels comfortable. what you couldn't understand about him was the whole book hoarding. he had hope. a lot of it actually. the we-have-to-rebuild-the-civilization feeling kicked in. that's why he took a lot of books with him.

you found that dumb and inconvenient— as much as you and my sister loved reading, in this world now, surviving was your main priority. wasting space that could be taken by food or weapons by books, was just inconvenient in your point of view.

but he was partly right, he had a point. if you ever got out of this mess, you had to rebuild the civilization. you had to do it.

"why don't they just end us all already?" you would often ask him. your dad will shrug his shoulders and sigh before replying.

"by now it's pretty obvious they need our planet, y/n. they need the earth, not us."

they need the earth. not us.

you and melanie buried them in the backyard. your mom died on tuesday. your dad followed on friday. after he refused to leave mom, he ended up catching the virus. it was tragic. you’ve never seen my sister lose it. you’ve never expected it from melanie. not even once.

if you were optimistic, she was the brightest person on the planet. she had never cried before. atleast you had never seen her did. that one day in the gym was the first. she was always positive about everything. about her crush seungmin, about her grades. you two were the opposites in your perspective. she was pretty and you thought you’re not. she was smart and you weren’t. the only thing you had in common was that you were both labelled as the school's optimists. yet, she still excelled in that.

sometimes you were perhaps kind of jealous. the fact she had many admirers. the fact even though you were both foreigners, she didn’t seem to feel pressured or uncomfortable, disliked. but, you never showed your jealousy. your love and respect towards your step sister were stronger than some dumb jealousy.

"what are we going to do now? where are we gonna go?" melanie screamed as placed her hands in front of her face and sobbed.

no one answered. and by no one, you didn’t. not because you were too sad, exhausted and tired to answer. it was because you also didn't know. melanie didn't know. you didn't know. no one knew.

things kept getting worse after the arrival. and just when you thought they wouldn't get worse, they did.

you were still under that car. trapped. cornered. still rethinking your life decisions. maybe the whole dying thing isn't so bad after all. you can still recall the face of your sister when she left with the soldiers in that bus. and you can still remember your face when you ran and ran— but you weren’t quick enough to reach the bus. you’re happy about her. she is most likely safe by now. you don't have to worry. she is just a few months younger than you. she can take care of herself perfectly... she is somewhere where the soldiers take good care of her and the rest of the kids.

on that cold autimn day you find yourself laying beneath the car.

and then it hits you. these people weren't humans. they were the others. they took melanie. they wanted her. but not her only. they took the kids. but why? why did they bother saving the children? what was the purpose of this?

you raised your head without noticing. you didn't know if those kids in the bus, including melanie were still alive. they might have gotten rid of them. but it didn’t matter to you. you weren’t going to give up. you weren’t going to think about the worst possibility yet. you wanted your best friend back. you wanted your sister back. you wanted melanie back and you were going to get her.

[roughandtumble-r]

IDW and Tangle and Whisper Issue 3 Conspiracy Theories!

So 2 days have passed since the releases of both Issue 22 of the main series and Issue 3 of Tangle and Whisper, and taking a look at all of the information they gave us as well as some new info from the solicitations of upcoming Issues, we can really break stuff down and piece together some things as well as theorize about what’s going to happen next.

First up, I need to address something about Tangle and Whisper. In my post going over the fourth and fifth preview pages, I mentioned that the Diamond Cutters possibly had the Wisp communication technology before Tails did, and a couple of people seemed to disagree with that. Looking at what info we had at the time, it could have gone both ways because we didn’t know when the deaths of the Diamond Cutters took place. However, now that Issue 3 is out, we can now piece together when it took place using two main pieces of information.

If you look at the fourth panel, Mimic mentions the Resistence. Automatically, that means these events must be happening around the same time as Forces, the first game with the Resistance. That’s not all, as we also have this scene right here...

In the second panel of this page, Mimic says that Eggman will have an estimated 99% of the planet in the following month, which confirms that these events took place at least an entire month before the events of Forces, because in that game, Eggman actually DOES control 99% of the planet. 

However, there is one thing I find odd about this... When did the Resistance come into existance? I always assumed it was formed during the war in Forces, but if this happens before the war even started, how would Mimic be able to mention them? This implies that the Resistance was actually a thing long before the events of Forces, but does that they mean they served a different purpose? Did anyone like Knuckles or Amy work for them at the time like they did in Forces? This could just be an inconsistency, but I’m interested to see if we ever learn the lore behind the Resistance’s creation.

Oh, and going back to that thing about the Wisp Communicator, given the fact that these events happened before Forces and presumably after Colors, that would make it more likely that Tails had that technology first. Sorry to anyone who was confused or upset by that one comment I made.

On the topic of possible inconsistencies, there is one thing in the main series I’ve been wondering about. The reason the HQ was taken over by Zombots is because someone came in who was infected, but how did they manage to stay only partially infected for so long?

It could just be me going way too deep with this thought, but I still find this really weird. He seemed to be sitting there for seemingly a good while, but his Metal Virus didn’t start spreading further until this exact moment. He also mentions that he’s from a different village, so does that mean he got infected while in said village, because if so, that would make this even weirder. Maybe he found some way to push back the Virus like Sonic’s running, and that’s how he was able to remain partially infected for so long. ...or it could just be me. Who knows.

Speaking of partially infected (I’m doing a great job with these segways today :3), there’s one other thing I’ve been thinking about since the release of Issue 21.

In this page right here, Tails mentions the possibility of a cure being only partially effective, and that opens up a lot of possibilities. I’ve heard some fan ideas for stuff like this where characters with the Virus can get partially cured, allowing them to be fully consience and have control whilst still being made of Metal and being able to spread the virus, and I think this would be a really neat idea. I also wonder how something like this would play into The Deadly Six being able to control the Zombots, like if they could still be controlled even if they still have their consiences intact. This could once again be nothing, but the fact that Tails brings it up at all is interesting to me.

The next topic on our agenda is to come up with some theories about what’ll happen next! 

Looking at the solicits for Issues 23, 24, and 25, we already have a basic understanding of how the plot is going to play out, but there are still some things we’re left to wonder about. In Issue 23, we still don’t know what exactly is going to happen with Sonic in Barricade Town, and we also don’t know about the thing with Tails and Eggman. In Issue 24, we don’t know if Spiral Hill Village is going to be taken over (although if I had to guess, it probably will). 

Issue 24 is also interesting because we DO know that something happens in this Issue that will make characters like Sonic and Eggman have to team up. I think that means Issue 24 will be the Issue where The Deadly Six come in and start to control the Zombots, and they’ll also come up with the plan to take over the world and overthrow Eggman and Starline, leading those two to have to join the others in the following Issue. There’s also that whole thing with Sonic needing to ask someone else for help in Issue 25, but your guess is as good as mine for that one. Maybe when more covers for it come out, we’ll get a hint about who it could be, but right now, we have no idea.

That’s about it for this batch of conspiracy theories and oddities! Both Issue 23 and Issue 4 of Tangle and Whisper have been delayed to November 13th and November 20th, so we’ll have to wait until close to their release for the preview pages to come out so we can get more info on them.

[cheion-writes]

Regrets

Guilty!Steel POV, angst. What motivated Steel to investigate Heartbreak?

.....

You should have asked. You should have asked, then maybe it wouldn’t have happened.

The first time it does was the first time you saw them in action. Sure, you've heard countless stories about their exploits from Ortega, but you've never actually seen them before. Until now.

It had been a raging fire at one of those old apartment blocks, and when you arrived, you found out you were not the first - a certain hooded figure had already evacuated every resident in the building.

From the whispered words of awe around you, you learnt that they had repeatedly run into the smoke-filled building, each time emerging with one or two civilians in tow. You learnt that they refused to stop until everyone was out. You learnt that they had single-handed saved the lives of thirty five people that day.

But you didn't know that they were having trouble breathing beneath the mask. That if they had opened their mouths to speak their voice would be much hoarser than it should have been. So when they turned to you, eyes unreadable beneath the hood, you didn't ask. Because those who hid behind a mask were those with malevolent intents they wanted to hide.

Right?

____

The second time it happens, it was a mission that was shot to hell. It all started off ordinarily enough; a deluded man, distressed from the loss of his job and savings, had barricaded himself in a bank together with twenty terrified people. Armed with a shotgun, he had screamed for the Rangers and the swarming officers to back off or he will shoot every single hostage dead. He did not respond to Ortega's desperate pleas, nor to Anathema's gentle reasoning, nor to your thinly-veiled threats and concessions.

They are the one to finally get through to him.

You had watched as they slowly approached the bank, arms raised calmly in the air. As they told them, in a soft and soothing voice, that they just wanted to chat. Through the communication channel, you heard as they talked with the man. As he began to cry when they promised to help his struggling family, as they managed to convince him to let the hostages go. As they told him that they believed he was a good person and didn't really want to hurt anyone, that he was just hurting inside in a way no one could understand.

Once the hostages came running out, some crying and others laughing in hysterical relief, they had gently taken the shotgun away from the man and quietly led him out of the bank.

Then, a trigger-happy officer had squeezed off a single shot.

One moment, he was standing beside them, expression resigned yet hopeful, saddened yet relieved. The next, he was crumpling against their chest, fingers limp and eyes unseeing, a growing patch of red upon his chest.

You had watched as they laid the man on the ground, movements too stiff and eyes too wide. You had watched as Ortega and Anathema moved up to them, demanding for a reason why the shot was deemed necessary while telling them that the death was not their fault. You listened as they replied, with voice too tight, that it certainly was.

And it was their fault, wasn't it? It was their mistake that allowed the man to die, because wasn't that what telepathy was supposed to prevent?

