#case files

[ladyofthebookcase]

five pebbles claiming to hate slugcats is so funny to me. brother that is a small and cute creature with zero ability to comprehend your existence. what did it ever do to you. that thang is just chilling.

[kingoftieland]

Super excited to dive into this out-of-print hardcover I tracked down! Here, for the first time, is an in-world exploration of Christopher Nolan's Batman – The Dark Knight Manual: Tools, Weapons, Vehicles & Documents from the Batcave. 📓

Following the destruction of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne began to assemble key sketches, diagrams, observations, and other top-secret documents germane to becoming Batman; he then entrusted this manual to his faithful butler, Alfred. Every defining moment is detailed here, charting Wayne's collaborations with Lucius Fox at Wayne Enterprises on the latest cutting-edge technology. Featuring a distressed vintage cover design, this package includes removable documents, photos, case files and more that reveal exactly how Bruce Wayne operates as Gotham's greatest protector.

[nora3alk]

Mystery night 📔📌

[fnaflucasverse]

It's You, It's Me

YEAAAAAH faithfic finally!! set in fnaf2 pre-jeremy. a little exploration of faith's psyche and her sense of self. and lucas is there too

CW: depersonalization, child death, blood (via nosebleed). if i missed anything that needs a warning let me know!

It was 6:15AM, and Mikey should’ve been home by now, but Faith still kept staring at the face in the bathroom mirror, waiting for it to become her own. It didn’t change anything. Blue eyes still stared back out at her from the shadow cast by the buzzing, stark-white lightbulb. She could hear the tap running, feel cool water soothe battered knuckles, see hot breath fog up the glass as it loomed closer and closer. It all belonged to Mike, she told herself, shutting off the tap. She'd only borrowed his body to make sure he got through this night.

This body is not mine. This face is not mine.

And yet, as iciness soaked into Mike’s bones, Faith felt all its pain. Knuckles stinging with dozens of old fractures knitting together. A side aching with the strain of a pulled muscle. A heart pounded thickly in her chest, as a trembling, calloused hand reached up to the face reflected in the mirror, the face that wasn’t hers, touching cheeks roughened with stubble, a forehead pockmarked with old scars, a straight, wide nose nearly broken far too many times, full lips gone dry with the stress of the night.

This body is not mine. This face is not mine.

Faith found two rows of teeth, ran a finger across the edges of the incisors to the points of the canines to the grooves in the premolars, all the way to the back of the mouth where the molars nestled against invading wisdom teeth. Dragging the finger back along the smooth flesh of the gums, the ridged roof of the mouth, the soft and spongy tongue—Faith felt it all, all of it, every single piece.

This body is not mine. It has never been mine.

Faith gently brushed the dark circles under her eye, signs of the toll these double-shifts had taken on her, then pulled down her lower eyelid. The slip of underbelly was a stark pink against pale white; she peeled back her upper lid, and red spiderweb veins revealed themselves.

This face is not mine.

Should it be mine?

Baring its teeth, the face smiled at her. No, it felt hollow—it was hollow, as though if Faith were to reach into the mirror and tug at its skin, it would slough away, like the false fur of the animatronics she had just escaped, and reveal the cold skeleton underneath, pulsing with rotting meat. The ghost inside the machine.

The man on the phone had said—to Mike, really, but Faith heard it all the same—that when you were stuffed inside The Suit, crushed against the endoskeleton within, all that escaped was your oozing blood and your eyes and teeth popping out of the faceplate. Juice and seeds and rind of a human lemonade. What was it like, in those last moments? The man on the phone still called sometimes, phantom whispers on a disconnected line, but Faith had never before asked him how it felt to die. Maybe he didn't remember how it felt. Maybe he didn't remember what happened to him.

Faith didn't remember much about her own death, either. She remembered the Before: the yellow rabbit had served them a birthday cake, chocolate, slathered in vanilla buttercream. It slouched listlessly to the side; a pincushion of candles dripping wax onto the frosting. The others had scarfed down their slices and gone for seconds, but Faith sat picking and nibbling and picking at her cut. The taste dug itself into her mouth, gag-inducing sweetness trying to strangle the bitter flavor lying underneath.

She remembered the After: she was floating in front of Pirate's Cove, staring down at Mikey's limp body, life flowing and flowing out of him like a pirate ship ripped through by a cannonball, sinking beneath the waves. Somehow she knew she was already dead, and she'd have to watch her best friend die. It wasn't right, she wanted to scream. It wasn't fair!

She had to stop this.

She had to help him.

She had to save him.

