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thorne93 · 4 years ago

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History Repeats (Part 7)

Prompt: Life’s hard, right? Well throw in a not so great job, a broken heart, and chasing a pipe dream in LA. But could someone come along to make all the bad shit disappear? Or is he just another heartbreak waiting around the bend?

Warnings: language, drug addiction, alcohol addiction, angst/heartbreak, adult themes (??)

Word Count: 2968

Note: Aesthetic made by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo because she’s absolutely amazing Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo . Brainstorming from @carryonmyswansong

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Nearly another month had passed since the first time Hayden had come over to your house. So far, it was still blissfully amazing. You and Hayden hung out every chance you could steal, playing video games, going to your house to make home cooked meals, playing cards, binging shows. It was just what you needed to help get over Jason, and Hayden felt like the first true best friend you’d had in a very long time. He didn’t judge, he didn’t pressure you, he was completely comfortable running errands with you, chilling, or doing whatever you wanted to do.

Oddly enough, even though both of you shared nearly crippling cases of anxiety, hanging out with him seemed to ease it. You didn’t feel as if you were trapped or stuck when you were with him, as you had with friends in the past. In fact, you looked more forward to being with Hayden than you did for any alone time. His presence in your life had really turned everything from gray to gold.

That’s why, after a later dinner one night, his news sent your world crashing down.

The two of you were strolling along the sidewalk as you took in the weather that had finally started to get warmer. You had a lightweight jacket on, jeans, and a lightweight long sleeved shirt, feeling extra comfy, trying to ignore how Hayden looked beside you. He was wearing a clothing brand he’d designed himself and it looked dashing on him. Tonight he had the audacity to wear blue jeans, dark casual shoes, a black long sleeved shirt, and a long, light weight black jacket, military style. Just the sight of him made you crazy with desire, but these feelings had stayed locked up in your head for quite some time now.

For you, it was no secret that you felt strongly for Hayden. You knew you loved being around him, you loved seeing him every day, you loved his laugh, the way he joked, the way he described things he was passionate about. He lifted your spirits and dried your tears, sometimes literally. He brightened your days, and calmed your nights.

But part of you wondered, if you really liked him as a love interest or just a friend. The problem was you couldn’t tell. Was he just a rebound from Jason? Was he just attractive to you because he was there when your life felt like it was falling apart? Did you just like Hayden because he was more attentative than your boyfriends and best friends of the past?

Or was this how a best friend should feel? Should it be this free, easy, and relaxed? Should it feel this sweet? Should you feel this elated when you saw his smiling face?

So, your attraction to him felt confusing, perplexing. Of course, he was handsome, sweet, kind, patient, hilarious, mysterious, peculiar, talented. So that made you attracted to him, romantically, no doubt. You often dreamed of being with him, day dreaming of grabbing his hand on one of your many strolls, just leaning over and placing a soft kiss to his decadent lips after a video game match, holding him at night after a long day.

On the other hand, you felt like he was the best friend you’d ever had, happy to just be near him, relax and play together, make jokes and tease each other. He was great to just have as someone to call on when you needed a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. In those instances, he didn’t feel like anything more…

So here you were, stuck, not sure if you wanted him romantically, and if you did, was it worth risking the friendship?

“I’m so happy I have the day off tomorrow,” you noted honestly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, this past week has been so shitty. How about you? How’s the shooting going?”

“Good...Uh, but...I’ll probably be looking for some place to go,” Hayden said, uneasiness lacing in his silken voice.

“Oh? Like a store or…?”

“Like...A new hotel,” he tried, his voice tense as if waiting for you to erupt on him.

Immediately, your blood ran cold and your mind whirled. Hayden...wanted...to...leave? You said in your mind, slowly, trying to comprehend this. You were just now figuring out you needed to sort out these feelings for him, he couldn’t leave. You needed him. He was your rock. He was the one thing that kept you smiling throughout the day.

Regardless of if you were possibly in love with him or not, or whatever was going on in your head, he was your best friend, and you needed him. If he looked for another hotel, he could be on the other side of the city and you’d never see him. Him being at your hotel was half the reason you two could hang out.

You stopped walking.

“What? Why?” you breathed out, sounding more shocked and curious, instead of showing the evidence of the internal catastrophe that was occuring.

He shrugged as he turned to you, his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “I don’t know. It’s just getting a little too expensive for day to day work. I need to find someplace a little further out maybe, less amenities, a little lower nightly rate. It’s nothing against you or the hotel or anything--” he said, trying to assure you that it wasn’t personal.

You waved him off, frowning deeply, and shaking your head. “I don't care about the hotel. I care about you. What am I gonna do without you?” you asked and it surprisingly came out sounding playful. But in your head and heart, the feeling was much more gut wrenching.

He laughed. “Y/N, I’ll be in the same city. It’s no big deal. We can still hang out,” he assured, nudging you with his arm.

You shook your head. “No, it won’t be the same. We’ll only do a it a couple of times and then...never,” you said sadly. Then a brilliant idea flickered in your head. “Hey, what if...what if you roomed with me?” you asked and Hayden frowned a tad bit.

“Move in with you?” he asked, curious, his blue eyes boring into yours, and it took everything in you not to touch him.

“Not like that,” you assured quickly. “But, ever since Jason moved out, it’s been a little lonely and I wouldn’t mind the extra income again to help with payments. You would pay half what you do now at the hotel.”

“That’s enticing,” he admitted with a laugh that filled you with warmth.

“Come on,” you urged. “It’s a win-win. I don’t struggle with rent for a few months while you’re here, you have a real home to go to, with more space. You can cook your own meals, have space in the fridge and pantry. It’ll be like airbnb, or quick roommate agreement. I have a spare bedroom, I have enough space, I need the money. You need to save money��” you tried, giving him your best inviting-begging look.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” he said, tilting his head side to side and rubbing his neck.

“What do you have to lose? An expensive hotel room. But what you gain is priceless. A decent bed. A fantastic roommate,” you said, nudging him with an eyebrow wiggle. “Amazing meals…Endless Netflix on a huge TV…”

“I don’t want to be a burden or in the way or anything though,” he said, showing some hesitancy.

“You won’t be, I swear,” you vowed. “It’ll be great. You have your own bathroom, access to everything. What’s mine is yours. We can share dinners, lunches, whatever. The TV, the Netflix, whatever you need, you got it--”

He smiled and rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. I give up. You win. Anything to make you stop,” he said.

You squealed lightly and threw your arms around him. “Thank you! It’s gonna be so much fun having you there!”

“Don’t speak too soon. I may be a slob, or a weirdo, or a lazy ass,” he commented.

“Uh, we both can’t be those things,” you countered, scoffing. “Only room for one lazy person at my house, and I’ve already claimed it,” you said proudly as you beamed.

He threw his head back laughing as he tossed his arm around your shoulders. “When would you like me to move in?”

“Whenever you’re comfortable. I don’t work tomorrow, so that might be ideal, seeing as I’d be there to let you in and show you stuff and I wouldn’t have to race off to work.”

“Sounds like a plan. In that case, I need to get back to the hotel and start packing so I can check out in the morning.”

Giddy from this new plan, you nodded and responded, “Perfect. I’ll drop you off and get the extra bedroom set up for your arrival.”

“Ever the manager, huh?” he teased.

“You can’t turn perfection off, Hayden,” you retorted before the two of you began laughing some more.

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That night, you got Hayden back to the hotel then you yourself went home. You cleaned up the main parts of the house a little better so he didn’t immediately see a shamble of a home and turn around and nope-the-fuck out. Once it was all picked up, you went to bed and decided to finish the rest in the morning.

You hopped out of bed, got another load of dishes going in the dishwasher, then went to the guest room and cleared it from all evidence of the absence that had settled on it. You cleaned the cobwebs and dust away from the ceiling, the ceiling fan and light, the nightstand and the dresser. Then you pulled the old sheets and threw them in the laundry and pulled out fresh ones and dressed the bed and Febreezed it to get the smell of stale linen washed from it.

Once that was done, you vacuum the room and lit a nice, light candle in the room, marking the room done mentally, you moved on to the bathroom that adjoined the bedroom. It had collected some dust as well. You wiped down the fixtures, mirror, toilet, and shower, giving them all fresh, clean, sparkling looks. Finally, you mopped the small room and it was complete.

You had no idea when Hayden would arrive, you assumed some time after lunch since check out was 11:00 and he’d probably stop for lunch somewhere. So you decided to light some more candles to get a fresh scent going through the house. After that, you were...well, stuck. You had no idea what to do and your anxiety started to rise.

What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t like living with you? What if he felt strong armed, and he changed his mind and never talked to you again? What if he had a weird habit you couldn’t live with? What if living together made you get on each others nerves? What if he wasn’t any help around the house? What if he didn’t pay you?

The questions swirled and buzzed your head until you started to slightly panic. After a moment or two, you asked yourself what you would do if you were at work and a situation like this arose? Well, first, he is a roommate, there should be a written agreement. You trusted Hayden. You didn’t think he’d fuck you over money wise or anything else, but for your own peace of mind you wanted it.

You sat down at your computer and started to draw up a little informal contract. Having his name listed, and spots to fill in the dates he moved in, how much he would pay, when, and method of payment. You listed things that were included with his rent such as utilities, and a certain amount on groceries, if they exceeded that, he’d have to foot the bill. Rules for eating out, rules for bathroom and TV usage.

You wanted to make sure anything weird was covered but you didn’t want it to be so long he didn’t want to read itl. You hit all the main points of a roommate: pay, rules for taking care of the house, and places for him to initial, and for both of your signatures.

Once it was done, you got a knock at the door.

Your heart skipped a beat and you jumped up from your couch, jogging to the door to open it to Hayden.

“Hey! You made it, come on in,” you said, moving aside.

He came in, towing two suitcases and an over the shoulder bag.

“Do you have more?”

“Yeah, out in the car,” he said, thrusting his chin towards the outside while he sat his bags on the floor. You started to make your way out when he called after you. “No, no, you don’t have to go get them. It’s fine.”

“It’s no trouble,” you assured over your shoulder as you went to the trunk and pulled out two more suitcases, a smaller bag, and shut the trunk. You wheeled the bags inside and closed the door. “See? I’m capable of some things,” you teased with a beaming smile.

“Clearly. Now, where would you like me to put all my junk?” he inquired with a star-studded smile.

“Uh, uh…” you stuttered as you stared at him. Why did he suddenly look so much more handsome? “Uh, right through here,” you said, shaking your head and raising your arm to gesture to the guest bedroom.

“Cool.”

The two of you picked up all the luggage and hauled it into the bedroom.

“So here’s your room, obviously, over here is your bathroom,” you informed as you walked over and flicked on the light. “I’ve got towels and stuff in here but if you need more, they’re in the little linen closet in the hall.”

“Oh, very cool, thank you.”

“Is this okay?” you asked, nervous that it’s way below what he’s used to.

“Of course,” he assured, no trace of hesitance in his voice. “I love it,” he said, eyeing the room.

“Well thanks. Oh, if you don’t mind, I sort of wrote up a contract, if you want to take a look now? I just figured we get all the unpleasantness out of the way,” you tried, wringing your hands.

“Contract? Sounds pretty formal.”

You nodded your head side to side. “Eh. it is. I just like to have it on record and stuff just...everything. Ya know? I trust you, it’s just I want to make sure there aren’t confusions or questions about anything as long as you're staying here.”

“Y/N, Y/N, it’s cool. I don’t mind following rules and getting this in writing,” he assured with a smile and soft voice.

“Oh, great. Awesome. I’ll just go print it and we can look it over,” you said as you went back to your laptop, printed it, and then you two went over everything at your little dining room table.

It only took thirty minutes and you two had zipped through all the clauses and addendums. He’d signed and dated everything with that adorable smile he always wore. You went over what he liked to eat and didn’t like, allergies, and everything so you could appropriately shop for him. You two agreed to eat together, to save money and time, if it was possible, but for obvious reasons if one of you was at work, you would have groceries for individual meals.

After that, he confided that he hadn’t eaten lunch yet, so you rummaged something up together, having a blast, blaring music, teasing each other’s cooking skills. When it was done, you fell into your normal routine of television with lunch, accidentally binging a whole season of a show before either you realized what had happened.

In fact, you’d gotten so into the show, that the two of you had scooted close together on the couch over the course of the day and his arm was thrown behind you on the overstuffed couch, resting on top of the large cushion behind your head.

When you two noticed it was going into the other season, Hayden got up and stretched.

“Well, I think I’m gonna go ahead and settle in, maybe do a load of laundry if that’s cool,” he said.

“Sure thing,” you answered, standing up as well, grabbing the plates. “I’ll just clean up a bit and get my stuff out of the dryer and you can use it.”

“Cool. Thanks again for this. You’re saving me a ton of money and headache,” he said with a warm, friendly smile that made you feel a lot more than friendly towards him.

How did he do this? How did he go from a fun, friendly face to being irresistible overnight? When did he blur the line of confidant to desirable lover? Did he do it on purpose? Did he mean to? Was he just being himself and getting closer to you? Was he trying to make it known he had feelings for you? Was it one sided?

So far he hadn’t exactly flirted with you, but Hayden didn’t seem the type to flirt. He was about as outgoing as you were, which wasn’t saying much. When it came to romance you were a rather trepid being. You weren’t typically the first one to strike, or if you were, you weren’t overtly strong about it. So why would he be any different?

Maybe he was trying to capture your attention in his own way, or maybe he didn’t feel that way at all towards you. At this point, you weren’t sure, but you were tipping more and more towards liking him romantically with each passing day.

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seizethesam · 4 years ago

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Ode to an Angel-Chapter 1

Summary: You had been alone in this apocalyptic world since you got seperated from your old group and lost your brother. You were on your way to an old metal factory in the hopes of finding your former group when a herd of walkers dragged you in to the woods. You took refuge in a hut, where you met him. You have got a long road ahead and some reckoning to do.

A/N: Hey guys! the first chapter of my brand new Daryl series is finally here. I wrote for Sam Drake for a short period of time and took a looong hiatus. But it is finally time for reunion. I hope you will all enjoy it. Happy reading!!! xx seizethesam

Pearing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

This chapter’s recommended song is “My Least Favorite Life from “True Detective” by Lera Lynn.

Youtube Spotify

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"So he took his wings, and fled;

Then the morn blushed rosy red.

I dried my tears, and armed my fears

With ten thousand shields and spears. "

-William Blake

The forest was not acting on your behalf. Every tree you dodged was slowing you down, which was the last thing you wanted. The herd of dead was gaining on you, limping their ways towards your direction. You assumed that there were at least thirty of them —and let's be honest, you could not take all of them.

You were exhausted, the only thing you wanted the most right now was laying on a comfortable bed, eating whatever snack you would wish to have. But no... Those days were over a long time ago. Now the only things you had were starvation, exhaustion, loneliness, and a bunch of walking dead that were hungry for your soft flesh.

You had been trying to push your happy remembrances to the back of your memory for a long time now that you started to fear if you had forgotten them. Your mom, dad, brother—No, you would never- could never forget him. He had been your rock since the world went to shit, he had been doing everything in his power to keep you safe.

Now you were alone in god knows where. You were making your way towards the old metal factory outside the city where your former group could’ve settled when the herd came out of nowhere and led you into the woods.

You glanced back at the herd and saw that you have outrun them enough to catch your breath for a second. You stopped and leaned your back against a tree, trying to stabilize your fast-paced breathing. The loud growling of the herd was filling your ears and the smell of the rotten flesh was starting to water your eyes, making your vision blurry. For split second you close your eyes, take a deep breath to motivate yourself to continue running.

Growling sounds of the herd were exploding among the trees and meeting with your ears in a raucous matter. I need to move, now... The earth was rough under your feet despite your shoes. You could not remember how long you had been on the road like this; an excruciatingly uncomfortable backpack on your back, a gun around your thigh, and a knife attached to your belt… The blisters forming on the soles of your feet told you that it had been a long time, real long time.

You began walking through the dark green trees. The Georgian sun was shining through the tree branches, falling on your skin to warm your flesh. Your legs were failing to carry the weight, and eyes were struggling to stay open due to the lack of energy. You didn’t even remember the last time your belly was full let alone remembering eating something decent. For the past few weeks, your menu consisted of energy bars and crappy canned food.

Today on your lunch was half a can of beans and two sips of water. The sun was getting closer to its horizon as reddish sun rays reflected upon the shiny green tree leaves, the scenery imitated a thousand sunsets all at once. Your heart leaps up at the beauty of the moment. There still are good things. That was what you wanted to believe.

“There still are good things” you whispered to yourself, a faint smile appeared on your lips as you admired the view.

While drinking the beauty of the wild, reckless nature, you spotted a brownish-black silhouette from the corner of your eye. When you turned your head towards the figure, you could not help the soft chuckle. It was a cottage. Without thinking twice, you made your way towards the small wooden building which looked like a single room shelter built for hunting trips. You stopped your tracks at the front of the tiny porch. There could be walkers inside, or maybe people.

You needed to be smart, careful, and needed to make most of your weapons; A 9mm with two bullets in its clip, and a hunting knife. You still did not trust yourself with the gun, but you could handle your knife just enough, enough to keep you alive this far.

Slowly you approached to dusty stairs of the porch, carefully you stepped on the first stair. It did not squeak. You take two more steps for the other two stairs. When the last wooden step raised a surprisingly loud squeal, you heard a familiar snarl inside the old shed.

Automatically your hand reached for the handle of your knife, taking it out of its holster. You raised the knife in front of you with a defensive pose and slowly made your way towards the tiny window near the door. The window was failing to serve its purpose as it was covered with dust and dirt, you could not see through it. If there was an unfriendly person inside, he could see you wiping the window. You crossed looking through the window off the list.

You leaned your back against the wooden wall, held your breath, and just listened to what was inside, but you didn’t hear anything other than the dead’s annoying snarl. After a few moments, deciding that there is only one biter inside, you reached for the doorknob.

To your surprise the door was not locked, so you gladly stepped inside. Across the door was a sofa slightly covered with dust, and to your left was a small counter with two small cabinets behind it. The tiny area on the left resembled an unfunctional kitchen, but still, it was something. There behind the counter, a walker was standing, mindlessly trying to move but hitting against the wall.

When you entered the cabin, it turned its attention to your direction and took a few shambling steps towards you. Your knees were shaking, heart pounding against your ribcage. Being face to face with a walker in a tiny space as this cabin sent shivers down your spine. Just like he had taught me, no time to be scared. With that thought, you wrapped your hand around the biter's neck and pushed it against the wall as a contained gruff escaped your mouth, carefully maintaining it at arm's length. You forced the knife with your other hand to its dirty, glassy grey eye, and towards its brain. The moment that its brain had greeted your knife, the body fell on the ground with a thud, allowing you to let out a comforting sigh.

Without wasting any time, you moved to the kitchenette hoping to find something to eat, but more importantly, water. Your half bottle water was not going to last any longer than a day, even though you were drinking no more than needed.