So you ignored the way their fists turned white as they gripped the papers reporting their failure with a sadistic glee. The way they disappeared for a few days, uncontactable and unreachable. Their gaunt expression when you saw them at the man's family's doorstep, as they passed them a package you now knew contained a sum of money meant for three months of their rent, and the child's first three years of school.

And you didn't ask.

____

The third time it happens was the time they saved your life. It was an ambush, one you still curse yourself for getting into, and before you knew it you had been kicked down, the wind knocked out of you and an energy rifle charged and aimed at your head.

Then suddenly they had come swooping in, taking the shot meant for you before dispatching the villains that kept you pinned after a brief struggle.

You swear you didn't know that they were hiding the fact that their ribs were broken. You swear you didn't know that the shot had left them with a burn that required urgent medical attention. You swear you didn't.

Because they looked fine, and they said they were fine. Because they weren't a Ranger and they weren't entitled to medical care. Because they were a vigilante hiding from the government and that meant they weren't to be trusted.

So you didn't ask. Again.

____

The fourth time it happens was the time they saved Ortega. You had seen them as they came limping into the Rangers base, their weight all but completely supported by Ortega. You had watched as Ortega hovered around them, eyes alight with worry and concern. You had watched as they conceded to 'borrowing' some bandages and painkillers (something they never did before), as they adamantly refused anything else.

Perhaps, when they limped past you, visibly in pain and avoiding putting weight on their injured leg, you should've asked. Because weren't they a familiar face now? Sure, you weren't friends (you probably never would be) but weren't you, at the very least, allies?

____

The fifth time it happens was the day they saved everyone. You were there as they held those nanovores in place, as their nose bled and their knees buckled in visible strain at the exertion. As they all but collapsed when the threat was finally contained. As they once again refused medical aid for reasons you don't know and now will never know.

A part of you wonders why you didn't ask then. Because hadn't they well and truly proven themselves to be a hero? From the way they had dashed into that burning building, never stopping until all were safe? From the way they still blame themselves for that man's unfortunate death? From the way they would put the safety of others above their own? From the way they would care for those abandoned mutts in the dog park and help them all find a home?

But your hand had frozen in the air inches away from their shoulder, never reaching out to touch them in the way you should have all those years ago.

And just as you always have before, you didn't ask.

____

The last time it happens, you didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. A large part of you still regrets not looking out for them, for dismissing their fierce willingness to be there despite the dangers, for doubting their intents for the sixth and final time.

You know you'll never forget the heart- breaking sound of Ortega's scream. The heart- stopping echo of shattering glass. The heart- wrenching sight of a broken window and an empty space where they should have been.

Numb for days, you would not feel the gaping hole they had left. Not when Ortega turns to you, eyes red-rimmed and swollen and so unlike the confident Marshal you have always known. Not when the eulogies are read and the crowds gather with silent candles in hand. Not when the empty coffin is lowered into the grave and white roses are laid atop the cold, gleaming stone.

But when it all dies down and you find yourself alone in the Rangers base, your eyes will fall upon the stupid mug they had given Ortega. And on a paper by its side, you will see the scrawled measurements in Ortega's handwriting, detailing the dimensions for a blue-and-white suit for a certain hero who had proven themselves worthy of the title and more.

And finally, you realize that you should've asked. You should've asked if they were alright the first, second, third, fourth and fifth time they were hurt, shaken or both.

For now, it's far too late to tell them you do respect their skills and heart as a hero, that you do consider them as one of your own. It's far too late to show that you care.

But for all your regrets, you know it isn't too late for everything.

So you begin your quest to unravel the mystery of Heartbreak. Because you don't like things you don't understand, and because they deserve that much. Because it's the only thing you can do.

And perhaps, if and when you find the answer as to what truly happened that fateful day, you will find it in you to forgive yourself.

[redactedfing-blog]

Megamind Modern Cowboy AU (Part 1)

@all-these-trees-stealing-mah-o2 cheers for the motivation I did the thing:

NOTE: It was heavily inspired off of a post by the aforementioned person and in the film, it sounds like Megamind is called “Lee”, so I used it as his name. I also found out cowboys still exist in America so there’s that too.

--------

Usually, it was said that the city was more predictable than the country.

So when Warden John Taylor heard a loud crash coming from the prison courtyard one Christmas morning, he was perplexed. Three prisoners huddled around the foreign object, gawking at whatever was inside.

He expected it to be a bomb, or some failed attempt to smuggle contraband into the prison by some gang member who still had contacts on the outside. Most unexpectedly, though, it turned out to be a rather frightened, and equally confused baby. The shock made him see past the infant’s cerulean blue skin, wide emerald eyes and abnormally large head almost immediately. Why would a child end up here of all places? Not even his brother Shaun, a prison guard, could believe his eyes. Both of them thought they had seen everything down where they grew up in Louisiana, but they were wrong, it so seemed.

The blue infant had a fish, which looked unnervingly like a piranha. Any hand going towards the infant was met with a stern, toothy glare. There was also some sort of pacifier, which glowed with hues of electric blue. John thought it might have been toxic, the way it was glowing, but the infant seemed unharmed when they had it.

Speaking of unharmed, the kid hadn’t managed to come here without a few bruises, much to both John and Shaun’s anger. The infant couldn’t have been more than just a week old, but despite the fact the child appeared bright and well, both feared that they may have suffered some brain damage on their journey here. A long wait in the prison infirmary negated these worries, as well as giving new ones. The infant, (now confirmed to be male), had a strong immune system to the most bizarre of diseases Earth could offer. The more common ones, however, did serious harm. One dose of the common cold wiped him out, leaving John unsure if the kid would even make it to a year old. Luckily, it appeared he would.

Sure enough, John adopted the infant and was very quick to let Shaun know of his new position, which was now Uncle Shaun. The infant, now named Lee, began to grow up into a happy (though not very tall) young boy. For the first four years of his life, he went between staying in the prison and traveling down to the family ranch in Louisiana. John saw it fit that he could grow up alongside the rest of the family, and adopted or not, they were quick to like him. Grandma and Grandpa Taylor were happy to have another grandchild to spoil with treats, and Rodney, his cousin, became his best friend (second to Minion, of course).

There were times where Rodney and Lee could pick up an ice pop, run into the valley and now return for hours, insisting that they were playing cowboys and that they had to go and hunt the thieves. Brandishing their ice pop packets and folding the top, claiming they were ‘guns’. They would dash through the marshes, squealing and laughing as they hid behind trees, clamber up hills, and even go far enough to pet some of the cattle. They would return hours later covered in sweat, boots and their kerchiefs covered in dirt, grinning with traces of sugar around their mouths. They never went very far, only how far their short legs would take them, and Uncle Boe always kept an eye out while they were adventuring.

Lee always began crying when they had to go back to Michigan for the other part of the year.

When they lived at the prison, back in Metro City, John could see that his son was easily influenced by the other prisoners. Most of their “advice” wasn’t too bad, but John didn���t see the need to be telling a young child to hit anyone who got in their face, especially without reason. At least John could be assured that Lee wouldn’t be hurt, given that the prisoners closest to where the kid was were moderately harmless in nature. He didn’t bat an eye when Lee was enrolled in kindergarten the following month and didn’t really think about how the other children would react to his appearance. Not only was he blue, but he had a rather solid Cajun accent, which would be enough to make anyone raise their eyebrows. Now, John himself had that same accent, and he was quite proud of it, but young kids rarely understand how differences work, and this was one of those times they didn’t.

The school was a disaster. Every day John watched his son return to the prison with bruises or cuts, and every dad he came back quieter and quieter. It was odd, really, considering the fact that he had a reputation for being a rowdy child back home. Seeing him barricade himself in his room, without a word to anyone, was incredibly worrying. What was even more worrying, however, was when he returned without the invention he had made that morning, or when a note saying “space-freak cowboy” was taped to his back in what John couldn’t shake looked like the teachers handwriting. Whatever the prisoners had taught him to suddenly came to light, when he was sent home early for punching (or at least trying to) another kid. John was aghast at Lee’s hand because it seemed that his hand had suffered more damage than the other student. The bones were shattered, with multiple breaks and fractures from his wrist to his knuckles. It was almost as if he had punched a brick wall.

The school fiasco went on for four months, with complaints from a parent that Lee was trying to ‘attack’ their child. The complaints only came from one person, and whenever John, or whoever was investigating, asked for proof - the parent never delivered any. They always claimed that it was the ‘emotional’ damage done to her son, who John found out was named Wayne, and not the physical damage, despite teachers reports and the parent originally claiming that Lee had physically attacked him. Whenever John went to speak to his son about this Wayne kid, all he could see was that Lee began to physically tremble, followed by him seething with anger and crying about how horrible Wayne was, but that nobody wanted to see it.

It wasn’t until one day, where Lee set off a blue paint bomb in the school, that John found out everything that had happened. He had been expelled, and through a stream of tears, Lee recited everything that was said and done to him throughout the past number of weeks. This time, it was John, and by extension, Uncle Shaun, who were seething with anger, and remarks that the parents of these monsters of kids were entitled and ignorant. One call back home to the rest of the Taylors sealed it, and a month after his fifth birthday, Lee was told that he, along with Uncle Shaun and his dad, were moving to the Louisiana ranch permanently. John remarked that he had never seen Lee look so eager to go somewhere following going to school, and the sluggish, unwilling attitude that the school had given him had turned into one of excitement. Shaun was worried the kid would fall out of his car seat should he become even more eager.

Once everything was settled, all of Lee’s aunts and uncles were quick to tell him about how he didn’t need to be worried about the ‘dirty rats’ that were the children and teacher of the Lil’ Gifted school, and that the ranch was going to be far more fun. Like Rodney, Lee began to be homeschooled, though his family remarked that they needn’t be bothered given that Lee was exceptional at learning, and could already breeze through physics textbooks intended for college students. This didn’t stop him from teaching Rodney, however, and they would always rush around the ranch afterward. In between the horses, the metalshop, the kitchen, the garage, there weren’t many places where they wouldn’t go.