In the end, the solution was so simple.

Two souls. One body. One face that stared at Faith from the mirror, with lifeless blue eyes.

Her body. Her face. Her eyes.

Her nose, leaking blood.

Wait, that wasn't supposed to happen.

Faith touched her lip where the blood dripped down. Her finger came away red.

Her blood.

Mikey's blood.

Oh, no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no—

Reeling in shock, Faith slammed against the flimsy bathroom stall door behind her which crashed deafeningly into the dividing wall. Blood splattered onto Mike's uniform, onto the floor in a dark trail. Wheezing, she clapped a hand to Mike's gushing nose; the other grabbed clumsily for toilet paper.

Were you supposed to look up or down? Faith tilted Mike's head back, shoving wads of paper up both nostrils, but it did very little to stop the blood dribbling down his chin, turning his shirt crimson. Knees buckling, Faith slumped onto the toilet seat, panting quick, uneven breaths. She could taste iron crawling down the back of Mike's throat.

She fought not to gag—

Footsteps pounded in the hallway outside. There was a worried shout—"Mike! You're still here?"—and then a tall man in a dark blue uniform burst into the bathroom. Lucas's head snapped left and right, scanning the area—

When he met Faith's frantic eyes, his own went wide.

"Faith! Are you okay?" Lucas sprung into action, hoisting to her feet and frog-marching her over to the sink. "Take those out," he ordered, picking the blood-soaked paper out of her nose and flinging them in the corner trash can. "Head down, over the sink—that's it."

Gripping the cold porcelain like a petulant toddler, Faith kept her gaze down, away from the mirror and firmly locked on the drain. Lucas whipped out a handkerchief, dampened it under the tap, and gently sponged Mike's face clean. He folded the cloth over and pressed it to Mike's nose: "Blow—hey! Gently! Gently. Good. Now, breathe slowly. Through your mouth. Do you feel light-headed?” Lucas fussed, patting Faith on the back; she shook her head. "Alright.”

They stood there, side by side, waiting for it to end. Lucas left the tap open to a trickle; clear water mixed with the stream from Mike’s nose, blooming in the basin like watercolor. Faith remembered—or was it Mike?—getting a set for her birthday, pans of cheap paint and a fraying brush and sheets of paper that pilled up with any small drop of water. Faith never had the chance to get good at it, but she’d never stopped trying.

The first thing she’d attempted was a self-portrait. All artists painted themselves, or so she was told—who had told her that? Faith had spent the afternoon squinting back and forth between the hall mirror and her canvas.

Whose face had she seen?

Plip, plop. Scarlet lines spiraled out from scarlet droplets. Faith watched them fade to dull pink.

And then it was over.

“There we go, all done,” Lucas announced, gently shaking her. “Everything’s alright now.”

But it wasn't alright! She didn't want this to happen in the first place! She didn't want to hurt Mikey! Faith just wanted—she was just—the face in the mirror—

As if sensing her anxiousness, Lucas's hand shifted to massaging in soothing circles. "Let’s just get you cleaned up. You two break anything?" he asked gently.

Faith didn't mean to possess Mike this long. She didn't even know it was possible. But her old friends had been so aggressive that night—and then it was 4AM, and the flashlight had run out of battery, and the next moment Foxy was sprinting down the hallway, teeth bared and gleaming—and Mikey needed her help—

He'd always needed her help.

Lucas would understand, right? She was just doing what she had to. Trembling, Faith raised both hands to show Mike's bruised knuckles.

Except now his hands were also sticky with blood, and his shirt was stained, and Mike was going to be so upset with himself, and Faith had messed it all up by staying here instead of sending him home like she was supposed to and—

Faith couldn't help it. She burst into tears.

"Woah, woah—" Alarmed, Lucas's hands flew away from her. "Faith… What's…?"

She wanted to hide her face—Mike's face in Mike's hands, Mike's voice choked up in gasps, Mike's shoulders wracked by sharp sobs—but she couldn't, not with his blood on her hands. Faith heaved breath after breath, lungs knotted, heart roaring in her ears.

"What—what color—are my eyes?" she pleaded. He had to know. He had to tell her.

Lucas pursed his lips. "What color do you think they are?"

"I don't—I don't know—" Faith gulped down air, suffocating. "Blue? I can see them right now; they're blue. But that's not right, is it? That's not even my face." She laughed suddenly, though for the life of her, she didn't know what was so funny. "What color were my eyes, Luke? My eyes, my real eyes—I don't remember. I don't—I don't remember what they looked like—I don't remember what my face looked like, and—and—"

Lucas hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and then his arms were wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest, cradling her head against his shoulder. He held her, saying nothing as she broke down and drenched his shirt in tears. He held her as she cried and cried until she didn't even remember what she was even crying for, only that she felt like she was going to fall apart, and Lucas was there and warm and safe.