You started with the drawers beneath the counter. In the first drawer were rusty scissors and four pieces of nail. The second drawer- empty. The third times the charm- empty. The fourth drawer, well the fourth drawer was bliss. There were two cans of mushroom soup, a can of cooked rice, and a whole bottle of water that will help you another two days. You persisted with the cabinets, but your luck did not. You only found a short black worn-out rope, you did not know how to use it, yet you took it anyway.

You laid all your belongings on the counter deciding on an inventory check. All you had were five canned food including the new ones, two energy bars, a full bottle of water and your half-full bottle, a pack of tampons, rope, a flashlight, half a box of painkillers, one roll toilet paper, toothpaste and toothbrush, a detailed map of Georgia, a box of matches, a swiss knife, sterile compress, a hunting knife, a gun, and two bullets. If you did not return to the highway of anywhere near the city, you would not make it any more than three days in the woods. The city was dangerous but there was more chance of finding food and water.

You put your stuff back to your backpack without wasting any more time. You locked the door of the cabin and dragged the body of the walker to another corner. The stench was not unbearable but still uncomfortable. You did not have any other choice other than keeping it here. Otherwise, there was a chance that someone with ill intentions could spot the body and assume that someone was inside the cabin. You could not take that chance. After securing the door, you slowly turn to the dirty sofa, its designs are no longer recognizable because of the dirt.

You lightly took one of the cushions and turn it over to reveal the clearer side. It had brown and red plaid patterns. You could not help but remember the similar ones from your family's house. It was just like the sofa that you and your older brother used to play card games. Your heart sinks at the thought and you turn the other cushion as well.

When it was all done and well, you laid on the sofa letting out a deep sigh. Your feet hanged from the end of the sofa and instantaneously all the exhaustion of the past few days sat on your whole body like an ox as your eyes slowly gave in to sleep.

"No! One more!" thirteen-year-old you shouted at the older brother. He had just returned from college for the summer break, "You think I'm cheating?" he said disapprovingly.

"I know you're cheating," you said raising one brow at your brother. "You haven’t lost a game since we started."

"That's 'cause I'm a pro. Don't be such a sore loser," he said mockingly. He got up from his seat and made his way towards his old room, while you were venting to your mother about the game. A few minutes later he exited the room with one hand hidden behind his back.

" Whatcha got there? " You asked. He revealed his hand and swung a little red piece of rope. "Here, take this," he said giving you the piece. "For your luck," You took it from his hand and realize that it was a bracelet with a four-leaf clover in the middle.

"Very funny," you said smiling at the older boy, "Help me with it."

He grasped the tiny piece of rope and gently tied it to your wrist. You lifted your head to face him, he was much taller than you now.

"So much for a cheater," you said with a grin.

Throughout childhood, you and your brother were as close as a brother and a sister could be. But you had never known what your brother thought, what was going on his mind, his dreams.

You abruptly opened your eyes to see a man towering you with his tall figure. He was wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and dirty, ripped pants that seem a little big for his figure. His one foot was on the small coffee table and had a crossbow aimed at your face. Shit. His piercing stare was making the situation even more fearful for you. Your heart was pounding like a drum set in a rock concert when you raised your arms to level your head in a surrendering pose. He still did not speak but you spotted a change in his stance. He must've noticed that you were afraid as he hesitantly lowered his crossbow just an inch, his shoulders stiffened.

"Look, um…I-I don't want any trouble," you say when the man maintained the silence. His eyes were fixed on yours; it was almost like he was trying to read your thoughts. "You can take whatever…" Silence. "I don't have much, but…" You were slowly sitting up.

"Stay put!" he finally spoke. His voice sounded like more of a gruff, demanding but not a yell." Put your gun and knife on the table,” he said pointing at your gear.

"No-I'm j-" you refused to give your gears that have been keeping alive.

"Ain't gonna ask again," his voice was dangerously low. It was then you realized that he had a southern accent.

"Okay," you say with a voice no louder than a whisper, and reluctantly put the knife and the gun on the table. He took and tucked them in his belt after checking the clip. He completely lowered the crossbow and made his way towards the kitchenette with hurried steps. He quickly checked the cabinets before he moved towards the drawers, in which you had left three of your canned food. He stopped for a second, then continued. You could tell that he was filling his bag with your food.

"The hell ya doin' here?" he asked you, still busy with the bag.

"What?" You don't understand why he was curious all of a sudden.

"Ya alone in tha' woods just with two bullets." he said disbelievingly.

" I was on the main road when a herd dragged me here," you said not knowing if it is safe to share your plans with a total stranger. "I was waiting for the herd to spread out."

He let out a growl as a response, but you couldn’t really figure out it meant.

"Do you know how I can go to the old metal factory,” You debated for a moment whether to ask him where the factory was. Your former group had always talked about moving somewhere outside the city where they could be away from the walkers and draw in more survivors.

"What's there?" he asked drawing his eyes from his bag to you.

"I-I don't know," you genuinely did not know what to expect from the factory, but you were willing to give it shot. This was the least you can do for your brother. He moved away from the counter when he was finally finished and stopped on his tracks to get a good look at you.

You hadn’t seen yourself for a long time, but you could guess how bad you looked; greasy hair to the tips, hollow cheeks, dark under eyes, skin covered with dirt and blood…

"Ya ain't too far", he finally said and made his way to the little window. "About twenty miles south, down this way" he continued pointing his finger out the window. “Ya got a map?” he asked.

You nodded as you slowly took out the map from your backpack, laying it on the table. He knelt down across you and began to examine the map. After a few seconds, he traced a route with his index finger.

“Ya need to go over tha’ river, there should be a bridge,” he said. This man just had taken half your food and now he was helping you. You did not know why but you were not interested in questioning his kindliness.

At this point you didn’t even know who to trust, this man could even lead you into a trap for that matter. But you knew that the factory would be somewhere near the area he was showing you.

“Thank you,” you said turning your head to face him.

He got up from his knees as he let out a humming sound as a response.

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“Ya gonna need more than just two bullets if ya gonna take tha’ route,” he said putting your gun and knife back on the table and left the cottage closing the door behind him.

Chapter 2

Author’s Note: The first chapter is here you guys! I must admit that it is a little longer than I’ve planned but please bear with it. I hope you all enjoyed reading it. It feels so great to finally share something with you. Feedback is always appreciated. Please send me your opinions about the story.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #the walking dead #reader insert #negan #rick grimes #the walking dead imagine #daryl dixon icons

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xenoredux · 5 years ago

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Balto but its been rewritten 24 years after its release

Okay so here's the Balto rewrite lol. It's quite a bit different then The Actual Thing but the plot itself is much the same, as are the major beats of the story. I dropped a lotta goofy shit in there just because it made me laugh, but try and imagine this stuff happening as if it's from an actual 90s movie made by a studio on its last legs.

Some things to know going into it:

I cut out the live actions segments because they seriously didn't matter at all. Like, who cares. The plot is fine without them and I don't think that one line from Rosie at the end makes a huge difference. I guess it's nice to see the statue but even than it's like..... whatever

In my fantasy world, Balto was a standalone movie that didn't spark any sequels. Eventually I'll write out my version of the sequels if they'd actually been good, but in the universe of this rewrite for this film, a Balto "franchise" never existed, hence why the ending is sorta different

It's still a "historical" fiction that holds very little relation to the actual events. There's a touch more actual history in there, but c'mon. You're not reading talking dog movie fanfic to learn anything. Pick up a book if you care about the actual serum run and don't get on my juicy ass about it if some things remain inaccurate

Please also note that I didn't baby this as much as I should have, so some major plot elements that are kinda stupid are likely still in there (I'm not a good writer lbr). I don't believe this is necessarily "better" then the OG, I just tweaked some stuff that always pissed me off about it. I also re-included cut content I thought was more interesting and made more sense then what we ended up getting.

There's also a handful of fake screenshots throughout for shits and giggles, and I'll likely have at least one or two more to share later this month. Some links to past character designs are also provided for easy reference so you can make up scenes in your head but with Brand Spankin’ New Designz.

So here's Balto v2.0!

The year is 1925, and it's wintertime in Nome, Alaska. Two dogsled teams are participating in a race. A malamute named Steele leads his team against a powerful, but older and more experienced mutt named Wild Joe. Steele, despite being a decorated and much beloved champion lead dog, is a massive dick, and he snaps at a critical moment at one of Joe's teammates. Joe's team wipes out, his chances of winning are in shambles, and Steele is waaay in the lead.

A flare is shot into the air to let the enthused waiting townsfolk know that Steele's team has passed the race's 3 mile mark. Meanwhile, watching from his perch on the balcony of a house, a wolfdog named Balto excitedly bounds back and forth, unable to contain his excitement. He simply cannot sit still despite the protests of his closest friend Boris, an old Russian-Jewish goose who isn't a fan of all the excitement. Balto drags Boris around the roofs of the houses, ignoring his chiding all the while, until he can see the finish line of the race.

Back down on Earth, a young girl named Rosie is inside a woodworker's shop. She's receiving a gift she adores: a beautiful handmade sled, perfectly fitted to her size. The sled includes a harness in front that also perfectly fits her dog, a purebred copper Siberian husky named Jenna. Rosie's parents playfully lecture her to not lose the sled like she loses her other belongings. Almost as quickly as she receives the sled, Rosie and Jenna are trotting down the street in their new getup.

Jenna comes to rest in the race's sidelines among a group of other female dogs. The smallest of them all, a Pomeranian named Dixie, chides Jenna for allowing herself to be made a sled dog, even if it is in the spirit of make believe. After all, a canine of her slender frame and social standing shouldn't be performing manual labor. Jenna sighs at her friend's internalized misogyny and eugenics talk, rolling her eyes as if to say "oh you!"

Nor should someone of her persuasion be meeting up with any strays, Dixie continues while going on to show her racist side, for Balto and Boris have just plodded up to the group. The other girls scoff and huff at Balto's arrival, but Jenna and Rosie both are glad to see him. Rosie gives the wolfdog a hug, telling him to keep outta sight of The Parental Units. Just then, Steele's team rounds the corner, and Rosie waves her hat at them as if it's a foam finger and this is the most arduous baseball game in history. A sudden gust of wind picks up her hat and sweeps it into the path of the oncoming team. Rosie begins to panic and, while Jenna soothes her, Balto runs out alongside the advancing sled team to retrieve it.

Balto manages to snag and deliver the hat before Steele passes the finish line, which visibly upsets Steele. His owner speaks to the man who leads Wild Joe's team. He seems unimpressed with Steele's performance, enough so that Wild Joe's owner admits it's likely time that Joe was retired. The two imply that if a sled dog can't even outrun Steele, it's time for him to hang up his harness, even if he is wearing a bitchin' little number they speak in awe of called "A Golden Collar", a veritable necklace of medals awarded to sled dogs who have proven they don't suck. As one can imagine, this pisses Steele off something fierce. He gazes into the reflection of his face in his own golden collar, getting a bit of anger-saliva on it in the process.

The important thing, of course, is that Balto managed to save Rosie's hat. Jenna thanks him and playfully teases him about how nuts he'd have to be to do something like run alongside a car made of dogs, to which the quiet Balto just smiles. Rosie's dad isn't smiling very much, though, because all he saw was the town's favorite punching bag running wild with his daughter's hat. He swears at Balto and kicks snow his way, spooking him into running off down the street. Rosie's dad herds his child away, scolding her for playing with wild animals, while Jenna tries to follow her friend. Unable to recognize where he's not wanted, Steele blocks Jenna's path and starts flexing about his elite gamer/sledding skills. The other girl dogs can barely contain their ovaries around him, but Jenna just politely excuses herself as Steele begins spouting off insensitive remarks about "the howler from the cannery".

But Balto's not going home just yet. He knows exactly how to navigate the neighborhood and find his companion. Boris complains about the cold and how much he's walked around today, so he pisses off back to to their place. Balto simply shrugs and wanders until he finds Jenna again. He trails behind her, hiding in various places along the street as Jenna follows her masters home. Jenna talks passionately about how she'd love to do something big and hella just to show up guys like Steele. Balto encouragingly comments on how he's sure she'd be the best at whatever she did, and she smiles at him in a particularly heterosexual way.

Eventually the two part ways, and Balto decides it's time to go home. As he trots along, he notices a glove that Rosie dropped. He smiles and rolls his eyes as he picks it up and turns to head to Jenna's and give it back. Unfortunately for him, Steele's ego bruises like a banana and heals just about as well, so the meat-headed malamute has dragged along his team to harass the town's token minority once he was alone. The only dog on the team who seems against harassing someone for something they can't control is Star, Steele's smaller, weaker, more cowardly little brother. Steele jeers at Star for being too much of a puss to participate in the g-rated hate crime before rolling a barrel in Balto's direction. Balto's bowled over by it and falls face first into a bucket.

Steele's team howls with laughter, then literally howls in an effort to insult Balto. The words "howler" and "feral" are thrown around a lot as Balto struggles to free his face from the pail. He never manages to, and before Steele can harass him some more, his musher calls out for him and the rest of the team. Steele calls his men to his side and makes his way out. The only one who trails behind is Star, who gingerly pops the bucket off of Balto's head. The two stare wordlessly at each other for a moment, the stunned Balto dwarfing the underdeveloped Star, before Star gets too scared to stay any longer and books it. Balto looks around himself for Rosie's mitten, but he can't find it. He sighs and begins heading towards the harbor.

As Balto walks through the cannery, the other stray and unloved dogs take notice of him and begin jeering at him. Despite how pitiful-looking they are, almost all of them feel the need to tell Balto in livid detail about just how shit he is in comparison because of his wolf heritage. Those who don't jeer hateful words hole up and hide from him as he passes them by.

Boris takes notice of Balto returning home, and he goes to wave to him with his one good wing before noticing something peculiar on the hill by the shoreline: wolves! A small pack of wolves take notice of Balto. They even begin howling to him. It's clear that they're inviting him to join their DnD party, and for a tense moment Boris is afraid Balto will run after them. But Balto simply shrinks away, shaking his head. His shoulders slump and he makes his way to the wrecked boat he and Boris live on.

Boris attempts to cheer Balto up with some wAcKy SlApStIcK cOmEdY before having to realize that harming himself is increasingly silly ways will not cure Balto's bigotry induced depression. He slumps against Balto as the two notice a flock of geese flying overhead. Balto asks Boris what it was like in "the old country", and Boris soothes in the most Russian voice ever conceived what are likely concerns he's heard many times before by assuring Balto he came to Alaska for good reason because the old country sucked. He also assures Balto that the busted wing he has was the best thing that ever happened to him, because it meant he got to live in Nome and find that lonely wolfdog kid those several years back. Balto can't help but crack a smile.

When the sun has gone down, Balto begins to leave the hovel he calls home. Boris reminds him to be careful on his nightly excursion to find food, to which Balto merely smiles and nods. He pads past the sleeping cannery dogs and back towards town.

Meanwhile, Jenna is sitting outside of the hospital doorway. She watches as her masters lead Rosie inside. Rosie's gotten a nasty cough, and she makes an odd wheezing noise when she breathes. As mom and pop speak to the very busy doctor, Rosie gazes out the window at Jenna, waving and smiling at her. Jenna stands up excitedly, but feels her heart sink into her stomach as Rosie has the sort of coughing fit a Flintstone's chewable can't fix. Her parents come to lead her away from the window. Jenna tries her damnedest to find a way to peer inside from around the back. There is a window, but she's unable to reach it, even as she's standing on her hind legs.

Balto, dirty from digging around in garbage, spots Jenna's vibrant red coat from across the way. He calls out to her softly, and though she does acknowledge his greeting, she barely responds. This concerns Balto, and he comes to join her under the window. She explains that she wants to see in, and Balto allows her to climb up and stand on his back to do so. She obliges, too worried about Rosie's well-being to thank him, and gazes longingly inside.

She climbs down from Balto a beat later, saying how she wishes she could understand what was happening in there. Most of what went on was just the doctor talking. Balto pauses and thinks for a moment, and then tells Jenna he has an idea. He leads her around to the boiler room placed adjunct to the hospital where the doctor's dog, a St. Bernard appropriately named Doc, spends his nights. The two make their way inside.

Doc is in fact there, snoring like a buzz-saw on crack. Balto gently wakes him up, and at first he's both annoyed to be woken and offput by The Wolfdog being in his face, but when Jenna explains the situation to him he becomes much more amiable. He leads the two over to the crawlspace under the hospital, stating there's far too much of him to love to allow him to fit under with them. Balto and Jenna thank him and go inside.

The two creep through the creepy underside of the hospital until they find themselves under a grate beneath the doctor's desk. The doctor discusses with the nurses how the children of Nome have diphtheria, a fast acting, aggressive disease that causes fatal epidemics. The anti-toxin he was able to treat the first few cases with has run out, and without it, all infected children will surely die within two weeks' time.

Jenna is unsurprisingly distraught at the idea of her favorite person on the planet dying a slow, painful death, so she scrambles out of the crawlspace and begins crying. Balto follows close behind her to see that Doc has already begun to comfort her. He apologizes for bringing Jenna here, to which Jenna states she's glad he did. Aside from Jenna's gentle sobbing, all is silent for a moment. Suddenly, a loud crash can be heard outside. Everyone turns to see Steele and his dogs have come back to ruin another scene. Doc becomes upset at the sudden influx of uninvited guests crowding up his personal space, so he goes to alert the doctor and get them all the fuck outta there. Meanwhile, the team menaces Balto while Steele tries to impress Jenna by pulling Rosie's missing mitten out of his collar. He offers to walk Jenna home to deliver it to her family as the team, lead by a pitifully unintimidating Star, back a snarling Balto into the corner.

Jenna's obviously not interested in Dog Gaston's posturing, but she's also got an IQ higher then 6 and understands that he's not going to go away simply because she asks him to. As Balto watches from out the corner of his eye, Jenna flirtatiously backs Steele into the glowing red boiler. She mutters something about meatballs under her breath as Steele begins to howl and shriek in pain. The smell of burning dog ass and the cries of a defeated jock archetype alert people to the scene, and all the dogs begin to scatter. Balto and Jenna try to join the reverse flash mob, but Steele flings himself hard into Balto and forces all of them to stumble. Lanterns shine in the literal dogpile's direction. Steele refuses to get off of Balto, so Balto insists that Jenna get away. She forgets about Rosie's mitten, which Balto snags to keep away from Steele's posturing self, and the men finally descend upon the dogs.

Someone pulls Steele off of Balto, and he begins making as if he's injured, intentionally limping and stumbling melodramatically around. The men start to make a fuss about the wolfdog injuring the town's best runner when one of them, Rosie's dad, notices his daughter's missing mitten in Balto's mouth. He begins yelling and kicking at the dog, going on about how he's dangerous and he'd better not go anywhere near his child ever again. Balto tucks tail and barrels out of town, and all the men stroke a miraculously healed Steele to compensate for the trauma of being attacked by a dog half his size.