Rodney, to Lee’s description, looked vaguely similar to Wayne. Though he had more freckles, dotted across his face and arms, and his hair was more wavy and poofy, in comparison to Wayne having rather flat, combed, (“dumb”, as Lee put it) hair. Rodney was two years older than Lee, unlike Wayne only being one year older, and Lee was quick to mention that Rodney was obviously, much cooler and nicer than Wayne could ever be. Rodney took pride in this and said that if he ever saw Wayne, he would deliver him a smack in the face. Lee never mentioned that Wayne was invulnerable, partially because he really did want to see him get slapped across his smug, entitled face, and partially because he didn’t want to bring up what happened to his hand months prior.

As far as Lee was concerned, whatever happened, had happened. It didn’t matter because now he got to stay at the ranch forever and he didn’t have to see his stupid classmates or the loud city or that ugly superman-imitating Wayne again. Still, he missed some of the prison ‘uncles’, and he didn't want to remember how much weight the words that the teacher had said to him held. He wasn’t a monster, nor was he very evil, despite what she insisted. His dad had reassuringly told him that she would lose her ability to teach, and wouldn’t be able to teach anywhere ever again. It had still hurt him, though. Still wounded whatever pride he had. It was the one thing he never mentioned to his dad, even during his outburst. However, that didn’t matter right now. He could do something about that later.

For now, he was going to settle down in front of the (only) television and chow down on the apple pie his grandparents had lovingly made beside Rodney, and watch Tom and Jerry until he could put Minion in his tank, go to his new room and go to bed. As far as he should be concerned, everything was going to be great.

[prorevenge]

He must have been a master hacker.

Warning: book ahead

Decades ago a was a restaurant manager. After years of working for TGI McChillibees I was recruited by a regular to come work at a hotel.

I was tired of the big corporate game and this seemed like a new challenge. Plus I was tired of trying to take pride in slinging food that when done perfectly was still mediocre at best.

Right away it was evident this hotel was a shit show. It turned out the property was under federal receivership as the owner was under indictment for making half a billion dollars in loans to banks that didn’t exist for companies that didn’t exist.

(One day the bellman who drove the shuttle can came back from a run superexcited to tell everyone the owner was back in country and he knew it because the bellman saw the owner led out of the airport in handcuffs by guys with windbreakers that read FBI.)

I was brought in to update the bars and restaurants but was not allowed to change anything. The head of housekeeping denied my request to dim the lights in the bar because it looked cleaner. I later found out this is common in some Asian countries but who the hell in America wants to sit in a bright white box with a bar in a shitty airport hotel when there are a load of hip bars a cab ride away.

No one. And that’s who was drinking in our bar. No one.

I was used to working with people more or less my age and with the same point of view. Now I was managing long term union members who gave zero fucks. Add to that the complete lack of training I was given in how to work in a union environment and it wasn’t pretty.

The HR manager (who recruited me) was leading negotiations with the union for the next contract and didn’t want to upset the apple cart so she refused to endorce any discipline. We had a busser no call/no show for a month. We let him go as it was job abandonment, it was grieved, and he was brought back as a banquet porter. Wtf?

It was a union house yet when someone no showed or called out I was expected to cover. I didn’t know this until a few weeks in when I got a call at 3 am saying I had to cover the breakfast shift as both server and cashier.

The controller was convinced everyone was stealing. She walked around all day looking for opportunities, nay possibilities that someone might remove a paper clip and screw the hotel.

The accountant sat in his office chain smoking cigarettes. He looked like something out of a movie with his long nails and an ash never less that three inches long. His office was always locked and he was barricaded in his desk by two shredders and they were always going.

The banquet manager got arrested for a DUI and convinced the guy who had my job before me to bail him out. No one knew this until one day he no showed and the cops come by looking for homie. Turns out the old manager had put his house on the line for this dude so he was fucked.

The Chef was awful. Like out of a book awful. He would buy fish from his steward who was catching them in the bay. The bay that was known to be full of PCBs and other contaminants from a few hundred years of pollution and was deemed off limits for catching food.

The Sunday buffet was everything from the last week or so covered in cream sauces and lemon slices. Didn’t matter if it was bad or not, just add more lemon slices.

Banquet food came out of the freezer and got put in the hot box hours before the event yet this clown ran around yelling at everyone like he was Gordon Ramsay.

The GM was told his contract wouldn’t be renewed a month into my tenure so he said fuck it and had me order cases of Dominus, and Lynch Bages, a fifth growth Bordeaux that drinks like a first. I learned that wine crap later as I was 25 and considered Miller Genuine Draft Light and Rumpleminz the pinnacle of fine drinking. All I knew was the shit was spends.

He would get off work and sit in the bar knocking back $60 of wine (around $100 in today’s scrilla) while I was yelled at for letting him do it.

Let him do it? That was my boss. How could I stop him?

Needless to say things weren’t working out so after a few months we agreed at my 90 day review to part ways. It was an easy decision.

I was moving on and happy in my next gig but still friends with some of the people I worked with who were there. In fact I ended up in the wedding of one of them.

I was already salty about my time there as what I was promised and what happened were worlds apart. But then my friend got fucked over.

She had landed a long term contract with the power company. We had some bad storms that damaged the power grid and they brought people from another market in for 9 months to trim trees, modernize things, whatever it is power companies due in such cases.

My friend should have received 1.5% of all their billing. Rooms, food, misc expenses all should have had a slight vig that kicked to her as was laid out in her employment bonus program. This would have been huge money as it was dozens of rooms a night over nine months.

When bonus time rolled around they kicked her a tiny fraction of what she was owed. Instead of close to 6 figures she barely got a few grand.

She was livid, as was her fiancé and I.

One night we were all bitching about it at the bar watching football. I really hated that place for me, for her, for everyone stuck in that hellhole. A terrible thought entered my brain around halftime and wouldn’t go away. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do but this would be my night.

I drove to the property and parked next door. It was not a well lit area so I could sneak over to where my old office was and jumped the wall. We always left the slider open to go out and smoke (it was a converted ground floor room) and I knew the banquet manager who shared the office was still on the run so I should be safe.

Once in the office I looked around trying to decide what to do when I saw the POS computer. This was the 90s so everything was controlled by this dinosaur from the 80s in the backroom that had a plastic box over the keyboard so no one could accidentally hit a key.

I grabbed my shirt like I’d seen in the movies so I wouldn’t leave any prints and fired it up. This old beast ran MSDOS as it’s operating system and I was enough of a geek to know what to try.

I typed in cd\ to get to the root directory. Then del . For the vast majority out there who have no idea what that means wiped out the root directory. I was giddy with that total “aw fuck what did I just do” feeling. Not sure if that was enough and completely surprised I was able to do so I double downed and typed in format /c.

The damn thing blinked and just started chugging along. Fucking erased itself.

I got the hell out of there and somehow made it home without a dui. I guessed they’d have to reboot from a back up and ha ha that would be a pain in the ass.

A year or so later I ran in to some of the hotel peeps in a bar and they asked if I’d heard about what happened.

It turned out that someone hacked the pos system and destroyed it. Because it was so old, “experts” had to be flown in and they said the person must have been a masterful hacker because if they had done anything less then it would have been an easy fix. Anything more and it would have left electronic fingerprints.

It turned out that there were no back ups. It was towards the end of the month and all the sales data was gone. The experts couldn’t rebuild a system so old so a new system had to be purchased and installed. That alone ran over 6 figures to do.

This also triggered an audit.

Remember the controller who was convinced everyone was stealing? Turns out she was. She and the accountant were led out of the hotel in handcuffs as it turns out the feds don’t like it when you embezzle from a company in their receivership.

At that point it hit me that I could be in some seriously hot water so once my heart started pumping again I stopped any sort of coy “what do you mean” bullshit when asked if I knew anything about it and shut the hell up.

The statute of limitations is long gone and it’s an obvious throwaway. I wish I could take credit for being such a master l33t haxter but it was just the actions of a pissed off drunk with a geeky background.

(source) (story by Poskilla)

[wildegreenlight]

Crossing (Clarification Ch 2)

A/N: Here it is: the next installment of Clarification. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first. I have to give so much love to @callieskye for her beta prowess and to @trademarkblue, @idearlylovealaugh, @remedial-potions, @jenn582, @aloemilk , @theperksofshippingromione, and @azaleablueme   for giving me so much amazing feedback!! I love you all & dream of the day I can become wealthy and buy us that island where we will write fic & have permanent book club discussions and drink cocktails and watch movies and just generally be awesome together.

If you have not read part one, it is HERE.

Every bit of him ached.

He had known, even on that first night, that this might be an epically bad idea, but at the time he hadn’t really cared. Not that he really did now.

That first night it had all been completely unselfish, he had only cared about what she needed, what she wanted. She’d asked him to stay-so he did-it was that simple. If she’d asked him to sleep outside on the sand, he’d have done it without hesitation. The fact that she’d seemed so content sleeping on his chest, tucked securely in the crook of his arm, began to fill that part of him that had been clawed out in Malfoy’s cellar.

He had failed her, again, no matter how many times she tried to assure him otherwise, he knew he had, but it would be the last time. He had chanted it like a mantra inside his head as she slept. He had whispered it into her hair in the moments before his exhaustion overtook his vigil.  He had proclaimed it as boldly as his hammering heart would allow as they walked on the shore after dinner. With each day that passed he grew more and more bold, they both did: it was no longer strange to take her hand as they walked along, to feel her head on his shoulder as they sat on the sofa, to pull her close as they drifted off to sleep.