And finally, when her sobs had dissolved into sniffles, Lucas asked, "You know how I can always tell it's you and not Mike?"

Faith shook her head, bone-tired.

"Let's see…" Lucas drummed his fingers. "You sit up straight, no matter what. You stand with your feet together like a V. And you don't clench your jaw like Mike does. When you smile, you always… crinkle your nose first, like you're not supposed to find something funny. You actually move your eyebrows a lot, did you know that? Especially when you're thinking."

He pulled away, gripping her by the arms and staring her dead in the eye. "That's you, Faith. That's what will always shine through, no matter what you look like," he affirmed. "And nothing will take that away from you. Got that?"

Faith looked down. Feet together, in a V.

She turned to look at herself, at Mike, at the both of them in the mirror. Took in the exhaustion on their face, their wary frown, their ruined uniform. But their back was drawn up straight and proud, undefeated despite everything.

Huh.

Faith clenched and unclenched their jaw. Moved their eyebrows up and down. Smiled—a little cautious, a little awkward, but a smile all the same.

Slowly, Faith nodded.

"And, by the way…," Lucas leaned in to whisper with a smile of his own. "Your eyes are brown."

[m00nb04rd5]

Can you do a moodboard of Gino Fratelli from the webserie khonjin house?

Gino Fratelli (Khonjin House)

[shadoedseptmbr]

OKAY let's hit the ground running with the final chapter of this little interlude ME3 story

A Strange Sort of Friend in the End- in which Kaidan has a conversation with someone he thought he knew and the story finds an end.

[xavier-fbc]

[albertrosentips]

why does it rain so damn much the day i step a foot in this pig pen?!

[fateroulette]

Ptolemaios

1x:

[archivyrep]

Prosecutorial misconduct, case files, trials on trains, and "the truth" in Ace Attorney

Miles Edgeworth surrounded in the confidential files storage of the U.S. prosecutor’s office as he reads about the Avery Richman case While I noted in last week’s post that the 12th episode of Ace Attorney, a legal drama anime based on a video game series of the same name, included an evidence room, two episodes in the second season brings this to the fore even more directly. [1] In this post…

[reading-stains]

Land of Spirits - Case Files

Welp, I don't think they're even poetry prompts anymore (which is what I'd meant them to be), they're more like prompted conceptual writing that is sometimes poetry, sometimes short stories, and sometimes a "creative experience" of sorts.

So anyway, I'm sending it late because I needed to format it, but this is my entry for @nosebleedclub's prompt 12, "Land of spirits" and it's clear I didn't get creative with my own titling.

Hope whoever reads this enjoys!

PREMISE: You're given a set of files on data from veterans that have gone through the Land of Spirits. You hope to learn a little from what you're going to face. Oh, and there's some strange notes from a 'seer' at the bottom, but you don't really get what they mean.

So anyway, there you have it. Hope you stick to the non-combatant ones for today, they seem pretty nice.

[ladyofthebookcase]

she ei on my gong til i develop tianhuo

[tarnishedinquirer]

Case: The Roundtable Hold

I was half expecting Melina to come with me, but I arrived here alone.

Can't say it made the best impression. Whole place had an air about it. Like gathering at the mansion of a dying relative, one whose fortune was lost decades ago and only the house remains. Not enough servants to keep a place this big from going to shit, and none of your cousins would ever stoop so low as to picking up a broom and trying to straighten things up.

Hrm. That hypothetical got a little too specific to be anything but a memory.

Central hub

The centerpiece was a massive Grace on the titular table. Instead of the piles of bark that I've gotten used to, the base was a bunch of weapons, though they still seemed to be sprouting roots. On closer inspection, it was all one solid hunk of metal. Even the "roots" were cast.

A replica of some historical event, perhaps?

The main area was a large circular chamber with statues and a fireplace. Along each wall were alcoves containing real weapons, probably long past the point of repair. Brought to mind the alcoves in that catacomb, like whoever did this was symbolically burying war itself. Maybe they thought the death of war was the same thing as peace.

I'll do all the profiles later, so here's just an overview of my interactions.

Gideon Ofnir seems to be the de facto leader of the Roundtable Hold. Must be important, since the voice mentioned him while I was dead. He offered only the most cursory of greetings before making sure that I knew my place. Sure, I'll play ball. You can be king trash of garbage mountain if you want.