As Balto pounds pavement, he passes the telegraph office, wherein an important message is being sent. A request for more anti-toxin to treat the epidemic is being relayed, and in it are the details of why this situation is uniquely urgent: the Alaskan winter is doing its worst, bringing blizzards severe enough that ships and planes alike cannot manage to deliver the medicine. Nome's best bet becomes obvious: use a train to deliver the medicine as closely to Nome as they can, then set up relay teams of sled dogs to receive and deliver the anti-toxin.

The morning after the message has been sent, the town organizes a race to test which dogs in town have the highest stats in stamina, speed, and agility. Almost every husky in town is lined up to race... all except a very upset Jenna, who keeps insisting the other dogs make room for her. Some dogs look at her with concern. Others laugh. But most of them seem convinced that her place is here in Nome, keeping her people company and not chipping any of her nails. Dixie tries to lead Jenna away from the race, but Jenna's so pissed that she angrily stomps away from the race altogether.

Balto, who has been hiding around town this whole time, slips out of the shadows to meet her. She vents loudly to him about being disallowed to participate because of the snot-nosed chauvinists running the race. If Balto didn't know the depth of her conviction before, he certainly does now; she begins to cry angry tears over what will happen to Rosie.

Balto can't stand to see a grown womandog cry, but he's worried about what will happen if he tries to line up with the other dogs. Everyone believes he attacked Steele, after all. Nobody would tolerate him joining the race... at least, not while they're all there. He wordlessly slips away from Jenna, assuring her he has a plan. In a moment he's disappeared. The race is about to start, and Boris has hobbled into town. He goes over to Jenna and begins complaining about how Balto didn't come home last night. Jenna tells him it's a long story, but that she's sure he'll turn up again soon. Maybe. Hopefully.

The starting gun is fired off, and the dogs take off with the speed and accuracy of drunken Nascar drivers. Just as soon as they've all bolted, Balto boltos past the starting line right in tow, which causes some reasonable upset among the crowd given word of Steele's definitely-real-not-made-up scuffle with the wolfdog has spread fast.

Despite the jeering Balto is faced with, he continues on. By this point, Jenna and Boris have noticed him running, and they begin to cheer him on as they scramble to keep up with him. Turns out wolves and their relatives are pretty fast.

In contrast to the other dogs, Balto's saving grace isn't just his speed, but his ingenuity. Balto breaks off of the track as he begins advancing on the dogs in an effort to avoid their snarling and snapping at him. He shows his cleverness by traversing obstacles like frozen ponds, hanging pulleys, and crumbling wooden beams that bridge buildings, all while maintaining pace with the other dogs. Any townsfolk who are capable of seeing him are too impressed with his abilities to remember his alleged attempted dogmurder.

To the surprise of literally nobody reading this, Balto manages to cross the finish line before anybody else, which includes an especially tilted Steele. Unexpectedly, several townsfolk cheer for our parkour-loving protagonist, and Balto's face lights up in pleasure, having never experienced praise from basically any human person.

Steele and Wild Joe's mushers come around to give Balto the once over, discussing how he'd be an invaluable asset to any team. Joe's musher believes he'd made a good replacement for Joe now that that dog's been laid off of his animaljob. Balto ingratiates his coy self with a gentle tail wag, and Steele has literally never been more angry in his life. His ego as sore as a freshly kicked-in face, Steele looks around for some way to prove Balto is totes nasty. A toothy grin spreads across his face as he spots Jenna leading a hobbling Boris over, and he quickly rushes the goose and snags him up, carrying him away.

Balto doesn't like seeing his surrogate feathered father being doghandled, so he snarls and chases after Steele, startling the men. The men follow Balto, who is following Steele, who is following his own evil agenda. Steele tosses Boris off the nearby harbor, and the bird struggles to collect himself in the icy water. Balto rushes Steele, still snarling. This spooks Steele's musher, and he begins throwing rocks at Balto. The man tells the wolfdog to stay away from his animal, and he states to Wild Joe's musher why Balto would be useless as a sled dog: he can't manage to get along with other canines. He's too wild. The two men collect Steele and depart as Balto similarly collects Boris, who is little more then a honking popsicle by now.

As Balto begins carrying Boris home, Jenna stops him and asks what happened. Balto gruffly states that Jenna's master would be angry to see her speaking to him. After all, he doesn't get along with other dogs given how wild he is. Jenna is so surprised by her friend lashing out at her that she can't speak, and she watches solemnly and wordlessly as Balto and Boris make like Rosie's health and disappear.

That night, the relay teams are being dispatched. The electric cross hanging on the church steeple is turned on - the pastor says that so long as there's hope for the children, the light will stay lit and the electric bill will stay high - and a handful of teams are sent out, including Steele's. The sick children watch from inside the hospital. Jenna watches from her new favorite spot just under one of the hospital's front windows, her face contorted in worry. From his ship, Balto ignores Boris's cacophanic snoring as he watches the teams head out. He gives a sigh.

A day passes as the relay teams power through the awful weather. Steele's team receives the medicine from another team who just had it delivered to them by train. Now Steele's gang is intended to deliver the medicine once again to the team of a dog named Togo. Unfortunately, Steele's unwarranted self-importance prevents this, as he dislikes the idea of not being the guy to deliver the goods to town. He tells Star that he doesn't need to follow the rules of the relay - he knows the way home and he can do this himself. He intentionally ignores the path to Togo and drags his team helplessly onward, and none of them but Star are any the wiser.

The governor's dog calls a meeting in the boiler room for all the other dogs in town. It's been longer then the townsfolk expected it to take for the meds to arrive, and everyone is getting ants in their collective pants. Balto watches the meeting from outside a window to maintain some discreetness. Doc tries to calm everybody down once they begin panicking, but they're all too much in a tizzy thinking about what will happen to the kids to hear him. Suddenly, the rabbling of the crowd is halted when a sharp, reverberating bark cuts through the noise. Everyone turns to the door.

In the doorframe stands the tall, bulky silhouette of an unknown beefcake. The dog steps into the light, and Wild Joe finally announces his presence verbally and not just cinematically. He informs the dogs that he's had a lot of time to wander since being unharnessed, and tonight he wandered by the telegraph office. He's a gifted enough fella to understand Morse code and the hopeless sighs of an old man sending 1800s text messages, and he informs the dogs that Steele's team broke the relay chain. Nobody knows where they are, which means, more importantly, nobody knows where the medicine is. Wild Joe suggests that the dogs make peace with the passing of their childfolk before he steps back outside and disappears into the snowy night.

Whatever the dogs inside the boiler room are saying, Balto can't hear it. Not just because their voices are drowning each other out, but because he's stricken with too much grief to care. Rosie has only been getting worse. What's going to happen to her?

Meanwhile in the hospital, the doctor is managing as well as one can to explain to the parents of the sick children that their one hope of salvation may or may not be lost to the elements forever. This barely registers with the horribly ill Rosie who, despite being in the same room as a doctor forcing her parents to confront her mortality, is now too sick to lift her head from her pillow. In an effort to afford their child a sliver of comfort, Rosie's folks allows Jenna into her room. Jenna pads loyally over to her girl, and for just a second Rosie's eyes flutter open. "Jenna?" is all she can manage to wheeze out before passing back into unconsciousness. Jenna gloomily rests her head on her owner's chest, whimpering softly.

Balto pads through town. Nobody is really out at night anymore. They're all crowding the hospital to keep close to their children. Balto's main goal is to find Jenna, to discuss this horrible thing with her, but he's distracted as he passes by the woodworker's shop. The same jolly man who had made Rosie her bitchin' new sled was now hunched sadly over a new, much less bitchin', much more morbid project: tiny coffins, each no bigger then 4 feet tall. A small collection of them has formed in a corner of the room. Balto shakes his head and gasps, breaking out of a stupor he was not previously aware he was in. Something has to be done.

The morning sun is peaking out over the horizon when Balto begins to depart from his home. He trots down from the harbor and along the shoreline, aiming to enter the forest the teams left through. Boris is plodding behind him, slipping around on frozen patches of sea water and flopping around in puddles of slush. He's going on and on, trying desperately to convince Balto not to waste his efforts on a town of people who'd be perfectly happy if he were dead. Balto doesn't reply, instead flashing Boris a solemn look. His eyes light up with new intention, and he grabs Boris by the beak, dragging him along as the old goose honks angrily.

Balto releases Boris as the two come to the back of the hospital. Jenna, who had once again settled out front, hears the commotion of the intensely pissed off bird wailing and honking. Balto wordlessly releases Boris, and just before Boris can complain further, Jenna comes over to the two. She and Balto share one miserable, knowing look before Jenna begins to cry. She presses her face into Balto's neck, weeping softly into his fur. Another child is herded into the hospital by a concerned parent. The girl wheezes and shakes violently as the door closes behind her. Boris looks on, all anger having subsided.

Instead, he says in a very business-like tone that Balto needs to hurry up if he's going to find the lost team. And he shouldn't keep Boris waiting. Boris is an old man who hates waiting more then he hates traveling. Boris begins to waddle off back towards the forest, and Balto can't help but smile. Jenna presses the pause button on crying long enough to ask what Boris means, to which Balto states that neither he nor his old man can stand idly by any longer.

Jenna understands, and she insists that the two allow her to come with them. It pains her to leave Rosie, but the child is barely ever awake at this point, and inaction won't make the situation better. Balto's smile grows wider, and the three take off to find the missing team themselves.

Hours pass. The three haven't ceased their journey, nor does it seem they've given up hope. Boris certainly has got a lot to bitch about, though. And he does this loudly and frequently as Balto and Jenna lead the way, exchanging words. Jenna vents about how it's ludicrous that Steele, a gloryhound who loves the smell of his own farts, was even selected to do the relay given how hard he is to handle. Balto agrees, if a bit softly. Jenna interrogates him gingerly, asking what happened the day of the race. Balto admits that the townsfolk have gone even more sour on him as of late, and that he's been genuinely afraid to be around anybody now... except for Jenna, of course. Jenna reassures him with the same viciously heterosexual smile as before that she'll stand by him no matter what. Balto can't help but smile back.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the frozen over Hell that is Alaska, Steele is blindly trying to redirect his team onto the trail, but the trail has long gone from his sight. Star, exhausted and growing antsier by the minute, suggests turning around and going back; it's totally obvious now that they're lost. Steele buckles for just a moment before snapping at his brother about how he knows where he's going and, having just told the worst lie in history, begins running directionlessly through the blizzard.

Expectedly, this sends his team careening down into a gully he failed to notice on account of the whole reduced visibility thing. The sled tips over - though it seems the anti-toxin is still secured and unbroken - the musher falls out and hits his head on a rock, and the dogs tumble into a heap. Some of them are bruised. Some of them are worse. But nobody is dead, not even the flame dancing inside the musher's lantern. The only thing that looks dead is Steele's spirit. He stares wide eyed and panting as he realizes the team truly is lost. "What are we gonna do now, Steele?" Star asks hopelessly. Steele doesn't respond.

Night has fallen. It's cold as shit out in the forest, but the three musketeers haven't ceased their journeying yet. Boris, effectively feeding into every stereotype about old men ever, complains about how long this road trip has lasted. Neither Balto nor Jenna have the energy left to respond to him, so they don't. Boris gets huffy and says the kids can keep going if they want, but it's time for him to sleep. He decides to set up a nest on a large snowdrift, and Balto finally gets frustrated and turns to explain to Boris that there's no time to stop now. And then the snowdrift stands up.

A polar bear, hulking and powerful, is standing on its hind legs in front of the dogs. A screaming Russian goose is flapping around on the crown of its head, and the bear immediately begins trying to attack its winged hat. Balto leaps to his grandhonk's rescue, but the bear lands an easy hit on him and sends him flying. The goose isn't nearly as threatening as the wolfdog, so the bear turns to Balto, ready to tear him to pieces.

This understandably displeases Jenna, and she flings herself headlong into the bear to save her friends. She's more lithe and agile then Balto is, which makes it easy for her to dodge most of the bear's swings, but she's not as quick as Balto is, so she still ends up taking a pretty nasty blow to the legs. She flies across the forest floor and strikes Boris, knocking them both to the ground. Meanwhile, Balto's trying to deal with the bear situation on his own. He's not doing so hot, though, as the bear makes like a 90s sitcom bully and starts wailing on him. This sends Balto careening down a hill and across a frozen lake.

The bear quickly follows him. It doesn't seem to notice the ice below it cracking like splintering glass as it walks towards Balto, but Balto sure as hell does. And so do Jenna and Boris, who, despite their injuries, are scrambling to reach Balto before the ice gives. But they're too little too late. The bear takes another step and the busted ice snap crackle pops apart, taking the bear under as it shatters. Balto stumbles away from the gaping icehole that's growing larger and larger.

The bear is thrashing wildly around, foaming up the water and swinging its claws around in the air. Boris thinks fast and grabs Jenna's bandanna to toss out to Balto. As the bear struggles to grab both Balto and the edge of the ice, Balto snags hold of the bandanna and hangs on as his friends drag him from the freezing water. As Balto collapses to the ground, the bear's struggles begin to subside, and finally it drowns.

Balto is badly shaken, but ultimately unharmed. Jenna, however, bit total shit, and now that Balto is safe her strength has left her. Balto and Boris drag Jenna off the lake and lay her down. Balto lays down beside her, shivering hard from his time in the water. Without thinking about it, Jenna pulls herself on top of him, murmuring about how cold he is. Balto tries to argue she should go easy given her injury, but the two go silent instead, smiling gently at each other. Then Balto's eyes light up as he turns to Boris. He thanks the bird for not just saving him, but for coming along in the first place. Boris absolutely beams.

But his grin disappears when the dogs get up... and Jenna falls back down. Balto insists she's too hurt to continue the journey. After all, who knows when they'll find the team? Jenna tries to argue, but falters when Balto insists that without her help he'd be dead now, and he'd be devastated if something happened to her out here. Jenna asks Boris to take her back to Nome when she notices that he's waddled a short distance away. He's gazing intently at something, looking worried and guilty. Balto pads over to where Boris is staring into space to see what the fuss is about.

Turns out the fuss is about two hairy little things: twin polar bear cubs. One is slightly bigger then the other, though he may just be bigger boned then his brother. The two are huddled close to each other, whimpering and cooing. It's obvious they're very young, toddlers at most. "Oh no," murmurs Balto. The cubs gaze up at the two with wide, frightened eyes. Nobody has to guess what happened to their mother, and Balto feels himself overwhelmed with guilt too.

The cubs follow Boris closely as Balto goes back to Jenna. He tells her that he's sorry she can't continue the journey, but that she can help by keeping the bear cubs safe until they know what to do with them. Jenna agrees and the two smile warmly at each other. Jenna offers up her bandanna to Balto "to keep him warm" despite how small it is as Boris helps her onto a large tree branch. Boris begins instructing the cubs on how to help, going demanding grandad on them in record time, and Jenna wishes Balto good luck. Boris pulls Balto aside and, out of obligation to the source material, tells Balto that a dog cannot make such a journey alone... but maybe a wolf can. The group depart, leaving Balto by himself in the snow.

It's a snowy night in Nome. A somber mood hangs so thickly in the air that one can almost taste the chunky sadness. The streets are empty aside from one stray black mass. It's Wild Joe, makin' his way downtown. He passes the hospital and sees a child who is obviously ill but not in bed. Joe's face crinkles in pain as the child, a boy, coughs so hard he wracks his body in great tremors. Joe pulls himself away from the sight and, face to the ground, starts walking faster. In a moment he passes the telegraph office. His ears perk rhythmically to the beeps of the morse code. He whispers sweet nothings to himself like, "Cannot send more antitoxin. Weather too severe. Lost sled team only hope. Our prayers are with them."

Meanwhile, in a somehow less depressing part of the Alaskan tundra, Balto has finally caught sight of a glowing pink light. The wind is too hard for him to smell properly, but as he mounts a rise in the path, he can see clearly what rests at the bottom of the slope. It's the team! The pink glow is the light from the sled's lantern. Balto's so beside himself with joy that he throws himself headlong down the slope, previously unaware of how slippery the embankment really was. He only just manages to gain his footing at the bottom of the hill. The sled dogs look up at him in amazement, unfurling themselves from the miserable balls of fur they'd tried desperately to wrap themselves in. "Balto!" is heard in a wave of gasps.

Balto begins asking a slew of questions. What happened, is the musher okay, etc. etc. Everyone does their best to answer. Everyone, that is, except Steele, who has been sulking wordlessly since Balto arrived. Once he's gotten a satisfactory amount of info on the situation, Balto picks up one of the now empty harnesses on the sled and tells the dogs he can lead them home. Steele is none too pleased with this, and he steps on the harness, jerking it out of Balto's mouth. Steele insists the dogs will be able to find their way home by themselves - after all, he's leading them.

Everyone immediately becomes uncomfortable as the tension rises. Balto shrugs, assures Steele that he can do as he likes, but that the kids need the anti-toxin and they need it now. Balto knows the way back for certain, so he'd be happy to just take the medicine. Steele just about goes batshit at the suggestion, crouching over the crate of medicine like a wild animal, snarling at Balto. He threatens to rip Balto to pieces if he so much as tries to touch the crate. Someone tells Steele to lighten up, and Steele just about shits himself.

He flings himself headlong into Balto, telling him to get out and leave them be. In the scuffle, the medicine crate is tipped over, where it begins sliding down a tiny incline towards a cliff's edge. Balto eyes it nervously and tries to get to it, but Steele continually throws himself at Balto, snapping and snarling and threatening. The other dogs begin telling Steele to stop, that Balto isn't worth it. Star suggests that maybe just this once the howler might be useful, so the team might want to listen to him. Balto looks Steele dead in the eyes and tells him that children are going to die if everyone can't be all kumbaya for a second.

Steele sneers eerily and simple states that he doesn't care. And with that, he outright flings himself into Balto, tearing into him viciously enough to send him whimpering in pain. The fight halts for just a moment as Steele looks down at the wolfdog, who is now battered and bleeding. Steeles give a triumphant huff and bares his fangs before he notices something. The other dogs are advancing on him. They've stopped their gawking long enough to realize that Steele's intentions haven't just soured. They were never good in the first place. The medicine crate continues its gradual trip down the incline.

Steele is spooked by the dogs encircling him, and he demands they get away from him and back into their harnesses. Meanwhile, Balto, despite his injuries, has wormed his way over to the escaping crate of anti-death juice, finally securing it between his paws. Star turns and notices this, praising him. The other dogs gaze over at him too, finally realizing he's probably an okay guy actually. If Steele was angry before, he's furious now. He leaps over the hoard of dogs that had formed a tight circle around him and barrels at Balto and the medicine, screaming for the wolfdog to let it go. Balto quickly shoves the medicine away from the cliff as Steele snags him by the bandanna. The two dogs teeter totter on the side of the cliff before the bandanna rips in half. Steele unceremoniously falls off the cliff's edge, tumbling down into the valley below.