But, as brave as they had both been, there was still a final step that they were both unwilling to take. It didn’t upset him, didn’t even make him doubt her feelings for him. He knew why he hadn’t been able to do the things his heart, and his body if he were being completely honest, were screaming for him to do.  He could not, would not, give her the chance to misunderstand his intentions. He knew her well enough- hell, he knew her better than he knew anyone, even Harry to know that she was carrying more of a burden than she would ever let anyone know. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that he was only trying to comfort her, or worse, that he only wanted to be with her because he thought they wouldn’t make it through this alive.

So he would wait. As long as he needed to. Gladly.

But

The problem was...the more time that passed, the more looks that she gave him, the more touches they exchanged, the more nights he held her as she slept...the more there was, the more he wanted.

When he had lain in this bed, alone, months ago, he had prayed to Merlin ceaselessly that he could just find her, just see her, just know she was alive, just hold her, just once.  

But he should have known...with Hermione there was no just, it would always be more.

So now he was here, lying in the almost light of dawn with the woman than he loved more than his own life literally, he had proven that to her as well as himself

“You can have me! Keep me!’

In the end, his biggest fear, the one buried so deep that even Riddle’s trinket couldn’t suss it out, had begun to show itself in fifth year. He’d brushed it off at first-the dreams were just a rehash of the Department of Mysteries fiasco-usually with some twist: the brains grabbing Harry and Hermione; Death Eaters hurling Harry and Hermione toward the Veil, the two of them in all manner of mortal peril. The only common thread was that he couldn’t save them...both.

He was sure other people had similar thoughts, in abstraction, but even at 16 he was painfully aware that his fear was in no way theoretical, there was a better than fair chance that one day-in a decreasingly distant future- he would have to make the one decision that he saw no possible way of making.  And, because he was so sure that there was no satisfactory conclusion, he stuffed it far down to the very bottom of his growing list of dreads that were much too adult for one so young.

It had worked, more or less, for a while, but when the Felix had worn off and the awful reality of Bill’s injuries and Dumbledore’s death began to sink in, the old fears came clawing back, gaining in momentum until they were drowned out by that cursed locket. The first night he had spent in this bedroom, alone, when he’d left them, his dreams had been haunted again. This time, however, he couldn’t save either of them. Every nightmare ended with them both dead in that bloody tent with him arriving too late.

Finding them again had been a miracle, and in the afterglow he had let himself believe that Merlin would never be so cruel as to give him such a choice. That all those times he had worried about it were probably pointless.

In a way he had been right. It had been blind of him to not see that his choice had been made. From the moment the Snatchers had grabbed them, he had one goal above all others, to make sure Hermione was safe. He hadn’t had time to process it until much later, kneeling by her bedside as Fleur tended to her injuries. He supposed it should bother him more, knowing that, as much as he loved Harry, and as much as he knew he was the key to saving the wizarding world, that there was no world for him without her in it.

Would he have volunteered to take Harry’s place as quickly as he had hers? Of course, but only if it could guarantee Hermione’s safety as well. It should have been, perhaps, a more shocking revelation, but it didn’t make him feel anything other than peaceful. He had finally unraveled the knot of his heart, layer after layer, until he could lay it out straight...he didn’t just love her, hell, he had a big family full of people he loved, this was something else, something he didn’t quite have a name for, maybe she would, she was always really good with fancy words.

Hermione made him feel things that he had never felt before. He knew it sounded right corny, like something out of one of those Celestina Warbeck songs his mum loved, but it was true. It was the indescribable simultaneous feeling of heaviness and lightness. As he lay there, he was conscious of both sensations: her body pressed into his, filing his heart to overflowing, her breath against the crook of his neck assuring him that he could in fact fly without a broom.

It was a delicious sort of torture, what she was doing to him, what he was doing to her, what they were doing to each other. He let his mind wander, pulling her ever so slightly closer, to what might happen if he just…let go. She wouldn’t push him away if he dropped his head that ultimate last degree and brushed his lips against hers.  She would open her eyes slowly, giving him that look, and every bit of his self control would vanish as he deepened the kiss, rolling her over to…

Fuck...nope..better stop that…

He didn’t know a whole lot about romance, but he was pretty sure waking up to a massive stiffy wedged against your hip didn’t qualify. More than once since they had begun sharing this bed he had been forced to reposition himself to avoid embarrassment.  Good morning, Hermione, oh, sorry, I was just thinking about snogging you into the mattress and...well...whattayasay? I know we haven’t really talked about it but I love you and I may actually go mental if I don’t kiss you. He chuckled softly as he imagined her reaction. He cursed himself as he felt her stir, but any negative thought fled his mind when he found her eyes smiling back at him.

“Hi,” her voice was so soft that if he hadn’t been looking at her, he wouldn’t have been sure he heard her.

“Hi...I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Oh, not at all...did you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Enough?”

“Um-hmm,” he wasn’t exactly sure what he was agreeing to, he was currently quite lost in trying to decide if she was more beautiful when she was about to go to sleep, or when she just woke up.

“Good,” she snuggled in to him, “do you mind if we stay put for a bit? I think it’s still rather early.”

“We can stay as long as you like...doesn’t matter if it’s early or not.”

“As long as I like?”

Dear sweet Merlin! She had to know what it did to him when she said things like that!

“Yep. Not one minute before, and not one minute after...I’ll barricade the door if I have to so no one disturbs us.”

“Better make it a strong one, you know how ruthless Fleur can be when it’s time for breakfast.”

“I guess all the Weasley brothers have thing for strong women.”

He had expected her to laugh, or roll her eyes, or maybe even swat him for such a cheeky comment, but instead she looked him very earnestly, “Really?”

He wasn’t exactly sure, was she questioning the fact the she was strong or that he was madly in love with her? Because honestly, he couldn’t see how she could doubt either point. As fun as the banter and the flirting were, he needed her to know that what he said was true.

“Do you seriously not know?” He removed his hand from her waist, bringing it to her cheek.

“Yes, I know...I guess..we haven’t really talked about it, but when we are like this, it seems so simple, but then I’m so used to second guessing,” she sighed, searching for the words.

“I understand...It’s a hard habit to break.”

“I am trying...and you’re making it easier that it has ever been,” the color rose slightly in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away, “I hope I’m doing the same for you.”

He nodded at her, a bit too overcome to speak for the moment, because the most wonderful part of all this was that all of the things that he thought he would never be able to tell her, not only could he, but she seemed to want to tell him the same things. All this time.

“You are, but sometimes,” it was easier for him, but still not that easy.

“It just seems too good to be true?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think...what if I say too much?”

“What if I say too little?”

“What if,” but whatever words were coming after that were trapped as Ron pressed his lips to hers. All the “what ifs” and second guesses were snapped out like boggarts by a flurry of gentle kisses.

They sighed into each other, kisses and hands growing delicately bolder. As much as he had imagined this moment, played it over and over in his mind, a million scenarios of varying believability, the reality was infinitely better. She was really here, kissing him back, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. How had he ever held out this long? How had he lived this many years without...Bloody Hell! Her tongue! Was it possible for your heart to burst from just a kiss?  Although he already knew, with Hermione it was never “just” anything.

If he thought he was going to go mental from wanting to kiss her, that was nothing compared to how actually kissing her was going to affect him. Speaking of affecting, you better slow down before you show her more of the Weasley charm than she’s ready for. Slowly, Ron pulled back just enough to rest his forehead on hers, smiling as he realized that they were both panting slightly.

“Sorry...you were...saying?”

She did roll her eyes at him then, laughing as he pulled her into a tight hug. It was a relief to him that despite this new part of their relationship, the foundations were still the same. That they were still the Ron and Hermione that had, despite all their best efforts at mucking it up, come to love each other in every possible way. He realized that he had been afraid of losing that first love the non-kissing love, it was one of the reasons he had been so hesitant to admit his true feelings not only to her, but to himself as well.

He thought, for months, years if he were being completely honest, that kissing her would be crossing some highly guarded border into a strange land, but he was amazed at just how natural it all felt. His feelings hadn’t magically changed, he didn’t love her more, or even in a different way, he wasn’t in a strange land at all, he was home.

[their-destinys-writer]

Misadventures in Reporting #1

Welcome to my first original story.

About the series: Misadventures in Reporting is a series of short stories about the adventures of a normal reporter living in an abnormal world.

Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, mild cursing and one derogatory term.

Word count: 1,529

Also in: Wattpad

Along with it, I commissioned the very talented @edendaphne for an art of the first scene, which you can see here.

#1 - Working the Deadline

The typing was slowly dying away. One by one, the journalist’s coworkers were leaving the office, finished with that day’s work. She still struggled with hers, though. It had been two hours already, revising, making sure she got the right tone for it. Trying hard to not sound accusatory, but denouncing a wrong done by a beloved celebrity.

What was worse is that it wasn’t just any celebrity: it was the city’s beloved superhero. She tapped her pen against the desk at the reminder. The journalist never thought she’d end up calling out someone with superpowers. But he had crossed the line, and she couldn’t stay quiet.

With a sigh, the woman with dark hair passed the page from her pad and stared at the last of her notes. It was a quote from the interviewed victim: “Just because he saved my life, it doesn’t give him any right over my body.”

It was the best quote she had gotten in a long time. Even better than that time she caught a senator saying: “Why should we give money to spics?” Oh, the newspaper had had a field day with that one, and it looked even juicier with Melinda Martínez in the byline.

But this was different. Nobody liked senator Ross, but everybody loved Teleman. And Teleman was the one under fire this time. And Melinda Martínez would not look so good this time.

Tsk, double standard, she thought bitterly. The woman absentmindedly reached for her coffee cup and lifted it to her lips, only to feel tiny crumbs of coffee ground on her tongue.

With a grimace, Melinda stood up. She headed to the small kitchen, past the desks. Slowly, and with a deep breath, she poured the remaining black liquid into the cup. When was the last time she had worked this late? Oh yeah, last week, after the fire Teleman helped put out. Well, that wasn’t comforting.