Brother Corhyn is an itinerant monk. Seems friendly enough, but a bit too blind to his faith. I mean, he literally wars a blindfold, but there's gotta be some holes in that thing. Offered to teach me Incantations, but if I ever had faith, I'd lost it long ago.

Diallos is a dandy in the worst way. Handsome, noble, and completely useless. That armor of his had better have a hell of an enchantment on it, since it looks about as flimsy as filigree. He asked me if I'd seen his lost servant, but I guess the thought of looking for her himself never entered his pretty little head.

West Wing

Two wings extended off the central room. The west wing was mostly inaccessible to me, with two chambers blocked off. Guarding one of the doors was an...individual who didn't offer their name and I'm not even gonna guess at their gender. Their armor looked to be made out of hardened pitch, with bones embedded in it.

They didn't speak a word, just silently judged me for even being here. I decided not to bother them and left.

East Wing

This one had more activity. First thing to note was a monstrous blacksmith, hammering away at a pile of weapons. Introduced himself as Hewg. I asked him about the chains and he said flat-out that he's a prisoner, and I guess that's something we both understand. He that he said he's fine being a prisoner as long as he doesn't have to think about, "The terror of her." Now that's interesting. Wonder who he's talking about?

The side room had been converted into a sumptuous boudoir. Its sole occupant seated expectantly on a soft bed. She introduced herself to me as Fia, and I recognized the name immediately. Between my death and revival, the voice had singled her out as important somehow. She invited me to sit beside her and, well...I'd better move on.

A staircase led to a storeroom below, but I couldn't progress any further. One of those gargoyle statues barred my way, and I still don't have a key.

At least they gave me a clue. The one in the tomb had two empty slots, this one has just one. The other imp statue has a small, daggerlike object stuck in its head. Made entirely of the same stone as the statue, but clearly a distinct object. At least now I know what I'm looking for. I'll keep an eye out for any "sword keys."

The last area is a small balcony overlooking a grand entrance hall. I'm sure there's a way down there, but couldn't see one from here.

I'm calling this one a case file because there's too much mystery to do otherwise, even if I'm not sure what it adds up to yet. Too many closed doors here, and I've gotta find a way to open them.

Questions:

Why did the voice single out Fia?

Who is Hewg afraid of?

What's the skull knight's deal?

Where is Diallos's servant, Lanya?

Where IS this place, anyway?

[mulderscreek]

A Child Suspended In Time Challenge

Your challenge is to write about Mulder, Scully, and Doggett finding a child or children who have been experimented on by the Consortium in a way that has temporarily slowed their aging, resulting in the child being years older than their appearance would suggest that they are. Whether or not the child or children wear faces that are familiar is up to you. 

Please submit your story or the link to it to nurseryfiles@mulderscreek.com, post here on our submissions Tumblr, tag @mulderscreek, or send me a message with your fic on Tumblr to reblog.

[fnaflucasverse]

Bad Taste In Music

i Cannot believe we get perry and tiger before the guy this au is named after. but that's what happens when you go insane over tiger liking r&b ig! apologies if it's kind of a nothing story and if tigers kind of ooc but i liked writing it. is this canon to lucasverse? idk! is it me having fun with my two fav guys? ya <3 but oh i should not have stayed up this late to finish this.....

Tiger belongs to @fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction

A little while into her training, somewhere above the drum-pounding rhythm of her fists against the punching bag, Peregrine began to hear music.

And it wasn't the good shit she sometimes heard on the truck radio, with crunchy electric guitars and crashing cymbals—it was that sappy, soulful, piano ballad garbage that always made her switch stations. With a groan, Peregrine sped up her jabs, hoping to drown out the din… but like the worst kind of bug, the music wormed its way into her ear, into her brain, and twisted like a knife.

She punched faster, hit harder, felt the pain shockwave from her knuckles up her arm. Even still, Peregrine heard the song.

She grit her teeth against it; the singer's words were indistinct, but the tune carried all the damn same. The more the song grated on, the more fleeting thoughts shot through Peregrine's mind: a kind, smiling face, singing a tender lullaby to a restless toddler and her brother, the feeling of being warm, safe, and—

She couldn’t fucking train to this shit.

With a roar, Peregrine's fist slammed square into her target. The punching bag flew into the air, viciously pulled back to earth by its chain. It swung at Peregrine with a vengeance—but she had already left the gym, stalking through the hallway for her next victim.