Balto cringes at the sight as Steele refuses to get up from his epic fail landing. Still, there's no time to lose. Balto hobbles over to the sled, surprised to find the other dogs are securing themselves in their harnesses. All except three, that is. One dog, a Chinook by the name of Kaltag, notices an especially icky wound on Balto's leg, and he uses what remains of Jenna's bandanna to wrap it. Another dog, a chow mix named Nikki, is placing the musher in the sled. The man's in rough shape, but he's still alive. Finally Balto takes his place at the head of the team, where Star is holding the harness up for him. Balto slips into it, and it fits like a glove. He takes a moment to breathe and marvel at the situation.

The dog sled takes off again. As it departs, a couple of white paws grapple their way up the cliff's edge. Steele hoists himself out of the valley. He's bruised all over, but he's alive, and he's none too happy. He wastes no time. He tucks the remains of Jenna's bandanna into his collar and begins rushing after the dogs. The guy may be bulky and injured, but he's full of enough rage adrenaline (ragedrenaline?) to overpower an elephant's higher thinking, and he's not slowing down til the sled has stopped.

It doesn't take long for Steele to catch up to Balto. He tells Balto to stop the sled and leave the team alone, but Balto insists Steele doesn't know the way. The other dogs all but tell Steele to fuck off given they've seen what kind of person he is, but Steele doesn't care. He pulls out a handy dandy trick he's been itching to repeat since the beginning of this summary and snaps at Balto's legs, tripping him up. Balto regains his footing quickly enough so as not to slow down the team, but oh no! A moment later, Steele snaps again, this time grabbing Balto's injured ankle.

The wolfdog can't recover so easily from that, and he falls over. The team goes tripping and spilling across the icy forest floor. Steele allows himself to fall behind and watch the destruction unfold. The team is barreling towards another cliff's edge, and Balto's meager frame isn't enough to cancel out the laws of inertia. Balto slides out of his harness as the other dogs try to stall their descent, finally bringing everything to a standstill as the crate of medicine teeters on the cliff's edge.

Balto dives forward and snags the crate, and the team praises him... seconds before the cliff's edge starts to crumble. As the rock breaks to pieces beneath his feet, Balto and the antitoxin fall into the snowy abyss below. "Aaaaaa," is how Kevin Bacon put it.

The next morning, everyone is abuzz is Nome. The people even pull themselves away from their sick kids in the excitement, curious to see what's happening. Something has arrived, though it's not the medicine. The dogs are equally riveted, huddled in the boiler room to discuss their own canine-centric news. Turns out Jenna returned home the previous night, aided by two polar bear cubs and a goose. The dogs prattle on excitedly, asking a weary Jenna all about her journey. But, in all honesty, they seem most concerned with how - and further, why - Jenna would ever be brave or foolish enough to pair with a howler while on a wild goose/dog/plot chase.

Jenna tiredly begins to explain what happened, why the goose and bears were there, etc. when a ruckus can be heard outside. The dogs all look up, but nobody gets up. Not yet. A few moments pass, and then the door, which has been only halfway open up to this point, swings open in full. Standing in the doorway is Togo's team, along with an exhausted looking Steele. Togo remarks that they found the dumb jock wandering delirious through the cold. He was just lucky enough to meander past their relay station. Togo shrugs and leaves the room.

Everyone immediately starts flipping shit again, asking a new flurry of questions so loudly they drown each other out. Finally, Steele breaks the silence by asking "Where's Jenna?" Everyone goes quiet and looks over at the token girl husky. Steele pads over to the middle of the room, looking at Jenna but speaking to everyone, as he explains in a voice so sincere it's sickening that his team died in the cold. Balto did in fact find him, the last dog alive, but all he cared about was taking the anti-toxin away. Balto never meant well, Steele asserts, his chest heaving with every passionate word. All he wanted to do was get back at the town for turning its back on him! Everyone gasps except Jenna and a stoic figure sitting in the corner of the room.

Steele says that Balto took the anti-toxin and, in a desperate effort to get revenge on Nome for never accepting his boorish, violent ways, threw it and himself over the edge of a cliff. The medicine, and presumably every bone in the wolfdog's body, shattered on impact. Why, Steele even tried heroically to stop Balto from this suicide mission by grabbing him by Jenna's bandanna, but... He punctuates his speech by handing Jenna the remains of her neckerchief. She gapes at it.

Steele says that this has been a tragedy for certain, but all the dogs must band together and be strong. Heck, he even generously offers to be a shoulder for Jenna to cry on in her time of need. Such a noble guy, that Steele. Except Jenna has a finely tuned 6th sense she uses solely to detect bullshit, and it's going crazy right now. She tells Steele to his face that she knows he's lying. Balto isn't violent. In fact, the primary reason he left to find the team was to save the children. To save Rosie.

The dogs in the crowd begin to murmur among themselves, but Steele casually states that it's such a shame the wolfdog managed to manipulate Jenna so efficiently that she honestly never saw him going feral, never considered his more selfish motives. Steele reminds the room of dogs that Balto attacked him several times before the relay teams were dispatched. Everyone seems a bit swayed by the reminder.

Everyone's trains of thoughts are prevented from actually leaving the station by the dog in the corner clearing his throat. Surprise surprise, the mysterious guy in the shadows was Wild Joe, resident lurker. Steele almost looks intimidated as the dog pads over to him. Joe basically goes off on Steele, detailing how it's hard to believe a dog who has proven himself violent for the sake of winning, is mysteriously the only dog out of about 15 to survive, and thinks himself a hero despite failing to bring back even one ounce of medicine. Everyone is silent as Joe and Steele glare daggers at each other.

Steele huffs at Joe and leaves the room, stating that he won't be insulted this way after having had such a traumatic experience. The dogs watch Steele go, then look at Joe and Jenna, then awkwardly begin to file out. There's nothing else of importance to be said, and damn has it gotten awkward in here.

When the two are alone, Jenna quietly thanks Joe for believing her. Joe snorts and states that he knows what Steele is like and he knows when he's lying. Then Joe tells Jenna plainly that he doesn't have much hope of the anti-toxin arriving, and that even if it did it's too late for his fallen boy. Taken aback at the realization, Jenna expresses sympathy for Joe, but encourages him to keep his chin up. Balto is a dependable dog who won't let the town down, because despite everything he's faced, he understands how important this is. Joe smiles for probably the first time in 50 years, then asks Jenna where the goose and bears she mentioned went.

That night, the electric cross on the church steeple turns off. Rosie's mother notices this from the hospital window, and her husband hopelessly wraps her in a hug. Rosie's condition continues to worsen.

While this is happening, Jenna abandons her post under the hospital window and leads Wild Joe to Balto's boat. Some of the dogs at the cannery ogle Jenna, but Joe sets them straight with a well directed glare and a scolding about the male gaze. Boris and the bear cubs are understandably shaken when they are met with a sentient hunk of muscle, but Jenna assures them that Joe is a friend. Joe makes himself comfortable in Balto's home and asks the goose if he can wait for Balto to come back with him. The two cubs remain anxious around the old dog, who playfully teases them by asking if they think he's gonna turn them into mukluks.

As all this is going on, miles away at the previously mentioned snowy abyss, the snow in the depths of the gorge begins to shift. In a few labored, measured movements, Balto manages to pull himself from the snowbank. He collapses exhausted back into the snow, realizing how dire the situation has truly become. God only knows where the medicine has fallen, let alone whether or not it's shattered. "Kids... Rosie... I'm sorry," is all he can manage to mouth as he begins to weep.

Soundlessly, a large mass moves across the snowy terrain towards him. The world is a void of white, and the figure is too, but when he looks up, Balto can just make out the dark features of a canine face. A majestic white wolf, large enough to dwarf any dog, is gazing down at him with vibrant amber eyes. The wolf howls, then pauses as if waiting for Balto to respond. He doesn't, instead shrinking away in embarrassment. The wolf gives him a strange look, then gazes past him for a moment, then finally withdraws, quickly disappearing from view.

Balto allows his eyes to wander. Suddenly, those wandering eyes widen. The medicine. It's sitting unharmed no more then 10 feet away. And after offering the cliffside its own glance, he believes it might be possible to get it back up.

Balto rises slowly but surely to his feet. He eyes the tracks the white wolf left behind as it departed. He reaches out a paw to touch one, and quickly realizes that his paw fits inside it perfectly. His shame melts away. He raises his head up high, nose aimed at the moon, and lets loose a howl.

As if by magic, the white wolf reappears in the fog. Balto continues to howl, feeling as if it's the most natural thing he's ever done. The wolf rejoins him, and it fills the air with its own howls. The blizzard rages on around the two, but for just a moment it feels as if the world around them shimmers with a newfound clarity.

Up on top of the cliff, the sled team is huddling close together. Their spirits all seem to have been broken by what they presumed was Balto's death and the lose of the medicine. The dogs straighten up, however, upon hearing... the howling of wolves? Everyone huddles in closer together, suddenly terrified. A second later, though, they realize the howling has stopped, effectively being replaced with the sound of shuffling snow. Wait, huh? Everyone peers over the cliffside.

It's Balto, very much not dead, and very much pulling the unharmed crate of anti-toxin behind him. The dogs yap with joy, cheering Balto on as he mounts the cliff. The moment he's within reach, several dogs lift him and the crate the rest of the way up. Balto collapses in the snow, absolutely pooped. He lies there for just a moment, beaming coyly as the dogs praise him for his feat. Is this what it's like to be respected? When Balto can stand again, the dogs go through the motions once more: musher in sled, lantern on crate, crate secured, Balto up front. And nothing can stop them now.

Well, they figure as much, anyway. But they're proven wrong a short while later. The team enters a deep valley, surrounded on all sides like a great white bowl made of high pale mountains. The air is eerily still. And then, breaking the silence, someone sneezes. The sound reverberates around the cereal bowl that is the mountain range. A moment later, a cascade of snowfall begins barreling down the steepest mountain. An avalanche! The team runs for cover in the nearest cave.

As the team enters the cave, the sled thumps loudly against the ground. The dogs hazard a look up as the tinkling sound of ice on ice becomes apparent. To their horror, they see a barrage of icicles begin to plummet down towards them. One severs the handles at the back of the sled, only inches away from the musher's head. Another slams down just beside the medicine crate, causing everyone to promptly flip shit. The team rockets forward as quickly as they can, just managing to clear the cave as the worst of the icicles shatters behind them. Okay, NOW it's gotta be over, right?

Dawn is just about to break. The cannery dogs are all struggling to rest in the cold weather. One of them, a shabby, long nosed creature, gently lifts an ear in his sleep. Some sort of sound is reverbing in the distance, so far away that it can't reach the true populace of Nome. But it's there, and it rouses him awake. Other dogs begin to take notice as well. On Balto's boat, the twin cubs follow Boris to the railing as they listen. The sound starts as a very low bellow, but soon it becomes clear...

Someone is howling. It's a foghorn! It's a train! No, it's... Balto!

Balto lets out another very primitive howl as he and the team advance towards the cannery. Everyone is overcome with joy. They're so close! The cannery dogs begin running to meet the team, eyes bulging in surprise. They didn't expect this because they really only skimmed the story up to this point. The sled team keeps pace, everyone acknowledging the cannery dogs with excited yips, as they continue towards town. Boris and the cubs climb out of the boat to greet Balto.

But the team is brought to a halt as a dog steps directly in front of the sled, unmoving. Everyone rams into one another, but at least the medicine isn't being flung off a cliff this time. The dog who stopped them is, of course, Steele. His bi-colored eyes shimmer menacingly as the sled's lantern's light reflects off of them. He says he's amazed that the dogs made it home, sarcastically giving Balto in particular a "Bravo". Very cute, very heroic.

But what does Balto expect to happen? Does he think all the townspeople are just going to accept that some guy they've always hated brought the medicine back? Balto has no idea what he's gotten himself into. His only choice, obviously, is to slip out of the harness and allow Steele to lead the team back into Nome. Now.

Wild Joe leaps out of Balto's ship, finally coming to see what all the hubbub was about. He pushes his way through the crowd of stunned cannery dogs and glares daggers at Steele, telling him that he never deserved to be the lead dog and now he's still so greedy for glory that he's holding up the cure for a child killing illness. Steele snarls at Joe, clearly not caring about his opinion. Then the other dogs in the crowd begin jeering "Yeah!" and "You tell him!" and various other cliches meant to show solidarity.

But the real surprise comes when the only dog who actually does slip out of his harness is Star. "Steele doesn't deserve credit for this!" Star spits at his big brother. "In fact, he doesn't even deserve the golden collar he's wearing! All he's ever done is boss everyone around. He's bossed me around since we were pups." Everyone's eyes drift towards Steele's neck. The golden collar and all the medals adorning it shimmer dimly. "You're the hero here, Balto," Star continues. "You deserve that collar. And you're gonna wear it."

He steps towards a stunned Steele, looking as frightened but unflappable as a weeaboo asking out a girl he likes, and lunges at Steele's throat. He yanks the collar off in one swift tug, stepping back and letting it fall to the ground at Balto's feet.

Everyone looks equally amazed at the sight of Star standing up to the guy who's shat on him his whole life. Balto looks at the collar before him, then at Star, then at Steele. "Thank you," he says awkwardly, "but he can keep it. It obviously means more to him then the kids do."

Now Steele is Peak Tilted. The team moves forward again, bypassing Steele and stepping on his collar as they do. Steele stands, chest heaving, for a moment's time before he loudly snaps "no" and drives himself at the team. He shoves cannery dogs out of the way left and right as he plummets towards Balto. Balto notices and comes to a stop beside a coal shoot. The team warns him to LOOK OUT BRUH and Steele flies at him, mouth agape and ready to bite. Just as Steele is about to land on Balto, Balto rolls over, sending Steele tripping over him in the process.

The coal shoot's hatch opens as Steele lands against the lever behind it. Steele tries to claw his way up out of the slowly opening hatch as the other dogs watch horrified. Balto tries to reach out to him, but it's too late. A load of coal drops down from another hatch above the ground. Hundreds of hunks from hell hit the hedonistic Steele as his grip slips. He screams as he falls down the shaft below, a 2 ton torrent of coal following right behind him. Eventually all that can be heard is the sound of stray chunks of coal bouncing around in the shaft. The sound fades as both hatches close. Steele is gone.

Wild Joe walks over, gazes at the closed hatch, and gives a low grunt. He laments on how it couldn't have happened to a nicer dog, then turns to Balto. He says that Balto can't stand around all day when he's got medicine to deliver. But first there's something he needs to do. Star was right, Balto does deserve a collar. And to make sure he has one, Wild Joe slips his own golden collar off his neck, effectively stripping naked in public, and puts it on Balto. Balto is awed. Boris comes up behind him and wraps a wing around him, complimenting him on his new look. Joe tells everyone to hurry into town, and so they do. Balto lets up a torrent of howls once more.

The team FINALLY enters town, and already a whole slew of townsfolk have gathered to see what's going on. They can't contain their relief and their joy upon seeing the medicine has honest to God arrived. Balto brings the team to a stop right in front of the hospital, and immediately the doctor and several other people pry open the crate. A wave of people descend upon the dogs of the team, petting and hugging them. Balto is no exception to this, as people he never expected to respect him begin rubbing his ears and stroking his back.

One of those people is Rosie's father. He hesitates for a second before stroking Balto's head, then leans down and wraps his arms around the dog's neck. Balto withdraws for a moment, but then allows himself to be held. When he's satisfied with the amount of wolfdog hugging he's done, the man coaxes Balto into the hospital, where the staff is already going about administering the anti-toxin to the children.

Balto is brought in to meet Rosie. It's been some time since he's seen her, and she's just been given her injection of the medicine. She's still too weak to lift her head, but she smiles at him all the same. She reaches out her hand to stroke his muzzle, and he licks her. "Balto," she cooes half asleep, "I'd've been lost without you."

She gives a sigh and begins to snore gently, and Balto considers this an appropriate time to head outski. As he turns to leave, he sees Jenna in the doorway, her face scrunched tight in a misty-eyed grin.

The two dogs throw themselves into each other, romping in the doorway. Jenna allows herself to weep, and even Balto's eyes get a little wet. Part of her had truly believed she'd never see her closest friend again. As the two pause and settle back down, she goes to git it and plants a kiss (or the dog equivalent of one I guess) on his nose. He returns the gesture and the two lean into one another. They sit in an embrace as the town continues its celebrating.

A year has passed. Balto, Joe's golden collar still adorning his neck, runs across the cannery harbor to the boat he used to live in. Boris can be seen teaching Luk how to sweep the deck with a poorly held together broom. Muk watches in amusement. Balto calls to Boris that it's time and that he and the kids are invited if they'd like to come along. Boris, overjoyed, leaps onto Muk's back and tells the cubs to pretend they're Paul Revere and hurry up. Everyone who lives in the cannery greets Balto as he rushes by.

Balto passes Dixie on the street as everyone hurries along. Dixie's owner is offput by the presence of the polar bear cubs hi hello what the hell, but Dixie nonchalantly asks Balto what all the fuss is about. Balto explains that it's time, and Dixie congratulates him. He continues his trek, and it goes very much like it did when he was competing in the trial race before the Great Race of Mercy took place.

Finally, Balto reaches the hospital's boiler room. Inside huddle a small crowd: Rosie, her parents, Wild Joe (who is looking a little green), Doc, the actual doc, and, of course, Jenna. Jenna's the center of attention, and she's clearly exhausted. But she's not so exhausted that she can't look up at Balto with a smile on her face. Wild Joe grabs the blanket that she's tucked into and pulls it off of her as Balto and his friends gaze over her.

A litter of 6 puppies whimper out complaints as they reorganize themselves against their mother's warm belly. They're sickeningly precious, squeaking and huddling together. Most of the little ones are varying shades of red like their mother, but the smallest newborn looks remarkably like her father. She lifts her tiny, trembling head and lets out quite possibly the smallest howl any living thing has ever uttered. Everyone chuckles, and Balto leans his head into Jenna's cheek. Their faces are awash with pride.

So there you have it, Balto But Not Balto But Still Balto. Happy 24th year of existing, you trashfire of a movie you. I genuinely love this movie more then I should, and this has been fun to work on. Later this month I'll dump some more Balto stuff here, but it's just about time for me to start a new project for this blog. Hope yous guys enjoyed the wolfdoggy content. Cheers.

#balto #balto words #balto draws #amblimation #rewrite #fanfic

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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 4 years ago

Text

19. What They Deserve

5336 Words, No triggers detected.

People loved to hear about the trials and tribulations of others. That was the core of half of the entertainment sites. Grace didn’t like to put her hurt on display, but she did want to reintroduce herself, or rather, debut the new Grace to the world and she realized that would entail people bringing up her past and/or intruding on her private life.

For instance, people would ask her how her relationship with her parents is…

Grace’s first day out, her mother was in the car whenever she got in. They were driven, in silence back to the estate, where guards were posted for the occasion, in case someone noticed or tried to get in, as they sometimes did. Her room was still the same, but there was someone there to help her pack up her essentials and her pleasures. She was going to be moved to a secure location that people didn’t know about, because her parents didn’t want the family house to be any more of a sideshow that it had been following her institutionalization.