Melinda started back to her desk, in the hopes of revising only one more time, before turning it in to her editor. It would already be her fifth time, but it was such a touchy subject, she had to make sure it was just right.

She sat down once again and drank one third of the coffee she had just poured. Setting it down, she placed one fist under her chin and the other grabbed her pen. For the sixth time that night, she reread her article. Every now and then, she stopped to change a word here and there, but not as much as the other five times she revised.

By the end of the reading, she was tapping her pen against the notepad, deciding whether to send it or not. At this point, any additional change would merely be stalling for the inevitable.

This was it.

With a deep breath, she set down her pen and grabbed the computer mouse instead. With only a few clicks, a copy of the article was printed and another copy was sent to her editor’s email, Mr. Sullivan.

Melinda downed the last of her coffee and worked as quickly as she could to grab all her stuff, including tablet, cellphone, notepad, pen and jacket. After putting everything except the jacket in a messenger bag, she grabbed the article from the printer, heading to her editor’s office.

When she reached the door, she lightly knocked on the door frame to announce her appearance. A man in his early fifties looked up from his computer screen, from the space over his glasses. Melinda exhaled loudly.

“I sent you the article to your email, plus I printed it out,” she quietly said, handing the paper to the man. “I also sent you the recordings and my sources, just in case.”

“Fine, I’ll read it in a minute,” he commented, turning his attention back to the screen.

“’Night Mr. Sullivan,” she waved.

“You’re leaving? So soon?” he asked, without stopping his work.

“I gotta do an interview early tomorrow,” she limited herself to say. She bid the man farewell again and started walking away, as quickly as she could, without arousing suspicion.

“Martínez!” the editor called out, but Melinda pretended not to hear. She knew exactly what he was going to say. But she was not spending another hour on her desk toning down her article. Instead, she sped up to the elevator. As luck would have it, a janitor was coming out of it, so she quickly slipped into it and closed the doors, before Mr. Sullivan could decide to follow her.

Doors closed, Melinda let go of a hefty breath. Her heart was still racing, yet her conscience told her she did the right thing. While Teleman had helped many, he had no right to go about groping women he rescued. Despite his heroic acts, it was important to warn others about his lack of ethics.

I did the right thing, Melinda assured herself. However, the thought could only bring so much comfort. She knew that, despite doing the right thing, she may get in trouble for it.

She only hoped it wouldn’t be too much.

It was the next day, and Melinda’s heart wouldn’t slow down.

Shut up heart, I did the right thing, she chided herself, with no success. This was the first time she took such a risk with a story. It was one thing making a politician angry, but a superhero…

She took deep breaths as she neared the closest coffee shop. If there was one thing she needed after a sleepless night, it was a pure, black coffee. It didn’t even come close to the richness of the one back home, but it did the job. And that’s what mattered.

As she entered the tiny establishment, the first thing to catch her eye was the rack with newspapers, one with a large picture of Teleman. Few people bought newspapers these days, but the covers still made an impact every now and then. And with the few people squinting at the paper, this one was definitely one of them.

“Tsk, stupid press. Always ruining reputations for money,” a woman muttered behind her. Melinda took deep breaths, doing her best not to lose her cool.

Instead, she made the line, and acted as if that cover story had nothing to do with her. In fact, she hadn’t even expected it to be on the cover, especially after handing it so close to the deadline. But there it was, in big black letters: TELEMAN SEXUALLY ASSAULTS RESCUE VICTIMS.

This could either make or break her career. Although she didn’t think the investigative work she made would win her a Pulitzer, she could still get heavy points for daring to take on a freaking superhero. Something most people had deemed untouchable. But for that reason, it could also break her career, and loose corporate media a lot of money.

Of course, corporate media was not the best place to work, but at least she didn’t have to write trashy articles about Reality TV celebrities.

“Good morning,” the cashier greeted. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

“I’ll just have a regular black coffee,” Melinda said.

“Coming right up,” the girl responded in a chipper tone.

Morning people, Melinda internally chuckled. It only took a few minutes for the drink to be ready, and once again she was stepping on the sidewalk, away from gritty remarks against the press. Even after all these years, she still didn’t get fully used to people calling her names just for being a journalist.

Speaking of work, today was supposed to be a simple day. She only had one interview scheduled with a Congressman, who wanted to talk about a bill he had intentions of submitting to Congress. Something about renovating schools. A wonderful bill that will probably be left forgotten in the pile of ‘nobody cares’ in Congress. Yet Melinda still kept hope it wouldn’t go down like that again, like so many other times.

As she got closer to the building of her job, her heart started thrumming again. If only she could know what was awaiting her. But as she got closer to the building, a Police barricade caught her attention.

Frowning, she searched around to see what was going on. Taking a closer look, she noticed the ground was littered with glass.

Martínez.

It was an odd place for glass. Had there been a car crash? But where was the car? Or did someone break a window?

“Martínez!”

Was someone calling her?

“MARTÍNEZ!” Melinda looked up, seeking the voice, only to find the source of the glass: a grey, convertible Porsche was sticking out of the building.

The windows of the structure were shattered, metal beams were bent or broken. It looked like the vehicle was thrown with such force that no person possessed. Except one.

“ARE YOU DEAF?!” Mr. Sullivan called again. It was then that she noticed the ageing man was standing next to the car, holding on to one of the broken beams. “In my office. NOW!” he spat, his face so red, she could almost see steam coming out of his ears.

Great, she thought. There goes this month’s paycheck.

Like this story? Want to read more of Melinda’s adventures? Support this series by buying a Hot Chocolate with ko-fi.

[toddlazarski]

Last Suppers

Shepherd Express

“Please let me go ‘round again.”

— John Prine

I thought the apocalypse would be more exciting. Some kind of heaven-sent fireball, a mushroom cloud of malaise, Mad Max dune buggies. In this far off light I’d always pictured myself bearded, barricaded, adroitly philosophical, suddenly quite adept at swinging a sort of spiked bat or other homemade zombie stopper. Instead, so far, some five weeks in, nobody I know has gotten sick. Nobody in my orbit has died. Even being accosted by our neighborhood Jehovah’s Witness on the street, being told of end times and other corporeal human collapses I couldn’t stand or fully hear—being as they were, uttered by a man six feet away, while a two-year-old pent-up from quarantine perched on my shoulders and periodically bonked my head urging movement—took place from a mindful, strangely respectable social distance. 

Mostly these days just find me as an iPhone-glued glut of dissociated dread. A musty sack of torpor filling out ironically-named Champion jogging pants and a Totino’s-stained hoodie crowned by a hastily shaved head. What I’m currently reminded of, for some reason, from somewhere deep within the lizard brain that was weaned on world-end movies, is Deep Impact, and the way it all ends for Tea Leoni’s character: in front of a beloved beachhouse, with brave acceptance, facing truth and demise in the form of an imminent asteroid death, with her—father, maybe? (This recall may be way off, as I only saw the movie once, maybe 20 years ago, but I have a current therapist-mandated pause from internet research as the slightest twitch toward dot com-ing leads inevitably, instantly to a Milla Jovovich in Fifth Element-like doom scroll of terror). Regardless, this is how I view my resignation when being generous: a soft, somber, single tear strong-willed nod and jutted-chin acquiescence. I’ve had my restaurant meals, if they never come again. I’ve had too many, at too many bars. I’ve lived. So, here I am, at the freezer again, my own beloved beachhouse, mustering strength, wondering how much Ben and Jerry’s will pass before life maybe resembles normal again, or else until I see St. Pete, or St. Paul, or whichever is the one at the gates. Measuring the days till Quetzalcoatl in pints of Chunky Monkey. Wondering if I’ll ever again eat Cherry Garcia as a little reward, for a jog and some push ups maybe, instead of a desperate substitute for therapy, lobotomy. My biggest preoccupation is really Instacart deliveries, and the thought of them, the threat of them, where we let the bags sit on the porch like sentinels with tales from the front lines, or like badges of middle class virus-avoidance privilege. We hope the wind cleans off the Corona, I suppose, and then we let the same bags sit inside, eyeing our wares cautiously, suspiciously by the door, weighing the three articles advising cleansing groceries is unnecessary versus the one—always from Medium—that states everything inside a grocery store will likely give you and your grandmother the plague. Then, between the subsequent wiping—of course—and the beginning to plan six days out for the next Instacart delivery, and then the moisturizing of hands out of necessity from washing hands far too much, there has been such a background din of quiet second-coming contemplation. With little to do but wipe the door handle again, with the closest social contact being yet another episode of Cheers, there’s been too much time to think on all this, on all that went, all that was snuffed by a brutal harsh Monday morning reminder—all our kicks, our joys, our dinner plans and drink diversions, all that was maybe never really deserved in the first place.

For one or another—or none at all—reason that I choose to not consider too closely, the last normal weekend in contemporary American existence was a big one. A Friday night trip to Enlightened Brewing to check out Derek Pritzl and the Gamble was a promising prospect, sure. They had recently introduced me to, made me fall deeply in love with, play over and over again, John Prine’s “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness.” Still, as things were, it was largely run-of-the-mill in those distant days of social possibility. Just line up one of a few willing babysitters, jot on the calendar absent-mindedly, leave it peppered, like always, with the growing-old adult notion of if I feel like it. The self-importance of a modern American. The expectation, the world owing me it’s pearls and it’s oysters and it’s artisanal double India Pale Ales, for some reason. There for taking, when we wished. It’s like we were all Mad Men men, coming home from work where you expect your dinner to be waiting, your children cleaned and polite. You did a little bit of work and now you are owed something, the other half of your existence, calm and orderly and “here are your slippers, dear.” Now there is no choosing or taking or rewarding yourself with a night out, or rewarding yourself with a night in. It’s simply like our parents have given us an indefinite timeout, with more whiskey, yes, but also more, much more, morbidity. And also our parents are not coming to our room, eventually, to tell us it will all be ok. Rather, now, they might come, and stand on the sidewalk, while we stand on the front porch awkwardly, not knowing what to do with our hands, with no Easter hugs even considered, and mom might leave sugar cookies in a bag on the sidewalk, as if we were in prison, and she was the jailer that had to slide our sustenance gruel through a slot in the door. Only her said bag came with a real wonder: do we have to disinfect that now? I ran into a friend at Enlightened, then another, then a friend of a friend, and then a work friend—hugs for all the normal tangly tendrils of an adequate social life, amplified by guitars and rollicking songs of regret and craft suds and jocular end-of-week revelry. The band was twangy and driving and jostly, and I wanted it to be louder. Actually my spoiled fragile ego knew I deserved it to be louder. Meanwhile I talked importantly about basketball and somebody told me about their trip to New Orleans. “I’ll be there in a month,” I said. Like an ignoramus, like tempting fate, like I was one of the kids on the playground in Sarah Connor’s nuclear apocalypse nightmare in Terminator 2. There was no Purell in sight, in mind. 