The hallway opened up into the living room, where a TV sputtered static at peeling leather armchairs and mismatched chairs gathered around the makeshift dining table. In the center sat the source of the noise: a record player, still crooning away. And sitting in front of it, slumped shoulders shielding Peregrine from the culprit…

Peregrine's lips drew out into a thin line.

Her old man was getting drunk again.

She'd be less surprised if she could see beer cans anywhere, anything to say he’d been drinking the cheap beer he made her restock every other fucking day—but he was staring, gaze empty and distant, at the whiskey bottle strangled in his grip. And if it was whiskey he was drinking—as if the music wasn't a giveaway—he was thinking about her mother.

And he'd promised the Boss he'd stopped.

God-fucking-damnit.

Peregrine stomped up and yanked the needle away from the record with a satisfying screech.

Tiger spun around, hand instinctively reaching for a pistol that wasn’t there. Peregrine crossed her arms, watching him recognize her, freeze, and sink back into the chair, shaking his head. “Jesus, Lee, you don’t just…" Alcohol coated his breath. “You’re done early.”

“I’m taking a break." Peregrine jerked her chin towards the record player. “Where the hell did you get that?"

Tiger's head swiveled towards it like he'd forgotten it was there. "That's just… something I found in the old stash." He set the bottle down, rubbing the back of his head like a kid caught with his hand in Dad's wallet. "Just thought I'd fix it up, see if it still works… Could sell it, you know; people collect this sort of—sort of thing and…"

He trailed off as Peregrine picked up the record to frown at the label. Who the hell was Whitney Houston? "Uh-huh. And you found this with it, too?" Perry tried twirling the record on her finger—

Her father snatched it faster than she could blink. "Lee, you don't play with things you could break," he scolded.

Peregrine rolled her eyes. He'd never stopped telling her off and never would until he dropped dead, and even then he'd probably return as a ghost to tell her off even more. She swiped his whiskey and hopped up on the table, resting her bored chin in her palm as he watched him hunt for the sleeve to return his record to. Bottle was half-empty. Peregrine watched Tiger carefully slide the record back into place, spying the tracklist on the back. Ugh. 'Love' this, 'Love' that. It made her want to throw up.

“You actually like this kind of shit, old man?" she snorted, only half in disbelief.

“She’s a very talented singer,” Tiger defended, closing the record player with a click. His eyes clouded. "Anyway, it was—it… belonged to your mother."

Peregrine shut up. Tiger took it as an invitation to continue whatever 'when we were all younger but especially you' spiel he had ready to vent. “You know, Lee…,” he began, clearing his throat, an uncomfortable phlegmy sound.

Peregrine's eyes drifted to the ceiling. Better to let him talk. He'd get it all out of his system, and she'd go dump whatever whiskey was left down the drain.

"You know… your mother used to sing these songs to you, get you to sleep easier. I don't think you remember any of it—you would've been five or so—but…" A nostalgic, weary smile crossed her father's face, always a little alarming to see nowadays. "God, there were days when you would just not go to sleep! Neither could we. You used to be scared of every little thing, just crying and crying—"

"That's gotta be bullshit," Peregrine grumbled.

"—We were really worried about you, Lee," he continued. "But then Jaq figured out you liked being sung to—especially this one song—what was it—'The Greatest Love Of All?' But that was the year…" The smile melted from Tiger's face, turning into a familiar frown. "Anyway, that's when Ms. Houston herself helped out," he said, giving the record player a firm pat.

Peregrine felt cool, smooth glass in her hands, the swirling weight of the whiskey, the gnawing of memories as they scratched at her skull.

The smiling face. The gentle voice. The feeling of warmth and safety and…

And love.

There was a strange knot in her throat.

"Yeah, yeah," Peregrine abruptly snapped, rocketing to her feet, "and when Panther gets back, he'll want to know why the hell you lied to his face. So just gimme that—" she grabbed the record and bundled the player under her arm— "I'll get rid of it." She glared at Tiger, his expression flashing through bitterness, guilt, resignation… "Drink some water. And take a fucking nap; you're being pathetic," she cut into him, whiskey bottle hanging from her fingers.

He didn't meet her eyes.

"'Night, old man," Peregrine muttered, and strode away.

She didn't head back to the gym.

She didn't get rid of her contraband.

She headed straight to her room, shoved them both under her bed, poured the bottle's contents out the window, and curled up on her mattress, letting second by second tick agonizingly by. And when, and only when the world was nothing but darkness, Peregrine retrieved the record player, cranked the volume as quiet as it could go, and, as Whitney's voice crackled softly, she let her eyes slip shut.