Her mother still had not said anything to her and it took hours for her to go through her personals and decide what she couldn’t live without and see the things that she could live without go into a donations box or a trash bin. “Where are all of my pictures of me and Simon?” she asked, when she opened the designated box for those.

“Surely, you’re joking,” was the first thing her mother said. She tossed the box into the donations. Her father didn’t even show up during this time frame. By the time she was moved into her new home, she had only gotten one word from her mother and none from her father. So, whenever someone asked about them, she would say, “How is everybody’s relationship with their parents? It’s personal. It’s a relationship between one and one or two more people, and their dynamic and their emotions are fluid. The three of us have very different wavelengths and concerns, so my relationship with them is something between me and them and then, my relationship with you all is what’s between me and you.” She’d laugh a little, but after a few times, people got the message.

People would ask her about her mental health - if she was better, what happened in the first place, does she think it could happen again, etc.

Hazel wound up in another facility after a few months with her new foster family (mere weeks before Grace was released). The charm bracelet was sent back to her and for several days, she didn’t know what that meant for Hazel. If she was okay, if she was hurt or worse. They had only told her that they thought that she should have it back, then failed to communicate anything else about Hazel, for legal purposes. Grace was in shambles, until FINALLY she was told that Hazel was fine, but she had a relapse and was “in turtle form” for several days, making them have to take her to a doctor and seeing her file, they committed her for 72 hours. She was fine and heading back home.

When Grace got out and looked her up, she was no longer at the same home. She had been redirected elsewhere… They couldn’t give Grace that information at the time. She thought she would lose her mind trying to contact someone who would be willing to help her out with this information, but most of them informed her that such information was secure for the safety of the child, and she understood it and couldn’t argue with it or convince them that she was more concerned for the safety of this child than anyone. It remained at the forefront of her thoughts.

“I went somewhere to get help. I got help. A lot of people just get bounced around in life and never truly get the help that they need or deserve. I’ve been very fortunate, so I try to focus on that. Some days, I succeed. Some days, I do not succeed. I feel good today.”

They would ask her about new music, what beauty products she used now that she was no longer associated with her old brands, and if she would be dancing again. All things that she still wasn’t completely certain of yet, but lighthearted enough that she didn’t get too stressed out about that line of questioning.

The questions that brought her the most visible displeasure and clear distress were the ones about Simon. What about your relationship with Simon Laurent? Nobody has heard your side of the story. Have you seen or talked to Simon? Are things well between you? Has he forgiven you?…

“I don’t speak about Simon. The most that I can tell you is that I hope he has what he needs and gets everything that he deserves.” They might try to make jokes to prod about what she thinks he deserves, but she generally redirected the conversation. “He deserves what he deserves, and that’s what I hope he gets.” She would smile and nod, but her eyes would be sad. Eventually, people stopped asking her about him. She began posting dance videos, remixes, and songs again. This time, being confident in herself and away from her parents. It was no longer an escape from her life, because her life was lonely, but she was happy with it. There was freedom in her world that she hadn’t imagined in the past. She had more followers than ever before. Some people still called her Apex, but she never put that into any of her bios or captions, herself.

She had a routine that worked for her wellbeing, from the time that she spent in the center, and she still had very regular sessions with her therapist, not to mention a medication regimen that assisted in her wellness.

Anyone who wanted to contact her did so through someone else who would be the go-between, just in case. She moved out of the house that her parents placed her in and found something more suitable for her style, and closer to Julliard, because she still wanted to try to go, if she could make it in. In the meantime, she enjoyed the music scene in New York, branched out to finding new artists that she hadn’t heard of, made a few new friends in the industry, got hired for music videos and song demos. Some days, she expected to wake up and discover that her life had all been a dream. She would wonder if she actually did spend over a year in a mental facility, if she had gotten into some trouble with Simon, if she ever actually had met Simon… He seemed so far away, so long ago and so unfamiliar sometimes. But, whenever he did come back to her, he came flooding back.

Like if somebody casually asked, “You got kids?” and she remembered that while the answer was no, she had gotten pregnant at 16 and was so stressed out, that she hadn’t noticed for several weeks that her body was behaving differently, and that she spent several more trying to figure out what she would say, what she would do, how she would handle this. “No, no kids. But, I did have to make a decision to terminate a pregnancy when I was younger.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. There’s a stigma about it, but it was something that was best for me and I don’t harbor anger or disgust with myself about it.” Then, she could remember Simon’s eyes, his hands, other parts of him, the way that he held her, the things he had said to her. She would have to try not to cry and if she did, be totally honest, “Sorry. I haven’t really thought about the guy in a while, and I’m just in my feelings, Don’t mind me.” She didn’t like to lie, if she could help it. She tried to be as honest as she could these days, without saying too much. But, she had a pretty good crew in NY. They always were understanding and if someone said something, they’d gather them up pretty quickly. Her therapist told her that friends do things like that. It made her feel bad. She thought that friends shared everything, and since she was still very closed off to these people, she didn’t really consider them to be friends of hers, just associates that she really liked.

“That can be considered friendship, too. You don’t have to tell every friend that you have your life story and every person who you share mutual connection and kindness with isn’t going to be your lifetime bestie. Just enjoy the company of people who make you feel good and let the people who you make feel good enjoy your company.” That’s what she did.

She got into Julliard when she was 20 and she was pretty known in the music scene by the time she was 21. Grateful that she had been able to finish high school in the institution and happy that she hadn’t gotten so comfortable that she was afraid to get better and leave there. Because, she was living a life that she had always wanted, and whether or not she deserved to, she told herself that she did and she was sure to enjoy it.

That bitch was trying to ruin him! Simon could hardly catch his breath as he paced outside of the hearing for his academic integrity. She’s just mad that you’ve done BETTER than she has, with her work!

It was one thing when she was taking her bitterness out on you, telling you that your weapon failed to meet the requirements of the assignment, even though it was theoretically FLAWLESS. The CIA spoke with you about your plans for this weapon! But her? She told you to stick to something that your “childlike little mind” could actually comprehend the endgame of. “How about your little robot figures?” she’d taunted.

Other students had laughed. LAUGHED! His project was miles ahead of everyone in that class, and her tone was disrespectful and condescending! “I haven’t had a childlike thought in my mind since I was 10, you old bitch!” It just stumbled from his lips. She frowned at him and demanded an apology to her and to the rest of the class. He snatched his presentation supplies and stormed off. He’d be damned if he apologized for her antagonizing him! He heard a few more laughs and he knocked the items off of her podium on his way out. He knew that couldn’t work out well… at least in hindsight, he did. In the moment, all he knew was rage.

He even sent her an email apologizing to her and the class and offering to replace anything that he damaged in his outburst. She had only replied to him not to return to her class until further notice. But… he needed her class. It would throw off his entire educational trajectory not to be able to come to her class! Even for a few days!! He was almost ready to grovel. Almost. That would be too much like showing weakness. He apologized, what more could she want.

So, Simon filed a complaint on her, accusing her of being combative, rude, and making her classes toxic environments. Now, the Committee on Discipline was meeting to look over all of the details of her complaint.

“I truly wanted to give young Mr. Laurent a moment to think about his actions in the classroom and to realize the err of his ways. His complaint against me during this time, being both unfounded and untrue, caused me to have to rethink my decision. I don’t think that Simon Laurent is capable of the behavioral status that we require of students here. I don’t think that he has the temperance for all of the criticisms his flights of fancy are sure to get over the course of his career. I gave him the option to try another avenue for the assignment, as his assignment, while a very significant project did. Not. meet. The. requirements. Of. the. Assignment. He needed to be able to give us a small demonstration. His project was a weapon. He could only grant me a simulation and that is not what I asked for. Telling him this incited him to rage in which he disrespected myself and his peers, disrupting the classroom with his antics. Like a child, throwing a tantrum.”

Even then, his face was looking like all he wanted was to murder her right then and there. When the committee allowed him to speak, he changed his tune. He was calm and even voiced. “Professor Hughes made a lot of points about me and my particular struggles when it comes to being disregarded. I did respond angrily and I know that it was wrong of me to react the way that I did. That’s why I sent her an apology after I had the chance to cool down. But, she didn’t decide to turn me into the committee until after I filed a complaint on her for even bringing me to the point that I had such a meltdown in her classroom in the first place!” Amelia frowned and members of the committee shared various facial expressions.

Simon looked directly at her and said, “I’ve been a long time fan of your work and your accomplishments. I specifically fought to be in your classroom because of the way that I regard everything that you’ve done throughout your career and I just wanted the privilege to be able to learn from you. But, you’re very unkind. You make people feel bad. You don’t think about the things that you say to people and how those things might affect them. You didn’t even care about my psychological makeup until you could use it against me in these proceedings. You humiliate people in front of others and you don’t even break a sweat.”

“This is not my hearing, Mr. Laurent.”

“But, it matters to this hearing, because I never would have reacted that way if you weren’t being so abrasive.”

“That is a word that men like to use against me whenever I meet them with the very same energy that they put out. I’ve been called worse. By professors, colleagues, and for over 30 years my own psychological settings came into play whenever a discussion was to be had about me. This isn’t about your mental disposition. It’s about your behavior. Your angry and hostile behavior at any old sign of criticism!”

“Professor Hughes,” one of the committee members said. She went silent.

Simon proceeded, “I know that I’m not good at handling criticism, especially coming from a woman. My mother was… difficult to communicate with and the only other woman I was close to…” His eyes grew damp. “I’m sorry. My education means a lot to me and I’ll do anything to stay here.” He rushed out of the chambers, covering his face as he did. Amelia pulled herself up to go check on him. He was in the waiting section, in a seat in the corner with his back to the wall, still covering his crying face. She took a deep breath, grabbed a seat and sat next to him.

“There’s not a person in that room who isn’t familiar with the hardships you had to face in order to get here. We know about your family. We know about your abuse.” He wiped his face and glared at nothing in particular. “We also know how smart you are. You were able to get into this school based upon your intelligence. Nobody is doubting that you are capable of doing great work. I wasn’t even implying that I hated your work that day. But, it wasn’t the proper assignment, Simon. I needed you to give me one thing, you not only gave me another, but you refused to even consider that what you were trying to give me was impossible to meet my requirements. Then, you got angry because you had refused to listen to me in the first place. Now, I admit… I’m not the most courteous member of staff at this institute. I can be…”

“Bitchy.”

“Unapologetic.” She chuckled. “Let me tell you, I know how it is to be in a room full of people who underestimate you and make you feel like you shouldn’t be in the room. There wasn’t much respect for female engineers in my day and there’s not a proper amount even now if you ask me. Half of this staff is composed of pretentious, pompous, puffed up paragons, and it takes next to nothing for anybody outside of their ideals to be met with disdain. What you did, by reporting me was to make me a target. I disagree with your evaluation of me and I can’t tell if it came from a place of genuine thought or retaliation, but you can’t be trusted to continue your education here unless you are willing to listen to others, especially those of us who are trying to help to teach you!”

He wiped his eyes with his sleeves. “They’re gonna kick me out. It’ll look bad on me, and all of my research and work from the past two years might not even matter anymore…”

“That doesn’t have to happen, Simon. Listen… I think you’re brilliant. I am willing to vouch for you this time, under the circumstances that you see someone about getting professional help for your responses to adversity.”

“You… want me to see a shrink.?”

“I think you could benefit from getting mental healthcare and I don’t want you in any classroom of mine unless you do.”

He shivered. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She went back in to explain this to the committee and he went through the campus counselors, hating most of them whenever he met with them, switching every time he didn’t like something about one of them, making very little progress, but still fulfilling the deal he made with the committee, for a time. He and Professor Hughes bickered a lot, but he had kept his temper in check whenever she aggravated him, and he eventually settled on a counselor that he didn’t completely hate, too.

He’d always come in, not at all wanting to speak to them. He tossed some books on the table and said, “That’s my dream journal, my intrusive thoughts notebook, and the standard journal. Look through them and then tell me whatever you need to tell me for me to get my paperwork signed off on.”

The man pushed the books back to him and said, “I’m not going to read those, but you’re free to talk about anything that you’ve written in them to me. Let’s start there.”

Simon flopped into the seat and rolled his eyes, “There’s nothing in these that I want to talk about. That’s why I wrote them in here. You’re the brain person. The information gets to you whether you read it or I say it.”

“Okay. Well, let’s see what the first entry is in this one…” He picked up the standard journal and read out loud, “I saw that they let the void out into the world again… What’s the void, Simon?”

Simon turned red and didn’t answer. After a while, the man continued reading, “It didn’t look like Grace. It was beautiful like her, but it looked older, which makes sense, because it was gone a while, and now it’s back…”

Simon snatched the book from his hand and stuffed it into his backpack. “This was a bad idea. I’m not here to talk about or hear about the void.”

“I don’t know what the void is, but you wrote about it, so I’m inclined to believe that you think about it.”

“I’ve seen it!” Simon snapped pounding his fist on the desk. He took a deep breath. “I had a vision, at least I thought it was a vision. Whenever I was 16, when I was with my ex… we weren’t together for a long time, not that way. We were friends, first. We were friends for a long time, but I always loved her. I loved her before she even knew herself. I loved her with all of my heart.” He picked at his forearms where his tally marks were. “She just saw me as a friend, even though it was obvious that we should be together. Maybe I pushed too hard. Should’ve just left well enough alone. I had to have her and what I got was something else. She wasn’t the same. That wasn’t the girl I loved and I didn’t know it until I saw this… vision that I call the void. It came out of her, it engulfed her and consumed her and it took her place.”

“In a dream?”

“I’m not crazy.”

“I would never use that word to describe anyone.”

“I’m not whatever word you would use for crazy people! I know that it wasn’t real. But, I saw it and I knew that it was what replaced my friend. I hated it for taking her away, and I hated her for letting it. The void was just a way of dealing with the separation. I omitted everything connected to it from my life.”

“You voided her out.”

“Yeah. The person who looks like my friend got out of a mental institution a while back. That’s what that entry was about.”

“Do you honestly feel like the person who you saw is a different person than the one that you used to love? Do you believe that this void that you saw replaced her and that the entity you refer to as the void is now existing in the form of your friend?”

“What? No. I’m not crazy!”

“I’m asking you if when you refer to your ex as The Void, is that because you don’t see them as the human that you knew or because you have purposefully reduced them to something subhuman?”

“What difference does that make?”

“One would be purposeful dehumanization of someone you didn’t like and the other would be out of your control.”

“Nothing is out of my control,” Simon said.

“Some things have to be, Simon. Like the fact that you don’t want to be here, but the school is making you in order for you to remain enrolled. You can’t control everything, not even everything in your life. But, just because you can’t control everything, that doesn’t mean that you don’t control anything. So… Did you force this dehumanized version of this girl into your mind, or was it something out of your control?”

“I… I created it. I didn’t want to see the person that I needed turn away from me, so I imagined her as something else.” The man just nodded. “But, she made me do it! She was going to…” he shook his head. He couldn’t think of what it was that Grace had done that was so wrong. He needed to think back, remember the pain she caused him. Remember the damage she was willing to inflict… but, he felt like he was grasping. There had to be some reason. He couldn’t believe that he spent close to what 4 years now hating her for something that she didn’t actually do… No! She definitely was going to hurt him more than anyone ever had. “You had to know her. You had to know who she was to know what she could do to me.”

“I looked her up. She recently gave an interview about you. I can send you the link, if you haven’t seen it and are interested.”

“Grace did an interview about me?” He shook his head, “Whatever she said, she’s lying! It didn’t happen that way!”

“Simon… why don’t you do this… See if you can handle what she has to say and we can speak about how it made you feel next time."

Simon left pretty upset. An interview? She hadn’t had anything to say all of this time. Why now? Was this some sort of reckoning against him? He waited until he got home, glanced around him at all of the destruction he’d caused in the past but few weeks. He had been enraged so frequently that he couldn’t even see his floor.

But, he couldn’t rush into this. First, he picked up his mess, put things away, discarded what needed to be thrown out thanks to his destructive anger, and washed up for the night. No working on any projects or hobbies. Nothing that he loved or cared about in the event that this interview pissed him off. He let his hair fall and grabbed his phone. They were easier to replace than laptops. You could STOP raging when you get mad… Yeah right. And risk doing it at school again? They’d put me out for sure.

He opened the link and the first thing he saw was Shana’s face. "This is already a bad start."

"Hey Shady Kindred! Welcome to Shady Shana’s Dish, where we partake of both relevant and ratchet news. I’m your host, Shady Shana and today, I have a very special guest. My… frenemy turned… friendly associate?"

Grace laughed. It sounded like music to Simon, even though he glared at her. "Let’s.. just say associate.”

“OOF. Shade. Okay, well… classmates, former classmates, at the very least. This is Grace Monroe. I think my audience would definitely know you. From your videos and songs and stuff. But, let me dish this out, I saw homegirl perform live in NYC, and this bitch had a cello. Okay? A cello! She was singing some opera stuff.”

“I don’t sing opera!”

“She was hitting high notes, this kinda alluring witch noise… you sounded like those tuning things, but like high-pitched… you had to be there. Just… check out her page. I’ll have her links in the description. She’s working on music, putting stuff out all of the time and also attending Julliard. Many talents, very beautiful, sweet, when she wants to be… But, we’re actually here to dish about something that Girlfriend hasn’t talked to anybody about in a long time. Mr. Simon Laurent.” Shana exaggerated how French she said his name and had a look of disgust when she did.

He rewound to see Grace’s reaction. She nodded. She had prepared herself for this. She didn’t look angry or grossed out. Faking. Lies…

“Yes. I agreed to sit down with you in your really nice little studio here and talk about how I feel about Simon.”

“And just to let you messy ones at home know, we will not be speaking about the old school stuff. Grace was nice enough to give me an exclusive about her current day, so if you came to see what she wanted to say about the old stuff, this will not be the place. What he did do, didn’t do, how he done it, naw! None of that! So, I guess, my first question about it is how would you describe your current feelings about Simon Laurent?”

Grace laughed nervously, licked her teeth, sputtered out air (Simon hadn’t heard that sound in so long), and she shook her head, “It’s a loaded question. Ummm… I can’t say that I really have feelings about Simon. I have memories. I know that we were virtually inseparable for a long time. I know in my mind who I thought he was to me when we were younger, but, none of that has had any real bearing on my life in a while.”

“You don’t think about him or nothin?"

"I mean… I’ve thought about him, but no, not like actively. It’s not a part of my day. It’s more like an occasional experience, when something triggers it or… even sometimes, it’ll be put of nowhere, but just not often. I don’t even know what Simon looks like right now. If you were to trick me and have him backstage or whatever and he came out here right now, Girl - it might take me a moment to recognize him.” Simon felt himself trembling. She didn’t even check up on him? She didn’t want to know? Of course she didn’t! She didn’t care about him..