Later, at the Newport, the bartender handed me a beer list, and I didn’t even note that, or contemplate my mortality on the fact, he wasn’t wearing latex gloves. I leaned close, doing the thing you have to do at crowded bars where you wedge between two seated patrons, brush one or both, amplify your voice to the hunched-forward Sam Malone, spittle and open mouths and casual “excuse me, I’m sorry, man” contact with strangers not an issue or thought, let alone transgression against the whole of humanity’s existence. The bummer about the NBA that night was that the Bucks were losing to the Lakers. The saddest part about John Prine was the line: “How can a love that'll last forever, get left so far behind?” What would any of us say, had we knowl—in 5 days the entirety of the NBA machinery would be suddenly halted, a broom handle stuck in the grinding gears? That I would have no chance at seeing live music again, for the foreseeable future? And that, weeks later, due to the same crippling circumstances, John Prine would be dead?  

The next night, somehow, as if acting on some last-chance latent level, I found myself barreling south for a Saturday night in Chicago. I rode a crowded Amtrak. I held the steel handle up the steps, followed along close in line, plopped unworriedly right on the worn blue cloth seat, I ordered a Lyft, I closed a packed bar with out-of-town big-city tenacity. Old friends shared birthday cake in a corner. I flushed a toilet, maybe didn’t wash my hands for a full 20 seconds, poked at the jukebox, clinked glasses, performed once-normal finger and hand functions that would now cause me to douse both extremities to the elbow in alcohol and ask for a light. My buddy and I kept drinking like we were Goodfellas, bound shortly for a stint in the can, which, in hindsight, we sort of were. Then we ordered another Lyft back to his place, like signing the tab on the last real Saturday night. Sunday was disarmingly sunny, soft, pleasant, the kind of warm early spring sliver that catches you off balance, leaves you without the right clothes or your sunglasses. So we sat inside, at the bar at a place called the Moonlighter, where we nursed hangovers with micheladas and shared fiery chicken wings and sloppily severed a grease-dripping American-cheesed burger and shoved it down our gaping gullets and licked fingers and laughed at the bartender’s Nascar sweatshirt, bitched about his lassitude. It was still a day where you could like a bartender or not like a bartender, and you didn’t have to wonder if all bartenders had simply vanished, poof, gone on the wind, Leftovers-style. You could do your drinking business and move on to the next one. Which we did, literally, deciding on pizza and homebrews at a spot called Bungalow that takes—that took—itself probably a bit too seriously. We’ve often fallen into this habit of double lunch-ing, not so much because we are slobs, fat and greedy and gluttonous. And not as some kind of intuitive acknowledgment that we were approaching end times. It also wasn’t just a love of time together, collapsing the 100 miles that separates our lives with a collective unspoken vow of ceaseless Epicureanism. Well, maybe exactly because of all those reasons. Either way we ate, glad they take, took, themselves so seriously with each bite, sip. And I got a pie to go, tucking it under my arm through Union Station, cradling the box like a toddler’s favorite stuffed dinosaur during my ride home nap, a last pepperoni and sausaged vestige from the world of living, togetherness, an experience slice from before we began to view each other as potentially poisonous flowers.        

My final restaurant meal was the day after, at Copper Kitchen, my neighborhood greasy spoon of fluffy omelets and watery coffee that you can never get half down before a refill magically appears tableside. A welcoming diner with video poker, and some staff that still eye me a bit questioningly because I’ve only been coming here for two years, and not 30, like most patrons always around me. By now though, with some work, our regular waitress is beginning to know the score, my daughter and I having seemingly earned the corner booth I always steer her toward. I grab the high chair myself, never need a menu, she orders her own “Mickey Mouse pancakes, please” in an impossibly tiny voice. In many ways, actually, it feels small town-worn, lived-in, like a John Prine song. A surreal slowdown, a place with a cook with a “short order face.” A spot of warm plates and unjudging respite. “If I came home, would you let me in? Fry me some pork chops and forgive my sin?” Our daddy-daughter day this early March Monday was flowing in a far more friendly manner though: another successful trip to the Domes behind us, we had full-stomach cold afternoon warm bed naps ahead. I wanted to tell her some news I was suppressing too, having just briefly talked to my wife on the phone about her recent brief phone call with the doctor. The info was just beginning to gel and bacon-grease coagulate down around my ham and cheese omelet and double-buttered rye. “You’re going to have a sister,” I almost said. Instead I let her eat more bacon, I let the waitress squeeze her arm affectionately as she poured me yet more benign coffee that I would sip and sip until it was time to leave. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t time yet. But maybe I missed the time. How could I have known, that now, weeks later, Copper Kitchen and restaurants like it, all restaurants, are in real danger of never fully opening again? How was I to know that soon there would be no business anywhere for good news?

[jccamus]

After Fare Hike Stirs Violent Unrest in Chile, President Suspends It

After Fare Hike Stirs Violent Unrest in Chile, President Suspends It https://ift.tt/33P4IpP

SANTIAGO, Chile — After a chaotic two days of violent protests and looting in Chile’s capital, the president suspended a subway fare hike that had set off an intense wave of unrest. Shortly afterward, a curfew was announced from 10 p.m. Saturday to 7 a.m. Sunday in Santiago, the capital.

What had begun as a protest by high school students quickly devolved on Friday into looting and arson in Santiago, prompting the president to declare a state of emergency in the city. Three people were killed in a supermarket fire in Santiago, officials said on Sunday.

On Saturday, as tanks watched over its landmark Plaza Baquedano, protests spread to a dozen other cities. In the capital, at least five subway stations and buses were set ablaze, while violent demonstrators looted supermarkets and pharmacies.

With several groups calling for a national strike on Monday, people feared much worse to come.

“The government hasn’t understood anything,” said Gabriela Muñoz, 40, a secretary. “You just need to scratch the surface to discover that people are fed up with so much abuse. This is happening because the government won’t listen.”

The sight of military tanks and troops roaming the streets was jarring for many Chileans, given the country’s former 17-year military dictatorship, during which the armed forces committed rampant abuses. This is the first time since Chile’s return to democracy in 1990 that the government has declared a state of emergency for public disorders in the capital.

The mayhem in Chile is the latest spasm of unrest in a region that has been awash in political crises this year.

President Sebastián Piñera issued the fare-hike suspension late Saturday, and indicated that the army general in charge of security in Santiago might soon issue a curfew.

Many were stunned by what the regional governor called “a level of destruction never seen before.”

Far from heeding Mr. Piñera’s restrictions, by midday people in the capital were banging pots and pans in the streets in an outcry against the rising cost of living, miserable pensions, relatively low wages, deficient health and education systems and costly and inefficient public utilities.

“The people who govern the country seem to be living in a different world from the rest of us,” said Enrique Araya, 49, a lawyer, as he banged pots on Friday evening with his family in front of a subway station.

He added that a feeling of impotence was the true impetus for the protests. “The metro fare was just the detonator,” he said.

Troops took control of some areas of Santiago on Saturday where protests once again turned violent, as demonstrators erected barricades and attacked subway stations and buses. At least five buses were burned downtown by the early afternoon, and all bus services were temporarily suspended in the capital.

The government declared a state of emergency on Saturday night in the city of Concepción, about 310 miles south of the capital, because of looting and vandalism. Protests and arson attacks have also taken place in the port city of Valparaíso, where Congress is, and other cities around the country.

The nearly 8,000 army troops deployed overnight in Santiago, Valparaíso and Concepción did not deter vandals and looters who ransacked and set fire to supermarkets, gas stations and car dealerships.

On Friday students jumped subway turnstiles to protest the second fare increase this year. But that night, demonstrators set fire to dozens of subway stations, several banks, buses and the headquarters of Chile’s largest electricity provider, Enel. Looters stormed into pharmacies, supermarkets and other stores.

Special police units barged into stations and deployed tear gas, beat up demonstrators and violently dragged people from subway cars to take them into custody.

Government officials confirmed that on Friday night more than 300 people were arrested and 156 police officers and 20 civilians were wounded. Seventy-eight subway stations, or about 60 percent of the subway network, have suffered some sort of damage; the subway is likely to be closed for much of the week. Calling the demonstrators “organized vandals” and “criminals,” officials announced that they would authorize higher penalties than usual for offenses.

The political scientist Guillermo Holzmann of the University of Valparaíso blamed “an accumulation of factors” for the strife: frustration over the economy, the rising price of water, electricity and transportation, plus more crime and corruption.

“People feel the state is inefficient, it doesn’t protect them, and the market abuses them,” he said. “The metro fare was the last straw.”

The fare increase, which went into effect on Oct. 6, came at a time when the cost of living for poor and middle-class families has been rising while wages have remained stagnant. The average monthly salary is $807, about a fifth of which is spent on transportation. With the fare hike, a rush-hour subway ride would cost about $1.20.