Shana laughed. “Well, not to be messy…” was her trademark line for when she was about to say something really messy, “Sounds like he’s basically become, what did you two used to call those mediocre types? Non-essential!” Grace’s lip dropped and she titled her head and squinched her face, “Well…” she said in a high pitch, “I… he’s not present. He isn’t part of my life. He detached himself from my life, and I had to learn to move on and now, there’s simply no attachments. Like, if I ran into him, no, I might not know him right away, but the moment I realize, I’m sure I’d be overcome with emotions. I couldn’t tell you how I’d react.”

“Would you uppercut his ass?” Grace cackled and covered her face. “I mean.. if anybody deserves it…”

“I don’t think I’d uppercut his ass, as you so eloquently put it. I think… I’d check to see how he’s feeling. How he’s doing. If he’s found his peace now that I’m not there to affect anything. If he’s better off without me, like he figured he’d be.”

“Sooo… if I can get you two in a room, you wouldn’t even lay hands on him?”

“I… remember what happened. I remember how it felt. I remember pain. But, since then, I’ve learned empathy. I’ve learned pacifism. I’ve learned healing. So, it’s not that I’ve forgotten how hard that time was, but I’ve forgiven everything and I’d just be curious if he had forgiven things too.”

“Whooooooooooo,” Shana let our a long deep breath, “You are better than me. Because if I see him, it’s hands on sight. He’d better not have his head turned. I’ll bust him right in his neck vein."

Grace laughed and shook her head, waving her hands, "I do not share in this sentiment. If you are a Simon stan, do NOT message me. I didn’t say anything bad about this man.”

“Which surprises me, because I know YOU won’t say anything about this, but I’ll say this and I’ve said this to him, as well… I still think that a lot of the things said about you were not true and a lot of the things done to you were just something that basically the lowest form of scum would do to someone. Something a… girl, I’m reaching back for this terminology… it was some… null type shit. Somebody less than zero would do that kind of thing, to anyone, much less someone that they cared about.”

“Well… I can’t speak for him, but you know… maybe he didn’t care about me as much as he seemed to… maybe these things are things you do to people you hate and maybe that’s what it was always gonna be with us. That’s why I would ask him how he’s doing. Maybe he was tired of being stuck around somebody he resented. I don’t know. But, I’ll always value any type of growth that I have. And if nothing else, Simon was definitely a harbinger of growth in my life.”

Simon didn’t realize that he was crying. Shana and Grace wrapped up the show and it went off with some music video that they worked on with a little girl. He didn’t watch it… his vision was too blurry. But he heard the song asking “Where would you be, without me?” And he couldn’t help but feel attacked. But, he closed out the video. If she wanted to see him and ask him how he was doing, sure… he could make that happen…

#If They Didn't Get on the Train #AU Infinity Train #Infinity Train #Nesha Fanfiction #Infinity Train Fanfiction #fics

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invictusimvu · 4 years ago

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Influential, innovative, and progressive, Invictus continues to reinvent a modern approach to fashion projected into a virtual world environment. For 12 years Invictus has redefined luxury for IMVU reinforcing its position as one of IMVU’s most recognized and desired brands. Eclectic, contemporary, romantic - Invictus represents the best elements taken from continental Europe and fuses them with the American ethos. The results create a charged atmosphere that is confident, powerful, luxurious and just a bit provocative which equates to unconquered luxury.

IMVU started out as a hobby that later evolved into being a passion and a business. I started on IMVU roughly 14 years ago and it was a fluke that I had even heard of it. A friend of mine in Washington had stumbled across this site called IMVU which was a 3D chat program with customized avatars and at the time you invited friends to join you would get free credits (the in-game currency). He sent me an invite and I signed up so that he could get the free credits but I quickly forgot about it. It wasn’t until a year later that I revisited it and after playing around with it I quite enjoyed it. What happened afterwards was an interesting journey fraught with tales of perils and triumphs.

I started out with an account called Maxentius and it was simply for enjoyment. I quickly learned though that creative talent was what powered the site and it was very inspiring to see so many artists coming together in one place to produce content the entire site could enjoy and I wanted to be part of that. I created a new account named Invictus with some help from two users I was friends with at the time, Lollirot and MajesticRepublic, and embarked on conquering a brave new world.

What you have to understand about IMVU is that all goods on the site are digital and created by members of the community called creators. Back then we called them developers but it’s the same thing. I noticed that many creators started out organically and grew out of chaos and I didn’t think that would be for me at all. I wanted to get off on the right foot and set about drawing up a rough business plan.

To start with I needed a concept. I knew I wanted to create clothing for male avatars and to me the best bit of clothing a man can ever own is a suit. So I wrote that down and moved on to a name. I’ve always been a big fan of Latin and my previous avatar was named Maxentius so I had to think a bit and eventually the word Invictus came to mind.

Invictus is Latin for “unconquered” and I thought that would be perfect because it conveyed a sense of power and awe and that worked with the product I wanted to sell. Men in suits always convey power and demand respect but that wasn’t enough. There were two other creators on the site who specialized in creating suits for men, Terrence69 and EddieOrlando, and I knew if I was going to be successful I would have to get on their level and try to “out-do” them in the spirit of competition. I looked went through their catalogs thoroughly to see how they went about it and I felt I learned enough to know how to compete. I figured the best way to sell the same product they were selling was to add something extra. I thought about Karl Lagerfeld who has long been a personal hero and spiritual mentor of mine and how he would approach this. I reasoned that anyone could purchase suit for whatever reason but why not make one of those reasons prestige? If you create a brand that is billed out as being a luxury brand then maybe people will want it more than your competitors. So I jotted that idea down. I knew the lynch pin to this would be branding. Most creators at the time didn’t have very solid branding and those that did weren’t very consistent with it but I knew a bit more about branding than most users so I thought I would have an edge. I was correct! I opened up Photoshop CS3 and started working on a logo which ended up being the word INVICTVS written with Trajan Pro and given a metallic look to it. While I was designing the logo the phrase “unconquered luxury” came to mind and I knew I had an instant winner. Now that the branding was completed I set about to creating product to sell and truth be told when it finally came down to it the job was a bit more difficult than anticipated.

I’ve had the good fortune to know two excellent creators on IMVU, Lollirot and MajesticRepublic, both of whom took me under their wing to help nurture my skills and push me upward. I found a derivable suit product produced by a user named Ryupa (he and I would go on to have a good working relationship for many years) and got to work. Before I knew it I had completed my first line of suits. Now all I had to do is wait. Back then it wasn’t a problem because there weren’t very many creators on the site like there is now so within a week or so a few customers made their first purchase of my products and within a month the name Invictus started to spread.

The rest, as they say, is history. Invictus became a rising star and an established and well-recognized brand on IMVU. I won’t fill you in on all the gory details of the last 10 years but let me be clear there were definitely some ups and downs. I took a 4 year break in 2013 and returned in November 2017. Now that I’m back at the helm of Invictus I find IMVU to be a completely new place with many changes in the site and the user culture. Creating and advertising isn’t what it used to be in fact I would say if anything it became more complex and sophisticated than it had been in the “good ol’ days.“ My brand was still recognized, especially by many of the older users, but for the most part it was in shambles. I figured if Lagerfeld could resurrect Chanel then I could do the same as well and that is were we are now.

Invictus has undergone a complete re-branding and broken away from much of its traditional offerings but continues to plow forward as a luxury label for men’s clothing on IMVU. I hope to bring the label back to it’s former prominence and produce new and innovative products in proud tradition. Time will tell. - Vic

#imvu pro #imvu #imvu products #imvu fashion #virtual world #virtual chat #virtual catalog #3d clothing #graphic design #graphic artist

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mithrasisgay · 5 years ago

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The Rise of the Dread Fleet Pt. 4 - Stalwart

@tyrias-library @skrittilicious @omnivoroustree <3

On Ao3

Night has fallen over the city, but silence never comes in Lion’s Arch. Asha and her little group are lurking in an alley near the less frequented corners of Sanctum Harbor, the noise of a nearby tavern with an open door hiding their own sounds easily.

Before them, in the waters, lies a large three-master, a Lionguard ship named the Stalwart, currently out of commission due to the installation of new cannons, but the workers have already gone home to their families, leaving the Stalwart entirely alone.

Liamu, Snezz’ friend, is sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed tightly, one tooth digging into her lower lip. Around her, the group is silent, letting her concentrate and watching anxiously for her verdict. The necromancer acts as a scout here, having summoned a swarm of locusts that swarm over the ship, examining every nook and cranny for hidden guards or traps. She has been motionless for a good twenty minutes, before her eyes snap open abruptly. “It’s clear.” She reports. “I could not find anything.” Asha, who had been crouching at Liamu’s side, now rises back to her feet. “Good. Summon your guys. They might get alerted of our intrusion once we board, and I wanna be ready to run as quickly as possible.” She orders and Liamu gets up as well, while the rest of the group readies themselves for a potential fight. Cariyen looks upon the young girl with unconcealable pride.

Liamu steps away from the group, to make room for her little horde, and draws a deep breath. Then, green, necrotic magic gathers around her claws as she rises her hands over her head, muttering under her breath as the green energy coalesces into solid form before her, growing limbs and digits, writhing under Liamu’s spell, until seven vaguely humanoid, headless minions stand before their master. She lowers her hands and gazes upon her work, then nods her head in satisfaction. “They can sail. I designed them for us.”

Each creature is about two heads taller than Cariyen, has long arms, reaching down to its knee joint, or rather, the first joint below the hip, because there is another knee between the first and the ankle. Their feet resemble Charr paws, with spurs on the heel, and each hand has four fingers, adorned with boney claws, not unlike an Asura. No one speaks for a few seconds, looking at the creatures with a mixture of respect and disgust, but Asha grins from ear to ear.

“That is so FUCKING cool.” She praises. “Exactly what we needed!” The corners of Liamu’s mouth twitch, as if she was trying to smile, but was unsure how. “Okay. Your minions need to rush ahead of us and ready the sails. Cariyen, you’re behind them, get on the wheel. Snezz and Auri, you chop off the lines and raise the anchor. Liamu, you’re with me. I’ll guard you.”

“What did you just call me?” the Charr growls. “Auri. Short for Aurelia. Your name. Cute, isn’t it?” Asha shrugs at her, then claps her hands. “Right, chop chop, you guys! We got a ship to commandeer!”

The group gets moving, each filling their role. Cariyen runs with the minions and finds them to have a strange type of grace to their movements, as opposed to the horrid shamble she expected of them. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees Liamu moving slowly, holding Asha’s hand like a blind person, as the necromancer focuses on directing her minions.

Cariyen and the minions climb on board easily, two of them break away to lower a gangplank down, so the others can board more easily. The minions work without pausing to catch their breath, and within a few minutes, the sails are risen and ready to sail.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The voice from the harbor has Cariyen’s blood running cold, but when she hurriedly glances down past the Stalwart’s railing, she doesn’t see Liamu and Asha anywhere.

“Borrowing your ship!” Asha calls back, from the starboard side. “Indefinetly!” The anchor is risen and Cariyen grabs the wheel to maneuver the large ship out of the harbor. There’s a group of Lionguard aiming bows and rifles at them, but before thez can shoot, a purple distortion fills the sky around the ship, bullets and arrows bouncing off it uselessly. Aurelia has thrust her hand into the sky, casting a reflective dome around the ship, giving them time to flee. Snezz cheers her on, but Cariyen catches Asha looking over the railings, looking for Raya in the waters.

Life is good for Vaixx. He’s sitting in the Captain’s Quarters of his brand new ship, which he named the Queen, sipping rum and pondering his next move. He’s assembled a number of free pirate crews around himself, and with no threat from Taidha, he can build up his new empire quite comfortably. Raxxi has left his side to lead her own crew, having risen to Captainhood under his banner.

Admiral. The title sounds beautiful next to Vaixx’ name.

He groans and stretches, then leans back in his chair. What could possibly sully this triumph of his now? As if responding to his question, there is a knock at the door. “Admiral? There is a lady wishing to speak to you. Shall I let her in?” Neci, his new First Mate, asks, muffled from the other side of the door. Vaixx grins. Clearly, this particular lady was here to congratulate him on his success. “Absolutely.” He responds.

The door opens and in walks the most beautiful woman Vaixx knows. She has ashen black hair, tied up in a ponytail, obsidian black eyes, and teeth as sharp as razors. Tall she is, taller than him by at least an inch, and dressed in fine silks. She steps in, a serious expression on her gorgeous face, and takes a seat on the other side of the table.

“Linni, my dear.” Vaixx greets her. “I welcome you to my humble new abode. What may I aid you with?” Linni pulls a grimace, and clears her throat before speaking. “Thank you.” She says. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Vaixx’s glass of rum shatters on the ground as he stares at her in disbelief. “What?” he finally manages to force out. “But why?”

Linni sighs and closes her eyes for a moment. “You are a wonderful man, Vaixx.” She assures him, although her words feel hollow. “But you are driving me insane. You feel fake. You constantly try to prove yourself to me. You do something and look at me as if you were asking if that was good and manly of you. You’re insecure, and you project that insecurity onto me. I am thirty-seven years old, Vaixx. You’re older than me. You should not be relying on my verdict as a basis for your self worth.”

With every word she speaks, Vaixx’ composure peels away. She’s right, he thinks. Alchemy, she’s right. “But-…” he protests, his voice climbing a few octaves, the corners of his eyes burning. “But I gave you everything, I-…” “Exactly!” Linni leans forward. “You give me everything! You keep wanting to buy my affection materially! And you’re so… damn pleased with yourself whenever you take me out to a fancy restaurant, you don’t look at me! You look at everyone else, to make sure they see how you’re spoiling your girlfriend. It’s never genuine!” She pauses to draw a shuddering breath. Clearly, she’d been keeping this in for a while.

“I don’t know why you’re like this, Vaixx. I care for you, I do. Deeply!” she continues. “And I know that whatever you’re doing here is not healthy for you. You never learned how to be in a proper relationship and everything you do is performative. I can’t deal with it anymore!”

Vaixx doesn’t respond. He just stares at her in stunned silence, processing her words and what they mean for him. “But… I love you.” He stammers. “Vaixx-…” Linni cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Listen. This isn’t the only reason I came to see you. I’m here mainly as a representative of the Order.” “What.” Vaixx whispers, feeling hollow. “Whispers has watched you kill Taidha and build this fleet. We know that you have big plans, and we want to ally with you, for the future. You’re a good man, and I know you have a sense of justice. I was given a new post as a sleeper agent in the Inquest. The Order plans a large-scale campaign against them.” “Inquest.” Vaixx parrots. “We could use a naval force disrupting their supply lines. You have the means, and as this fleet’s leader, you have a responsibility. For once in your life, take it.”

Vaixx nods, slowly. “I’ll help.” He promises. “Linni, please, if you could reconsider-…” “No. I have been brooding over this decision for months. I am not taking anything back. This is better for me, and for you.” She gets up and turns to leave. “I wish you the best, Vaixx.”

The door falls shut and the noise rings in Vaixx’ head. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of rum, uncorks it, and raises it to his lips.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #gw2 fanfiction #pirate saga #the rise of the dread fleet

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mirrormirrormag · 5 years ago

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muslim women's day: autonomy

Happy belated Muslim Women’s Day! This day has become so important for me because it came at a confusing point in my life where I was really unsure of my identity as a Muslim woman. Seeing the accomplishments of Muslim women celebrated in the mainstream was so affirming for me in my journey towards finding what I wanted to do in my life. This year’s theme was all about autonomy which is something that is very sacred to me because no matter where you are in the world, women’s rights to her body and identity are constantly being threatened. And I know I’m obviously late to the conversation regarding autonomy and how it applies to Muslim women, but thinking about this sentiment over the weekend has given me a new perspective.

One of the biggest reasons why I wear a hijab, which makes me visibly uslim, is because it gives me control—and autonomy—over the way my body is viewed and treated in society. It’s not so much so that guys don’t stare at my ass, but more so that my looks don’t play a role in how I’m perceived or treated. In our historically misogynistic society, a woman’s appearance plays a heavy stake in her value and worth in progressing the ideals and agendas that men want to assert; though the dynamics are changing, for the longest time, women were used as a tool rather than an asset on a heavily male team to instill values that contradicted those of women’s that preached empowerment and independence.

Regardless of how outdated Western people perceive my hijab to be, I wear it to free myself of any assumptions or labels a man or woman can use to limit my existence.

The paradoxical irony here is that as a hijabi in America, I already am boxed into an oppressive label that undoes all my efforts to regain autonomy over my existence. Stereotypes about my liberation or my timidness, regardless of how false, are one of the first things assumed about me and other hijabis in the country which takes away our autonomy. Because on top of controlling the way people use my body as a tool, I also have to control the way people view my lifestyle by constantly proving to people that I’m just as worthy as my less-confusing counterpart.

There is always a piece of Muslim women, and women in general, that keeps us tied down to the perceptions of others because no matter how “diverse” an industry insists it’s becoming, it’s still diversifying itself under the male gaze rather than the influence of minorities whose worldview is more authentic than the damaging and perverse perspective of the majority of men.

And on the hot-button topic of diversity and representation, the version of diversity that the rest have chosen to display (using minorities without their voice) is more damaging than helpful to the careers of hijabis who are in the public eye. We have seen a surge in hijabi models, entrepreneurs, and influencers that have changed the western world’s stagnant view of Muslim women for the better. Yet as companies make the effort to hire these women as the faces of their campaigns, it’s harder and harder to discern whether the intentions of said company is exploitative or supportive. There is no denying that in the corporate world, diversity has always been and is still a tool and object molded to their desire.

Just because the topic of diversity has been brought up a lot more than it was ten years ago, the same intentions and efforts are at work to keep minority voices out of the conversation and minority faces in their marketing; the fact that people don’t think that Muslim women are oppressed doesn’t and shouldn’t take away from the fact that our humanity has not been restored and instead more people are taking advantage of us instead. Rather than shifting the culture through these women’s own organic efforts, the exact companies who have been the reason for our dehumanization and degradation are using us in the same exact way, but now it’s not in obvious ways like it was before (excluding Muslim women from conversations).

"The paradoxical irony here is that as a hijabi in America, I already am boxed into an oppressive label that undoes all my efforts to regain autonomy over my existence."

Now, we are losing our autonomy when we abide by the terms and conditions set by men (still) whose interests aren’t aligned with our visions for empowerment, and instead interested in the profit that they can attain from our community. The same systems are still at play even though the means for it have changed. Instead of primarily exploiting women’s bodies as a means for profit—although this is still an extremely pervasive issue in our culture—our society is focusing its efforts on exploiting the diversity and vulnerability of minorities. These large companies, whose products and campaigns heavily influence our culture, know that without their guidance or support, Muslim women will be generally disregarded in the mainstream. It’s sad that in order to gain support, one has to commercialize themselves and make themselves palatable to the superficial needs of Western society, yet we keep giving it power and enable this system’s methods to maintain a monolithic world.

We have seen the influence Muslim women have just through the spaces they have carved for themselves without the “help” of large companies, and we can’t afford to lose the authenticity that has made their brand attractive because we won’t ever be able to branch out from under the wings of the misogynistic media we still enable today.

Obviously this is not to say that Muslim women are sell-outs, in fact all of the incredible work that I have seen in just the past few months will have an insurmountable influence on the generation of girls to come, but we still have to be wary of the selfishness that is still prevalent in society. I know that our community is more than capable of being influential without being the face of the company that has been the most degrading of our people just to prove a point that this thing can be done, and the message that it would send to our culture that our values and humanity won’t be compromised will dismantle the destructive loopholes that have kept ignorant people in power.

I hate that this all sounded more negative than optimistic, haha, so I’m going to share some of my favorite Muslim women who have inspired my voice a lot recently.

Amina Hassan - influencer and my fashion inspo

IG: @blackish.gold

Hoda Katebi - blogger of my favorite website (joojooazad), activist, and sustainable fashion advocate

IG: @hodakatebi

Shahd Batal - youtuber, influencer, my queen

IG: @shahdbatal

Linda Sarsour - activist, speaker, she founded the women’s march and then left them in shambles for bigger and better things

IG: @lsarsour

Marwa Atik - fashion designer and entrepreneur

IG: @marwaatik

#society #identity #hijab #autonomy #hijabi #muslim women's day #muslim women #diversity #representation

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bigyack-com · 5 years ago

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Check out breathtaking examples of adaptive reuse in five Indian cities - art and culture

When a structure is saved, it can transform a neighbourhood. That’s the principle of adaptive reuse — that when you restore a crumbling building, turn the insides into something completely different and make it relevant again, you shine a light on the space, the area, and its history.We haven’t got that far yet. In Kolkata, a 93-year-old residence is now a boutique bed-and-breakfast, but all around it are crumbling historic homes.In Delhi, the rooftop Walled City Café overlooks a crumbling and neglected Shahjahanabad. In Mumbai, a once-iconic mill now hosts yuppie beer-guzzlers and theatre lovers, but most of the mills in the city stand forlorn.Still, it’s a start. “Adaptive reuse projects become an example for others to emulate,” says conservation architect Kirtida Unwalla. In south Mumbai’s Kala Ghoda art district, she points out, what started as isolated incidences of heritage reuse have turned into a flood of cafés, restaurants, retail stores and art spaces housed in bits of history.Unwalla helmed one such transformation — when the high-street brand Zara moved into the five-storey, 110-year old Ismail Building that now lights up the street it’s on.

The entrance to The Walled City Cafe, situated in a 200-year-old haveli in Old Delhi. The principle of adaptive reuse is that when you restore a crumbling building, turn the insides into something completely different and make it relevant again, you shine a light on the space, the area, and its history. ( Sanchit Khanna / HT Photo ) “The new spaces coming up in heritage structures has really changed the area, making it livelier and more visited,” she says.Some of the earliest examples of adaptive reuse in India involved the palaces of Rajasthan. The 15th-century Neemrana Fort was once of the first; it was converted into a luxury hotel in 1991. Other examples include the 18th-century Lake Palace in Udaipur and the 19th-century Falaknuma palace in Hyderabad, both now ultra-high-end hotels.In the cities, the practice is still fairly new. But it’s happening.A decrepit 90-year-old four-storey house in Kolkata was recently in the spotlight after its owner put it up for sale, but only to buyers who committed to not tearing it down.“The enhanced value of a restored and adapted structure is yet to be fully appreciated in India, as it is in the UK, Europe and even the US,” Unwalla says.

Built as an orphanage in 1876, this Bengaluru building now houses the boutique store Cinnamon. ‘We picked the space because restoring it would be a way to remember Bangalore as it was,’ says owner of the brand Radhika Poddar.Money is a key factor, of course. Restoration, renovation and maintenance are significantly more expensive for old structures that typically need specific types of wood, roofing and tile, and need near-constant attention. The new tenants then take longer to turn profitable or make back their investment.“Big investments in restoration also often mean that the demography of a place changes,” says conservation architect Aishwarya Tipnis. “To make up for the money put in, if one runs a café, it has be a high-end one. This leads to more such places in the area, often changing a middle-class neighbourhood into a gentrified one. So one needs to ask what we are preserving,” she says.It doesn’t help that the government offers virtually no incentives, instead turning red tape into another deterrent.As Tipnis puts it: “We could’t really have a gallery like London’s Tate Modern or Paris’s Musee d’Orsay because the flexibility of using an abandoned power station or railway station for something so different simply does not exist here.”Delhi: Coffee, literature, history...On the first floor of a 200-year-old old haveli in Old Delhi, is a café that looks out over the Jama Masjid and the sprawl of Shahjahanabad.

Chandni Chowk’s Haveli Dharampura was restored by BJP MP Vijay Goel, a heritage enthusiast and activist. It is now a luxury heritage hotel and offers kathak and classical music performances. ( Sanchit Khanna / HT Photo ) “The house belongs to my sister-in-law, Zeenat Shafi, and was practically abandoned for over 12 years, after she moved to Canada,” says Sheeba Aslam Fehmi, who lives next door and is food curator for the Walled City Café. “By 2016, it was in such bad shape, it needed urgent repairs. When we were halfway through we realised that this nice open space on the first level would be a good place for people to meet, hangout and eat. It reminded us of the beautiful cafés of Istanbul.”The building had what she calls an ‘Anglo-Muslim’ ambience, with fireplaces, chimneys and a courtyard. It is now a popular venue, especially for literary and cultural events.Not far from WCC, is the splendid Haveli Dharampura — a grand home from 1887, with intact marble jaalis and wide courtyard, now a luxury hotel. It’s owned by the BJP MP Vijay Goel, a heritage enthusiast and activist. “The idea was to restore a part of it as a museum to set an example for others to emulate,” says his daughter, Vidyun, who handles marketing for the space.Once restoration began, the spacious rooms and corridors seemed perfect for a hotel. Work that was planned for six months went on for over six years; the hotel opened its doors in 2016. In addition to rooms and dining, it offers Kathak and classical music performances. “Turning it into a hotel has really helped with funding of the upkeep of a structure like this,” says Vidyun.Kolkata: Check in, check it outThis building was saved as a result of another interesting urban heritage phenomenon — the heritage walk.

The Calcutta Bungalow is a heritage bed-and-breakfast in a restored 1920s residence. This part of the city has several such once-splendid, crumbling structures. ( Samir Jana / HT Photo ) The founders of Calcutta Walks came upon it while researching a new walk around Radha Kanta Jew Street. “There it stood, with its green lattice shutters, arched windows and generous wide balconies,” says Anirban Dutta. “We keep coming across such buildings on our walks around the city, and most of them are in a shambles. We decided to do something about this one because it had so much potential — the ornate facade, wide road in front, relaxed and friendly neighbourhood.” The plan was to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, “because, you know, we’re already in touch with tourists all the time”.The 90-year-old structure needed much more work than they anticipated. “It was hard to raise the funds,” he says. The restoration took two years, with artisans coming in from Murshidabad to work with chuna-surkhi or lime concrete. The place opened to guests in May 2018. It will take at least until 2023 to break even, Dutta estimates. “But we hope more people will see that it is possible to work on these beautiful buildings and not tear them down.”Goa: Beer at a millThis was a project that began with architect and heritage conservationist Raya Shankwalker deciding he wanted to find an old structure and make it an example of adaptive reuse.

The Rice Mill Cafe, in an adapted rice mill in Morjim, Goa, wears a distressed look to retain a sense of what it was — as well as keep costs down. ‘In a lot of such projects, people go overboard with the spending, and then it becomes very difficult to make the venture profitable,’ says owner, architect and heritage conservationist Raya Shankwalker. ( Harshan Thomson ) His friend said he had just the think — an abandoned rice mill his family owned in Morjim, a coastal town in north Goa. “Travelling in Europe over the years, I’ve spent so many wonderful hours in quaint cafés and bars, housed in some beautiful old structure with an interesting story,” Shankwalker says. “I wanted to do a similar thing here.” So he and a relative invested in the mill.The exterior was intact, and the idea was to give the interiors a distressed look so it would feel like a mill. This helped keep budgets down. Shankhwalker says that kept the whole operation frugal too. “Our design is largely achieved by minimalism. Almost nothing expensive. Just surface treatments and simple elements of décor.” He adds that in a lot of such projects, people go overboard with the spending. “And then it becomes very difficult to make the venture profitable.”Adaptive reuse really works for commercial spaces because people like to be in a space with a story, he adds. Shankhwalker says the bar is now doing well and is well-entrenched in the area.Mumbai: Factory floor to office In Mumbai, an old soap factory is now a posh office and a buzzing café, with silos and chimneys still in place to hint at their history.

What used be the boiler space of the Godrej soap factory is now the Vikhroli Social. ( Edmund Sumner ) “When I first visited this Godrej property, which was to be redeveloped, we decided that the structure of the factory, which spoke to the group’s legacy, must be retained — but not as a museum,” says Anubhav Gupta, business head at Vikhroli and head of corporate social responsibility and sustainability at Godrej Properties. “We wanted it to be a functional space that spoke of the past but looked to the future.”So two of the structures on the plot are now the Imagine Studio, a marketing office for Godrej properties; what used to be the boiler space is the Vikhroli Social. While the structures are open-plan, with smart glass façades, the cast-iron factory equipment works as a reminder of the past.“We are going for a mixed use development approach that will have residences, offices and a five-star hotel too,” Gupta says.Bengaluru: browse with history Cinnamon, a clothing and home décor brand, specialises in products with an Indian aesthetic but contemporary design. When it came time to move from their leased store in Bengaluru, they decided to try and find a space that reflected their identity.“We came across this dilapidated bungalow at Ulsoor, in 2013. Restoration took about 10 months,” says Radhika Poddar, founder and owner of Cinnamon.Originally built as an orphanage in 1876, Poddar says she picked the space because restoring it would be a way to remember Bangalore as it was and maintain a piece of its heritage.The design suited her too — a courtyard perfect for a café; the rooms arranged around it ideal to showcase product lines. The challenge of maintenance remains. “I will say that one must be prepared to take on constant upkeep when one moves into a heritage structure,” Poddar says. “Still, it is a unique space, a piece of social history, and exactly what we were looking for. Read the full article

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asras-hat · 6 years ago

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What happened after the Portia tale (part 2 of 2)

Here’s the second part ^_^ it’s a bit shorter but ya know

Possibly-unusable link to the first one: https://asras-hat.tumblr.com/post/184517500210/what-happened-after-the-portia-tale-part-1-of-2

Let me know if you have any ideas for other stuff I can write!

Ilya leads me through the darkened streets of the South End, his dramatic overcoat fluttering behind him as he went. He occasionally ducks into alleyways, startled by every noise, but I guess I can’t blame him. Eventually I find myself standing in front of a fairly nondescript building that I presume is Ilya’s current house. He produces a key from somewhere within his fluttering coat and unlocks the door, ducking as he enters to avoid falling prey yet again to his towering stature.

“Watch your head,” he warns. I smile a bit as I easily walk through the doorway, which is at least a foot and a half above my head. Inside, it’s warmer and cozier than I would have expected of his home; a fire is dying off in the fireplace and there are two tattered armchairs facing it. I sink into one of the armchairs, feeling some residual warmth from the glowing embers – Ilya tosses another log onto the hearth and sits in the chair beside me, his movements somehow altogether flamboyant and apprehensive. We’re silent for a moment, both musing.

“Alright, Ilya,” I say eventually. “Let’s start with an easy one. Why are you wearing an eyepatch?”

“Ah,” he mutters. “That’s… not exactly an easy one.” He fiddles with his gloved fingers for moment. “I suppose this all begins with the night of the fire… no, it begins when Asra left for Nopal… no… ah, Pasha, so much has happened. I can’t possibly explain it all.”

“Okay, then, how about this – did you kill the Count of Vesuvia?”

“…”

“Ilya.” I snap my fingers in his face. “Ilyushka. I can’t believe you’re a murderer; prove me wrong, please.”

He sighs and slowly removes his black leather gloves, holding his hands out in the light of the fire. There’s a small black design on the back of his right hand, burned into his skin. The murderer’s brand.

“No,” I murmur. “No, Ilya, you didn’t.”

“I had to, Pasha,” he insists. “Vesuvia was in shambles. The Red Plague took over the city, and I needed to stop it.”

“By murdering the Count? I’m no doctor, but I can’t see how that would cure a plague.”

“…Well, I am a doctor.”

I stare at him for a long moment before suddenly bursting out in giggles. I clap a hand over my mouth, surprised at my own outburst, before Ilya joins in with his own halfhearted laugh.

“I suppose you don’t have to explain everything,” I concede once I get myself under control. “But tell me this: why didn’t you send me another letter when Mazelinka smuggled you out of Vesuvia? She said she rescued you the day after you sent me the letter – why couldn’t you have sent another one?”

“I’m so, so sorry, Pasha,” he sighs. “I didn’t want to put you in any more danger than I already had. I was on the run – I’m a wanted man even now. I’m managing to lay low for now, but if you’d had someone translate a letter from me, you’d be in trouble with the law too. I hope I can make it up to you.”

I’m silent for a long moment, turning his words over in my head. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s making sense.

“When I finally found someone who could read me your letter,” I murmur, my voice low. “I didn’t know what to think. You were gone – you were dead. You had committed multiple crimes and you’d paid the price. But then I learned you weren’t, and I came all the way here, and… I hate to see you like this, Ilya.”

“It’s not all bad,” he shrugs, doing his best to look cheerful. “This neighborhood’s a criminal’s dream – you don’t start any trouble, and nobody asks you who you are or what you’ve done. Everyone here has a past.”

We fall silent once more before my stomach growls noisily and I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since midday. Ilya hops to his feet, pulling his gloves back on.

“You’re famished,” he says, offering me his hand. “Come with me – there’s this great little hole-in-the-wall down the street from here. They’ll cook a fish any way you ask them to.”

I shrug and allow a small smile to ghost across my lips, deciding that even if my brother is an escaped murderer, he’s still my brother. I take his outstretched hand, letting him to pull me to my feet, and together we slip out into the inky-dark streets.

#the arcana #the arcana julian #the arcana portia #the arcana mazelinka #the arcana headcanon #the arcana fanfic #portia devorak #julian devorak

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phantoguy-blog · 5 years ago

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Lakeland

alright guys, it’s time for my first post ever. basically i wrote this story because i live in a town with needlessly strict parking laws and i wondered, “why?”

4772 words and some are good. enjoy.

***

“Hey, Smitt. Come look at this.”

Mr. Walter Smitt did not want to see whatever his campaign manager, Councilman Daniel Armstrong, was talking about. It was a hot day, and there was a rally that afternoon, and Smitt wanted nothing more than to return to his thirsty viewing of the local news. But nothing seemed to be newsworthy that day except for a local accounting firm burning down, which would have no effect on the mayoral race apart from warranting the obligatory sympathetic tweet. Smitt, therefore, decided to go see Armstrong in the break room, but he elected to shamble through the door so as to convey to Armstrong that he was burdened by this demand.

“Oh, Smitt. Look at this.”

Armstrong, a man of about 5 feet 11 inches, was looking at the dining table, on which sat a piece of bread and a tub of butter. He wore an expression of brooding that rearranged his facial features into a configuration Smitt rarely saw.

“You want me to look at the table?” “No, the butter.” With this, Armstrong emphatically picked up the tub of butter and thrust it at Smitt. “See?”

“What?” But Smitt did not receive an answer: Armstrong simply smiled like a dog who suspected his owner had treats. Smitt laboriously raised his right eyebrow.

“Look at the brand,” said Armstrong as though watching Smitt unwrap a Christmas present “The brand name.”

Smitt squinted as dramatically as humanly possible and read the dish. “Land ‘O Lakes?”

“Yeah! Like the town! Lakeland!”

“Oh!” The town was, in fact, called Lakeland. Smitt, the mayoral front-runner, felt slightly ashamed for not noticing this buttery coincidence until now. “Oh. Very funny, Armstrong. I was in the middle of analyzing important data when you interrupted me.” “Analyzing important data” meant watching the news.

“Sorry,” Armstrong said. He clutched the butter tub in his hand for a moment, then got up from his seat and held it poignantly as though he was Hamlet and Smitt was Horatio. “You know, Lakeland is a lot like butter.”

Smitt’s face fell, because he realized he would now have to ask why Lakeland was like butter. He clenched his fist and asked, “Why is Lakeland like butter?”

Elated, Armstrong began to wax what to him was poetry. “Because it’s all, like, flat and the same, and it tastes kinda salty.” He paused, for dramatic effect. “But it looks tasty.” Sated, he punctuated his soliloquy by setting the butter dish down. It made a loud clack.

This is why I’m the candidate and you’re the manager, Smitt thought. As he walked back to his office, he continued to ponder his friend’s intellectual capacity. But he knew, despite his scorn for Armstrong’s less-than-ideal conversational ability, that Armstrong was not wrong. Lakeland was absolutely, like, flat and the same. Its biggest and only hill was in its cultural epicenter, Turmeric Park, which had a great stage atop a large mound of grassy land. The houses of Lakeland looked almost as though someone had copy-and-pasted them in great lines with some magical computer. There was a lot of grass, and where there was not grass, there was sidewalk, and where there was neither, there was road or dirt. It was not a town that any up-and-coming young professional would choose to migrate to (Smitt placed remarks like this in his “Things to say in the company of only private donors” vernacular).

But the winds of change were coming to Lakeland and its population of 10,000. Signs were sprouting up in yards just like the flowers of Spring, and the signs sent many different messages at first, but now they were down to just two. Occupying the South and West sides of town were blue signs adorned with graphics of buildings and the message “VOTE November 6th Walter E. Smitt For A Better Lakeland!” On the North side of town, you would be more likely to see plain maroon signs with one white star at the top, with text saying “RE-ELECT Mayor Elliott Madison!” There was one such sign in a large flower-pot outside the accounting firm that Smitt was currently watching burn down on TV. He tried to catch a glimpse of the sign past the reporter who was currently blocking it, and saw one red corner, which suggested, much to his chagrin, that the blaze had not taken the sign.

The door opened. Smitt instinctively turned off the TV, hoping that the visitor would not discover his newfound schadenfreude for Richter and Sons’ Accounting firm. He was relieved to see that Armstrong, a man well-trained in the political art of not morally analyzing one’s boss, was standing in the doorway.

“Smitt, your rally’s in, like, an hour. Do you want to get going?” asked Armstrong.

“Yes. Yeah. Whose turn is it to drive?”

“I think it’s yours. I drove to the breakfast.” Smitt stared blankly. “With the union leaders.”

“Oh. Right. Ugh. It’s too hot. The van’s probably an oven right now and it’s too hot to drive.” Smitt’s official campaign vehicle did not have an air conditioning unit.

“Well, I guess I can drive to the rally and you can drive back,” Armstrong offered.