“Everything that is going on is so unfair, because everything is going up: transportation fares, electricity, gas; and salaries are so low,” said Isabel Mora, 82, a retiree who receives a monthly pension of about $62.

Several economies in Latin America are either in recession or sputtering, which prompted the International Monetary Fund in July to cut its growth projection for the region from a meager 1.6 percent to a dismal .6 percent.

The dire fiscal landscape has exacerbated political tensions across the region and fueled protest movements that have taken aim at austerity measures, harmful environmental policies and rising inequality, among other causes.

The fierce public backlash is unfolding in countries that experienced an expansion of the middle class during the commodity boom of the 2000s, which expanded access to education and higher paying jobs across the region. With less cash on hand, leaders are struggling to meet their citizens’ expectations.

Mr. Piñera’s decision to declare a state of emergency followed a wave of violent protests in Ecuador this month, which led its president, Lenin Moreno, to temporarily flee the capital. In neighboring Peru, President Martín Vizcarra dissolved Congress in late September in a dramatic escalation over a political fight set off by a corruption inquiry.

The economic meltdown in Venezuela, meanwhile, continues to spur a migration wave testing the generosity and social safety net of neighboring countries.

Marta Lagos, director of the polling firm Latinobarometro, said the unrest of the past few days “has shown the real Chile: with many problems and people willing to protest.”

Chile’s international image is an idealized fabrication of the international press, she said.

In a recent interview with The Financial Times, Mr. Piñera boasted that in the context of Latin America, “Chile looks like an oasis because we have stable democracy, the economy is growing, we are creating jobs, we are improving salaries and we are keeping macroeconomic balance.”

The protests come as Chile prepares to host two major international conferences: an Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit meeting next month and the United Nations Climate Change Conference in December.

“This was a social explosion waiting to happen, and high school students opened the floodgates,” Ms. Lagos said.

“This is the beginning of something, not the end. People are realizing they have power over the government, and they can paralyze Santiago. This is the closest thing to a citizen revolution, but it has no leadership, no one to negotiate with.”

Ernesto Londoño contributed reporting.

https://ift.tt/2J672Au via The New York Times October 21, 2019 at 10:41AM

[redravenapts]

[ open to females, preferably a vampire (it can be an vampire!AU version of your muse, if you want) - Ian’s info here, but this is an AU so some things may not apply ]

Plot: The general idea would be that your muse is a vampire who acts as a messenger between two survivors strongholds, and volunteered for the job because she’s immune to the virus and can heal faster than humans can, even though the other survivors don’t know. But she got separated from her group and is left with no supplies and no weapons, which is when she ends up wandering in Ian’s building. Ian helps her and they end up striking a deal, he accepts to accompany her for protection and blood supply, and in exchange she leads him to the stronghold she was going to when she was attacked. 

Ian knew it was dangerous to be out at night, even if it was just a matter of stepping out on the balcony of what had become his home. His eyes moved over the silent, dark expanse of empty houses, windows broken or gone, roofs littered with debris and streetlights devoid of electricity. It filled his heart with dread, a cold rush of unease making his skin crawl as he looked at the remains of what had been human civilization. Somehow, it was worse at night; during the day, he’d grown used to silence, silence was good, it kept him alive. At night, however, the air was filled with the sounds of nocturnal animals, crickets and toads, but also larger, more dangerous predators that had found their way back into urbanized areas. He’d seen plenty of rabid dogs, wolves and even a mountain lion or two. He always stayed inside, at night. It had been two years since the virus had hit, decimating the world population and driving most of the survivors mad with fevers that permanently damaged their brain functions. It wasn’t the zombie apocalypse everyone had thought was coming, it was much worse. A small portion of the population had contracted the virus, but had come out of it alive and well, and Ian was one of the lucky few; something in his genes, they’d said. He’d even volunteered blood to several laboratories before it had all gone to shit, but no one seemed to have found a vaccine just yet. It was hard to keep track, electricity was down in most areas, so was the internet and television broadcast. The radio seemed to be the only mean of communication, but his had been silent for weeks, no updates. Rumors about survivors building strongholds throughout the States had reached him months before, but it was hard to determine whether they were true, and even if they were, there was no way of knowing just how many people had survived and where these strongholds were located. Ian walked back into the apartment, locking the shutters and windows; he also put in place the assembled planks of wood he used to barricade all the points of entrance. It served both to keep the light of his diesel generator in without attracting undesired attention, and to add another layer of protection. In the previous months, Ian had fortified the apartment, hoarded all the long-term food, water, meds, fuel and weapons he’d managed to gather in that abandoned area of the city. Scavenging for useful items was his main occupation, and he did it during the day, when he could easily hear and spot any loony coming his way - loony was the insensitive but appropriate name he’d given to the zombie-like survivors of the virus. They didn’t live long on their own, but while they did, their addled brain drove them to tear everything living to pieces. Ian liked himself whole, thank you very much.  Tonight, however, he’d walked out on the balcony because he was sure he’d heard a woman calling out for help. Loonies didn’t speak, they just screamed, and screamed plenty, so it had to be someone needing shelter. It had been months since Ian had seen a sane person, so there was the strong possibility that he could have imagined it. Stranger things had happened. Just as he settled back onto his couch, ready to switch off the generator and get some sleep, however, another loud voice came from downstairs, and Ian immediately grabbed Ripley, his best rifle. He knew better than to actually leave the apartment, but the idea that another human being could be out there was too good to give it up. He grabbed a flashlight and undid the five locks he’d installed on the door, and once the judged the hallway clear, he walked out and shut it slowly behind him, then locked it. He wanted no surprises when he came back. The voice rang again, and Ian made his way down the stairs; he was on the fifth floor, and the noises seemed to be coming from within the building. It was maybe three minutes later when the woman called out again, this time much closer, and Ian ran downstairs. In the entry hall there was a girl lying on her back, three loonies on top of her, scratching and biting, and doing their best to decorate the walls with her skin. “Bloody bastards,” he muttered, aiming the rifle carefully. The first shot hit one of them in the head and stunned the other two long enough for him to shoot the second. The third ran for him, and Ian kicked him back, earning a scratch on the thigh. A third and fourth shot were fired, and the last loony was hit first in the leg, then in the chest, killing him.  Once he was sure they were dead, Ian walked over to the girl, shining the flashlight directly at her. “Can you walk?” he asked, and just as the light hit her, he saw her wounds slowly starting to heal. “What the fuck?” he muttered, aiming his gun at her instead. Right then, however, more mad screams came from the street, and instead lowered his gun, bending down to help her stand. “Fuck it, whatever you are, you’re not crazy, that’s good enough for today,” he muttered, leading her up the stairs. “Let’s go.”   

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Ninteenth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

First … Second … Third … Fourth … Fifth … Fifth Christmas, Part 2 … Sixth … Seventh … Eighth … Ninth … Tenth … Eleventh … Twelfth … Thirteenth … Fourteenth … Fifteenth … Sixteenth … Seventeenth … Eighteenth … Nineteenth … Twentieth … Twenty-first … Twenty-second … Twenty-third

———————–

She’d shown up on Maggie’s porch a few days after Thanksgiving with a carefully packed suitcase and pain so evident on her face that her mother cried while Scully stood quietly in her arms.

It wasn’t until two days later that Maggie, nearly asleep, felt the mattress dip and her youngest daughter crawl under the covers with her, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of the one person in the world she had left to trust.

Twenty minutes later, Maggie continued rubbing her daughter’s back while Scully took a deep breath, whispering out, “I had to leave, Mama.”

“Did he stop taking the medication?”

Shaking her head against her mother’s arm, “He’s been throwing out the pills or throwing them back up. He says he doesn’t like how they make him feel, like he’s dead inside but when he doesn’t take them, he stops doing anything.” Sniffing, then clawing for a Kleenex behind her from the nightstand, “this time it’s been nearly two weeks since he showered and he hasn’t written anything for months and when he does get up, he locks himself in the basement on his computer looking for what he missed.”

“What he missed?”

“Why it didn’t happen? What clue or evidence did he not pay close enough attention to? When did the date change? Will it happen tomorrow or today or in a month? When will it happen now?”

The abrupt way her daughter stopped made Maggie believe there was more. Pulling Scully closer, she kissed the crown of her head, asking in a whispered voice, “but what happened to make you suddenly appear on my front porch?”

Slipping from her mother’s arms, she stood, wiping her nose before her face crumpled again, fresh tears racing down her cheeks, “he, um … he decided that the new date would be last Friday and when I got home from Thanksgiving dinner here, I found the house shut up and locked which, while not unusual now, I also found him sitting on the stairs just inside with a shotgun, waiting for me or whoever else may show up before I did, unannounced because the invasion had begun.”

Maggie, sitting up by now, covered her mouth, “did he fire it at you? Dana …”

Holding up her hand, “no, he didn’t but he dragged me downstairs and kept me down there for two days while he waited for the end and,” embarrassment was driving her tears now, “I argued and I yelled and he wouldn’t let me leave and I just … I can’t do it anymore.” Pacing now, “I can’t have him pulling me out of bed because of a new theory. I can’t take not knowing what I’m going to find when I come in the front door. He won’t listen to reason anymore and … … and I told him, once he let me back upstairs, that I was leaving … for good … and when I did, he didn’t even come to the steps.”

This last part twisted the knife in Maggie’s heart.

She loved her Fox but Dana came first and letting her anger explode in one expletive puff of rage, “that God-damned asshole needs to grow up and realize he is useless, worthless and hopeless without you!”

Scully’s laugh burst out, a wet, hitching, heart-breaking, wry sound that segued immediately into sobbing, propelling her back into bed, this time her head on Maggie’s lap, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&

He was better off without her there to distract him. He had things to do. He’d been trolling chatrooms, archives, hacking as best he could, learning his way through systems, tracing would-be clues, listening to police bands and military chatter, talking to a man who reminded him so much of Frohike that he began to believe that maybe the Gunmen weren’t dead after all but just hiding deep, deep underground, waiting for their moment to materialize back into the real world.