“Ok. But make sure you pick me up at Cedar & Chapel instead of the park. The voters don’t need to see the van.”

Armstrong looked solemnly in the direction of the parking lot. “Right.”

---

“We’re expecting a crowd of about 150 people today,” said Armstrong, nonchalantly reading emails from his phone as he drove.

Smitt smiled. “That’s one of the highest turnouts all year! I’d like to see old Madison compete with that. ...By the way, what’s Madison up to today?” “Dunno. I don’t think he’s, like, holding any rallies. Guy’s been mayor for so long, he probably thinks he’s got this in the bag already.” “If it weren’t for his army of churchgoing, wine-guzzling, high-horsing ‘community activists,’ he’d have been defeated a long time ago.” This remark, Smitt knew, squarely occupied his “campaign-ending gaffe” vernacular and should never be repeated in public under any circumstances. He scanned the van for recording devices just in case, but found none.

The two men took side streets to avoid being spotted, and pulled up behind the stage area in Turmeric Park. Armstrong looked at Smitt and nodded. “Go out there and give ‘em hell, Smitt. Remember to mention the parking situation. And give Madison a few knocks for me.”

“Right,” said Smitt. Armstrong gave him a firm pat on the arm, and with that, Smitt exited the van and made his way to the stage.

---

There was already a sizable crowd gathered. Some of them were holding signs that said things like “SMITT FOR LAKELAND” and “MADISON IS MAD, SON!” The latter slogan was one of Armstrong’s design.

Smitt could hear the crowd murmuring what he imagined were very complimentary things. The murmurs grew louder as he approached the steps to the stage, and then suddenly fell silent as he scaled them. Finally, when Smitt took the stage, the crowd’s voices grew to a mighty roar of pure zeal. Smitt beamed from ear to ear, raised his right hand, and gave an unassuming wave-- and with that one little movement, he immediately asserted his dominance over the crowd and guaranteed their consent, all while appearing as relatable as a 49-year-old businessman-turned-politician possibly could. “Thank you!” he said. It was like flamboyantly tuning an instrument before a concert. “Thank you!” This was the best part of Smitt’s job.

Smitt was not a natural-born politician. Though he would scarcely admit it to anyone whose last name was not Armstrong, he could not understand the people of Lakeland in the way that they understood each other. Lakelanders, as they were known, were a simple and quite homogenous people. They said a lot of words, but most of their communication was nonverbal and carried itself through ritual rather than rhetoric. They attended church every Sunday at one of Lakeland’s many churches, after which they would stop at one of Lakeland’s many restaurants for one of Lakeland’s many sandwiches. They travelled in packs of 3-8, depending on how many kids and/or friends they had, and fancied themselves quite intellectual and cultured but not to the extent that they ever mentioned this.

Smitt was not a religious person. He did believe that there was an omnipotent force that was currently guiding him, and only him, to become mayor of Lakeland, but this belief, if he ever expressed it out loud, was nothing short of a “campaign-ending gaffe.” He fancied himself an entrepreneur, who had recently moved back to his hometown of Lakeland after completing his MBA in order to found an advertising firm. When he travelled, it was in packs of 1-2, as he did not have a family and preferred to keep his friends far away. He never truly considered himself a Lakelander, though he had grown up there. And when he looked out at the adoring crowd before them, it was with a sharp twinge of sympathy, a sharper twinge of disdain, and a twinge of appreciation that was not particularly sharp.

But Smitt had a trick up his sleeve. He knew how to play his audience like the church organs they heard weekly. He understood, as much as any Lakelander, one of the fundamental problems with the town, and was ready to convince 150 average joes that he alone could fix it.

“Hey, Lakeland!” he said, which was as much a greeting as it was a statement. “Who’s ready for a change?!”

The crowd applauded sufficiently to indicate that it was, in fact, ready for a change.

“Yeah. Yeah! That’s what I like to hear!” Smitt liked to use crowd-pleasers he remembered from Monday Night Wrestling. “A year ago, when I first launched this campaign in Turmeric Park, I never thought we’d get this far. Now look at us!” More applause. “We’re still in Turmeric Park, but there’s more people!”

One more emotional appeal, Smitt thought. Then the big segue.

“This town is the greatest town in Upper West Perry County, Indiana, and we’re going to reclaim its former greatness together!”

A few seconds more of applause. The bait was now on the rod. Now to cast.

“You know…” The applause died down. “You know, I was just being driven here by my, uh, chauffeur, in our campaignmobile, when I ran into a bit of an issue.”

Smitt was dangling the rod now, almost taunting his crowd. He could feel the pressure build up, and it was exhilarating. He could barely move his hand, but ran it through his hair just to prove to himself that he could.

“Yeah? You all know what I’m talking about?” A quiet, low roar began to build up. “That’s right. That’s right. We couldn’t find a damn place to park!”

It was like someone had just set off a bomb. The crowd was sent into hysterics. I bet the guys at Richter and Sons’ Accounting Firm can hear us now, Smitt thought. And rightfully so. Smitt had just touched upon the single greatest grievance one could have with Lakeland: The parking.

“The streets were wide open, sure. Tons of places to park. Tons of places! But guess what the sign says? Guess. Guess.” Smitt knew, of course, that his constituents were physically too far away from him to hear their guesses, but he enjoyed riling them up all the same.

“‘No parking between 12AM-8PM. That’s right, 12AM-8PM! I guess you have to pay a fine or get your car towed or something if you dare to commit the grave offense of parking there.”

Smitt paused for a round of applause from the crowd of revolutionaries, then continued.

“And it’s not just limited to the street behind the park. We can’t park in front of our houses. We can’t park in front of our houses! I have to move my car two streets down-- and even then, you can’t keep it there for more than 8 hours or guess what, it gets towed and you’re paying for it!

“Now, my good friend Elliott Madison seems to think he can take advantage of our money, our cars, even our schedules. He’s been in the mayor’s office longer than some of us have been alive. But today, we’re telling him that he’s wrong. He does not own us. He does not own our houses, our cars, our families, or our lives, and on the 15th, we’re going to show him what we’re all about.

“We are not about taxes. We are not about inconvenience. We are about freedom-- especially when it comes to parking.”

Smitt beamed from ear to ear and took a few steps back, watching the movement he had created. Not all Lakelanders were the same bible-thumping populace. Some were too young to know what church was, some were too old to know what church was, and some did not go. But all Lakelanders were united in their hatred for the town’s parking policies, which were simply nonsensical. For instance, on some streets you could only park from 8-10 AM, while on others, there was no parking from 2-6:30 PM and 7-11 PM but anytime else was fair game, and these were just scratching the surface. Not only were the laws ridiculous, but the punishments were even worse. At best, you’d get a ticket; at worst, your car would be towed and you would get a ticket on top of that. If there was one good thing you could say about Mayor Madison, Armstrong always mused, it was that he enforced the law like no one else. One could get away with a little shoplifting here and there, and the police would almost certainly let you off for going a couple miles over the speed limit. But failure to comply with parking rules for more than a few minutes at the time would result in certain punishment. Madison had created a special task force charged with patrolling the streets for illegal parking, and punishing the offenders to the fullest extent of the law. Almost any Lakelander has had the experience of watching a siren-equipped tow truck go barreling down the street in search of the next unfortunate victim’s car, and merely shaking their head with a solemn sort of empathy. The townspeople wanted the quintessential essence of life in small-town Middle America: To do whatever the hell you want without the government in your way. Yet they re-elected Madison so many times that some say he was actually born in office, and lived out his entire life as mayor. And well before Smitt came on the scene, it was customary in Lakeland to, whenever running over a pothole, seeing litter in the parks, or receiving one of the aforementioned parking tickets, turn to the person most immediately close to you, sigh, and say “Madison.” They re-elected him not because they liked him as a person (most had never seen him), or because they agreed with his policy stances (which were mostly unknown).

Madison was simply the status quo, and his status as a punching bag had become something of a cornerstone for the community. It had been generations since they had truly felt outrage or anything more than mere annoyance at Madison’s governing, and since no one had ever come along to oppose him, he never faced the serious possibility of not winning re-election. Smitt, however, was not afraid to stir the pot, to remind the Lakelanders, for motives selfish or not, that just because it is the status quo does not mean it is good, or that it cannot change. And he continued to remind them of this, through several more rallies and a televised debate, until it was finally election night in Lakeland.

Smitt had moved the TV from his office to the break room, where he was now pacing back and forth in front of Armstrong, who was calmly watching the results come in.

“Smitt.”

“Mm,” said Smitt, who was squeezing the leg of his pants.

“You nervous?”

“No.” Smitt opened and closed the refrigerator door a few times. He was not hungry.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re gonna win. You know that.”

“Yeah. Yeah we are.”

Suddenly, the office buzzer rang loudly. Startled, Smitt jumped, banged his head on the ceiling, and shouted in pain. Armstrong looked at him quizzically as he stumbled around the room and rubbed his head.

“Smitt, I think someone’s here.”

“You think?” Smitt growled. “Go open the door. Tell whoever’s there that they can go screw themselves. I don’t want visitors right now.”

“What’s the magic word?” “Now.”

Armstrong left the room, feeling slightly emasculated. Smitt sighed, closed his eyes, and listened as Armstrong’s footsteps made their way across the office space and towards the door. He heard the door creak open, and a quiet yet urgent voice on the other end.

“Hello, sir. I need to speak to Walter Smitt.”

“Sorry. He gave me specific orders to tell anyone who comes here to go--”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.” Smitt sprung into action and ran to the door. “There’s no need to finish that sentence.” He found Armstrong towering over a short, portly man with tan skin and a tuft of white hair on his head.

“Sorry, Smitt. This guy just seemed a little troublesome, so--”

“Armstrong, that guy is the mayor.”

“Oh.” Armstrong sized the man up and took a step back. “Crap. Sorry.”

There was a moment of tension between the three men. Armstrong refused to meet Madison’s eyes, Madison was looking straight into Armstrong’s eyes, and Smitt was trying to listen to the TV in the break room. Finally, Smitt decided to break the ice. “Hello, Mr. Mayor,” he offered, and extended his hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Smitt,” replied Madison. The two shook hands, each man crushing the other’s hand so much that they could not feel their own hands. This practice was customary between Smitt and Madison; Smitt had won 7 out of the approximately 13 of these exchanges they had gotten into over the course of the race.

Madison brushed his jacket impatiently and adjusted his tie. “I’ll keep this brief, Mr. Smitt, as I imagine you’re something of a busy man yourself. You are aware that the election is tonight, yes?”

“Oh, yeah. That. I forgot that was tonight.”

“Even though your TV is quite loudly playing live coverage of the election right now?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Mayor, you must have had a better reason to come here than to listen to my TV.”

“Yes.” Flustered by Smitt’s remark, Madison winced slightly. “In short, I understand that you seek the mayor’s office.”

I mean, I have been campaigning against you for a year, genius, Smitt wanted to say. Instead, he nodded.

“Yes. There is a clear conflict of interest here, I think we can agree.”

“A conflict of interest?”

“I am the mayor of Lakeland. I have been the mayor. You seem quite intent upon unseating me.”

“I suppose you would call that a conflict of interest,” Smitt agreed apprehensively.

Madison paused, then took a step closer to Smitt, completely shutting Armstrong out of the conversation. “I have a proposal that may benefit us both.”

“Look, I’ve been out here for a year and I’ve spent thousands of my own voters’ money. If you think I’m gonna--”

Madison held up his hand. Smitt was immediately silenced.

“You drop out of the race tonight and endorse me. Life in town returns to normal, and perhaps some of the village budget finds its way into your pocket.”

“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Mayor? I hope you realize that’s in violation of campaign finance laws.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Madison snarled. “This town needs me. If you stand in my way, the stress of the job will be the least of your problems.”

“Bribery and now threats? This could be grounds for impeachment.”

“Impeachment? You want to impeach me?” Madison gave a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I’m not threatening you, Mr. Smitt. I won’t hurt you. Unlike you, I still have a shred of decency left. I took this job to protect the common good and keep Lakeland safe.”

“You call towing someone’s car because they dared to park past 3 PM ‘keeping Lakeland safe?’”

Madison smiled a tight, painful smile and grinded his teeth together. “There is so much about this job that you do not understand, Mr. Smitt. Withdraw and put an end to the mockery you’ve made of this beautiful town. Withdraw and let life return to normal. Your life will be made much easier, of that I can assure you. I’ve been re-elected once for every fifty dollars you’ve made in your entire career, and believe me, I will see to it that you don’t regret your decision. So suspend your campaign tonight, for the greater good.”

Smitt pretended to think for a second. He could almost feel Madison’s sharp blue eyes burning into him, and his heart began to race much like it did when he was first interviewing for a job at Goldman-Sachs so many years ago. But this time, he had the upper hand and he knew it. He smiled and turned to Armstrong, who was now sitting on the couch staring at the floor.

“Armstrong? Get this guy outta here.”

“Right away.” Armstrong obediently leapt to his feet and cracked his neck back and forth.

“No! Please, Mr. Smitt, you don’t understand what you’re doing,” pled a shocked Madison.

“Too late, buddy,” said Armstrong. He rolled up his sleeves-- a feat which demonstrated strength by itself, for he was wearing a suit and jacket-- to reveal two very strong arms.

“You can’t do this to me, councilman! I am the mayor. I am your boss!”

“But it’s not you that elected me. It was the people. And now, you’re going to see what the people are capable of.”

Armstrong gritted his teeth and flexed his biceps. He clenched his right hand into a fist, and with one sweeping motion, slammed it down on a button affixed to the wall.

“Security? It’s time to remove the mayor from office.”

Madison glared at Smitt and Armstrong for a moment, then turned with a flourish and left, evidently trying to avoid a scandal on election night.

Armstrong turned to Smitt and grinned from ear to ear. “Did you like that line? I’ve had it prepared for years in case this happened.”

“It was… It was good.” “When I said ‘remove him from office,’ it was, like, a double meaning. I was talking about this office.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you liked it?!” “It was good, Armstrong. Now, let’s go watch the election results.” The outcome of the election was quite predictable if you had been paying attention to the political climate in the past year. Smitt beat Madison 52%-48%, the mayor’s first loss in a political career so long it could be considered a one-man dynasty. Tens upon tens of people, which was a lot for a political event in Lakeland, came to watch Smitt’s victory speech, which they received with much applause. The city council liked Smitt even more, with the majority standing and applauding when he entered the council chamber for the first time (Armstrong was nearly censured for his loud whooping). Smitt’s first act as mayor was to eliminate all parking restrictions in Lakeland, which passed the council 9-1. The one dissenter was a longtime Madison loyalist, a tall, gaunt man who watched contemptuously from the shadows as Smitt signed the bill into law.

The first day after the bill became law, cars now lined the streets of Lakeland such that no one could tell whether there was a major traffic jam going on or if it was simply 8:00 PM on a Wednesday night and everyone had just returned home. It was a beautiful sight. Subarus, Toyotas, Hyundais, Fords, and more adorned the streets, framing them like a picture of American freedom.

And as Smitt got into bed that night, blowing a kiss to his Tesla that was parked right outside for once, he felt truly accomplished. His eyes drifted shut.

---

Crash. Bang. Vvvvvrrrrrr.

Smitt’s eyes drifted open again. Without seeing the time, he knew they had not been closed long enough. But there was crashing and banging going on outside, and Smitt’s phone was vibrating fiercely. He groggily reached for it. The display said 3:48 AM. I’m not going to answer, he thought. It’s too early. The president could be calling and I wouldn’t answer.

He answered the phone.

“Smitt-- I mean, Mr. Mayor Smitt! Are you there?!” It was Armstrong, who had not sounded this distraught since the two got kicked out of the Applebee’s bar the night after the election.

“Whoozair? Armsrong? IssthreeAM.”

“Mr. Mayor, look outside! The town! Oh, it’s too horrible!” Smitt sighed and hung up. He pulled his pillow over his ears, shut his eyes tightly, and tried to go back to sleep, when a tremendous earthquake shook the floor and nearly knocked him out of bed. That was when Smitt realized that something was seriously wrong in Lakeland. He leapt to the floor, slowly pulled himself by the windowsill, and peered out the window. He could not believe what he was seeing.

The clouds in the sky had parted; lighting was flicking through them like an angry god thrusting his trident. All the houses and the cars parked in front of them were in shambles. Massive tentacles the thickness of tree trunks burst from the ground, their great suction cups illuminated only by the lightning. They thrashed around furiously, throwing houses off of their foundations, uprooting trees, and sweeping unlucky people off the ground towards a fate that Smitt shuddered to imagine. Underscoring this horrendous scene was a cacophony of splintering wood, shattering glass, screaming people, and of course, car alarms. Smitt could only watch in horror as the town he had grown up in, campaigned for, and now governed, crumbled before his very eyes.

Suddenly, Smitt remembered Madison’s words about the town needing him. Realizing the true nature of those words, Smitt rushed to his dresser and pulled out his phone book. He quickly flipped through it until he found an Elliott Madison. Hands shaking, he dialed the number. The phone rang once, then twice, then three times, until finally someone picked up.

“Smitt, I presume?”

“You’ve-- You’ve gotta help me, Madison. What the hell’s going on?” demanded Smitt breathlessly.

“What you are seeing now is the great beast that until now slept below Lakeland. He has been sealed underneath the streets since the beginning of time-- and I was to be his warden, essentially. If enough cars remained in one spot for long enough, the pressure would wake him. I had to prevent that. Thus, the parking laws.” Madison spoke with a hint of amusement, and a hint of utter despair.

“What… Why didn’t you tell me?!” shouted Smitt, nearly crying for the first time in his life.

“Let’s be realistic, Smitt. You wouldn’t have believed me. Even if you did, you would have repealed the parking laws all the same. Because you just have to serve your constituents, don’t you. You must bend to their self-serving whims. You must tweak every rule, take an eraser to every bill, until the people smile back at you.”

At this, Smitt rushed to defend himself, tripped on his words, gasped, and choked on his gasp.

“Goodbye, Smitt. It has truly been a pleasure. May our last few moments on this earth be as pleasant as all the ones before.”

“Madison, don’t go. It can’t end like this. You know something and you’re not telling me, right?! Madison!” But there was no answer. Smitt might as well have been screaming into a brick, and he knew it, as much as he did not want to.

Smitt shambled to his door, slowly opened it, and walked outside. His Tesla had been reduced to a pile of smoking garbage, much like how he currently viewed himself. There was no chance now of evacuating.

“All I wanted,” he said to himself, “was to be mayor.”

“All I wanted,” he said in between tears, “was to fix the damn parking situation.”

“Now, the town’s fucking gone.” He crumpled to the ground and punched the sidewalk.

“God fucking damn it.”

But in his last moments, Smitt did not cry. On the contrary, he smiled. He smiled with joy, because he remembered something.

This was one blaze that Richter and Sons’ Accounting Firm would never be able to come back from.

#creative writing #writing #short story #small town #story #parking #mayor #campaign #comedy #books

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