Two days since he’d heard her call downstairs that she was leaving.

Or maybe three.

Did he eat today? There was a dirty dish in the sink but it may have been hers … or his … from before.

Four days.

He needed more paper for the printer.

Six days.

What was that smell?

Eight.

Shouldn’t she be home from work by now? Maybe she was. Maybe he’d just missed her.

She must be here. There’s a pile of dirty dishes now, in the sink and on the counter. Why hadn’t she done the dishes? It was her week to do them.

He thought it was anyway.

December 1st.

Was it possible that the invasion had been just a year off? Maybe the ships had been delayed? Oh, God, what if they were coming this year?

Scully, where the hell was Scully?

Fumbling for the phone, he heard a clicking now and immediately hung up. Land lines were bad. Land lines could be bugged.

He had a firewall and scramblers and could talk over his computer if he needed to.

She wasn’t at the hospital. She didn’t work that day. Why did the staff sound suspicious of him? Did they know he knew something they didn’t? Where was Scully?!

Maggie. Maggie might know. She should know. Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. Call Maggie.

“Fox, she’s not here right now. She’s out doing some grocery shopping.”

Breathing easier, “good,” then hung up.

She would be back in an hour and they’d sit down and talk about the new date.

December 3rd.

What is that smell? Was that him?

Had she come home yet?

Looking through the cupboards, he saw them emptier than before, no vegetables in the drawer, no milk in the carton. Why hadn’t she said ‘hello’ to him when she got back after shopping?

He needed to lie down, the headache encompassing him driving him to the couch, the world spinning, the world closing on him, the world melting into fiery chaos then dripping in darkness, terrifying, unwieldly.

Why wasn’t she home yet?

December 8th.

“Scully, where are you? You didn’t come home yesterday from grocery shopping.”

Nearly dropping her phone in the doctor’s lounge where she was forcing down a salad and sandwich, “Mulder?”

“Yes, it’s me. Who the hell else would it be? Where are you?”

“I’m at work, Mulder. What’s wrong?”

“You need to come home right now. We need to prep the basement some more. The new date is going to be the 21st. I think we just got the year wrong. You need to come home and help get ready.”

Shutting her eyes, she fought to keep the tears from dropping, “Mulder. I’m at work right now and then I go back to Mom’s. I told you last time you called that I was staying there now, remember?”

He sure as hell did not remember! He’d have remembered that conversation and telling her that in no uncertain terms, he heard her say good-bye, then hang up.

The couch.

He needed to lay down.

December 12th.

Washing a dish when he needed it, he ate something.

December 16th.

He hadn’t slept in two days but he had boarded up the back windows. The back door. Barricaded so nothing could get through without a lot of assistance and a battering ram and even then, it would take awhile. Moved out Maggie’s chair. Took up too much room. He needed the room. He needed the space for the camping gear, the propane tanks, the extra sleeping bags, the sandbags for shoring up walls.

December 19th.

He grew weary of calling Scully. He did it every hour on the hour or … was it once a day? Twice a day? Time didn’t pass right in the basement. Climbing up the stairs, he took a shower, wondering where her shampoo had gone.

Why didn’t she just say ‘hi’ to him when she got home?

The bed was made so she must have done that before she went to work.

“Scully, you need to come home right now! I don’t want you on the roads when it begins.”

“Mulder.”

“Why are you crying? We’ll make it through. We always do. We’ll come out of this and we’ll beat them all and we’ll have a planet all to ourselves.”

“I have to go to work, Mulder.”

Ten minutes later, against her better judgement, she answered the phone while in the car, knowing it was him but still not able to ignore him, “what is it, Mulder?”

“Will! We have to go get Will! There’s no one to protect him! He doesn’t know what’s going to happen!! We need to go get him, bring him home! We only have a day left, Scully! We need to go get him!”

Nearly running into the car stopped ahead of her, she slammed on the brakes, pulled onto the shoulder and hung up the phone, turned it off, smashed it on the steering wheel, slammed it on the dashboard for good measure, then pitched it out the window, watching until at least three cars had sped over it, scattering a minimum of 38 pieces of cellular nonsense across four lanes of traffic.

&&&&&&&&&

She finished her shift in peace, the only things keeping her together and distracted were her patients, who needed all the brain processing power she had left. Driving back to Maggie’s, she kissed her mother on the cheek, then curled up in her old bed, staring at the wall until far into the night when, exhaustion winning, she drifted off, restless and scared.

The next morning, the hospital called politely asking her if everything was okay and to tell her that someone had been bothering them all night with calls asking for her. Apologizing profusely, she emailed Mulder a simple, “I am not at work. Do not call me there. I will get fired. See you on the other side of the apocalypse.”

After removing the last line, she sent it to him, then popped Maggie’s phone off the hook and went back to bed.

&&&&&&&&&&

He was overwrought that she wasn’t with him. She would die out in the open and he would be alone in the world. There would be no point to anything after that. All this had been for her. To keep her safe. To keep her alive. To keep her with him forever.

December 21st.

What that a plane overhead?

That low thump outside?

Was she home?

Did she come home because she believed?

Could he take the risk of unlocking the doors to let her in?

What if it was them?

What if they had silently taken over the world? Were coming for him?

What if they had Scully already?

One. Two. Three. Four.

That’s how many walls there were.

One. Two. Three. Four.

That’s how many socks he had on,

One. Two. Three. Four.

He collapsed on the couch against the wall, the rows and rows of canned goods swimming, weaving as he passed out from lack of food and terror at what might be happening above.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Scully slept through December 21st.

She stretched herself awake on the 22nd and made breakfast for her and Maggie.

She stared out the window at the cold, clear blue sky, bare trees whipping in the frigid wind, sun bright but far away, summer yellow having faded to pale tones, near white, warmth meager but making a valiant effort to thaw her just a few moments at a time.

They set up her mother’s Christmas tree that day, decorated the house, prepped for Christmas Day dinner, 15 people strong, not counting Mulder, which she had done accidently twice now, her heart skipping a beat whenever she realized he wouldn’t be there beside her.

Bill, Tara and the boys arrived on the 24th but didn’t ask about Mulder, having been appropriately warned by Maggie to, in politer terms, shut up about him.

She tried her best to be social, to be present and accounted for but when the first wave of her panic attack hit, she quietly disappeared up to her temporary living quarters on her mother’s floor, having been de-roomed by her nephews. Shutting the door, she took ten minutes to get herself back under control, her breathing less erratic, her heart still thumping hard but the light-headed feeling lessening.

Changing her sweat-soaked shirt, she washed her face, took a deep breath and reciting the periodic table, symbol, atomic weight and at least two characteristics for each element, she returned to her family, waving off her mother’s questioning look and Bill’s angry one.

Christmas Day was no better. In theory, more people meant more distraction but reality screamed at her that he wasn’t there, that he might be dead somewhere in their house, that he hadn’t tried to call Maggie’s house once since she’d emailed him.

Presents were unbearable, the happy faces of kids and adults twisted like hot knives through her soul, each laugh, each giggle, each thank you and exclamation another icepick stabbed to her brain, the pressure headache building behind her eyes to the point where she excused herself to vomit from the pain.

Drugs didn’t touch it and finally, she was forced to admit defeat, retreating yet again upstairs, puking a second time before folding herself in the corner of the room, knocking her head lightly against the wall, an old trick she hadn’t resorted to for years in attempts to distract one major pain with a steady stream of minor ones.

She fell asleep there eventually, only to have Maggie wake her by shaking her shoulders, “Dana? Honey? Are you okay? Why are you on the floor?”

Having slipped to the ground sometime after drifting off, she sat up, her headache down to a quietly manageable roar, “I was knocking the wall to help with my headache.”

Knowing this was one of her daughter’s coping techniques for pain, she didn’t inquire about it further, “we’re eating dinner. Would you like to come down or would you like me to bring you a plate?”

She wasn’t hungry in the least but she had a clarity about her next actions, “I’m okay. I’m not hungry but if you could save me a plate, I’ll eat when I get back.”

With a sad smile, she combed her fingers lightly through Scully’s hair, “are you going to go check on him?”

It felt like defeat, like retreating, like giving in when she should be steadfast and strong, “I have to make sure he’s okay. I won’t stay but I can’t abandon him. Not right now. Not ever probably.” Sighing deeply, she only met her mother’s eyes when Maggie tilted her head in her direction, “but I don’t know that we’ll ever be your Fox’n’Dana again.”

Maggie pulled her into a hug, “I’ll love him anyways and always. Make sure he knows that.”

“I will.”

&&&&&&&&&&&

It was fairly late by the time she pulled up to the house. It was dark and silent once again, but this time, the windows were boards and the motion sensor didn’t turn the porch light on. Cautiously, she used her key, opening the door slowly and calling his name, fearful she’d find him with his shotgun on the stairs again.

Instead, everything was normal.

Except for the smell of rotting trash and sawdust.

Not worrying about that, she made for the basement steps but noticed his feet hanging over the end of the couch in the living room. Beelining there instead, she saw his matted hair, three week old beard, dirty white shirt and holey socks. Not sure she could, should or would wake him up, she watched until she was sure he was breathing, then gently set her gift on the coffee table in front of him.

Noticing he hadn’t decorated, she was almost grateful, not wanting to think about past Christmas’s and definitely not wanting to see their ornament collection judging her for abandoning both it and him.

Sneaking back out, she locked the door behind.

&&&&&&&&&&

The following afternoon, once Mulder had woken up from his liquored stupor, he noticed the holiday gift bag sitting in front of him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look but he didn’t throw it away either.

He instead tucked in a drawer in the rolltop desk and returned to his half-bottle of Jack Daniels.

Merry Christmas indeed.